He rumpled her hair, a thick, strawberry-blonde mane smelling of shampoo. ‘Not before I need to be,’ he said. ‘And right now I don’t need to be. I’m sitting here in the sun with you, and I have wine in a crystal glass.’
‘But why hasn’t he called?’ Wilma said.
Hannes tugged at a lock of her hair, twining it round his finger. ‘Maybe he’s trying to tell us something. That he’s not afraid. It’s a demonstration. We shouldn’t spoil it for him by fussing.’
Wilma manoeuvred in under his arm. ‘You’re so confident,’ she said. ‘I’m glad. That’s why I want to be with you for ever. But you’re only human, you make mistakes too.’
‘Not often,’ Hannes said. He let the mild red-wine buzz lead him far away. Wilma’s lock of hair felt like silk string between his fingers.
‘What if he’s actually afraid,’ Wilma said, ‘but too proud to admit it? So he walks the trail alone, his heart in his throat. Being tough for us. Maybe hoping we’ll call him so he’ll be spared the humiliation. That’s another possibility.’
Hannes got up from the hammock. Walking a few paces with a mixture of determination and gravity which made the wooden boards creak with each step, he fished his mobile out of his pocket and called Theo. While he waited, he began crooning. ‘Joy to the World, the Lord is come. Let earth receive her King!’
‘Why are you carrying on like that?’ Wilma laughed at her singing husband.
‘It’s his ringtone. I think it’s from Handel’s Messiah. ‘Joy to the World’. You probably know it. He took a few more steps. Wilma followed him with her eyes.
‘He’s not answering?’
‘Calm down now,’ Hannes said. ‘His mobile’s probably at the bottom of his rucksack, and he’s a bit clumsy, as you know. I can just see it.’
They waited. Hannes continued to pace, listening to the mobile ring.
‘He’s not answering?’ Wilma repeated. Abruptly she got up from the hammock, which swayed a few times before coming to rest.
‘Maybe it’s in his back pocket,’ Hannes suggested. ‘And he’s fumbling with his small hands. Or maybe he’s absorbed by something. Stay calm, darling,’ he teased. ‘We’ll try again.’
Chapter 27
It was Skarre who called Sejer.
He was so agitated that he could barely speak. Over the years he’d seen so many things: people floating in lakes, or hanging from beams. They had each witnessed tragedies great and small, and they had found methods to help them remain calm. But this was something else, something absolutely hideous.
‘You must come at once!’
Sejer pressed his mobile against his ear. ‘What is it? Where are you?’
Automatically he searched his pockets for his keys, because he knew he would have to get going. He heard Skarre breathing, and other voices further away. Even this background murmur sounded ominous.
‘Where are you?’ he repeated.
‘We’re out in Bjerkås,’ Skarre said. ‘Near Saga on the trail they call Glenna. You need to get here quickly. Sverre Skarning has opened the metal barrier, so you can drive all the way in. We’re at the first fork in the road, it’s called Skillet. There’s a big sign made of wood, with a map. You’ll see us.’
‘OK. What’s the situation?’ Sejer asked.
‘W-we don’t quite know yet,’ Skarre stuttered. ‘We can’t tell what’s happened. But between you and me, something dreadful has occurred here.’
‘Can you be a bit more specific? What’s the situation?’
‘As far as we can see, it’s the remains of a little boy.’
Thirty minutes later Sejer was at Glenna.
He saw them clustered at the fork in the road, milling about. Some had their hands on their heads. Others, perhaps unable to stand any longer, rested on logs gathered at the side of the track. A woman officer sat sobbing into her hands. A police car and an ambulance were parked further along. He opened his car door and got out, caught sight of the big wooden sign. Something lay in the road, and it immediately unsettled him. He felt a violent tug in his belly. Without wanting it to, his heart began to thump. He started walking, but very slowly, staring at the group of eight or ten crime scene officers. As they watched him approach, they stepped aside.
A green tarpaulin lay in the road. There was a very modest lump in the centre, indicating that it held quite a small body.
‘Take a deep breath,’ Skarre said. ‘It’s not pretty.’
The thin, synthetic material swished when they pulled the tarpaulin aside.
Sejer gasped. He couldn’t understand what he was looking at. The remains of a little boy, they had said. But what he saw was just a tangle of limbs, a hand, a foot, a blank, staring eye. He noticed a small rucksack with a Kvikklunsj chocolate bar patch sewn on to it. The rucksack was open, and something resembling a toy had fallen out. Shafts of bone stuck out from the flesh like thin, white sticks, the left arm was torn off at the elbow, and parts of the face were gone. A few small, round children’s teeth gleamed against red gums. Sejer could also make out a piece of khaki cloth, shorts possibly, and a white trainer. He glanced around for the match, but he couldn’t find it. The torn-off arm was nowhere to be seen, either. He had to get away, it occurred to him, a simple reflex. He was ready to bound back to the car. Give me something to drink, he thought, right now.
‘Has anyone touched him?’ he said.
The assembled shook their heads. The woman officer who had sat sobbing pulled herself together and wiped away her tears. But her face was filled with pain.
‘Who found him?’
‘Two cyclists out training,’ Skarre said. ‘We sent them away. We’ll talk to them later.’
‘Adults?’
‘Adult enough,’ Skarre said.
‘Did they hear anything?’
‘No. But the boy had clearly been all the way to Snellevann. They saw him on the way up, sitting on one of the rocks eating his lunch.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘Yes,’ Skarre said, ‘they believe he was alone. But he did have this with him.’ He lifted the toy off the ground and gave it to Sejer. ‘Optimus Prime.’
Sejer didn’t understand.
‘It’s a Transformer. You know, one of those toys that changes shape to become something else.’
Skarre held the robot. He didn’t know what he should say, or what he should do, because it was all incomprehensible. He pawed around the rucksack again and found a Thermos. A crumpled strip of wax sandwich paper. A mobile phone. When he stood with the mobile in his hand, it sent out a small beep: One missed call.
‘Someone tried to call him.’
Standing there with the mobile, Sejer felt they were all waiting for him, perhaps to give them an order. He looked down at the remains of the little boy.
‘What the hell happened here?’ Skarre asked.
‘Dogs,’ Sejer said. ‘A pack of them.’
A couple walked up the trail.
They came quickly and decisively, as if they were looking for something. When they saw the cluster of people, they stopped, exchanged some words, and began walking again, faster now.
One of the officers panicked and began to shout. ‘No! You can’t be here now. You must turn round at once. Turn round!’
They didn’t. Noticing the desperation in the man’s voice, they picked up the pace, drawing swiftly nearer, holding hands. The officers placed the tarpaulin over the boy again and took up position, like soldiers on guard duty.
‘You must turn round! You can’t be here!’
Finally they stopped.
‘We have to go through here to get our boy!’ the man said.
To get our boy. What had been their son now lay under the green tarpaulin, and he’d been torn to pieces.