best chair, her father’s old armchair, until that bottle was empty too.
Then he appeared at the doorway. A towering figure, with slumped shoulders and the palms of his hands opened, outstretched from his pajama-clad body, in a gesture of helplessness. Neither of them said anything. He hesitated for a long time, eventually stepping into the room and crouching down beside her.
“Kristine,” he said gently, to say something rather than because he had something to say. “Kristine. My girl.”
She wanted so much to respond. More than anything else in the whole world, she wished she could engage with him, lean forward and let herself be comforted, and comfort him. Tell him sorry for what she had inflicted on him, sorry she had disappointed him and spoiled everything for him by being so stupid as to go off and get herself raped. She wished she could wipe out the last few horrendous days, wipe out everything, be eight years old and happy again, allowing herself to be tossed in the air and caught in his arms. But she simply couldn’t. Nothing and no one could make everything all right again. She had destroyed his life. All she could manage to do was reach out her hand and let her little finger stroke his face, from the soft skin below the temple, across his rough, unshaven cheek until it rested at the cleft in his chin.
“Daddy,” she said in almost a whisper and stood up. Staggering slightly, she regained her balance and returned to her room. At the door, she half turned and saw he was still there, crouched down, with his face in his hands. She closed the door behind her and lay fully clothed on her bed. After only a few minutes, she was in a deep and dreamless sleep.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 2
T he paved incline leading from Grønlandsleiret to Oslo police headquarters bustled with activity. People were coming and going. A few taxis were driving up and down at speed, dodging everything from men in suits on their way to meetings with important people on the floors above to old ladies tottering in on skinny legs, wearing sensible walking shoes, to give irate and agitated reports about missing poodles. The sun shone incessantly, and the dandelions on the grass were becoming gray haired. Even Oslo Prison looked attractive in the midst of the avenue of poplar trees, as though the infamous TV crook Egon Olsen might emerge from the gate at any moment, humming a tune, ready to plan another heist. Half-naked people were sprawled or seated in every possible spot between the buildings, some on their lunch hour, others unemployed or housewives deriving pleasure from the only patch of green in the Gamle Oslo quarter of the city. A few dark-skinned lads played soccer, startling the occasional sunbather with an errant ball to the stomach. The children laughed and showed no sign of shifting their match to another location.
Hanne Wilhelmsen and Håkon Sand were sitting on a bench directly beside the wall. Hanne had rolled her trousers up above her knees and removed her shoes. With a stolen glance, Håkon ascertained that she didn’t shave her legs. It was okay, as she had only some light, soft, feminine down that made her look even lovelier than if her legs had been shiny. Her skin had already turned a shade of pale golden brown.
“Have you thought about one thing?” Håkon Sand inquired, food in mouth. He continued chewing and then folded the waxed paper neatly, pouring the rest of the milk carton contents down his throat.
“Have you considered that there wasn’t a Saturday night massacre this time? I mean last Saturday night.”
“Yes.”
Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen had finished her modest lunch long before. It had consisted of yogurt and a medium-sized carrot. Incredulous, Håkon had asked her if she was on a diet, and she had not replied.
“Yes, I’ve thought about it,” she acknowledged once more. “Odd. Perhaps the jokers have grown tired of it. We have at least managed to keep the story out of the newspapers. It
Then he appeared at the doorway. A towering figure, with slumped shoulders and the palms of his hands opened, outstretched from his pajama-clad body, in a gesture of helplessness. Neither of them said anything. He hesitated for a long time, eventually stepping into the room and crouching down beside her.
“Kristine,” he said gently, to say something rather than because he had something to say. “Kristine. My girl.”
She wanted so much to respond. More than anything else in the whole world, she wished she could engage with him, lean forward and let herself be comforted, and comfort him. Tell him sorry for what she had inflicted on him, sorry she had disappointed him and spoiled everything for him by being so stupid as to go off and get herself raped. She wished she could wipe out the last few horrendous days, wipe out everything, be eight years old and happy again, allowing herself to be tossed in the air and caught in his arms. But she simply couldn’t. Nothing and no one could make everything all right again. She had destroyed his life. All she could manage to do was reach out her hand and let her little finger stroke his face, from the soft skin below the temple, across his rough, unshaven cheek until it rested at the cleft in his chin.
“Daddy,” she said in almost a whisper and stood up. Staggering slightly, she regained her balance and returned to her room. At the door, she half turned and saw he was still there, crouched down, with his face in his hands. She closed the door behind her and lay fully clothed on her bed. After only a few minutes, she was in a deep and dreamless sleep.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 2
T he paved incline leading from Grønlandsleiret to Oslo police headquarters bustled with activity. People were coming and going. A few taxis were driving up and down at speed, dodging everything from men in suits on their way to meetings with important people on the floors above to old ladies tottering in on skinny legs, wearing sensible walking shoes, to give irate and agitated reports about missing poodles. The sun shone incessantly, and the dandelions on the grass were becoming gray haired. Even Oslo Prison looked attractive in the midst of the avenue of poplar trees, as though the infamous TV crook Egon Olsen might emerge from the gate at any moment, humming a tune, ready to plan another heist. Half-naked people were sprawled or seated in every possible spot between the buildings, some on their lunch hour, others unemployed or housewives deriving pleasure from the only patch of green in the Gamle Oslo quarter of the city. A few dark-skinned lads played soccer, startling the occasional sunbather with an errant ball to the stomach. The children laughed and showed no sign of shifting their match to another location.
Hanne Wilhelmsen and Håkon Sand were sitting on a bench directly beside the wall. Hanne had rolled her trousers up above her knees and removed her shoes. With a stolen glance, Håkon ascertained that she didn’t shave her legs. It was okay, as she had only some light, soft, feminine down that made her look even lovelier than if her legs had been shiny. Her skin had already turned a shade of pale golden brown.
“Have you thought about one thing?” Håkon Sand inquired, food in mouth. He continued chewing and then folded the waxed paper neatly, pouring the rest of the milk carton contents down his throat.
“Have you considered that there wasn’t a Saturday night massacre this time? I mean last Saturday night.”
“Yes.”
Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen had finished her modest lunch long before. It had consisted of yogurt and a medium-sized carrot. Incredulous, Håkon had asked her if she was on a diet, and she had not replied.
“Yes, I’ve thought about it,” she acknowledged once more. “Odd. Perhaps the jokers have grown tired of it. We have at least managed to keep the story out of the newspapers. It
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