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‘Revenge,’ Skarre said. ‘Or jealousy. The need to mark his territory.’

‘In any case, he’s methodical,’ Sejer said. ‘He doesn’t act on impulse, he stages dramas. And Lord, what a drama!’

The department chief had been listening silently. ‘Well, I need you to solve this!’ He thanked Sejer and disappeared out into the corridor. They heard his cane thumping into the distance, a melancholic sound which, along with Holthemann, would soon go into retirement.

Skarre pulled himself away from the map. He unscrewed the lid of a Thermos, poured himself a full cup of coffee and drank greedily. Then he stood by the window and gazed down on the square where a group of journalists had gathered, like swarming wasps.

‘The press are waiting,’ he said. ‘This is juicy stuff for them. What are you going to say?’

Sejer considered. ‘That we’re keeping all possibilities open. And just like the perpetrator, we’re going to be methodical. I hope to get away with three or four sentences, bow politely and return. It’s OK to be a little stingy with my words today. Otherwise the story will be blown all out of proportion.’

‘No doubt they’ll ask whether we’re expecting more attacks like this,’ Skarre said. ‘How will you answer?’

‘No comment.’

‘What would you say, just between you and me? I mean, who do you think did this?’

‘I should probably keep my mouth shut,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s too early to speculate.’

‘I won’t hold you to what you say,’ Skarre said. ‘You can draw on your experience and intuition and your knowledge of people, which — as everyone says — you have in spades. If I know you, you’ve already got the perpetrator in your sights now. I’m just curious. I have my own suspicions about who the perpetrator is. What this is.’ He raised his hands. ‘I’m not writing anything down,’ he smiled.

‘It’s a man,’ Sejer said and sank into a chair.

‘Why do you think it’s a man?’

‘Probability.’ He rolled up his sleeve and scratched at his right elbow. His psoriasis flared up whenever he became agitated, or when it was really hot. The summer was hot. ‘Every probability suggests the following facts,’ Sejer went on. ‘He’s a man between the age of seventeen and sixty, neglected and invisible. He’s shy and introverted, but his awkwardness stands out. He wants respect, but doesn’t have much luck. He’s creative, bitter and hateful. He has a low-level job with a meagre income, or he’s unemployed, maybe on the dole or getting some kind of benefits. He has no close friends. He’s intelligent and intuitive, but emotionally very immature. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t use drugs and isn’t especially interested in girls. He lives simply, in a room or a small flat, or he lives with his mother. And it’s possible he keeps an animal in a cage.’

‘What?’ Skarre said incredulously. ‘An animal in a cage?’

‘That last was a joke.’ Sejer smiled. ‘I figured you’d get it. But I thought about a rat or something similar. You asked me to paint a picture using every detail,’ he said. ‘So I used my imagination.’

Sejer looked down at the crowd of reporters clustered in the square. ‘They look ravenous,’ he said. ‘Should we toss them some scraps?’

Skarre stood at his side. He too sized up the journalists shuffling around with their thick woolly microphones — like a group of children who had each received a giant lollipop.

‘Not surprising they’re here,’ he said. ‘This case has everything, drama, originality. It’s a shocker.’

‘Maybe we’ve done everything wrong,’ Sejer said. ‘Maybe society relates to crime in a completely foolish way. The newspapers blow it out of proportion, and the criminal gets all the attention he wants. Maybe we ought to kill the story with silence. Force all criminals into silence.’

‘But what will he do if we ignore him?’ Skarre asked. ‘We always have to take that into consideration. Will he become more dangerous, even angrier, if he doesn’t get any reaction? There’s something explosive about it all. We’re talking about a little baby, a soap-and milk-smelling little sugar cube weighing seven or eight kilos.’

‘You’re right,’ Sejer said. ‘He needs an audience. But it’s important that we try to be balanced. I will introduce him as a person with emotions, so he feels understood. We shouldn’t step on his toes.’

The inspector turned his back to the window and sat for a moment at his desk. A shy man, he didn’t like the prospect of going out into the square, to the sunshine and the heat and the ravenous, sensation-hungry journalists and their curiosity. But, as inspector, it was his job to be the department’s public face. To inform and report, in his calm way.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Skarre asked, in a low, intimate voice.

‘About my grandson, actually,’ Sejer admitted. ‘You know Matteus. He’s at the Opera ballet school. They’ve just learned that one of the pupils will get the chance to make a guest appearance on the main stage. In April.’

‘So he’s going to audition?’

‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘On the tenth of October. For the role of Siegfried in Swan Lake.’

‘The prince.’

‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘A lot’s at stake. He really wants to get that role. But there are so many good dancers.’

He looked at the desk pad, a map of the world. His daughter’s eighteen-year-old son had been adopted from Somalia, and now he put his finger on this country, shown in yellow. Matteus was four when he came to Norway. Now he was a promising dancer at the ballet school, with an impressive physique and rock-hard, coffee-coloured muscles.

‘But do you think they’ll pick a black prince?’ Sejer said suddenly, a little concerned. ‘Certain roles never seem to come in black.’

‘Give me an example,’ Skarre said.

‘Robin Hood, Peter Pan.’

‘You’re worried about people’s prejudice, but you’re the one who’s prejudiced.’

Sejer glanced apologetically at his younger colleague. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for years, I can’t shake it. It’s never been easy for Matteus. At school he was a loner, and had a hard time. Now this: the prince in Swan Lake and plenty of stiff competition. Well, we’ll see how it turns out, I guess. I won’t harp on about it now.’

He got ready to meet the press. Straightened his back and adjusted the knot in his tie, until it was smooth and tight.

‘You’re thinking about the white swan girls,’ Skarre teased. ‘In feathers and tulle. And you’re afraid Matteus will stand out. But even swans come in black.’

‘Really?’ the inspector said.

‘There’s a pond with black swans at the cathedral in Palma,’ Skarre said. ‘They’re obviously much more attractive than the white swans, and they’re rarer.’

Sejer headed out to the journalists. Skarre’s words made him feel a little more optimistic.

That evening Sejer sat in front of his television, in a comfortable chair by the window, with a pillow supporting his back.

Sejer’s dog, a Chinese Shar Pei called Frank, lay at his feet, and was, like most Chinese, dignified, unapproachable and patient. Frank had tiny, closed ears — and thus bad hearing — and a mass of grey, wrinkled skin that made him look like a chamois cloth. His eyes, black and intelligent but with limited vision, were set deep within the wrinkles.

The case with the baby from Bjerketun got extensive coverage. Because it was a sensation, he thought, an oddity. It terrifies people — which is no doubt what the perpetrator wants.

He remained seated in front of the television. First he saw himself in a report from TV Norway, then on The Day in Review at seven, and finally on the evening news at eleven. He repeated the same words from channel to channel.