‘How are we doing here?’
The voice behind her is authoritative and a touch condescending. Karen freezes mid-movement, with one hand in her handbag and the other braced against the bonnet.
Squatting next to her car, she has unsuccessfully spent a few panicky minutes rummaging around for her keys. Checked every pocket, felt along the bottom of her bag and then proceeded to methodically pick one item out after the other with mounting anxiety.
Now she curses inaudibly through gritted teeth; what on earth are the police doing out at this hour? Why the fuck are they wasting man-hours and taxpayer money on patrolling streets and city squares when the whole town is asleep? She pushes herself up on stiff legs. Then she reluctantly turns around and tries to squeeze out a relaxed smile.
She only manages a stiff grimace.
A look of horror followed by disbelief flutters across both officers’ faces when they behold the devastation.
‘Oh, excuse me . . .’ says the older of the two and takes a step back, looking embarrassed.
His eyes bounce helplessly between the sooty make-up remnants on the ashen face before him and the items on the ground. His slightly younger female colleague gives Karen one quick glance and then stares, openly curious, at the bits and bobs strewn across the asphalt: a copy of yesterday’s paper, a mobile, a half-pack of cigarettes, something that looks like a pair of black tights, a phone charger, a half-eaten apple with bitemarks in its darkened flesh, a bra and a box of condoms.
Karen forces out another stiff smile, her face tense. Then she gestures vaguely at the mess on the ground.
‘I can’t find my car keys.’ She inhales, in an attempt to prevent her breath from reaching the two officers. ‘New handbag,’ she adds.
‘Spent the night in town, ma’am?’
The female officer has squatted down and now looks up with a small smile, as if to signal sympathy and understanding. Karen feels her annoyance growing; what the fuck does this unbearably fit slip of a thing with her bobbing ponytail know about ‘spending the night in town’?
‘Why?’ she asks frostily.
Her penetratingly blue eyes with the golden rings around the pupils – which she knows can cow people into silence – fix on the younger woman, forcing her to look away, and she regrets it the moment she wins the power struggle. What is she playing at?
‘It tends to get late after Oistra, so I spent the night at a friend’s,’ she adds in an attempt to smooth things over. ‘But I think I’d better keep looking . . .’
Karen gestures significantly toward her handbag and the jumble of things that still seem to fascinate the female police officer. Just then, she sees a gloved hand reach out, pick up her wadded-up tights and shake them gently. The flat key hits the pavement with a jangle. Two seconds later she hears the familiar beep of a car door unlocking.
‘Here you go, boss,’ says Police Constable Sara Inguldsen, who has straightened back up and is holding the key out to her with a wry smile.
Unable to speak, Karen accepts the key and watches as the two officers back up a few steps and salute her in unison. Apparently, Police Constable Björn Lange has regained his ability to speak again, too.
‘Drive carefully, Inspector Eiken!’