she turned her face toward the voice, she saw that the man was all dressed up.
“You look good,” she said quietly. “Nice jacket.”
The man smiled.
“You think so? I have to go away. You’ll be on your own for a few days.”
“Nice pants, too.”
“You’ll be fine on your own. I’ll leave plenty of water, bread, jam, and cornflakes over here.”
He put down two plastic bags.
“You’ll have to make do without milk. It would only go sour.”
“Mmmm.”
“If you’re good and don’t do anything stupid while I’m away, you can come up and watch TV with me one evening. Have some candy and watch TV. On Saturday, maybe. But only maybe. That depends on how you behave. Do you want the light on or off?”
“On,” she said, quick as a flash. “Please.”
His laugh was strange. It almost sounded like a little boy who didn’t quite know what he was laughing at. It was as if he was forcing himself to laugh but didn’t think that anything was funny. High and hard.
“I thought as much,” he said curtly and left.
Emilie tried to sit up. The man mustn’t turn off the air machine, even though he was going away. She felt so weak and slumped on her side in the bed.
“Don’t turn off the air machine,” she cried. “Please. Don’t turn off the air machine!”
If only she knew which nail was actually a camera, she would fold her hands and beg. Instead she put her mouth right up to a small spot on the wall, just above the bed.
“Please,” she cried to the spot that might be a microphone. “Please give me air. I will be the best girl in the world; just don’t turn off the air!”
THIRTY
The newspapers had published two extra editions since the first tabloids came out at around two in the morning on Saturday, May 27. The front pages screamed at Johanne Vik when she glanced over at the gas station before swinging into the ICA supermarket parking lot at Ulleval Stadium. It was difficult to find a parking spot. The supermarket was normally busy, especially on a Saturday morning, but this was pure chaos. It was as if people didn’t know what to do. They obviously didn’t want to be at home. They had to get out. They sought the company of others who were as anxious, as angry as they were. Mothers clutched their children tightly by the hand and the youngest were strapped into their strollers and carriages. Fathers carried older children on their shoulders just to be safe. People stood around in groups, talking with friends and strangers alike. They all had newspapers. Some had headphones and were listening to the news-it was midday exactly. They stared straight ahead with great concentration and repeated slowly to those around them:
“The police still have no leads.”
Then they all sighed. A communal, desperate sigh oozed over the parking lot.
Johanne slipped through the crowd. She was there to shop. The fridge was empty after her trip. She had slept poorly and was annoyed by all the strollers and carriages that blocked the big automatic doors. Her shopping list fell to the ground. It got stuck on the sole of a passing man’s shoe and disappeared.
“Excuse me,” she said, and managed to wangle her way to an empty shopping cart.
She definitely had to get bananas. Breakfast cereal and bananas. Milk and bread and something to put on it. Supper for today, which was easy because she was alone, and tomorrow Isak was coming with Kristiane. Meatballs. Bananas first.
“Hello.”
She seldom blushed, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks. Adam Stubo was standing in front of her, holding a bunch of bananas. He’s always smiling, she thought to herself; he shouldn’t be smiling now. He can’t have much to be happy about.
“You didn’t call,” he said.
“How did you know where I was? Which hotel?”
“I’m a policeman. It took me an hour to find out. You’ve got a child. You can’t travel anywhere without leaving a trail of clues behind you.”
He put the bananas into her cart.
“You were going to get some?”
“Mmm.”
“I need to speak to you.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“You would have to go shopping. You’ve been away. And this is your local supermarket, as far as I know.”
She took four oranges from a mountain of fruit and put them in a bag. It was difficult to tie the knot.
“Here. Let me help you.”
Adam Stubo took the bag. His fingers were stubby but deft. Fast.
“There. I really need to talk to you.”
“Here?”
She threw out her arms and tried to look sarcastic, which was difficult as long as her face was the same color as the tomatoes in the box beside her.
“No, can we… can you come to my office? It’s on the other side of town, so if you think it’s easier…”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“We can go back to my place,” she said casually. “I live just around the corner. But you already know that.”
“Give me your shopping list, then we can get this done in a jiffy.”
“I don’t have a shopping list,” she said sharply. “What makes you think that?”
“You just seem the type,” he said and let his hand fall. “You’re the shopping list type. I’m sure of it.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” she said and turned away.
“You’ve got a really nice place here.”
He was standing in the middle of the living-room floor. Luckily she had straightened up. She pointed vaguely in the direction of the sofa, and sat down in an armchair herself. Some minutes passed before she realized that she was sitting poker-backed on the edge of the seat. Gradually, so that her movements weren’t too obvious, she leaned back.
“No identifiable cause of death,” she said slowly. “Sarah just died.”
“Yes. A small cut above the eye. But no internal injuries. A completely insignificant wound, at least in terms of cause of death. A healthy, strong eight-year-old. And this time again, he… the murderer that is-we don’t know if it’s a man or a…”
“I think you can safely say he.”
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“Well, first of all because it’s easier than having to say ‘he or she’ the whole time. And second, because I am fairly convinced that it’s a he. Don’t ask me why. I can’t give you any reasons. Perhaps it’s just prejudice. I just can’t imagine a woman treating children like that.”
“And who do you think treats children like that?”
