The fact that she was standing upright was the only indication that she was even alive. But then she said: “Thank you for taking the time to come here.”
Elise Edvardsen sounded as if she were speaking to two workers she had hired. She stared blankly at Chief Inspector Singsaker, swaying. For a moment he was afraid that she was going to faint and pitch forward into his arms, and he wasn’t at all sure that he’d be able to hold her up, even though she was awfully thin. At that point, all Singsaker knew was that she was an aerobics instructor married to an optician, and that they lived in a house at the end of Markvegen with a big yard and old trees that blocked the view from the neighboring houses.
Instead of collapsing, Elise pulled herself together and stepped to one side to allow the officers to come in. Singsaker entered first, followed by Mona Gran.
The husband, Ivar Edvardsen, sat on a chair in the living room. He was a short, plump man who looked worn-out. Even though Singsaker realized that his haggard appearance must be due to the situation, he had the feeling that Mr. Edvardsen always looked that way.
The two police detectives sat down on the sofa after shaking hands with him. He didn’t say a word, merely nodded a greeting.
“Would you like something to drink?” asked Elise, who still hadn’t sat down. “Coffee?”
Singsaker and Gran both declined the offer. Ivar was holding a cup in his hand, but Singsaker guessed that the man hadn’t even taken a sip, and that by now the coffee had grown cold.
Elise sat down on the only unoccupied chair.
“Maybe we’d better start at the beginning,” said Singsaker, getting out his notebook. Both parents looked at him as if they were having trouble comprehending his words.
“When did you last see your daughter?”
“Julie?” said Elise, sounding distracted.
“Yes, Julie,” said Singsaker patiently.
“But we already told the police everything,” said Ivar, speaking for the first time. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for such a stout man.
“We apologize,” said Gran, “but at the start of an investigation we often go over things more than once. It’s important for us to hear what happened in your own words, since we’ll be handling this case from now on.”
Singsaker nodded agreement. It was Gran’s direct but sensitive manner that made him sure that she would become an outstanding detective.
Mr. and Mrs. Edvardsen glanced at each other. Maybe they were able to communicate without words, as some couples did after many years together. Singsaker used to do the same with Anniken. His ex-wife had left him for a plumber. When she later regretted what she’d done, Singsaker had forgiven her. He forgave her and then moved on with his life. He didn’t miss her, but he did miss the feeling of knowing someone so well. He wondered how long it would take before he and Felicia reached that point. Would they ever get there?
“I said good night to Julie a little before ten-thirty and then went to bed,” said Ivar Edvardsen. “My wife talked to her until she took the dog for a walk, and she went to bed before Julie came back home.”
Singsaker glanced at Elise, then began looking around while he listened to the others talking, their voices becoming a humming sound in the background. He only vaguely registered that Gran had begun asking them the usual, routine questions.
Hanging on the wall behind Ivar was a wedding photograph of the couple. They were young; she was dressed in white and he was in black. They looked contented, convinced of their future happiness. Singsaker thought about the red dress that Felicia had worn when they got married. The only other people present at the ceremony were Siri Holm and Thorvald Jensen. He recalled the numbing haste with which they’d fallen in love. He pictured the wedding scene, the second one in his life, as if an old 8mm film played in his mind, just slightly too fast. Had it happened too quickly? No, they couldn’t have done it any other way, not if it was going to amount to anything, not if they were going to be together. And they were right for each other. The doubts he had were not about the two of them. He and Felicia had all the time in the world. Things couldn’t have been better. It was the haste of the wedding. Had that been the right thing to do?
“I think we have enough preliminary information, don’t you, Singsaker?” he heard Gran say as if from far away, bringing him abruptly back to reality.
Problems with his ability to concentrate. That was what his doctor had told him, adding that he was just going to have to learn to deal with it.
In Singsaker’s profession, he had to hide this weakness as best he could. An inability to concentrate was not something a policeman could live with. But in a surprisingly short time he’d become expert at covering up these sorts of gaps.
“Yes, although we may need to come back to a few things later on,” he said, even though he had no idea what they’d been talking about. Then he took a chance and selected a topic, speaking directly to Elise Edvardsen.
“How would you describe your daughter?” he asked her.
She didn’t reply immediately. She looked from Singsaker to her husband. For a moment, Singsaker was afraid that he’d blundered and asked about something they’d already discussed. But then she opened her mouth and said, “Well, what can we say about her?” She was staring at a spot just above her husband’s head.
“She’s a very talented young lady,” said Mr. Edvardsen.
“Oh, shut up, Ivar!” The rebuke didn’t seem to surprise him as much as might have been expected. “For God’s sake! Julie has disappeared. These officers aren’t here to listen to us talk about how beautifully she sings or how many goals she’s stopped in handball games.”
“I realize that, Elise,” said her husband with restrained indignation.
Gran stepped in and got the conversation back on track. “So, if you’re being perfectly honest, how would you describe her?”
“To be perfectly honest, she’s a teenager with a capital T. And I’m not handling it very well.”
“I understand. A lot of door slamming?” said Gran.
“What I can’t handle is how irrational she is. I know I should be more patient with her.” She glanced at her husband, who smiled wanly.
“Does she have a boyfriend?” asked Gran.
“No,” said Ivar firmly. But his wife was quick to correct him.
“We can’t be sure that it’s not still going on.”
Singsaker took over. “So she did have a boyfriend?”
“His name is Fredrik. They’ve broken up and gotten back together about ten times. We never know whether they’re on or off.”
“And was it Julie or Fredrik who broke it off each time?” asked Singsaker.
“Who do you think? Don’t misunderstand me. I love my daughter very much. And if anything has happened to her, I don’t know—” Here Elise broke off and took a few deep breaths before going on. “But Julie isn’t easy to deal with. She’s moody. Sometimes I feel sorry for Fredrik, the poor boy, even though I can’t say I like him much. He’s too timid for a girl like Julie.”
“Have you told Julie what you think of her boyfriend?”
“No, we don’t talk much. In the past few weeks we’ve done nothing but argue about stupid things.”
“Like what?”
“Just nonsense. Clothes, mostly. Julie put on some weight, so she went out and bought a lot of new clothes with the money she had been saving to buy a moped.”
“Did you argue last night?” asked Singsaker.
“I guess I was a little harsh. And she was in a bad mood when she left the house. But you don’t think that’s why, do you? Did she run away from home to punish us? That wouldn’t be like her. She’s impulsive, but she doesn’t stay mad for long.”
“Is she usually the one who takes the dog out for a walk?” Gran interjected.
“Yes. She loves that dog. Every day she sits and sings to the dog as she pets him. He’s her dog, and she’s the one who walks him.”
Singsaker got up to stretch his legs. The invigorated feeling he’d had after the morning swim was now gone.
“We’ll need the full name, address, and phone number of this Fredrik,” he said.
“Alm. Fredrik Alm,” said Ivar as he too stood up. “I don’t think we have his phone number, and they’re not in the same class at school, but he lives on Veimester Krohgs Gate. You can probably look up his exact address.”
“Thanks. What about girlfriends? Does she have any good friends?” asked Gran as she glanced at Singsaker, who had started walking around the room.
“Yes, there are a group of girls she hangs out with. But Julie’s not the type to have one best friend. She’s friends with all of them,” explained Elise.
“We’ll need a list.” Singsaker sat down again, while Ivar went out to the kitchen. He came back after a minute with a sheet of paper.
“Here’s a list of her classmates. I’ve underlined the names of the girls she spends the most time with,” he said, handing the paper to Singsaker.
Then both officers stood up.
“We’ll be talking to some of your neighbors, as well as checking with her friends. At the moment we’re assuming that she’s staying with someone she knows. It would be a big help if you could make a list of everyone you can think of whose house she might have gone to. Relatives, friends who aren’t classmates, and the like. Let’s hope that we find her very soon.”
“So you don’t think that she’s . . .” Elise began hesitantly. “You don’t think this has anything to do with that case?”
“If you’re thinking about the murder near Ludvig Daaes Gate, it’s too early to say anything about that,” replied Singsaker. “There’s nothing to indicate that there’s a connection. The victim in that case was a stranger in town, and a good deal older than Julie. You should know that with most cases like this, the missing person shows up relatively quickly.”
“I heard that a music box was found near the victim. How horrible. I hope you’ll do everything to rule out the possibility that . . . that such a monster has taken our Julie.”
“Of course,” said Singsaker, hiding his annoyance that the detail of the music box had already been leaked to the public. “Don’t worry. There’s very little chance of any sort of connection,” he added.
Something prevented Singsaker from feeling as optimistic as he tried to sound. He had no idea whether he had reassured the parents or not.
“We need a photograph of her. With a neutral expression, where she’s not smiling,” he told them now.
Ivar Edvardsen found one in a kitchen drawer.
The photo was of Julie standing in the yard outside. There was no snow on the ground, and yellow leaves covered the trees behind her. At her feet sat a Saint Bernard. Her expression was serious but self-confident, and she looked older than sixteen. She had shoulder-length dark blond hair and brown eyes. Her skin was tan after a nice summer. Singsaker put the picture in his coat pocket.
Then he and Gran thanked the Edvardsens for their time and stepped out into the swirling snow.
“And this was supposed to be my day off,” said Singsaker as they walked along Markvegen.
“Yep,” said Gran. “And I had a doctor’s appointment.”
“Doctor? Nothing serious, I hope,” said Singsaker, immediately regretting saying that. He usually didn’t broach personal topics with the younger officers. But somehow it was little different with Mona Gran.
“Nothing serious, healthwise,” she told him. “But my partner and I are trying to have a baby. And it seems like nature may need a little help.”
Singsaker felt himself blushing. He wondered if this was what separated young people from those of his generation—this willingness to talk about intimate matters.
“It was no problem changing my appointment. And I know why they called us in today. Don’t you?”
Singsaker nodded.
“There’s something going on here. I can see a sixteen-year-old running away from a mother like that. But what I can’t figure out is the dog. Why take the dog along if you’re going to run away?”
Gran stopped and looked at him. They had almost reached the intersection of Ludvig Daaes Gate, and they could see the crime scene from where they were standing.
“I think we should talk to the boyfriend and the girls she hangs out with ASAP. Do you think we could get them out of class?” she asked.
“If we’re discreet about it,” said Singsaker, glancing in the direction of Rosenborg School. “No need to make a big deal. But we do have to have a little chat with all of them. What if I go over to the school and quietly make inquiries while you start knocking on doors in the neighborhood?”
Mona Gran nodded.
“I’ll call Brattberg too. I think we should send out a more detailed description. The bus companies and the train service should be notified, with special attention paid to Oslo. That’s usually where they end up, if they don’t go stay with people they know,” she said.
Singsaker gave her an approving look. He liked her decisiveness. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was promoted to chief inspector before he retired from the force.
“She may have left Trondheim, but we’re not going to find that girl hanging out with the junkies in Oslo,” he said. He almost thought that it was too bad. If they found Julie Edvardsen with nothing more than a few tracks in her arm, they’d be lucky.
“What do you think about the father?” asked Gran. “Didn’t he seem strangely unemotional?”
“He wasn’t unaffected,” replied Singsaker. “I’ve seen this so many times. Repressing emotion. It’s not an uncommon reaction to dramatic events. It’s his way of coming to grips with what’s happened. He’s probably convinced that she’s going to come home at any moment, as long as no concrete evidence turns up to tell him otherwise.”
“So there’s no reason to suspect him?”
“Suspect him of what? But you know how it is. As long as we don’t have a suspect, everyone is a suspect,” said Singsaker.
Then they headed off in different directions. Singsaker felt the opposite of Gran; he felt ancient.
Julie Edvardsen was young. She’d never thought about dying. Not until now.
She lay on the floor in a locked basement storeroom, breathing hard in the raw air. Her forehead ached, and she could tell that she had a bruise there, even though her hands weren’t free to touch it. He’d finally left the light on, so she could study the room. The floor was covered with patches of brown and dark red. The splotches on one wall were the same color, all the way up to the window, which was covered with newspaper. The sight made her feel sick to her stomach. She felt like giving up. At the same time, she knew that was the last thing she should do.
Slowly, as if over a bad Internet connection, the events that had brought her here lurched through her mind.
She had known something bad was going to happen the moment she set the shopping bag on the chair in the hall and turned around to look at him. Suddenly she didn’t recognize him. Or maybe she saw him for what he truly was. The apologetic, even helpless expression that she’d seen in his eyes was gone. What she saw was madness. A look that seemed to come from another world.
“I want you to sing for me,” he’d told her.
Then he slowly removed the sling from his right arm as she stood there in shock, and watched. His arm was not injured. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for such a ploy. How naïve could she be?
Under the sling he was holding something that looked like a black handle. She recognized the weapon from movies she’d seen. It was a stun gun, and she knew that one jolt could knock her out. Suddenly he pulled off his ring finger and little finger, and he stood there, holding the gun with three fingers.
Prostheses, she thought.
He casually tossed them to the floor and shifted the stun gun to his left hand.
“They just get in the way when there’s work to do,” he said. “But you have to admit they look quite real. Anyone who doesn’t know me would never notice them. And there aren’t many people who know me well.” He laughed. “I’m like a magician,” he went on. “The trick is to keep the left hand moving, so as to divert attention from the right.”
Then he fixed his eyes on her, took a few steps forward, and swung the gun toward her. But he’d underestimated her reflexes. Julie Edvardsen had been a goalie for the Rapp handball club since she was seven, so she was used to reacting quickly. A small step back and a lightning-fast bending of her knees were enough for him to miss, and his arm passed over her shoulder. She grabbed hold and, panic-stricken, bit his upper arm, puncturing both his shirtsleeve and skin. She tasted blood. He howled as she rammed her knee into his diaphragm. He dropped to his knees, and at that instant she ran past him, heading for the door.
But she wasn’t fast enough. His hand with the three fingers grabbed her ankle, and she fell against the door. Her head banged against the threshold and everything went black. Somewhere in the darkness she sensed a strong odor of sweat, and she thought she heard a voice humming a tune.
When she regained consciousness, she was lying here, on the ice-cold basement floor, bound and gagged. Julie swore at herself. How could she have been so stupid? He wasn’t a stranger. He was somebody she knew. But she still should have known. Shouldn’t she?