declared a saint. It was the perfect choice, and not even Annie would have thought of it. Maybe she had chosen a date. It was very common to choose a birth date, maybe of a close friend. He sat for a moment and stared at the file: just a modest little gray square with her name on it. She hadn't intended for him to open it, she had put a lock on it to keep it secret. But now she was gone, so the same rules no longer applied. Perhaps it contained something that would explain why she was the way she was. So damned inscrutable.
All his reservations crumbled and settled like dust in the corners. He was alone now, with an endless amount of time and nothing with which to fill it. As he sat there in the dimly lit room, staring at the glowing screen, he felt very close to Annie. He decided to begin with numbers—birth dates, social security numbers. He had a few of them memorized: Annie's, his own, his grandmother's. The others he could get. It was somewhere to begin. Of course she might have chosen a word. Or
several words, maybe a saying or a familiar quote, or maybe even a name. It was going to be a tedious job. He didn't know if he would ever find it, but he had plenty of time and lots of patience.
He started with her birthday, which of course she hadn't chosen: March 3, 1980, zero three zero three one nine eight zero. Then the same numbers backward.
"Access denied," flashed up on the screen. Suddenly his grandmother was standing in the doorway.
"What did they say?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.
He gave a start and straightened up.
"Nothing much. They just asked me a few questions."
"Yes, but it's all so terrible, Halvor! Why is she dead?"
He stared at her mutely. "Eddie said they found her in the woods. Up by Serpent Tarn."
"But why is she dead?"
"They didn't say," he whispered. "I forgot to ask."
Sejer and Skarre had taken over the lecture room in the courthouse. They closed the curtains and shut out most of the light. The video had been rewound to the beginning. Skarre was ready with the remote control.
The soundproofing in this hastily erected annex was far from satisfactory. They could hear phones ringing and doors slamming, voices, laughter, cars roaring past in the street, and a drunk bellowing from the courtyard outside. But at least the sounds were muted, marked by the waning hours of the day.
"What in the world is that?"
Skarre leaned forward. "Someone running. It looks like Grete Waitz. Could be the New York Marathon."
"Maybe he gave us the wrong tape."
"I don't think so. Stop there. I saw some islands and skerries."
The picture hopped and jumped for a moment before it settled and focused on two women in bikinis, lying on rocks.
"Sølvi and her mother," Sejer said.
Sølvi was lying on her back with one knee bent. Her sunglasses were pushed up on her head, perhaps to avoid getting white circles around her eyes. Her mother was partially covered by a newspaper, the
Aftenposten,
judging by its size. Next to her lay magazines and suntan lotion and thermos bottles, along with several large towels and a portable radio.
The camera had been aimed long enough on the two sun worshippers. Now the lens turned toward the shoreline farther away, and a tall, blond girl came walking along from the right. She was carrying a windsurfer on her head and was facing away from the camera. Her gait was not in the least provocative, her sole aim was to keep going, and she didn't slow down even when the water reached her knees. They could hear the roar of the waves, quite loud, suddenly pierced by the sound of her father's voice.
"Smile, Annie!"
She waded on, farther and farther into the water, ignoring his request. Then she finally turned around, though it took some effort under the weight of the board. For several seconds she stared straight at Sejer and Skarre. Her blond hair was caught by the wind and fluttered around her ears, a quick smile flitted across her lips. Skarre looked into her gray eyes and
All his reservations crumbled and settled like dust in the corners. He was alone now, with an endless amount of time and nothing with which to fill it. As he sat there in the dimly lit room, staring at the glowing screen, he felt very close to Annie. He decided to begin with numbers—birth dates, social security numbers. He had a few of them memorized: Annie's, his own, his grandmother's. The others he could get. It was somewhere to begin. Of course she might have chosen a word. Or
several words, maybe a saying or a familiar quote, or maybe even a name. It was going to be a tedious job. He didn't know if he would ever find it, but he had plenty of time and lots of patience.
He started with her birthday, which of course she hadn't chosen: March 3, 1980, zero three zero three one nine eight zero. Then the same numbers backward.
"Access denied," flashed up on the screen. Suddenly his grandmother was standing in the doorway.
"What did they say?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.
He gave a start and straightened up.
"Nothing much. They just asked me a few questions."
"Yes, but it's all so terrible, Halvor! Why is she dead?"
He stared at her mutely. "Eddie said they found her in the woods. Up by Serpent Tarn."
"But why is she dead?"
"They didn't say," he whispered. "I forgot to ask."
Sejer and Skarre had taken over the lecture room in the courthouse. They closed the curtains and shut out most of the light. The video had been rewound to the beginning. Skarre was ready with the remote control.
The soundproofing in this hastily erected annex was far from satisfactory. They could hear phones ringing and doors slamming, voices, laughter, cars roaring past in the street, and a drunk bellowing from the courtyard outside. But at least the sounds were muted, marked by the waning hours of the day.
"What in the world is that?"
Skarre leaned forward. "Someone running. It looks like Grete Waitz. Could be the New York Marathon."
"Maybe he gave us the wrong tape."
"I don't think so. Stop there. I saw some islands and skerries."
The picture hopped and jumped for a moment before it settled and focused on two women in bikinis, lying on rocks.
"Sølvi and her mother," Sejer said.
Sølvi was lying on her back with one knee bent. Her sunglasses were pushed up on her head, perhaps to avoid getting white circles around her eyes. Her mother was partially covered by a newspaper, the
Aftenposten,
judging by its size. Next to her lay magazines and suntan lotion and thermos bottles, along with several large towels and a portable radio.
The camera had been aimed long enough on the two sun worshippers. Now the lens turned toward the shoreline farther away, and a tall, blond girl came walking along from the right. She was carrying a windsurfer on her head and was facing away from the camera. Her gait was not in the least provocative, her sole aim was to keep going, and she didn't slow down even when the water reached her knees. They could hear the roar of the waves, quite loud, suddenly pierced by the sound of her father's voice.
"Smile, Annie!"
She waded on, farther and farther into the water, ignoring his request. Then she finally turned around, though it took some effort under the weight of the board. For several seconds she stared straight at Sejer and Skarre. Her blond hair was caught by the wind and fluttered around her ears, a quick smile flitted across her lips. Skarre looked into her gray eyes and
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