several others like him in the centre, asylum seekers who were alone and under the age of eighteen. He ran away after three days. Since then he had been more or less permanently on the run, apart from a few days in custody every time the street-smart youngster wasn’t quite smart enough.
A year ago he turned to prostitution.
According to the report he sold himself at a high price, often to just about anybody. On at least one occasion Hawre Ghani had robbed a punter, something which had been discovered by chance. He had stolen a pair of Nike Shocks from Sportshuset in Storo. A security guard had overpowered him, got him down on the floor and sat on him until the police arrived three quarters of an hour later. When he was searched they found a beige Mont Blanc wallet containing credit cards, papers and receipts bearing the name of a well-known male sports journalist. He wasn’t interested in pressing charges, DC Bork’s report stated matter-of-factly, but several colleagues who had some knowledge of prostitution were able to confirm that both the boy and the robbery victim were known to them.
On one occasion an attempt had been made to link Hawre up with a Kurd from northern Iraq who had a temporary residence permit, but without any right to bring in his family. The man, who had been allowed to stay on in Norway for more than ten years and spoke fluent Norwegian, had been working part-time as a youth leader in Gamlebyn. So far his projects working with difficult refugee children had been very successful. Things didn’t go so well with Hawre. After three weeks the boy had persuaded four mates from the club to help him break into some basement offices; they also tried to empty an ATM with a crowbar, and stole and smashed up a four-year- old Audi TT.
Silje Sorensen stared at the picture of the immature young man with the big nose. His lips looked as if they belonged to a ten-year-old. His skin was smooth.
Perhaps she was naive.
Of course she was naive, even after all these years in the force, where her illusions burst like bubbles as she rose through the ranks.
But this boy
However, that didn’t matter now.
Slowly she put the photograph down right on the edge of the desk. It would stay there until she had solved this case. If it was true that someone had taken Hawre Ghani’s life – as the information gathered so far indicated – then she was going to find out who that person was.
Hawre Ghani was dead, and nobody had bothered about him while he was alive.
But at least someone was going to bother about his death.
‘Don’t bother about me,’ said Adam Stubo, waving the man away. ‘I’ve already had three cups of coffee today, and any more would do me no good at all.’
Lukas Lysgaard shrugged his shoulders and sat down on one of the yellow wing chairs. His father’s. Adam still thought it best not to sit on Eva Karin’s, and pulled out the same dining chair as before.
‘Have you got any further?’ asked Lukas, his voice suggesting a lack of interest.
‘How’s the headache?’ said Adam.
The young man shrugged his shoulders again, then scratched his hair and screwed up his eyes.
‘Better now. It comes and goes.’
‘That’s the way it is with migraine, or so I’ve heard.’
A grandfather clock slowly struck twice. Adam withstood the temptation to check the time against his own watch; he was sure it was after two. He felt a slight draught on the back of his neck, as if a window was open. There was a smell of bacon, and something else he couldn’t identify.
‘Not much new information to report, I’m afraid.’
He leaned forward on his chair and rested his elbows on his knees.
‘Quite a lot of material has been sent away for more detailed analysis. It seems highly likely that we will find biological traces at the scene of the crime. Since it was the police who actually found her, and very soon after the murder took place as far as we can tell, we hope we’ve secured the evidence to the best of our ability.’
‘But you don’t know who did it?’
Adam realized he was raising his eyebrows.
‘No, of course not. We still have to-’
‘The newspapers are saying it was random violence. They say they have sources inside the police who claim they’re hunting a lunatic. One of those “ticking time bombs”-’
His fingers drew quotation marks in the air.
‘-that the psychiatrists let out far too soon. Could be an asylum seeker. Or a Somali. That type.’
‘It is, of course, possible that we’re looking for someone who is mentally ill. Anything is possible. But at this stage of the investigation it’s important not to get locked in to one particular theory.’
‘But if that patrol was on the scene so quickly, the killer can’t have got far. I read in the paper today that it was only five or ten minutes from the time she died until she was found. There can’t be that many people to choose from on Christmas Eve. People who are out so late at night, I mean.’
He clearly regretted his words as soon as they were out of his mouth, and grabbed a glass containing yellow liquid, which Adam assumed was orange juice.
‘No,’ Adam said. ‘Your mother, for example.’
‘Listen to me,’ said Lukas, emptying the glass before he went on. ‘I understand your point of view, obviously. I’d give anything in the world to know what my mother was doing out so late on Christmas Eve. But I don’t know, OK? I don’t know! We – my wife and I and our three children – spend alternate Christmases with her parents and with mine. This year my in-laws came to us. My mother and father were alone. I’ve asked my father – of course I have, God knows…’
He pulled a face.
‘I’ve asked him, and he refuses to give me an answer.’
‘I understand,’ Adam said kindly. ‘I do understand. That’s why I’d like to ask you a few questions about this particular issue.’
Lukas spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Carry on.’
‘Did your mother enjoy walking?’
‘What?’
‘Did she like going for walks?’
‘Doesn’t everybody like…? Yes. Yes, I suppose she did.’
‘At night? I mean, lots of people are in the habit of going out for a breath of fresh air before they go to bed. Perhaps your mother liked to do that?’
For the first time since Adam met Lukas Lysgaard three days ago, the man actually seemed to be giving a question some thought.
‘The thing is, it’s many years since I lived at home,’ he said eventually. ‘I had… We had our children when we were only twenty, my wife and I. We got married the same summer we finished our education, and…’
He fell silent and a smile passed fleetingly over his tear-stained face.
‘That was early,’ said Adam. ‘I didn’t think that kind of thing happened these days.’
‘My mother and father – particularly my father – were dead against the idea of us moving in together without being married. As we were convinced that… But you asked if my mother was in the habit of going out at night.’
Adam gave a small nod and took his notepad out of his breast pocket as discreetly as he could.
‘She was, actually. At least when I lived at home. When she was a priest she often visited her parishioners outside normal working hours. She was the kind of priest who made a point of going to see people, my mother. She sometimes went out in the evening and didn’t get back until after I’d gone to sleep. But I’ve never known her visit anyone on Christmas Eve.’
He shrugged his shoulders.
