a black oilskin jacket.
Holthemann clearly could not answer yes to this question, so he said the only thing he could: ‘There’s always hope.’ But he did not look her in the eyes as he said it; instead he focused on the buttons on her jacket. There were three of them and they had an unusual pattern. ‘The problem with this case,’ he went on, trying to bring the interview to a close as quickly as possible so that he could return to his office, ‘is that the number of leads is much lower than usual.’
99
The reporter was ready with her next question.
‘And why do you think that is?’
Holthemann pondered briefly, then Skarre heard his dry voice once more. ‘It certainly isn’t because the public don’t care about this case. Because they do. But no one seems to have actually seen Ida, so we have few leads to follow up.’
He looked more and more reluctant to remain in front of the camera, and the reporter rushed to get through all the questions on her pad.
‘Do you have any real leads at all, or any theories as to what might have happened to Ida Joner?’ she asked.
‘Of course we have our theories,’ Holthemann said, addressing her buttons once more, ‘but unfor tu nately we have to admit that this is a case with very few leads.’ He paused. Then he concluded the whole charade by saying in his most authori tative voice: ‘I’m afraid that’s all I have to say for the time being.’
Finally he managed to escape back into his office. Skarre continued folding his paper plane. He knew that Sejer was just as reluctant to talk to the press. However, he also knew that Sejer would have made a different impression. He would have looked the reporter straight in the eyes and his voice would have been firm and assured. He also had such presence, such dedication to his work, that anyone watching the news would feel that the case was in a safe pair of hands. People would see his face and would be able to tell from his steady voice that he 100
was deeply and personally committed. As though he was saying to them: I’m taking responsibility for this case. I will find out what happened.
Skarre had always been a dab hand at making paper planes. But today he was struggling. The paper was too thick, his fingers too big and his nails too short. His folds were not sharp enough. He scrunched up the paper and began again. As he picked up a fresh sheet, it slipped from his grasp and fluttered in the air. His hands were shaking. At that very moment Sejer arrived. He threw a long glance at the reporter and her cameraman, who were just going into the lift.
‘I was at a party last night,’ Skarre mumbled by way of explanation, because Sejer had spotted a box of paracetamol and a bottle of Coke on his desk.
‘Late night, was it?’ Sejer asked, indicating the white sheet which Skarre was still trying to catch.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Skarre said, attempting a brave smile. ‘I ended up jailing one of the guests.’
Sejer frowned. ‘But you weren’t on duty?’
Skarre continued folding. Suddenly it was vital for him to make the perfect paper plane. ‘Do you do what I do?’ he asked. ‘Leave it for as long as possible before telling people what you do for a living? I mean, socially. At parties and so on?’
‘I don’t go out much,’ Sejer said. ‘But I know what you mean.’
Skarre was busy with the paper. ‘There was this guy at the party who was just so full of himself. 101
Knew the answer to everything. When I told him I worked here, it was like winding him up and watching him go. He just would not shut up. He was particularly incensed about Norwegian prisons. I’ve heard it all before and normally I don’t get involved. But I just couldn’t resist the urge to get my own back with this one.’ He turned the paper over and continued folding. ‘He was banging on about luxury prisons with showers and central heating and libraries and cinemas and a com puter in every cell. About famous bands
Holthemann clearly could not answer yes to this question, so he said the only thing he could: ‘There’s always hope.’ But he did not look her in the eyes as he said it; instead he focused on the buttons on her jacket. There were three of them and they had an unusual pattern. ‘The problem with this case,’ he went on, trying to bring the interview to a close as quickly as possible so that he could return to his office, ‘is that the number of leads is much lower than usual.’
99
The reporter was ready with her next question.
‘And why do you think that is?’
Holthemann pondered briefly, then Skarre heard his dry voice once more. ‘It certainly isn’t because the public don’t care about this case. Because they do. But no one seems to have actually seen Ida, so we have few leads to follow up.’
He looked more and more reluctant to remain in front of the camera, and the reporter rushed to get through all the questions on her pad.
‘Do you have any real leads at all, or any theories as to what might have happened to Ida Joner?’ she asked.
‘Of course we have our theories,’ Holthemann said, addressing her buttons once more, ‘but unfor tu nately we have to admit that this is a case with very few leads.’ He paused. Then he concluded the whole charade by saying in his most authori tative voice: ‘I’m afraid that’s all I have to say for the time being.’
Finally he managed to escape back into his office. Skarre continued folding his paper plane. He knew that Sejer was just as reluctant to talk to the press. However, he also knew that Sejer would have made a different impression. He would have looked the reporter straight in the eyes and his voice would have been firm and assured. He also had such presence, such dedication to his work, that anyone watching the news would feel that the case was in a safe pair of hands. People would see his face and would be able to tell from his steady voice that he 100
was deeply and personally committed. As though he was saying to them: I’m taking responsibility for this case. I will find out what happened.
Skarre had always been a dab hand at making paper planes. But today he was struggling. The paper was too thick, his fingers too big and his nails too short. His folds were not sharp enough. He scrunched up the paper and began again. As he picked up a fresh sheet, it slipped from his grasp and fluttered in the air. His hands were shaking. At that very moment Sejer arrived. He threw a long glance at the reporter and her cameraman, who were just going into the lift.
‘I was at a party last night,’ Skarre mumbled by way of explanation, because Sejer had spotted a box of paracetamol and a bottle of Coke on his desk.
‘Late night, was it?’ Sejer asked, indicating the white sheet which Skarre was still trying to catch.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Skarre said, attempting a brave smile. ‘I ended up jailing one of the guests.’
Sejer frowned. ‘But you weren’t on duty?’
Skarre continued folding. Suddenly it was vital for him to make the perfect paper plane. ‘Do you do what I do?’ he asked. ‘Leave it for as long as possible before telling people what you do for a living? I mean, socially. At parties and so on?’
‘I don’t go out much,’ Sejer said. ‘But I know what you mean.’
Skarre was busy with the paper. ‘There was this guy at the party who was just so full of himself. 101
Knew the answer to everything. When I told him I worked here, it was like winding him up and watching him go. He just would not shut up. He was particularly incensed about Norwegian prisons. I’ve heard it all before and normally I don’t get involved. But I just couldn’t resist the urge to get my own back with this one.’ He turned the paper over and continued folding. ‘He was banging on about luxury prisons with showers and central heating and libraries and cinemas and a com puter in every cell. About famous bands
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