Death of the Demon: A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel by Anne Holt

Both the staff and the children treated her as the new boss, without formalities or objections. Although Terje had returned from sick leave on a part-time basis, he did not voice any objections to her doing his job either. The children had fallen back into their daily routine remarkably quickly, playing and quarreling, doing their homework and eating their meals, and only Kenneth seemed anxious about awoman having been brutally stabbed to death only a few meters away from his bedroom. He checked and double-checked his room every night for murderers and robbers, under the bed, in the closets, and even inside a toy box that could not under any circumstances conceal anyone other than a tiny child. Or perhaps a little but extremely dangerous dragon. The staff members patiently allowed him to enact this ritual before lying beside him for an hour until he fell asleep.
    Olav had been away for three whole days now. He had been reported missing to police forces throughout southeastern Norway, and a report would be passed to the media the following day. Even the police were deeply concerned.
    “All the same, they don’t seem to be connecting him with the murder,” Maren Kalsvik said, drumming her pencil on the coffee table in the living room. “I actually find that pretty strange. It’s a totally different set of police officers who’re dealing with his disappearance from those who’re working on the murder case.”
    Terje Welby sighed despondently.
    “They probably realize a twelve-year-old doesn’t kill people,” he responded. “At least not like that. With a huge knife.”
    “If a child is going to kill someone, it’s hardly going to be with a gun,” she commented dryly, before standing up and crossing over to the large double wooden doors with a mirror that separated the “good” living room from what they called the dayroom.
    Pulling the doors together in the middle until she heard a little click, she then returned to her seat on the sofa, lifting the pencil and putting it abstractedly into her mouth. After a couple of forcible bites, it broke in two.
    “There’s one thing I really wonder about, Terje,” she said quietly, spitting splinters of wood. Setting the pencil down and spitting some more, she fixed her eyes on her colleague as she continued, “What happened to those papers lying in the drawer that proved the whole situation?”
    He reacted immediately by turning incredibly red in the face, with sweat trickling down over his tight lips.
    “Papers? What papers?”
    His words were spoken with a snarl, as he glanced apprehensively at the closed doors.
    “The papers proving what you had done,” Maren said. “The papers Agnes had drawn up concerning the matter.”
    “But she didn’t know anything!”
    His desperation etched white spots on all the crimson in his face. He looked ill. He made a sudden violent movement with his upper body and then a moaning sound.
    “Bloody hell,” he thundered, sitting back warily in his chair. “You have to believe me, Maren, she didn’t know anything!”
    “You’re lying.”
    Her assertion was articulated as an incontrovertible truth, unshakable, with no room for discussion. She even smiled, a tired and joyless contortion containing both resignation and irritation.
    “I know you’re lying. Agnes had found out about the theft. Or thefts, I should perhaps say. I can give you all the details, but that’s probably not necessary. She was extremely disappointed. And quite furious.”
    Previously he had been so incensed that she doubted whether higher levels existed in the man’s emotional register, but she was wrong. Gasping and panting for breath, his vocal pitch now resembled that of a child when he managed to force out the words, “Did she tell that to you ?”
    Several agonizing seconds elapsed before she replied. She stared out the window, where fresh snow had started to fall, in enormous white flakes that would melt as soon as they reached the earth. Shaking