The Water's Edge - By Karin Fossum Page 0,13

of our children.'

'What are you going to do now?'

'We have a procedure and we'll follow it.'

They wanted to know what he thought of the crime scene. Wasn't it strange that the boy had not been buried or concealed in some way?

'Perhaps he wanted us to find him quickly,' Sejer said.

'But he might have buried him. You would have lost valuable time and the killer would have had the advantage. In a few months it'll start snowing and everything will freeze over.'

'It wouldn't have been an advantage,' Sejer said, 'merely a delay.'

He talked and he talked and he experienced an odd feeling of being split in two. Half of him behaved like the professional he was; the other half observed. The faces in the briefing room, the solemn mood, a fly scuttling across the table before eventually settling on the microphone stand.

'Will you be talking to convicted sex offenders?'

'According to the law we can only question people if we have reasonable grounds to suspect them.'

'Did you make any interesting discoveries at the crime scene?'

'I don't wish to comment on that.'

'The man who was seen by the barrier. Was he behaving suspiciously?'

'No comment.'

'Has your force previously investigated a case of this nature?'

'No, we haven't.'

'So are you saying you're wandering into uncharted territory?'

'No.'

'How long had the boy been dead before he was found?'

'We're talking about a few hours, according to the Institute of Forensic Medicine.'

'Is there anything about this case which makes it unique?'

At this point Sejer got up to signal that the briefing was over.

'Every case is unique,' he said. 'There was only ever one Jonas August.'

CHAPTER 9

Sejer's office chair was made by Kinnarps, and Sejer had paid for it out of his own pocket. It had a steel frame, a seat which could be raised and lowered, the back reclined, and a button made the chair rock backwards and forwards. Sejer loathed rocking, however, and consequently never touched it. Underneath his desk lay his dog, Frank Robert, a Chinese Shar Pei, his wrinkled head resting heavily on his paws. He had the same temperament as his fellow countrymen; he was both inscrutable and dignified. In addition he never barked, but might occasionally emit a disgruntled snort. Sejer tapped in the number for the Institute of Forensic Medicine and asked for Snorrason. When he heard his voice, he was instantly reminded of the caramel-like smell of the tobacco that always surrounded him.

'How far have you got?' he asked.

'I'm well under way,' Snorrason replied, 'and though much is still unclear, I can tell you the following: the boy died as a result of oxygen deprivation.'

'So we're talking about strangulation?'

'This is where it gets odd, because I can't work out how it happened. My findings are not conclusive, I need more time.'

'I'm not sure I understand you,' Sejer said. 'If he was deprived of oxygen surely it follows that someone deprived him of it? With a hand or a pillow. Or are you saying that he got something stuck in his throat?'

'No, he definitely didn't choke. And I can't make sense of it either,' Snorrason said, 'but I don't think it's what it looks like. I need to make some calls.'

'Who to?'

'Elfrid Løwe among others. I have a theory,' he said. 'I'll be in touch when I can prove it.'

'Have you found what we were hoping for most of all?'

'You're referring to DNA?'

'Yes?'

'Yes, I've found DNA evidence. If you find the perpetrator, we have irrefutable proof here.'

'Good,' Sejer said. 'Anything else?'

'Not at this moment in time. The boy doesn't even have a scratch on him, and they usually do.'

'Will you be able to finish the autopsy report tonight?'

'I'll fax it over later. You're welcome to wait for it.'

Sejer thanked him and hung up. He unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt-sleeve and started scratching. He suffered from psoriasis and there was a red and irritated patch the size of a twenty-kroner coin on his elbow. He began reading the reports submitted so far. At regular intervals, he glanced sideways at the fax machine. Finally the telephone rang. It was Snorrason.

'I've spoken to Elfrid Løwe,' he said. 'Jonas August suffered from asthma.'

'Did he? Is that relevant?'

'The assault triggered a severe attack. And that, as far as I can establish, was what killed him.'

CHAPTER 10

Reinhardt and Kristine Ris's house was attractive and well maintained. It was painted white and had green windowsills and glazed Dutch roof tiles. It was built in 1920 and Reinhardt was fond of referring to it as an architectural pearl. It sat