Sejer glanced up at him. 'We're looking for a man.'
'Correct.'
'A killer,' Sejer added.
Skarre watched as he leafed through the book.
'And you think he's in the encyclopaedia? That would be a first,' he said.
Sejer continued for a while before finally stopping at a black and white portrait the size of a postage stamp.
'Hans Christian Andersen,' Skarre said.
They studied the picture in silence. Sejer noted the low, sloping forehead, the large nose, the high cheekbones and the crescent of curly hair at the back of his head. Precisely like Kristine Ris's description of the man by the barrier.
'How much do we see in a split second?' Sejer wondered. 'When we pass someone on the road?'
Skarre considered this. 'Not many details,' he stated. 'We see the sum total. And our brain will automatically look for a pre-existing, recognisable match.'
'Like the Danish writer.' Sejer said. 'His face is unique, don't you think? It's sensitive and strong at the same time.'
'He's not an attractive man,' Skarre declared.
'No,' Sejer said, 'there's a quality of weakness about him. And perhaps we'll lose our potential suspect tomorrow. Perhaps he'll come forward and prove to be completely innocent and we're back to square one. Perhaps he went for a walk, like people do on a Sunday in September.'
'Yes,' Skarre nodded. 'You might well be right.'
'Nevertheless,' Sejer went on, 'Reinhardt and Kristine Ris told us that he walked with a certain degree of difficulty. And if he finds it difficult to walk, he's unlikely to walk in the forest for pleasure. Unless he had to, because there was something he had to get rid of.'
Skarre nodded.
'Yet,' Sejer continued, 'doing what I'm doing now is risky.'
'What are you doing?' Skarre wanted to know.
'Fixating on him. Now all I see is the Danish writer. It blinds me to other things.'
'We found a small piece,' Skarre said, 'which might not even be part of the puzzle. It's always like this at the start of an investigation.'
'But this time we haven't got a minute to lose,' Sejer said, 'because this man will strike again.'
CHAPTER 12
He sat on his sofa, curled up in a corner.
He had turned off nearly all the lights and drawn the curtains. He liked the semi-darkness, it gave him a feeling of safety. In his hands he held the red Bermuda shorts. They were made from a fine, thin material, with white inner briefs and a small pocket. In the pocket he had found a sweet-smelling chewing gum wrapper. His first impulse, after what he preferred to call the 'accident', had been to burn the shorts in the stove. But he could not bear it, they belonged to him now, they would always belong to him. When he held them against his face he could detect a faint smell of urine, which he inhaled in deep breaths. He had sat like this for an eternity, while the hours slowly passed, while the light faded, only for a new day to dawn.
From now on nothing was safe. He could not be certain of what the future held, if he even had a future, or if this was the end, the end of everything. He was incapable of eating anything and he had a splitting headache, it felt like knitting needles were piercing his temples. The telephone had rung, his father probably, but he had not answered it. He knew he ought to move to his bed, but he did not have the energy to get up, why should he get up? To make sure he got a good night's sleep? For the job he did not have? For people he did not know? At midnight he gave in, he lay down on the sofa on his side, still with the red shorts pressed against his face. At the end of the sofa lay an old woollen blanket. He got hold of it and covered his legs. He heard the ticking of the wall clock; it seemed louder than usual, as if every second warned of the impending disaster, the exposure and the condemnation, the verdict and the hatred, there were so many things. He felt dizzy. He visualised himself in court before a sea of hate-filled faces, they screamed at him, they spat and raged, they blamed him for everything, even his very existence, for who he was and what he had done. Meanwhile, he was shaking, trying to prepare an answer, but no sound came out, he had lost the power of speech. The images upset him. His pulse rose as if he had been running, though he had not moved for several hours.
When he finally slipped into a restless slumber, the memories racing past vividly brought it all back to him. The longing and the need he had lived with his entire life. The whole time, right up until this time, he had been able to control himself, he had turned away from every temptation. He had been strong and decent. But now fate had pushed him over the edge. He closed his eyes and a few dry sobs escaped, but they offered him no comfort.
CHAPTER 13
Inspector Sejer was always correct, reserved and polite. His formality might at times be mistaken for arrogance, unless you knew him well. Hardly anyone knew him well. He was totally devoted to his job, ambitious, but not a climber. He was patient, he listened, he had gravity and he hardly ever laughed. He took everything very seriously, life as well as his work, but on rare occasions his deep laughter could be heard. He was temperate, strong and decisive. He was always appropriately dressed, his shoes newly polished and in good condition, and his shirts freshly ironed. No one had ever taught him the art of flirtation, seduction or manipulation, unless he was facing a killer who denied all responsibility. Then he could charm the birds off the trees.
'Do you remember Jørgen Pihl?' Skarre asked. 'It was a fairly big case. He was a paediatrician at Ullevål Hospital, he treated kids the whole day and he had as much access to them as he could wish for. He finally went too far, the kids started talking. He was struck off, of course, and he went downhill from there, he started drinking, lost his home and his family.'
'Yes,' Sejer said, 'I remember him, and I remember Kristian Kruse. He held confirmation courses for the Humanist Society. And I remember Philip Åkeson.'
'No one will ever forget Philip Åkeson,' Skarre said. 'The man from Linde Forest hasn't contacted us,' he added. 'When do we start getting suspicious?'
'I already am,' Sejer said, 'but we should probably give him a few more days. There are people who don't follow the news.'
'I don't buy that,' Skarre said. 'This case has reached millions of people, it's gone beyond Norway, as has our request for him to get in touch. I'll give him until the end of the day and then I'll start suspecting him. Do we know anyone who walks with a limp?'
Sejer pondered this. 'No, I don't think so. But it might be an injury he's acquired recently.'
He went over to the window and looked out. 'No matter who he is,' he said, 'whether he's got a record or not, he's gone underground. He's afraid to answer the telephone. He might wear different clothes, he might start to shop at a different supermarket. Whatever strength he's got left, he's using to build a defence for himself. He feels that the world is against him and he is most likely resentful.'
He looked at Jacob Skarre. 'Criminals have a peculiar view of themselves,' he said. 'They regard themselves as unique, exceptional even. They think they are smarter than most people. They think they can jump the queue and help themselves, the rules don't apply to them. If anyone gets hurt, they've only got themselves to blame. So if you want to rehabilitate an offender, in other words, you have to change his entire mindset and that's not easy. When it comes to our man, he might very well have a previous conviction, and if he has, he's already an outcast. Once he's crossed the line he becomes even more dangerous; he has nothing to lose now. And if he's managed to suppress his paedophile tendencies for a long time, it might become harder for him now.'
'How do people develop such a predilection?' Skarre wondered. 'I don't understand it, it goes against nature. Kids don't send out sexual vibes.'
'That's what we need to find out,' Sejer said, 'and in order to do so we may have to put aside a great many prejudices.'