Don't Look Back (6 page)

Sejer downed the water and crushed the paper cup flat. "I'll talk to Holthemann in the morning. I want you on this case."

"He's assigned me to the Savings Bank case," he stammered, surprised. "Along with Gøran."

"But you're interested?"

"Interested in a murder case? It's like a Christmas present. I mean, it's a big challenge. Of course I'm interested."

He blushed and took the phone, which was ringing furiously, listened, nodded, and put down the receiver.

"That was Siven. They've identified her. Annie Sofie Holland, born March 3, 1980. But she says they can't be interviewed until tomorrow."

"Is Ringstad on duty?"

"Just came in."

"Then you should be getting home. It's going to be a rough day tomorrow. I'll take the photos with me," he added.

"Are you going to study her in bed?"

"I was thinking of it." He smiled sadly. "I prefer pictures I can put away in a drawer afterward."

***

Like Granittveien, Krystallen was a cul-de-sac. It ended in a dense, overgrown thicket where a few citizens had furtively dumped their trash under cover of night. The houses stood close together, twenty-one in total. From a distance, they looked like attached houses, but as Sejer and Skarre walked down the street, they discovered narrow passageways between each building, just space enough for a man to pass through. The houses were three stories high, with pitched roofs, and identical. This reminds me of the wharf area in Bergen, Sejer thought. The colors complemented each other: deep red, dark green, brown, gray. One stood out; it was the color of an orange.

No doubt many of the residents had seen the police car near the garage, and Skarre, who was in uniform. Before long the bomb was going to explode. The silence was palpable.

Ada and Eddie Holland lived in number 20. Sejer could almost feel the neighbors' eyes on the back of his neck as he stood at the front door. Something has happened at number 20, they were thinking now; at the Hollands' house, with the two girls. He tried to calm his breathing, which was faster than normal because of the threshold he was about to cross. This sort of thing was such an ordeal for him that many years ago he had fashioned a series of set phrases, which now, after much practice, he could utter with confidence.

Annie's parents obviously hadn't done a thing since coming home the night before—not even slept. The shock at the morgue had been like a shrill cymbal that was still reverberating in their heads. The mother was sitting in a corner of the sofa, the father was perched on the armrest. He looked numb. The woman hadn't yet taken in the catastrophe; she gave Sejer an uncomprehending look, as if she couldn't understand what two police officers were doing in her living room. This was a nightmare, and soon she would wake up. Sejer had to take her hand from her lap.

"I can't bring Annie back," he said in a low voice. "But I hope that I can find out why she died."

"We're not thinking about why!" shrieked the mother. "We're thinking about who did it! You have to find out who it was, and lock him up! He's sick."

Her husband patted her arm awkwardly.

"We don't yet know," Sejer said, "whether the person in question is really sick or not. Not every killer is sick."

"You can't tell me that normal people kill young girls!"

She was breathing hard, gasping for air. Her husband had wrapped himself up in a stony knot.

"Nevertheless," Sejer said, "there's always a reason, even if it's not necessarily one we can understand. But first we have to ascertain that someone really did take her life."

"If you think she took her own life, you'd better think again," the mother said. "That's impossible. Not Annie."

They all say that, Sejer thought.

"I need to ask you about a few things. Answer as best you can. Then, if you want to put your answer another way or think you forgot something, give me a call. Or if you think of something else. Anytime, day or night."

Ada Holland shifted her eyes past Skarre and Sejer, as if she were listening to the reverberating cymbal, and she wondered where the sound was coming from.

"I need to know what kind of girl she was. Tell me whatever you can." And, at the same time, he thought, what kind of question is that? What are they supposed to say to that? The very best, of course, the sweetest, the nicest. Someone totally special. The very dearest thing they had.
Only Annie was Annie.

They both began to sob. The mother from deep in her throat, a painfully plaintive wail; the father soundlessly, without tears. Sejer could see the resemblance to his daughter. A wide face with a high forehead. He wasn't particularly tall, but
strong and sturdy. Skarre clutched his pen in his hand, his eyes fixed rigidly on his notebook.

"Let's start again," Sejer said. "I'm sorry I have to distress you, but time is of the essence for us. What time exactly did she leave home?"

The mother answered, staring at her lap, "At 12:30
P.M.
"

"Where was she going?"

"To Anette's house. A school friend. Three of them were doing a project. They'd been given time off from school to work on it together."

"And she never got there?"

"We called them at 11:00
P.M.
last night, since it was getting awfully late. Anette was in bed. Only the other girl had turned up. I couldn't believe it..."

She hid her face in her hands. The whole day had passed and they hadn't known.

"Why didn't the girls call you to talk to Annie?"

"They assumed she didn't feel like coming over," she said, stifling her sobs. "Thought she'd just changed her mind. They don't know Annie very well if that's what they thought. She never neglected her homework. Never neglected anything."

"Was she going to walk over there?"

"Yes. It's two and a half miles and she usually rides her bike, but it needs repairing. There isn't a bus connection."

"Where does Anette live?"

"Near Horgen. They have a farm and a general store."

Sejer nodded, hearing Skarre's pen scratching across the page.

"She had a boyfriend?"

"Halvor Muntz."

"Had it been going on for long?"

"About two years. He's older. It's been on again, off again, but it's been going fine lately, as far as I know."

Ada Holland didn't seem to know what to do with her hands; they fumbled over each other, opening and clenching. She was almost as tall as her husband, rather stout and angular, with a ruddy complexion.

"Do you know whether it was a sexual relationship?" he asked lightly.

The mother stared at him, outraged. "She's fifteen years old!"

"You have to remember that I didn't know her," he said.

"There was nothing like that," she said.

"I don't think that's something we would know," the husband ventured at last. "Halvor is eighteen. Not a child any more."

"Of course I would know," she interrupted him.

"I don't think she tells you everything."

"I would have known!"

"But you're not much good at talking about things like that!"

The mood was tense. Sejer made his own assumption and saw from Skarre's notebook that he had too.

"If she was going to work on a school project, she must have taken a bag along."

"A brown leather bag.

"Where is it?"

"We haven't found it."

So we'll have to send out the divers, he thought.

"Was she taking any kind of medication?"

"Nothing. She was never ill."

"What kind of girl was she? Open? Talkative?"

"Used to be," the husband said.

"What do you mean?"

"It was just her age," the mother said. "She was at a difficult age."

"Do you mean she
had
changed?" Sejer turned again to the father in order to cut the mother off. It didn't work.

"All girls change at that age. They're about to grow up. Sølvi was the same way. Sølvi is her sister," she added.

The husband didn't reply; he still looked numb.

"So she was
not
an open and talkative girl?"

"She was quiet and modest," the mother said. "Meticulous and fair-minded. Had her life under control."

"But she used to be more lively?"

"They make more of a fuss when they're young."

"What I need to know," Sejer said, "is approximately when she changed?"

"At the normal time. When she was about fourteen. Puberty," she said, as if to explain.

He nodded, staring again at the father.

"There was no other reason for the change?"

"What would that be?" the mother said quickly.

"I don't know." He sighed a little and leaned back. "But I'm trying to find out why she died."

The mother began shaking so violently that they almost couldn't understand what she said. "
Why
she died? But it must be some..."

She didn't dare say the word.

"We don't know."

"But was she..." Another pause.

"We don't know, Mrs. Holland. Not yet. These things take time. But the people who are tending to Annie know what they're doing."

He looked around the room, which was neat and clean, blue and white like Annie's clothing had been. Wreaths of dried flowers above the doors, lace curtains. Photographs. Crocheted doilies. Harmonious, tidy, and proper. He stood up and went over to a large photograph on the wall.

"That was taken last winter."

The mother came over to him. He lifted the picture down carefully and stared at it. He was amazed every time he saw a
face again that he had seen only devoid of life or luster. The same person and yet not the same. Annie had a wide face with a large mouth and big gray eyes. Thick, dark eyebrows. She had a shy smile. At the bottom edge of the picture he saw the collar of her shirt and a glimpse of her boyfriend's medallion. Pretty, he thought.

"Was she involved in sports?"

"Used to be," the father said in a low voice.

"She played team handball," the mother said sadly. "But she gave it up. Now she runs a lot. More than twenty miles a week."

"Why did she stop playing?"

"She's had so much homework lately That's the way kids are, you know; they try out something and then they give it up. She tried playing in the school band too, the cornet. But she quit."

"Was she good? At team handball?"

He hung the picture back on the wall.

"Very good," said the father softly. "She was the goalkeeper. She shouldn't have stopped."

"I think she thought it was boring to stand at the net," the mother said. "I think that's why."

"That may not be the reason," replied her husband. "She never told us why."

Sejer sat down again.

"So you both reacted to her decision in the same way? Thought it was ... strange?"

"Yes."

"Did she do well at school?"

"Better than most. I'm not boasting; it's just a fact," he said.

"This project that the girls were working on, what was it about?"

"Sigrid Undset. It was due at Midsummer."

"Could I see her room?"

The mother got up and led the way, taking short, shuffling steps. Her husband stayed seated on the armrest, motionless.

The room was tiny, but it had been her own little hideaway. Just enough space for a bed, desk, and chair. He looked out the window and stared straight across the street at the neighbors' porch. The orange house. The remains of a sheaf of oats set out for the birds bristled below the window. He searched the walls for teen idols, but found none. On the other hand, the room was full of trophies, certificates, and medals; and there were a few pictures of Annie. One picture of her in her goalie's uniform with the rest of the team, and another of her standing on a windsurfing board, looking in fine form. On the wall over the bed she had several photos of little children, one of her pushing a carriage, and one of a young man. Sejer pointed.

"Her boyfriend?"

The mother nodded.

"Did she work with children?"

He pointed to a picture of Annie holding a blond toddler on her lap. In the picture she looked proud and happy. She was holding the boy up to the camera, almost like a trophy.

"She baby-sat for all the children on the street, one after the other."

"So she liked children?"

She nodded again.

"Did she keep a diary, Mrs. Holland?"

"I don't think so. I looked for one," she admitted. "I looked all night."

"You didn't find anything?"

She shook her head. From the living room they could hear a low murmur.

"We need a list of names," he said after a moment. "Of people we can talk to."

He looked at the photos on the wall again and studied Annie's uniform, black with a green emblem on the chest.

"That looks like a dragon or something."

"It's a sea serpent," she explained quietly.

"Why a sea serpent?"

"There's supposed to be a sea serpent in the fjord here. It's a legend, a story from the old days. If you're out rowing and hear a splashing sound behind your boat, that's the sea serpent rising up from the depths. You should never look back, just be careful to keep on rowing. If you pretend to ignore it and leave it in peace, everything will be fine, but if you look back into its eyes, it will pull you down into the great darkness. According to legend, it has red eyes."

They went back to the living room. Skarre was still taking notes. The husband was still perched on the armrest. He looked as if he was about to collapse.

"What about your other daughter?"

"She's flying home this morning. She's in Trondheim visiting my sister."

Mrs. Holland sank onto the sofa and leaned against her husband. Sejer went to the window and found himself staring right into a face in the kitchen window next door.

"You live close to your neighbors here," he said. "Does that mean you know each other well?"

"Quite well. Everyone talks to each other."

"And everyone knew Annie?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"We'll have to go door to door. Don't let that bother you."

"We have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Could you lend us a few pictures?"