The Water's Edge - By Karin Fossum Page 0,7

stood up and turned his back to the others.

'No visible lesions,' Snorrason said. 'No cuts or needle marks. No signs of strangulation, no effusions of the eyeballs. No signs of a struggle, no defensive injuries.'

Sejer looked at the pale-faced boy.

'He might have used a pillow,' Snorrason said, 'or something else he might have had to hand. A coat, or a blanket.'

'Would you be able to tell if he had used a pillow?' Sejer asked.

'Not necessarily. There is no evidence of pressure to the face. Often you'll find a linear impression from the teeth on the inside of the lips, but he doesn't have that.'

'What else can you tell me?'

Snorrason opened the boy's mouth and looked inside.

'Caucasian boy aged eight to nine. Short and very slender. I estimate he weighs between twenty-five and thirty kilos. He's missing a tooth in his upper jaw. And,' here he looked up at Sejer, 'he's bitten his tongue deeply.'

Sejer listened without displaying any sign of emotion.

'Evidence suggests he was sexually assaulted,' Snorrason continued, 'but he shows no signs of other types of abuse. In other words, I don't know why he died.'

Sejer had to stand up, his knees were about to give way; he watched Skarre, who was on his mobile. Then he watched the couple waiting on the log. The man was blatantly staring at them, the woman stabbed at the heather with a stick. Skarre put his mobile back in his pocket.

'Anything?' Sejer asked.

'Duty officer received a call at two this afternoon. A mother in Huseby reported her son missing, he had slept over at a friend's house and was meant to walk home this morning. She has called everyone she can think of, and she has given us a description of his clothes.'

'And?' Sejer waited.

'It's very likely to be him,' Skarre said. 'Jonas August Løwe. Turns eight next month. Small and skinny with short, blond hair. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the word 'Kiss' on it. Red Bermuda shorts. White, brand new trainers. Have we found his shorts or his trainers?'

'No.'

Sejer took a few steps across the heather. He repeated the name to himself. The low sun made his grey hair glow. His face was still motionless, but it was possible for those who knew him well to detect a minute tightening of his jaw. He headed towards the waiting couple. Reinhardt Ris looked up at him in a rather direct manner.

'As I mentioned,' Sejer said, 'we'll need you to come down to the station.'

Reinhardt leapt up from the log and stood to attention before the inspector.

'Please go to your car,' Sejer said. 'Skarre and I will follow. Drive to the station, go to the reception area and wait.'

They walked briskly back to the barrier. Their lives will never be the same, Sejer thought, an experience like this will knock them off their course. They both showed signs of it, the man by exaggerating his own masculinity, the woman by stumbling helplessly after him. He watched them for a while as he reflected on this. Then he quickly walked back to Jonas August Løwe.

CHAPTER 6

The police station towered over the busy street, a colossus of glass and red-brown stone. High up on its façade hung the emblem of the police force, its metal gleaming in the sunshine. Its architecture signalled power and authority. Reinhardt opened the glass door and entered, Kristine hurrying after him. The reception was a large, open area with a circular, dark-varnished counter, behind which a woman gave them a questioning look. The blue glare from a computer monitor drained her face of colour.

'Can I help you?' she asked.

'We're waiting for Konrad Sejer,' Reinhardt said.

They were directed to a sofa. Reinhardt started drumming his fingers on the armrest. The receptionist returned to her monitor, Kristine peeled off her red coat.

'Looks like we could be here for some time,' Reinhardt moaned.

'I don't mind staying here all night,' Kristine said. 'I wouldn't be able to do anything else anyway. Washing clothes, cooking dinner, it all seems so unimportant now.'

Reinhardt got up and crossed the floor. He stared impatiently out of the windows. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, turning his back on her as he did so.

'What are you doing?' she asked anxiously.

'Sending a text message.'

She followed him nervously with her eyes. There was an air of excitement about him, she recognised it from earlier occasions. When he got a tax rebate of forty thousand kroner, when they bought the car, the silver Rover. The manner in