Sigmund Berli scratched his neck and tugged at his shirt collar.
“And there aren’t really many other ways to get in and out of the Paris of the North. We haven’t approached the hotels yet. Seems unlikely that the guy would stay in a hotel, somehow… having just killed a baby, I mean.”
“There must be… hundreds of names.”
“Several thousand, I’m afraid. The boys are working as quickly as they can to get them onto the computer system. Then they’re checked against…”
Berli looked over at Adam Stubo’s bulletin board, where pictures of Emilie, Kim, Sarah, and Glenn Hugo were pinned up with big blue pushpins. Only Kim was smiling shyly; the other children all stared solemnly at the camera.
“… the parents’ information, who they’ve met and known and been in contact with. Shit… These lists are getting ridiculous, Adam.”
His voice broke and he coughed.
“I know that it’s necessary. It’s just so…”
“Frustrating. A whole lot of names and no connections.”
Adam gave a long yawn and loosened his tie.
“What about the man who was seen in…”
He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration.
“Soltunveien,” he remembered. “The man in gray or blue.”
“No one has come forward,” said Sigmund Berli, his voice a bit stronger now. “Which makes the sighting all the more interesting. And our witness was right; the woman in the red coat was a neighbor; she said herself that she must have turned into the road from Langnesbakken around ten to three. The boy on the bike has also been identified; he came forward with his father this morning and obviously has nothing to hide. Neither of them saw or heard anything suspicious. The man who was rushing without wanting to… show it? He hasn’t come forward. So that could be…”
“Our man.”
Adam Stubo got up.
“He was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. Had hair. Anything else?”
He was facing the pictures of the children, his eyes running over the series of photographs, backward and forward.
“Not really, I’m afraid. This witness, can’t remember his name off the top of my head, is evidently very careful not to say too much. He has described the walk and the build, but refuses to help to make an artist’s sketch of the face.”
“Sensible, really, if he doesn’t feel that he saw it properly. Why does he think the man was around thirty?”
“His body. His hair. The way he was walking. Energetic, but not youthful. His clothes. All of that. But between twenty-five and thirty-five is hardly precise.”
Adam Stubo rocked on his heels.
“But if…”
He suddenly turned around to face his colleague.
“If someone doesn’t come forward soon who fits that description and had some legitimate errand there that Sunday afternoon, we are definitely a step closer.”
“A step,” Berli repeated, and nodded. “But not much more. We’ve always assumed that it must be a man. In fact, he could be between twenty and forty-five. There are plenty of men in that age group in Norway. With hair too. But it could easily have been a wig, for all we know.”
The phone rang. It seemed for a second that Adam Stubo was not going to answer. He stared at the machine, then snatched up the receiver.
“Stubo,” he barked.
Sigmund Berli leaned back in the chair. Adam didn’t say much, but listened a lot. His face was empty of expression; only a slight rise of the left eyebrow indicated some surprise at what he was being told. Sigmund Berli ran his fingers over a cigar box on the desk in front of him. The wood was smooth and pleasing to the touch. He suddenly had an empty and uncomfortable feeling of hunger; his stomach hurt even though he didn’t really want any food. Adam finished the conversation.
“Anything new?”
Adam didn’t answer. Instead he let his chair swing halfway around on its axis, so that he could study the faces of the children on the wall again.
“Kim had a mother and a father who live together. Married. The same was true for Glenn Hugo. Sarah’s mother was single, but the girl stayed with her father every other weekend. Emilie’s mother is dead. She lived with her father.”
“Lives,” corrected Berli. “Emilie might still be alive. In other words, these children represent a fair average of children in Norway. Half of them live with both parents and half of them with one parent.”
“Only, Emilie’s father is not really Emilie’s father.”
“What?”
“That was Hermansen at Asker and Bærum,” said Adam, pointing to the phone. “A doctor contacted them. He didn’t know how important… or rather, if what he had to say was of any importance to the investigation. After this weekend’s events, he agreed with his superiors that he should break patient confidentiality and tell us that Emilie’s father is not her biological father.”
“Has Tønnes Selbu ever said anything to that effect?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“He doesn’t know that… he doesn’t know he’s not his daughter’s father?”
They both stared at the photograph of Emilie. The picture was bigger than the others, taken by a professional photographer. The child had a small chin with a hint of a cleft. Her eyes were big and serious. Her mouth was small, with full lips, and she had a crown of coltsfoot in her fair hair. One flower had fallen loose and hung down on her forehead.
“Tønnes Selbu and Grete Harborg were married when Grete got pregnant. Tønnes was automatically registered as the child’s father. No one has ever questioned it. Except perhaps the mother, she must… Anyway. Two years ago, Grete and Tønnes decided to register as bone marrow donors. There was something about a cousin who was ill and the whole family… Well, to the doctor’s great surprise, the tests showed that Tønnes was definitely not the father of his child. It was discovered by accident. The doctor had taken a test of Emilie earlier, in another context, and…”
“But they didn’t tell the man?”
“Why? What’s the point?”
Adam was standing up close to the photo of Emilie. He studied it in detail and drew his finger over the crown of yellow spring flowers.
“Tønnes Selbu is a good father. Better than most, according to the reports. I completely understand the doctors. Why should they foist that news on the man when he hasn’t asked for it? What good would it do him?”
Sigmund Berli stared in disbelief at the photograph of the nine-year-old.
“I would want to know. Shit, if Sture and Snorre are not mine, then…”
“Then what? Then you wouldn’t want them?”
Berli snapped his mouth shut, audibly. The snap made Adam laugh, a dry laugh.
“Forget it, Sigmund. What’s important is to find out whether the information is relevant to us. For the investigation.”
“And why should it be?” he asked, unfocused.
Snorre was dark like Sigmund Berli. Square. Like peas in a pod, people used to say. And even though he wasn’t usually much good at things like that, even he could see clear similarities between his son now and pictures of himself as a five-year-old.
“Obviously, I’ve got no idea! Get a grip.”
Adam snapped his fingers in front of Sigmund’s face.
“The first thing we should find out is if the same applies to any of the others.”
“You mean whether the other children are in fact their fathers’ children? And we should check that just before the funeral, knock on the door and say excuse me, kind sir, but we have reason to believe that you are not the father of the child you just lost, so please can we have a blood sample? Well? Well? Is that what you mean?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
Adam’s voice was quiet and calm. Sigmund Berli normally envied him that, his older colleague’s ability to control himself, to think clearly at all times, to talk precisely. But now Berli was furious.