The Indian Bride by Karin Fossum

hours spent in the bed at the hospital. He was worn out and needed a shave. He had pulled over on the roadside and was sitting there like some lost soul.
    "I just needed a rest. I live close by," he said hurriedly.
    "May I see your driver's license and vehicle registration documents?" the officer said.
    Gunder looked at him tentatively. Why? Perhaps he thought he had been driving while intoxicated? That's probably how it appeared. He could safely breathe into the device—he had not had a drink since he was in Mumbai. He found the vehicle registration documents in the glove compartment and pulled out his wallet. The officer kept watching him. Suddenly he was interrupted by the crackling of his walkie-talkie. The officer sniffed and muttered something, which Gunder did not hear. Then he made some notes, put the walkie-talkie back on his belt, and studied Gunder's driver's license.
    "Gunder Jomann, born 1949?"
    "Yes," Gunder said.
    "You live close by?"
    "Toward the village. Less than a mile from here."
    "Where are you heading?"
    "I'm on my way home."
    "Then you're going the wrong way," the officer said, scrutinizing him.
    "I know," Gunder stuttered. "I was curious, that's all ... about what has happened."
    "What do you mean?" the officer said. Gunder felt like giving up. Why was he feigning ignorance?
    "The foreign woman. I heard the news."
    "The area has been cordoned off," the officer told him. "So I see. I'm going home now."
    He got his documents back and was about to drive off. The officer stuck his head inside the car as if he wanted to snoop around. Gunder froze.
    "I know I look tired," he said quickly. "But the thing is that my sister's in the hospital. She's in a coma. I've been watching over her. It was a car accident."
    "I see," the policeman said. "You'd better get home and have a rest."
    Gunder stayed for a while until the man had disappeared. Then he drove another ten yards, turned the Volvo on the dirt track, and headed home. The officer was watching him the whole time. Speaking into his walkie-talkie.
    Behaved rather strangely. Seemed as if he was scared of something. I wrote down his details just in case.
    ***
    No suitcase in the hall, no Poona in the living room. The house was empty. The rooms were dark. It had been daylight when he left and he had not left any lights on. He sat in his armchair for a long time, staring stiffly into space. The incident at Hvitemoen disturbed him. He had a feeling of having done something stupid. The policeman had behaved strangely. Surely it was no one's business if he went driving and no one's business where he stopped. Gunder felt dizzy. This business with Poona, everything that had happened in India, perhaps it was all a dream. Something he had made up sitting in Tandel's Tandoori. Who goes abroad and picks a wife, like others pick fruit at harvest time? It must be this book,
People of All Nations,
that had put ideas into my head. He could see the red spine on the shelf. Forced himself to switch on the light. Turn on the TV. There would be news in half an hour. At the same time he was petrified. He didn't want to know any more. But he had to know! They might come out with something that absolutely eliminated Poona. The victim might turn out to be from China. Or from North Africa. The victim, who is in her early twenties, the victim, who has yet to be identified, has a very unusual tattoo that covers her back. His imagination ran riot. Outside, all was quiet.

CHAPTER 8
    As always, Konrad Sejer's lined face displayed the appropriate formal expression. Not many people had ever heard him laugh out loud. Even fewer had seen him angry. But his expression betrayed tension; there was an alertness in the gray eyes that bore witness to solemnity, curiosity, and passion. He kept his colleagues at a distance. Jacob Skarre was the exception. Sejer was twenty years his senior; nevertheless, the pair was often spotted deep in conversation. Skarre was munching yet another jelly baby. Sejer