The Water's Edge - By Karin Fossum Page 0,9

age?'

'He was tall,' Reinhardt said. 'One metre eighty-five, I would say.'

Kristine shook her head. 'No,' she said, 'he wasn't that tall. He was much shorter than you, Reinhardt.'

Sejer looked at them calmly. 'Let's not worry about centimetres,' he said affably. 'What was he wearing?'

'A windbreaker,' Reinhardt said. 'Dark blue.'

'An anorak,' Kristine corrected him. 'The old-fashioned type with a drawstring hem and a cord around the waist. It had a Norwegian flag on one shoulder. The left shoulder,' she added, touching her own shoulder.

'He wore white trousers,' Reinhardt said.

'No,' said Kristine, 'they were beige. With multiple pockets on the thighs. He was wearing trainers, brown ones. They were quite old and in hideous condition.'

Jacob Skarre made notes.

'How old was he?' Sejer asked.

'Forty-something, we think,' Reinhardt said.

'Build?'

'It was like I said,' Reinhardt stated. 'He was tall and slim.'

Kristine looked up at Sejer.

'It's true that he was slim,' she said. 'I mean, he wasn't fat or overweight. But he was broad. If you know what I mean. Across the hips.'

Reinhardt narrowed his lips.

'Did you get a look at his face?'

'He looked stressed,' Reinhardt said. 'We agree on that, don't we, Kristine?'

His question sounded like a command.

Sejer looked at Kristine. 'What do you think? Was he stressed?'

'He might just have been shy, but he was startled when he saw us. Then again, he would be, wouldn't he, we appeared so suddenly,' she explained.

'Anything else?'

'He had light blond hair,' Reinhardt said.

'No,' Kristine contradicted him, 'his hair was grey. It had been combed back and it was quite long in the neck. Slightly curly,' she added.

'What about his car?' Sejer asked.

'It was white,' Kristine said, 'and quite old.'

'I've been thinking about that car,' Reinhardt said. 'It might have been a Granada.' He sent Kristine a triumphant look. This was outside her area of expertise.

'A Granada? I don't think there are many of those around these days, we'll need to look into that. What do you think, Kristine?' Sejer asked.

'I don't know anything about cars,' she mumbled.

'But, all the same, it was a large passenger car. A four-door saloon?'

'Yes,' said Reinhardt.

'So he saw you and drove off?'

'In a hell of a rush,' Reinhardt said.

'I don't think he drove off that quickly,' Kristine objected.

Now it was Skarre's turn to smile.

'Did either of you see the number plate?' he asked optimistically.

They were both silent.

'Anyway,' Sejer said, 'it wasn't a man you recognised, I mean you haven't seen this man before?'

'No.'

Sejer pondered this for a while. He moved the pen from Tunisia further south into Africa.

'Did you notice anything else unusual on your walk from the barrier to the lake? Any people? Sounds, voices?'

'Nothing,' Reinhardt said. 'There wasn't a soul around and it was quiet. Linde Forest is always really quiet.'

'That's why we go there,' Kristine interjected.

'And going there in your car, before you parked, did you meet anyone? Did you pass any other cars, people out walking?'

Reinhardt had to think about this.

'Did we pass anyone?' He looked at Kristine.

'No,' she said. 'The road's so narrow that if we'd met anyone, we would have had to stop.'

'You often walk there? It's a favourite walk of yours?'

'Every Sunday after lunch,' Kristine said, 'usually about the same time. Whatever the weather. All year round.'

'Have you noticed anything else unusual up there, on previous visits?'

'No. Like I said, it's really quiet there. We might have seen the odd person berry-picking. And skiers in winter. But you have to walk all the way to the lake from the barrier and most people can't be bothered to do that.'

'This man,' Sejer said, 'would you recognise him if you saw him in the street?'

'Yes,' Kristine said quickly.

'Why are you so certain?'

She hesitated. 'He stood out.'

Sejer pricked up his ears.

'In what way?'

She thought about the face she had seen for only a few brief seconds.

'I'm not making this up,' she said, 'but he reminded me of someone.' She rubbed her mouth nervously.

'And who did he remind you of?'

Her reply was barely audible. 'Hans Christian Andersen,' she whispered.

The office fell silent.

'The writer, you mean? What made him look like Hans Christian Andersen?' Sejer asked.

'His low, sloping forehead,' she said. 'His huge nose and large ears. The high cheekbones and crescent of curly hair at the back of his neck.'

Reinhardt sent her a doubting look. Skarre was busy taking notes.

'You shouldn't pay too much attention to what I say,' Kristine added. 'It was just something that crossed my mind.'

Sejer got up from his chair. 'That, too, can be important. That'll be all for now. Go home and relax. As