“For goodness’ sake, go and see a doctor,” his daughter Ingrid had said many a time, but she was particularly vehement the day she saw it for herself. He had suddenly lost his balance and collapsed by the kitchen table. Sejer had retorted that there was probably nothing he could do. It was just something he had to live with. Maybe the arteries at the back of his neck were calcified. The blood wasn’t getting to his brain, which is apparently quite common in elderly people. And whether he liked it or not, he’s getting older. From here on in, it’s a gradual decline.
“Dad,” she said, slightly exasperated. “Come on, you’re only fifty-five! Go and talk to Erik then, if you don’t want to go to your physician.”
“But Erik is an ER doctor,” he protested. “He won’t know about dizziness.”
“OK, if you want to be difficult, I can’t be bothered talking about it anymore,” she said, laughing as always. And every time he heard her laugh, it warmed his heart. But now he had to focus on the dead child found in the pond they call Damtjern. Don’t jump to any conclusions, he thought. Be open and clear and considerate. It’s important that everything is right, that it’s fair. That is what had driven him ever since he was a boy in Gamle Møllevej, and still did in his work as a police inspector in Søndre Buskerud Police District.
A strong and burning desire for truth and justice.
Three vehicles had arrived before he did: Skarre, the forensics team, and an ambulance. They were all leaning against their cars, as there was nothing more they could do. The little boy who had drowned in Damtjern was lying on a tarpaulin. Sejer looked down at the boy. A naked, smooth little body with visible veins. Don’t get dizzy now, he thought, not at any cost. Not with people watching.
The boy appeared to be well looked after and in good shape with no deformities as far as he could see. His veins were very visible at the temples, a fine web of greenish-blue. His eyes were colorless and dull, but he could tell that they had once been blue; yes, the child was definitely in good shape. If he had suffered any kind of maltreatment, it was certainly not visible.
“The mother said that she went into shock,” Skarre told him. “She was doing something in the bathroom, and when she came back into the kitchen he was gone. She ran out into the yard and down to the pond, fearing the worst. She saw him by the jetty, threw herself into the water, and pulled him out. The water was about three feet deep where he was. And she tried to resuscitate him, but couldn’t. Well, that’s her preliminary statement anyway. We’ll see if it changes.”
“No visible trauma,” Sejer pointed out. “No cuts or bruises. He looks fit and healthy.”
He checked his watch; it was half-past two. Wednesday, August 10, beautiful weather, no wind and quite warm. It had been a long, hot summer with almost no rain and the grass around the pond was yellow and dry as straw. And now this — this little body with tiny hands and round cheeks, pale, bluish, and cool as smooth marble.
“Will you call Snorrason?”
“Yes,” Sejer replied. “We’ll drive the boy’s body straight there. We’ll get some answers pretty quickly. If he was alive when he fell in the pond, there will be water in his lungs. We might as well start there.”
“A sad sight,” Skarre said and nodded at the little body.
“Yes,” Sejer agreed. “A very sad sight indeed.” And I’m dizzy again, he thought to himself, and took a deep breath. He was squatting down next to the dead child and dreaded trying to stand up in case he gave himself away. Then they would find out that he, an inspector, was no longer at his best, but in serious decline. That age had caught up with him, or worse. So he stayed where he was and waited for it to pass.
“Do they live in the white house?” he asked and pointed to the old building with red window-frames.
“Yes,” Skarre replied. “And they’re very young. Only nineteen and twenty, in fact, so they started early. But, well, he looks a bit odd, doesn’t he?”
Sejer studied the small face with colorless cheeks. Yes, there was something special about him, something familiar.
“Down syndrome,” he said decisively. “I’d put a bet on it. Look at his eyes; that’s where you usually see it. And his hands, at that line, the one that runs across.” He lifted the boy’s hand to show him. The hand was cold and smooth.
“But he’s definitely old enough to walk,” he added. “He may even have crawled from the house down to the jetty.”
Skarre wandered around in the dry grass. His body was trim and agile, ready for action. His shirt was clean and freshly ironed as always, his shoes shiny. And if these virtues were not enough, he also believed in God. Jacob Skarre had given himself up to the mystery they call faith.
“I wonder why he’s naked,” Sejer mused. “There must be a reason. But then again, it is warm. Babies only sweat from their heads. Maybe they undressed him because it was so warm.”
“It’s obviously quite possible that he went down to the pond on his own,” Skarre agreed. “It’s not far. And most children learn to walk around one. Speaking of which, I didn’t start walking until I was eighteen months. My parents couldn’t sleep at night, because they thought I was disabled.”
“Who’d have guessed it?” Sejer exclaimed. “You who are so nimble?” Then he turned to the forensics team: “Can you drive the body down to Snorrason and say I’m waiting?”
He took a few steps across the grass and stared up at the white house with the dark windows. A swing set added a splash of red and he noticed a small sandbox with some brightly colored toys in it. Three old bikes stood leaning against the wall. A flower bed that needed weeding ran along the front of the house. And a blue Golf was parked by the swing.
“If they’re only nineteen and twenty,” he said, “I presume they don’t have any more children.”
“That’s right,” Skarre confirmed. “Just the one. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Afterward, when the body had been driven away, he went back to the car and let out the dog, who bounded around happily in the grass. Skarre watched the fat little beast with a mildly reprimanding smile.
“No one can accuse you of choosing him for his looks,” he commented. “He looks like a dishcloth.”
“Beauty is transient,” Sejer parried. “I’m sure you know that.”
He walked across the small jetty and stood looking out over the water, which was like a mirror. The surface gave away nothing about what had happened.
“Why did you call?” he asked, turning to Skarre. “Tell me your thoughts, and why you brought a couple of forensics with you to what was probably nothing more than a tragic accident.”
“I don’t know,” Skarre said. “The mother seems so artificial. It’s difficult to make eye contact and she’s very evasive. And, well, alarm bells started to ring, so I didn’t want to take any chances. If it is murder, she could get away with it pretty easily,” he added. “I don’t understand the law on that point, I have to say; a life is a life and we’re all of equal value.”
“Hmm,” he paused. “Not sure everyone would agree with you there. But there’s no doubt that the bond between mother and child is special. And her young age might also contribute to a more lenient sentence. Nineteen. Goodness, she started early. It will be easy for the defense to find mitigating circumstances. If there is a case and if we decide to prosecute. But we shouldn’t speculate so early on in the process. What’s your impression of the boy’s father?”