He Who Fears the Wolf by Karin Fossum Page B

to describe it to the man sitting across from him.
    Many other people had sat in the same place, sweating and struggling to remember everything: a distinguishing characteristic, eye colour, whether the nose was long or short. He was confident that he had a good memory, and he thought he was an observant person. But now he started to have doubts. He was certain that the man's hair was blond, but it occurred to him that the sun flooding the street might have given it a golden sheen. And besides, the man was wearing dark clothing, which could have made his hair seem lighter than it was. His mouth was small, he was certain about that. He seemed to have quite a tan, maybe with a tinge of sunburn. And he remembered his clothes. He was quite muscular, undoubtedly in good shape, but not as tall as he was, actually not tall at all for a man.
    Sejer stared at the police artist. He was a newspaper illustrator who had landed in this job by accident and had proved to be pretty talented, especially from a psychological point of view.
    "First you're going to get me to relax," Sejer said with a smile. "You want to establish a sense of trust first, don't you? Demonstrate that you're listening to me and believe in me."
    The artist gave him a wry smile. "Don't be so afraid of losing control, Konrad," he said. "Right now, you're not the boss. You're only a witness."
    Sejer raised his hand in apology.
    "The first thing I want you to do," said the artist, "is to forget the man's face."
    Sejer looked at him in surprise.
    "Forget the details. Close your eyes. Try to see his figure in front of you and concentrate on what kind of impression he makes. What kind of signals is this person sending? He comes walking towards you down the street in broad daylight, and for some reason you notice him. Why?"
    "He seemed so tense. So full of something."
    Sejer shut his eyes as requested and visualised the man. Now the face was merely a bright, hazy patch in his memory. "His steps were quick and firm. His shoulders hunched. A mixture of fear and determination. Panic lurking just below the surface. So afraid that he didn't dare glance up and look at anyone, even for an instant. Not exactly a professional bank robber. He was too desperate."
    The artist nodded and made a note at the bottom of the page.
    "Try to describe his body, the way he moved as he walked along."
    "His body hardly moved at all. Tiny, choppy movements. No swinging of his arms, no swaying or limping. Straight ahead. Stiff-legged. Stiff across the shoulders."
    "Think about the proportions," the artist continued. "His arms and legs in relation to his torso. The size of his head. The length of his neck. The size of his feet."
    "His arms and legs weren't out of the ordinary. Rather on the short side. He had one hand inside his bag, and the other in his pocket. A short, thick neck. Not very big feet. Smaller than mine, and I take a size 44. He was wearing loose clothing, but his body gave the impression of being muscular in a bulging sort of way."
    More nods. The pencil touched the paper for the first time, and Sejer heard the stroke of graphite on the page. It was just a draft sketch, but it gave the figure a trembling, lifelike quality, something in motion.
    "His shoulders? Wide or narrow?"
    "Wide. Rounded. The kind you get from lifting weights. Not like mine," he added.
    "Oh, yours are very wide."
    "But they don't bulge like his. They're more flat and bony, you know."
    They both laughed at this. The artist, whose name was Riste but went under the nickname Sketches, was short and pudgy and bald, with small oval glasses and long thin fingers.
    "His head?"
    "Big. Round. Big cheeks, but not exactly dumpling-shaped. A rounded chin. Not sharp or firm. No cleft or anything like that."
    "How did his head sit on his body? If you understand what I mean by that."
    "Kind of sunk between his shoulders. His head jutted forward from his body. Like a sulking child."
    "Excellent. That's significant," he said. "What