silent for a moment, then she jerked upright.
“But they can’t be,” she burst out.
“Why not?” Søren looked at her.
“Well, because you can’t change your eye color, and in that picture, Knud has brown eyes and . . .” she frowned. “And now they’re blue. Your parents have blue eyes.” She looked at Søren. “And yours are brown,” she whispered.
Søren rolled over, rested his elbows on the mattress, and cradled his chin in his hands. It would only take a minute to fetch the dusty box from the attic and show it to Vibe. After all, it was no secret that Elvira and Knud were his grandparents, though they never talked about it. It was just the way it was.
“Knud and Elvira are my grandparents,” he said. “My parents died when I was five years old. In a car crash. The photograph on the sideboard is of them. My parents on their wedding day. Their names were Peter and Kristine.”
Vibe lay very still.
It was Jacob Madsen’s father, Herman, who inspired Søren to become a policeman. Jacob also lived in Snerlevej, and he and Søren were friends. Herman Madsen was a sergeant in the CID, and Søren looked up to him. Jacob had an older sister and a mother who worked part time in a library. His family was different than Søren’s. Jacob’s parents weren’t hippies. Not that Elvira and Knud were—not proper hippies anyway—but their left-wing politics regularly created mayhem in the living room, where meetings were held and banners painted. They frequently protested against nuclear power, and though Søren was proud of his grandparents, he always enjoyed walking down the road and into the haven of peace that was Jacob’s house. Jacob’s father would come home from work and make himself comfortable in his winged armchair with the newspaper, Jacob would lie on his bed reading comics, and Jacob’s mother would be in the kitchen making mashed potatoes or hamburgers. At Søren’s they ate oddly concocted casseroles, salads topped with chopped up leftovers, and a lot of oatmeal.
When dinner was ready at Jacob’s house, his mother would strike a small gong and everyone would gather. When Jacob’s father joined them, the children would go very quiet. Sometimes, but not always, he would tell them the stories they were so desperate to hear. They knew from experience that if they pestered him before they had eaten, he would usually remain silent; however, if they were good and only said “pass the salt please,” and let Jacob’s father eat some of his dinner in peace, he would open up.
“Herman, not while we’re at the table,” Jacob’s mother would sigh.
The children waited with bated breath until Herman started telling them about murdered women, kidnapped children, hidden bodies, and vindictive ex-husbands. The two boys, especially, were riveted once Herman got into his stride. At some point he started giving the boys murder mysteries to solve, and Søren got so excited about going to Jacob’s house that Elvira, rather anxiously, asked if it really was all right with the Madsens that Søren ate with them three times a week. Oh, yes, Søren had replied. It became a kind of real-life game of Clue where Herman knew who the killer was, where the murder had been committed, what the motive was, and which murder weapon was used, but it was up to the boys to come up with a plausible scenario. Herman taught them how to think, and Søren displayed considerable aptitude. Though he was only twelve years old, he could spot connections and produce explanations that, at times, were really quite far-fetched, but that to both Søren’s and Herman’s surprise—and to Jacob’s irritation—often turned out to be correct. Søren had no idea how he did it. It was as if he visualized a network of paths through which he could, quite literally, trace the solution to the mystery. He could keep track of everyone involved in the case, even though Herman would frequently throw in some red herrings to confuse the boys.
“But they can’t be,” she burst out.
“Why not?” Søren looked at her.
“Well, because you can’t change your eye color, and in that picture, Knud has brown eyes and . . .” she frowned. “And now they’re blue. Your parents have blue eyes.” She looked at Søren. “And yours are brown,” she whispered.
Søren rolled over, rested his elbows on the mattress, and cradled his chin in his hands. It would only take a minute to fetch the dusty box from the attic and show it to Vibe. After all, it was no secret that Elvira and Knud were his grandparents, though they never talked about it. It was just the way it was.
“Knud and Elvira are my grandparents,” he said. “My parents died when I was five years old. In a car crash. The photograph on the sideboard is of them. My parents on their wedding day. Their names were Peter and Kristine.”
Vibe lay very still.
It was Jacob Madsen’s father, Herman, who inspired Søren to become a policeman. Jacob also lived in Snerlevej, and he and Søren were friends. Herman Madsen was a sergeant in the CID, and Søren looked up to him. Jacob had an older sister and a mother who worked part time in a library. His family was different than Søren’s. Jacob’s parents weren’t hippies. Not that Elvira and Knud were—not proper hippies anyway—but their left-wing politics regularly created mayhem in the living room, where meetings were held and banners painted. They frequently protested against nuclear power, and though Søren was proud of his grandparents, he always enjoyed walking down the road and into the haven of peace that was Jacob’s house. Jacob’s father would come home from work and make himself comfortable in his winged armchair with the newspaper, Jacob would lie on his bed reading comics, and Jacob’s mother would be in the kitchen making mashed potatoes or hamburgers. At Søren’s they ate oddly concocted casseroles, salads topped with chopped up leftovers, and a lot of oatmeal.
When dinner was ready at Jacob’s house, his mother would strike a small gong and everyone would gather. When Jacob’s father joined them, the children would go very quiet. Sometimes, but not always, he would tell them the stories they were so desperate to hear. They knew from experience that if they pestered him before they had eaten, he would usually remain silent; however, if they were good and only said “pass the salt please,” and let Jacob’s father eat some of his dinner in peace, he would open up.
“Herman, not while we’re at the table,” Jacob’s mother would sigh.
The children waited with bated breath until Herman started telling them about murdered women, kidnapped children, hidden bodies, and vindictive ex-husbands. The two boys, especially, were riveted once Herman got into his stride. At some point he started giving the boys murder mysteries to solve, and Søren got so excited about going to Jacob’s house that Elvira, rather anxiously, asked if it really was all right with the Madsens that Søren ate with them three times a week. Oh, yes, Søren had replied. It became a kind of real-life game of Clue where Herman knew who the killer was, where the murder had been committed, what the motive was, and which murder weapon was used, but it was up to the boys to come up with a plausible scenario. Herman taught them how to think, and Søren displayed considerable aptitude. Though he was only twelve years old, he could spot connections and produce explanations that, at times, were really quite far-fetched, but that to both Søren’s and Herman’s surprise—and to Jacob’s irritation—often turned out to be correct. Søren had no idea how he did it. It was as if he visualized a network of paths through which he could, quite literally, trace the solution to the mystery. He could keep track of everyone involved in the case, even though Herman would frequently throw in some red herrings to confuse the boys.
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