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  ‘I just wanted to see,’ she said, casting her eye over the walls.

  ‘See what?’ Skarre looked around. His office was like all the others except that it didn’t have a window.

  ‘This was his office? Wasn’t it?’

  Skarre frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hole’s. This was his office for all those years. Even while he was investigating the serial killings in Australia?’

  Skarre shrugged. ‘I think so. Why?’

  Katrine Bratt ran a hand over the desk top. ‘Why did he change offices?’

  Magnus walked around her and plopped down on the swivel chair. ‘It hasn’t got any windows.’

  ‘And he shared the office, first with Ellen Gjelten and then Jack Halvorsen,’ Katrine Bratt said. ‘And both were killed.’

  Magnus Skarre put his hands behind his head. This new officer had class. A league or two above him. He bet her husband was the boss of something or other and had money. Her suit seemed expensive. But when he looked at her a bit closer, there was a little flaw somewhere. A slight blemish he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  ‘Do you think he heard their voices? Was that why he moved?’ Bratt asked, scrutinising a wall map of Norway on which Skarre had circled the home towns of all the missing persons in Østland, eastern Norway, since 1980.

  Skarre laughed but didn’t answer. Her waist was slim and her back willowy. He knew she knew he was ogling her.

  ‘What’s he like actually?’ she asked.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I suppose everyone with a new boss does, don’t they?’

  She was right. It was just that he had never thought of Harry Hole as a boss, not in that way. OK, he gave them jobs to do and led investi gations, but beyond that all he asked was that they kept out of his way.

  ‘He is, as you probably know, somewhat infamous,’ Skarre said.

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard about his alcoholism, yes. And that he has reported colleagues. And that all the heads wanted him booted out, but the previous POB held a protective wing over him.’

  ‘His name was Bjarne Møller,’ Skarre said, looking at the map, at the ring around Bergen. That was where Møller had been seen last, before he disappeared.

  ‘And that people at HQ don’t like the media turning him into a kind of pop idol.’

  Skarre chewed his lower lip. ‘He’s a bloody good detective. That’s enough for me.’

  ‘You like him?’ Bratt asked.

  Skarre grinned. He turned and looked straight into her eyes.

  ‘Like, dislike,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I could say one or the other.’

  He pushed back his chair, put his feet on the desk, stretched and gave a sort-of-yawn. ‘What are you working on so late at night?’

  It was an attempt to gain the upper hand. After all, she was only a low-ranking detective. And new.

  But Katrine Bratt just smiled as if he had said something funny, walked out of the door and was gone.

  Disappeared. Speaking of which. Skarre cursed, sat up in the chair and went back to his computer.

  Harry woke up and lay on his back staring at the ceiling. How long had he been asleep? He turned and looked at the clock on his bedside table. A quarter to four. The dinner had been an ordeal. He had watched Rakel’s mouth speaking, drinking wine, chewing meat and devouring him as she told him about how she and Mathias were going to Botswana for a couple of years where the government had a good set-up in place to fight HIV but were short of doctors. She had asked whether he had met anyone. And he had answered that he had met his childhood pals, Øystein and Tresko. The former was an alkie, taxi-driving computer freak; the latter an alkie gambler who would have been the world poker champion if he had been as good at maintaining his own poker face as he was at reading others’. He had even begun to tell her about Tresko’s fatal defeat in the world championships in Las Vegas before he realised he had told her before. And it wasn’t true that he had met them. He hadn’t met anyone.

  He had seen the waiter pouring booze into the glasses on the adjacent table and for one crazy moment he had been on the point of tearing the bottle out of his hands and putting it to his mouth. Instead he had agreed to take Oleg to a concert he had begged Rakel to let him see. Slipknot. Harry had omitted to tell her what kind of band she was letting loose on her son, since he fancied seeing Slipknot himself. Even though bands with the obligatory death rattle, satanic symbols and speeded-up bass drum usually made him laugh, Slipknot was in fact interesting.

  Harry threw off the duvet and went into the kitchen, let the water from the tap run cold, cupped his hands and drank. He had always thought water tasted better like that, drunk from his own hands, off his own skin. Then he suddenly let the water run into the sink again and stared at the black wall. Had he seen anything? Something moving? No, not a thing, just movement itself, like the invisible waves underwater that caress the seagrass. Over dead fibres, fingers so thin that they can’t be seen, spores that rise at the smallest movement of air and settle in new areas and begin to eat and suck. Harry switched on the radio in the sitting room. It had been decided. George W. Bush had been given another term in the White House.

  Harry went back to bed and pulled the duvet over his head.

  Jonas was awoken by a sound and lifted the duvet off his face. At least he thought it had been a sound. A crunching sound, like sticky snow underfoot in the silence between the houses on a Sunday morning. He must have been dreaming. But sleep would not return even when he closed his eyes. Instead fragments of the dream came back to him. Dad had been standing motionless and silent in front of him with a reflection in his glasses that lent them an impenetrable ice-like surface.

  It must have been a nightmare, because Jonas was scared. He opened his eyes again and saw that the chimes hanging from the ceiling were moving. Then he jumped out of bed, opened the door and ran across the corridor. By the stairs to the ground floor he managed to stop himself looking down into the darkness and didn’t pause until he was in front of his parents’ bedroom and pressing down the handle with infinite caution. Then he remembered that his dad was away, and he would wake his mum whatever he did. He slipped inside. A white square of moonlight extended across the floor to the undisturbed double bed. The numbers on the digital alarm clock were lit up: 01.11. For a moment Jonas stood there, bewildered.

  Then he went out into the corridor. He walked towards the staircase. The darkness of the stairs lay there waiting for him, like a vast open void. Not a sound could be heard from down below.

  ‘Mummy!’

  He regretted shouting the moment he heard his own terror in the brief, harsh echo. For now it knew, too. The darkness.

  There was no answer.

  Jonas swallowed. Then he began to tiptoe down the stairs.

  On the third step he felt something wet under his feet. The same on the sixth. And the eighth. As if someone had been walking with wet shoes. Or wet feet.

  In the living room the light was on, but there was no Mummy. He went to the window to look at the Bendiksens’ house. Mummy occasionally went over to see Ebba. But all the windows were dark.

  He walked into the kitchen and over to the telephone, successfully keeping his thoughts at bay, not letting the darkness in. He dialled his mother’s mobile phone number. And was jubilant to hear her soft voice. But it was a message asking him to leave his name and wishing him a nice day.

  And it wasn’t day, it was night.

  In the porch he stuffed his feet into a pair of his father’s large shoes, put on a padded jacket over his pyjamas and went outside. Mum had said the snow would be gone by tomorrow, but it was still cold, and a light wind whispered and mumbled in the oak tree by the gate. It was no more than a hundred metres to the Bendiksens’ house, and fortunately there were two street lamps on the way. She had to be there. He glanced to the left and to the right to make sure there was no one who could stop him. Then he caught sight of the snowman. It stood there as before, immovable, facing
the house, bathed in the cold moonlight. Yet there was something different about it, something almost human, something familiar. Jonas looked at the Bendiksens’ house. He decided to run. But he didn’t. Instead he stood feeling the tentative, ice-cold wind go right through him. He turned slowly back to the snowman. Now he realised what it was that had made the snowman so familiar. It was wearing a scarf. A pink scarf. The scarf Jonas had given his mother for Christmas.

  4

  DAY 2.

  The Disappearance.

  BY THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY THE SNOW HAD MELTED IN Oslo city centre. But in Hoff there were still patches in gardens on both sides of the road as Harry Hole and Katrine Bratt drove along. On the radio Michael Stipe was singing about a sinking feeling, about what was bringing it on, knowing that something had gone wrong and about the boy in the well. In the middle of a quiet estate in an even quieter street Harry pointed to a shiny silver Toyota Corolla parked by the fence.

  ‘Skarre’s car. Park behind him.’

  The house was large and yellow. Too big for a family of three, Harry thought, as they walked up the shingle path. Everything around them dripped and sighed. In the garden stood a snowman with a slight list and poor future prospects.

  Skarre opened the door. Harry bent and studied the lock.

  ‘No signs of a break-in anywhere,’ Skarre said.

  He led them into the living room where a boy was sitting on the floor with his back to them watching a cartoon channel on TV. A woman got up off the sofa, shook hands with Harry and introduced herself as Ebba Bendiksen, a neighbour.

  ‘Birte has never done this type of thing before,’ she said. ‘Not as long as I’ve known her anyway.’

  ‘And how long’s that?’ Harry asked, looking around. In front of the TV were large pieces of heavy leather furniture and an octagonal coffee table of darkened glass. The tubular steel chairs around the dining table were light and elegant, the type Rakel liked. Two paintings hung on the walls, both portraits of bank-manager-like men staring down at him with solemn authority. Beside them, modernist abstract art of the kind that had succeeded in becoming un-modern and so very modern again.

  ‘Ten years,’ said Ebba Bendiksen. ‘We moved into our house over the road the day Jonas was born.’ She nodded towards the boy, who was still motionless, staring at careering birds and exploding wolves.

  ‘I understand it was you who rang the police last night?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘The boy rang the bell at about a quarter past one,’ Skarre said, looking down at his notes. ‘Police were phoned at one thirty.’

  ‘My husband and I went back with Jonas and searched the house first,’ Ebba Bendiksen explained.

  ‘Where did you look?’ Harry asked.

  ‘In the cellar. In the bathrooms. In the garage. Everywhere. It’s very odd that anyone would do a runner like that.’

  ‘Do a runner?’

  ‘Disappear. Go missing. The policeman I spoke to on the phone asked if we could take care of Jonas, and said we should ring everyone Birte knew and who she might be staying with. And then wait until early today to find out if Birte had gone to work. In eight out of ten cases, he explained, the missing person reappeared after a few hours. We tried to get hold of Filip –’

  ‘The husband,’ Skarre interjected. ‘He was in Bergen lecturing. He’s a professor of something or other.’

  ‘Physics,’ Ebba Bendiksen smiled. ‘However, his mobile was switched off. And we didn’t know the name of the hotel where he was staying.’

  ‘He was contacted in Bergen this morning,’ Skarre said. ‘He should be here soon.’

  ‘Yes, thank God,’ Ebba said. ‘So when we rang Birte’s workplace this morning and she hadn’t turned up at the customary time, we rang you back.’

  Skarre nodded in confirmation. Harry signalled that Skarre could continue his conversation with Ebba Bendiksen, went over to the TV and sat down on the floor beside the boy. On the screen, a wolf was lighting the fuse on a stick of dynamite.

  ‘Hello, Jonas. My name’s Harry. Did the other policeman tell you that things like this almost always turn out fine? People disappear and then they turn up of their own accord?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘But they do,’ Harry said. ‘If you had to guess, where do you think your mother would be now?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘I know you don’t know, Jonas. None of us does right now. But what’s the first place that would occur to you if she wasn’t here or at work? Don’t think about whether it’s likely or not.’

  The boy didn’t answer, just stared at the wolf desperately trying to throw away the stick of dynamite that had got stuck to his hand.

  ‘Is there a cabin or something like that where you go?’

  Jonas shook his head.

  ‘A special place where she likes to go if she wants to be on her own?’

  ‘She doesn’t want to be on her own,’ Jonas said. ‘She wants to be with me.’

  ‘Just with you?’

  The boy turned and looked at Harry. Jonas had brown eyes, like Oleg. And in the brown Harry saw the horror he had been expecting and the anger he had not.

  ‘Why did they go?’ the boy asked. ‘The ones who come back?’

  Same eyes, Harry thought. Same questions. The important ones.

  ‘For all sorts of reasons,’ Harry said. ‘Some got lost. There are various ways of getting lost. And some only needed a break and went off to get some peace.’

  The front door slammed and Harry saw the boy start.

  At that moment the dynamite exploded in the wolf’s hand, and behind them the living-room door opened.

  ‘Hello,’ a voice said. Sharp and controlled at the same time. ‘What’s the latest?’

  Harry turned in time to see a man of around fifty wearing a suit stride towards the coffee table and pick up the remote control. The next moment the TV picture imploded to a white dot as the set hissed in protest.

  ‘You know what I’ve said about watching TV during the day, Jonas,’ he said with a resigned tone, as if to tell the others in the room what a hopeless job raising children was nowadays.

  Harry stood up and introduced himself, Magnus Skarre and Katrine Bratt, who until now had merely stood by the door observing.

  ‘Filip Becker,’ the man said, pushing his glasses although they were already high up his nose. Harry tried to catch his eye, to form the crucial first impression of a potential suspect, should it ever come to that. But his eyes were hidden behind the reflection from his glasses.

  ‘I’ve spent my time ringing everyone who might conceivably have been in contact, but no one knows anything,’ Filip Becker said. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Harry. ‘But the first thing you can do to help us is to find out if any suitcases, rucksacks or clothes are missing, so that we can formulate a theory.’ Harry studied Becker before continuing. ‘As to whether this disappearance is spontaneous or planned.’

  Becker returned Harry’s searching gaze before nodding and going upstairs to the first floor.

  Harry crouched down beside Jonas who was still staring at the black TV screen.

  ‘So you like roadrunners, do you?’ Harry asked.

  The boy shook his head mutely.

  ‘Why not?’

  Jonas’s whisper was barely audible: ‘I feel sorry for Wile E. Coyote.’

  Five minutes later Becker came back down and said that nothing was missing, neither travel bags nor clothing, apart from what she was wearing when he left, plus her coat, boots and a scarf.

  ‘Mm.’ Harry scratched his unshaven chin and glanced across at Ebba Bendiksen. ‘Can you and I go into the kitchen, herr Becker?’

  Becker led the way, and Harry signalled to Katrine to join them. In the kitchen the professor immediately began to spoon coffee into a filter and pour water into the machine. Katrine stood by the door while Harry went over to the window and looked out. The
snowman’s head had sunk between its shoulders.

  ‘When did you leave last night and which flight did you take to Bergen?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I left at around half past nine,’ Becker said without hesitation. ‘The plane went at five minutes past eleven.’

  ‘Did you have any contact with Birte after leaving home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you think could have happened?’

  ‘I have no idea, Inspector. I really don’t.’

  ‘Mm.’ Harry glanced out into the street. Since they had been there, he hadn’t heard a single car pass. A really quiet neighbourhood. The peace and quiet alone probably cost half a million in this area of town. ‘What sort of marriage do you and your wife have?’

  Harry heard Filip Becker stop what he was doing, and he added, ‘I have to ask because spouses do simply up sticks and leave.’

  Filip Becker cleared his throat. ‘I can assure you that my wife and I have a perfectly good marriage.’

  ‘Have you considered that she may be having an affair unbeknown to you?’

  ‘That’s out of the question.’

  ‘Out of the question is pretty strong, herr Becker. And extramarital relationships are pretty common.’

  Filip Becker gave a weak smile. ‘I’m not naive, Inspector. Birte’s an attractive woman and a good deal younger than me. And she comes from a relatively liberal family, it has to be said. But she’s not the type. And I have a relatively good perspective on her activities, if I may put it like that.’

  The coffee machine rumbled ominously as Harry opened his mouth to pursue the point. He changed his mind.

  ‘Have you noticed any mood changes in your wife?’

  ‘Birte is not depressed, Inspector. She has not gone into the forest and hung herself or thrown herself into the lake. She’s out there somewhere, and she’s alive. I’ve read that people go missing all the time, and then they turn up again with a natural and fairly banal explanation. Isn’t that so?’

  Harry nodded slowly. ‘Would you mind if I had a look around the house?’