spruce that blocked the light from Fiona’s study. Of no consequence. The tree was chopped down, by the way. Without the case going to court.”
“Strange that there isn’t anything,” Johanne started and then stopped. “Now?”
Her anxiety was obvious when she looked at Adam.
“It’s nothing,” he said again. “Relax. She’s asleep.”
Johanne had agreed that Ragnhild should sleep in her bedroom, at least when they had guests.
“It’s strange,” she repeated hesitantly, “that you can’t find anything, nothing that even resembles dirt in Fiona Helle’s life. Very strange indeed. After all, she was forty-two. You must’ve missed something.”
“Look yourself, then,” Sigmund said, obviously offended. “We’ve had fifteen men on the job for several weeks now and have come up with a big fat nothing. Maybe the woman really was a paragon of virtue.”
“There is no paragon of virtue.”
“But what about the profile then?”
“Which profile?”
“The one you were going to make,” Sigmund said.
“I can’t make a profile of the person who killed Fiona Helle,” Johanne said and then drank the rest of her coffee in one gulp. “Not of any consequence, at least. No one can. But I can give you a tip. Look for the lies in her life. Find the lie. Then you may not even need a profile. You’ll have the man.”
“Or woman,” said Adam with a faint smile.
Johanne didn’t even bother to answer. Instead she tiptoed out to the bedroom.
“Is she always so stressed?” Sigmund whispered.
“Yes.”
“That would drive me nuts.”
“You hardly see your family.”
“Shut up. I’m at home more than most people I know.”
“Which doesn’t say much.”
“You’re just whipped.”
“You fool,” Adam smiled. “More coffee?”
“No thanks. But some of that.” He pointed toward the other end of the table, where a bottle glinted yellow and brown in the light of the candle on the windowsill.
“Aren’t you driving?”
“The wife’s got the car. Parents’ night at school or something like that.”
“See what I mean.” Adam got down two oversized cognac glasses and poured some in. “Cheers,” he said.
“Not a lot to raise our glasses to,” said Sigmund and took a drink.
Jack’s claws clacked over the parquet. The animal stopped in the middle of the floor, where he stretched and gave a long yawn.
“Looks like he’s laughing,” mumbled Sigmund.
“I think he is,” Adam replied. “At us, maybe. Our worries. All he thinks about is food.”
The dog wagged his tail and padded out to the kitchen. He whined a bit by the garbage can. He sniffed around on the floor and greedily licked up the bits of grease and breadcrumbs.
“Your food’s in the dish,” Adam said. “Woof!”
Jack yapped and growled at the cabinet door.
“Don’t wind him up. Stop it, Jack!” Johanne had come back with an awake Ragnhild in her arms.
“I knew I heard something,” she said without trying to disguise the triumph in her voice. “She’s wet. You can change her. Jack, go and lie down!”
“Daddy’s little daisy,” Adam babbled and gently took his daughter. “Baby daisy’s wet.”
“Completely ga-ga,” Sigmund said.
“It’s called being a good father.”
Johanne smiled and followed Adam with her eyes as he disappeared into the bathroom. Jack followed with his tail between his legs. He stopped by the partition to the living room and sent Johanne another pleading look.
“Lie down,” she said and the dog disappeared.
Muffled music could be heard from the first floor. Half the sound got lost in the floor insulation. The thumping of the bass was all that reached them, and Johanne wrinkled her nose before putting on the dishwasher.
“It’s really noisy here,” Sigmund observed without showing any sign of moving. “Do you mind?”
He pointed at the bottle of cognac.
“No, no. Not at all. Help yourself.”
The music got steadily louder.
“Must be Selma,” muttered Johanne.
“Strange that there isn’t anything,” Johanne started and then stopped. “Now?”
Her anxiety was obvious when she looked at Adam.
“It’s nothing,” he said again. “Relax. She’s asleep.”
Johanne had agreed that Ragnhild should sleep in her bedroom, at least when they had guests.
“It’s strange,” she repeated hesitantly, “that you can’t find anything, nothing that even resembles dirt in Fiona Helle’s life. Very strange indeed. After all, she was forty-two. You must’ve missed something.”
“Look yourself, then,” Sigmund said, obviously offended. “We’ve had fifteen men on the job for several weeks now and have come up with a big fat nothing. Maybe the woman really was a paragon of virtue.”
“There is no paragon of virtue.”
“But what about the profile then?”
“Which profile?”
“The one you were going to make,” Sigmund said.
“I can’t make a profile of the person who killed Fiona Helle,” Johanne said and then drank the rest of her coffee in one gulp. “Not of any consequence, at least. No one can. But I can give you a tip. Look for the lies in her life. Find the lie. Then you may not even need a profile. You’ll have the man.”
“Or woman,” said Adam with a faint smile.
Johanne didn’t even bother to answer. Instead she tiptoed out to the bedroom.
“Is she always so stressed?” Sigmund whispered.
“Yes.”
“That would drive me nuts.”
“You hardly see your family.”
“Shut up. I’m at home more than most people I know.”
“Which doesn’t say much.”
“You’re just whipped.”
“You fool,” Adam smiled. “More coffee?”
“No thanks. But some of that.” He pointed toward the other end of the table, where a bottle glinted yellow and brown in the light of the candle on the windowsill.
“Aren’t you driving?”
“The wife’s got the car. Parents’ night at school or something like that.”
“See what I mean.” Adam got down two oversized cognac glasses and poured some in. “Cheers,” he said.
“Not a lot to raise our glasses to,” said Sigmund and took a drink.
Jack’s claws clacked over the parquet. The animal stopped in the middle of the floor, where he stretched and gave a long yawn.
“Looks like he’s laughing,” mumbled Sigmund.
“I think he is,” Adam replied. “At us, maybe. Our worries. All he thinks about is food.”
The dog wagged his tail and padded out to the kitchen. He whined a bit by the garbage can. He sniffed around on the floor and greedily licked up the bits of grease and breadcrumbs.
“Your food’s in the dish,” Adam said. “Woof!”
Jack yapped and growled at the cabinet door.
“Don’t wind him up. Stop it, Jack!” Johanne had come back with an awake Ragnhild in her arms.
“I knew I heard something,” she said without trying to disguise the triumph in her voice. “She’s wet. You can change her. Jack, go and lie down!”
“Daddy’s little daisy,” Adam babbled and gently took his daughter. “Baby daisy’s wet.”
“Completely ga-ga,” Sigmund said.
“It’s called being a good father.”
Johanne smiled and followed Adam with her eyes as he disappeared into the bathroom. Jack followed with his tail between his legs. He stopped by the partition to the living room and sent Johanne another pleading look.
“Lie down,” she said and the dog disappeared.
Muffled music could be heard from the first floor. Half the sound got lost in the floor insulation. The thumping of the bass was all that reached them, and Johanne wrinkled her nose before putting on the dishwasher.
“It’s really noisy here,” Sigmund observed without showing any sign of moving. “Do you mind?”
He pointed at the bottle of cognac.
“No, no. Not at all. Help yourself.”
The music got steadily louder.
“Must be Selma,” muttered Johanne.
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