a noise later, when he came down from the attic. Presumably his father was going to the toilet, and, of course, he had noticed that the attic door was open.
Sometimes, if they had forgotten to lock the door, it would open by itself. Lukas closed his eyes and prayed to God for the first time in living memory.
This time his prayer was answered.
He heard his father muttering to himself, then the door closed.
And the key was turned.
God hadn’t answered his prayer after all. Now he was locked in, and how the hell was he supposed to explain that? A stream of quiet curses poured out of his mouth before it occurred to him that he could use the roof light. He was only six years old when he climbed out of the little window in the roof for the first time; it was right next to the chimney, and he clambered down the sweep’s ladder, scrambled along the guttering and across to the big oak tree just outside his old bedroom.
From there getting down to the ground was a simple matter.
But first he must find the photo of his sister.
He waited for ten minutes to make sure his father had gone back to sleep. Then he crept quietly across the floor.
It was all so simple that he couldn’t really believe it. Underneath a banana box full of old newspapers – on top of a footstool he thought he remembered from when they lived in Stavanger – lay the photograph. The frame shone when the beam of the torch caught it. Only now did it occur to him that it was made of silver. The metal had oxidized over the years, but the weight and the quality of the chased frame convinced him.
A pang shot through him as he let the beam rest on her smiling face.
The woman was possibly in her twenties, although it was hard to tell. The only part of her clothing that was visible was a blouse with a small collar and something that might be flowers embroidered on the point at each side, white on white. On top of the blouse she was wearing a darker jacket – it looked like a thin, knitted jacket. One single colour.
Not particularly modern, he thought.
Quickly, he took the photograph out of the frame. He wanted to look for the name of the photographer or some other clue that might take him further in the hunt for the sister in whose existence he had believed for so long; now he had no intention of giving up until he found her.
Nothing.
The photograph was completely anonymous. He put down the frame and went over to an old armchair standing by the long wall on the southern side of the house. He sat down and balanced the torch on his shoulder so that the light was shining directly on the photograph.
If his mother had been pregnant in 1962, then this woman must be forty-six now, perhaps forty-seven; he had never known what time of year his mother had had her alleged revelation.
So the photograph must have been taken at least twenty-five years ago: 1984.
He had been five years old then. He didn’t know much about the fashion in those days, apart from the fact that his best friend’s older brother had worn pastel-coloured mohair jumpers which he tucked into his trousers, and his hair had been permed into fantastic curls.
His ran his fingertips over the woman’s face.
She didn’t have a perm, and although it was difficult to guess colours from a black-and-white photograph, he thought the jacket might be red.
Lukas had never missed having siblings. He grew up with a sense of being unique, the only child with whom his parents had been blessed. He found it easy to make friends, and they had always been welcome at home. His friends envied him: Lukas had his parents’ undivided attention, and he often had the latest thing before other parents had even had time to consider whether they could afford it.
He felt as if the woman in the photograph was talking to him. There was something between them, a mutual love.
Quickly, he tucked the photograph inside his shirt and secured it in the waistband of his trousers. He put the frame back where he had found it, then moved over to the roof light, hoping it would still open after all these years.
It did.
Cold, damp air poured in, and he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he began to wonder if it would still be possible for him to squeeze out through the narrow opening. He looked around for something to stand on, and caught sight of a small stepladder, which he remembered from the kitchen in Stavanger. He carefully unhooked it from the wall, opened it out and placed it directly under the roof light. He just about managed to squeeze his shoulders through the gap. Once his upper body was through, the rest wouldn’t be a problem.
However, there were other challenges.
He immediately realized that it would be madness to attempt to get over the roof and down the big oak tree in the dark. There was only a faint glow from the solitary street lamp, which didn’t provide enough light to see what he was doing. Since he needed both hands to make his way over the roof and into the tree, the torch wouldn’t be much use. Of course, he could fix it in his belt, but it wouldn’t be enough.
Lukas Lysgaard was a 29-year-old father of three, and no longer a boy with no fear and no sense. Carefully, he wriggled back down and managed to get back inside without making too much noise.
He sat down in the armchair again, fished out his mobile and keyed in a message to Astrid.
Then he switched the phone to silent.
He would wait for daylight, even if the dawn came late at this time of year. Once again he took out the photograph of the person he now knew was his sister and studied it for a long time in the blue-white glow of the Maglite.
Perhaps he had nieces and nephews.
At least he had a sister.
The very thought made him dizzy, and suddenly tiredness crept up on him. His limbs were as heavy as lead, and he was no longer capable of holding the photograph steady. He tucked it back inside his shirt, switched off the torch and leaned back in the lovely, comfortable armchair.
In the small hours of the morning, he fell asleep.
Child Missing
Adam Stubo had been so tired when he woke up that he had wondered for a while whether he ought to be driving. He wasn’t under the influence of alcohol, having restricted himself to just one decent drink. And yet he felt a heaviness in his body, a stubborn sleepiness that made it difficult to get out of bed. Perhaps he was coming down with something.
But after three cups of coffee, two portions of scrambled eggs and bacon and a freshly baked croissant, everything felt much easier.
He had almost reached Os.
He had decided against warning the family in advance. It was a risk, of course, since there was no guarantee Lukas Lysgaard would be at home, but Adam wanted to maintain the psychological upper hand by making an unannounced visit. He had never been to Lukas’s house, and when the mechanical voice of the satnav kept on telling him to turn right when he was passing a field with not so much as a logging track visible, he decided it would be better to ask the way. A woman in her sixties hurrying along a cycle track looked as if she knew where she was going.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, pressing the button to open the side window. ‘Do you know this area?’
She nodded, her expression dubious.
He mentioned the address, but this didn’t make her any more inclined to talk.
