The Water's Edge - By Karin Fossum Page 0,10

much as you can.'

'Are we done?' Reinhardt asked in surprise.

Sejer gave him a patient look.

'Unless you happen to remember something you think might be important,' he said, 'in which case I'd be grateful if you'd call me.'

Skarre escorted them out into the corridor. Suddenly Kristine seemed to remember something. She clasped her mouth and gave them a wide-eyed look.

'Good God,' she said.

'What is it?' Skarre asked.

'Please forgive me,' she said, 'I'm not quite myself. And neither is Reinhardt. We forgot the most important thing, I don't know how we managed that. He was limping,' she added.

'That's right,' Reinhardt exclaimed.

'Or rather,' Kristine went on, 'he might not have been limping. But he was walking differently, as if he had an injury of some sort.'

Skarre nodded. 'A disability?'

'Or,' Reinhardt said, 'he might have had a false leg.'

CHAPTER 7

'If I had my way,' Sejer said, 'we would be out questioning every convicted paedophile in the area. Even the ones who have been charged, but never convicted due to lack of evidence.'

'The courts will never give us the green light to do that,' Skarre said.

'Then we run a red light,' Sejer said. 'We run a red light and we pay the price.'

'What do you make of Mr and Mrs Ris?'

'Kristine Ris is a keen observer,' Sejer declared, 'and women make better witnesses than men. They pay attention to details, the little things. A glance or a mood. The Hans Christian Andersen comment was interesting; it was remarkable that she made that observation. Andersen looked unusual; do you know what he looked like?'

'No.'

'He wasn't particularly attractive,' Sejer said. 'If I remember rightly, there was something fox-like about him.'

'Fox-like how?'

'Oh, it's just my impression. But I don't think his appearance reflected his creative powers.'

'The Ugly Duckling,' Skarre suggested.

'Exactly.'

Sejer walked over to the window, he stared out into the busy street.

'What's the name of Jonas August's mother? Did you make a note of it?'

'Her name's Elfrid,' Skarre said, 'Elfrid Løwe. She lives on Granatveien in Huseby. Do you want to call ahead? Do you want to let her know that we're coming over?'

'She'll be at home,' he replied, 'she'll be waiting. Come on, let's go.'

'You don't want to call the local vicar?'

'No.'

'Why not?' Skarre asked.

'Because I'm better at this.'

As he spoke, the doubts came. What could he actually tell her? We've found a little boy by Lake Linde. He matches your description of Jonas August and we need you to come with us to the Institute of Forensic Medicine first thing tomorrow morning, so we can confirm whether or not the dead boy is your son. Those would be his words. And in one second her life would go from order to chaos.

'You go and start the car,' he said.

Skarre grabbed his jacket and left. Sejer wandered around his office. He studied the photos on the wall of Ingrid, his daughter, and her son, Matteus, a tall, athletic teenager. He stood there looking at them, reminding himself of the magnitude of losing those closest to you. He could not articulate it, but for obvious reasons he would have to find the words. Elfrid Løwe would look him in the eye and demand an explanation.

She saw them from the window.

She ran out of the house immediately. Sejer walked across the gravel with heavy, measured steps. It was his slow pace that confirmed her worst fears.

'Elfrid Løwe?'

She ignored his outstretched hand. Instead she clung to the fence.

'Could we come inside, please?' Sejer asked.

She shook her head in defiance. She was slender and small like her son and she wore a short turquoise and pink dress with a floral pattern. She began picking nervously at a ribbon on the neckline of the dress. Her hands were lean with clearly visible veins.

'I want to hear it right here,' she said. 'I want to know right now.'

She shook her head again.

'So tell me,' she burst out, 'please tell me what's happened!'

Sejer placed a hand on her arm. 'I want you to go inside and sit down.'

Finally she went back inside the house. She stood on the living room floor shifting her weight from one foot to the other in a nervous, rhythmical movement.

'Sit down, please,' Sejer told her.

His authoritative voice made her sit on the sofa.

'We have found a little boy,' he started, 'in Linde Forest, not far from the lake. He's been dead a few hours. And I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but he matches your description of Jonas August.'

'No,' she said, shaking her head. 'No.'

'We think