the road toward them. It wagged its tail and ran circles around three of the children, who eagerly tried to grab its green collar. The owner called from the path down by the Aker River. The dog pricked up its ears and bounded away again. A Volvo screeched on its brakes. The right fender clipped the dog, which howled and limped away on three legs. Eline was crying. The van driver rolled down his window and hurled abuse. The trainee teachers held their wards by the collar and tried to stop others from wandering into the road by standing with their legs apart on the edge of the pavement. Bertha picked up Eline. The van driver edged over the pavement and accelerated toward Frysjaveien. The dog whined in the distance. The owner was squatting beside it trying to calm it down. The driver of the green Volvo had stopped in the middle of the road, opened the door, and was obviously uncertain whether to get out or not. There were already four cars behind her, two of them honking angrily.
“Jacob,” said the principal. “Where’s Jacob?”
When Marius Larsen, the only male employee at Frysjakroken kindergarten, later tried to tell the police what had actually happened outside Rema 1000 on Kjelsasveien, just before midday on Wednesday, May 31, he couldn’t remember the exact chain of events. He remembered all the elements of the incident. There was a dog and a Volvo. The van driver was foreign. The man who owned the dog was wearing a red sweater. Eline was howling and Bertha tripped on something. She was extremely overweight so it took a while for her to get up. The Volvo was green. They were singing marching songs. They were on their way to the technology museum. The dog was a pointer, gray and brown.
Marius Larsen had all the pieces, but couldn’t put them together. Eventually they asked him to write it all down. A patient officer gave him some yellow Post-its. One Post-it for each thing. He put them down in order, shuffled them around, thought about it, wrote new Post-its with stiff, bandaged fingers, tried again.
The end of the story was the only thing he was absolutely clear about.
“Jacob,” said the principal. “Where’s Jacob?”
Marius Larsen let go of two children. He spun around and saw that Jacob was already a hundred and fifty yards away, under the arm of some man who was opening the door of a car parked outside a garage further up the road, going east.
Marius ran.
He ran so fast that one of his shoes flew off.
When he was nearly at the car, no more than ten or twelve yards away, the engine started. The car swung out over pavement and into the road. Marius didn’t stop. Jacob wasn’t visible. He must be lying on the back seat. Marius threw himself at the car door. A broken beer bottle cut into his shoeless foot. The car door burst open with a thud, and Marius lost his balance. The driver hit the brakes. The door banged on its hinges. Jacob was crying. Marius didn’t let go of the door; he had a firm grip now, holding onto the window with his fingers. He wouldn’t let go. The car moved off again, jolting and jumping before suddenly accelerating, and Marius lost his grip. His hand was numb and the cuts on his foot were bleeding profusely. He lay on the asphalt in the middle of Kjelsasveien.
Jacob was lying beside him, screaming.
It turned out the boy had broken his leg when he fell. But otherwise he was okay, all things considered.
Almost exactly five hours later, at ten to five on Wednesday afternoon, Adam Stubo, Sigmund Berli, and four detectives from Asker and B?rum Police stood at the entrance to a block of apartments in Rykkin. The stairwell smelled of wet concrete and cheap TV dinners. No curious neighbors stuck their heads out to have a look. No children approached them when they parked the three dark cars directly outside the building; three identical cars with badly disguised blue lights in front. All was quiet. It took them three minutes to pick the lock.
“I take it that all the formalities are in order,” said Adam Stubo, and entered the apartment.
“D’you know what, I don’t give a crap about that right now.”
The officer from Asker and B?rum followed him in. Adam turned around and blocked his way.
“It’s in just these situations that we need to be careful with things like that,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine. Now move.”
Adam didn’t know what he had expected. Nothing probably. Best that way. Nothing would surprise him, ever. He had his own little ritual for occasions like this. A short meditation with closed eyes before going in, to empty his brain, to let go of prejudices and assumptions that might or might not be well founded.
Now he wished he had prepared himself better.
Norway was unofficially in a state of emergency.
The news was broadcast only minutes after the actual event took place: yet another attempted abduction of a child. This time the police had a license plate number and a good description to go on. NRK-TV and TV2 cleared their program schedules. What was originally intended to be lots of short, special broadcasts quickly developed into one long one on both channels. At impressively short notice, both production teams managed to call in experts in most areas that might have any relevance to the case. Only a couple of them, a well-known child psychologist and a retired NCIS chief, were shuttled between the studios in Karl Johan 14 and Marienlyst. Otherwise both channels showed considerable creativity, at times too much. TV2 had a fifteen-minute interview with a funeral director. Thin, dressed in dark clothes and with as much emotion as he could muster, he explained the different reactions to grief of parents who lose their children under traumatic circumstances, padding it out with several thinly disguised anonymous examples. The viewers reacted with such disgust that the executive producer had to make a personal apology before the end of the evening.
A witness in Kjelsasveien had noticed that the abductor’s arm was in a cast.
Riled by the lack of interest shown by the police-they had noted his name and address and said they would contact him in a day or two-he rang TV2’s crimewatch desk. The description he gave was so precise that one of the crime reporters linked it to a recent arrest in Asker and B?rum. The man wasn’t quite all there, he seemed to remember, leafing through his notes. A vigilante group had broken his arm, but the case had died, as he refused to talk to journalists. And in any case, the police were convinced that he had nothing to do with the abductions.
The child killer who was haunting Norway like a nightmare and had already taken three lives, perhaps four, had been arrested earlier! And then been released, without being charged, only a few hours later. Even worse was the fact that the man had gotten away this time, too. A quick-thinking driver with a cell phone had alerted the police immediately, but the murderer had vanished all the same. A scandal of enormous proportions.
The Chief of Police in Oslo refused to make any comment. In a terse press release, the Minister of Justice referred to the Chief of Police. The Chief of Police just sat in his office and said nothing.
TV2 had a scoop that NRK could not hope to repeat. The witness came on television. Although he didn’t get his fifteen minutes of fame, the interview lasted for at least two. And what’s more, he could expect ten thousand kroner in his bank account. As soon as possible, assured the crime reporters, once the camera was turned off.
The worst thing was not the hard-core porn magazines that lay everywhere in piles.
There wasn’t much that Adam Stubo hadn’t seen already. The magazines were printed in four colors on cheap paper. Adam knew that they were largely produced in third-world countries, where children could be bought for a penny and a song and the police turned a blind eye for a fistful of dollars. Nor was it the fact that some of the children staring at him with blank eyes from the obscene pictures were no more than two. Adam Stubo had seen a six-month-old rape victim with his own eyes and had no illusions left. The fact that the occupant had a computer was more surprising.
“I misjudged the man,” he muttered, and pulled on some rubber gloves.
The worst thing was, in fact, the walls.
Everything that had been written about the abductions had been meticulously cut out and pinned up, from the first, moderate reports of Emilie’s disappearance to a two-page essay by Jan Kj?rstad in
“Everything,” said Hermansen. “He’s kept everything.”
“And more,” said the youngest officer; he nodded over at the photographs of the children.
They were the same photographs that were pinned up in Adam’s office. He went over to the wall and studied the copies. They were in plastic covers, but he could see immediately that they weren’t cut out of a newspaper.
“Downloaded from the Internet,” said the youngest officer, without being asked.
