"Interested in a murder case? It's like a Christmas present. I mean, it's a big challenge. Of course I'm interested."
He blushed and took the phone that was ringing furiously, listened, nodded, and put down the receiver.
"That was Siven. They've identified her. Annie Sofie Holland, born March 3, 1980. But she says they can't be interviewed until tomorrow."
"Is Ringstad on duty?"
"Just came in."
"Then you should be getting home. It's going to be a rough day tomorrow. I'll take the photos home," he added.
"Are you going to study her in bed?"
"I was thinking of it." He smiled sadly. "I prefer pictures I can put away in a drawer afterwards."
Like Granittveien, Krystallen was a cul-de-sac. It ended in a dense, overgrown thicket where a few citizens had furtively dumped their rubbish under cover of night. The houses stood close together, 21 in total. From a distance, they looked like terrace-houses, but as Sejer and Skarre walked down the street, they discovered narrow passageways between each building, just space enough for a man to pass through. The houses were three storeys high, tall with pitched roofs, and identical. This reminds me of the wharf area in Bergen, Sejer thought. The colours complemented each other: deep red, dark green, brown, grey. One stood out; it was the colour of an orange.
No doubt many of the residents had seen the police car near the garage, and Skarre who was in uniform. Before long the bomb was going to explode. The silence was palpable.
Ada and Eddie Holland lived in number 20. Sejer could almost feel the neighbours' eyes on the back of his neck as he stood at the front door. Something has happened at number 20, they were thinking now; at the Hollands' house, with the two girls. He tried to calm his breathing, which was faster than normal because of the threshold he was about to cross. This sort of thing was such an ordeal for him that many years ago he had fashioned a series of set phrases which now, after much practice, he could utter with confidence.
Annie's parents obviously hadn't done a thing since coming home the night before – not even slept. The shock at the morgue had been like a shrill cymbal that was still reverberating in their heads. The mother was sitting in a corner of the sofa, the father was perched on the armrest. He looked numb. The woman hadn't yet taken in the catastrophe; she gave Sejer an uncomprehending look, as if she couldn't understand what two police officers were doing in her living room. This was a nightmare, and soon she would wake up. Sejer had to take her hand from her lap.
"I can't bring Annie back," he said in a low voice. "But I hope that I can find out why she died."
"We're not thinking about why!" shrieked the mother. "We're thinking about who did it! You have to find out who it was, and lock him up! He's sick."
Her husband patted her arm awkwardly.
"We don't yet know," Sejer said, "whether the person in question is really sick or not. Not every killer is sick."
"You can't tell me that normal people kill young girls!"
She was breathing hard, gasping for air. Her husband had wrapped himself up in a stony knot.
"Nevertheless," Sejer said, "there's always a reason, even if it's not necessarily one we can understand. But first we have to ascertain that someone really did take her life."
"If you think she took her own life, you'd better think again," the mother said. "That's impossible. Not Annie."
They all say that, Sejer thought.
"I need to ask you about a few things. Answer as best you can. Then, if you want to put your answer another way or think you forgot something, give me a ring. Or if you think of something else. Anytime, day or night."
Ada Holland shifted her eyes past Skarre and Sejer, as if she were listening to the reverberating cymbal, and she wondered where the sound was coming from.
"I need to know what kind of girl she was. Tell me whatever you can." And, at the same time, he thought, what kind of question is that? What are they supposed to say to that? The very best, of course, the sweetest, the nicest. Someone totally special. The very dearest thing they had. Only Annie was Annie.
They both began to sob. The mother from deep in her throat, a painfully plaintive wail; the father soundlessly, without tears. Sejer could