taking you in.’
‘In?’
‘To the police station. We need a formal interview.’
‘But I’ve already explained myself twice!’
‘They have to write it down.’
Line shook her head. ‘That’ll have to be later. I’m working just now.’
‘So are we,’ the police officer brushed her protestations aside. ‘We’re working on
finding a killer.’
‘At least let me take my laptop from my car,’ Line pleaded.
The police officer’s head moved as though to refuse her, but changed his mind when
he looked into her determined eyes.
13
‘Shall we go?’ Wisting asked. Their glasses were empty.
‘’If you want,’ Suzanne smiled.
After taking the glasses and bottle to the counter, Wisting held her jacket open for
her before putting on his own.
Suzanne locked the door behind them. Rain was still in the air, and it was colder.
A taxi pulled up, but Wisting waved it on. The stroll home to the house in Herman
Wildenveys gate took no more than ten minutes, and they both liked to walk. They enjoyed
the silence of the streets.
Suzanne opened a small umbrella, which he ducked under beside her. ‘Have you had any
contact with Cecilia’s family since then?’ she asked.
‘A little,’ he said, thinking of how a murder always had a number of faces. In Cecilia’s
case, there were five: her mother, father, brother, boyfriend and her own cold, blue,
impassive, dead face. ‘Her mother sends me a Christmas card every year.’
‘What does she write?’
He shrugged, as though he was not quite sure. ‘Happy Christmas.’
He was well aware of what she wrote. All the cards were lying in the bottom drawer
of his desk. The same words every year: I wish you and yours a very merry Christmas and happy new year . With gratitude, Nora Linde and family. He had always felt this to be generous of her, but that was what she had been like.
Not a single time in all their conversations during the search for Cecilia had she
made a critical remark or negative comment.
‘How are they doing?’
‘Fine, I think. Even if they won’t ever get over it, at least they’ve managed to move
on.’
‘Johannes Linde has done well for himself since then. So I’ve heard.’
He agreed. When Cecilia disappeared, her father had been embroiled in a conflict with
a previous business partner over ownership and rights to a number of trademarks and
run the risk of losing a great deal of money. The legal decision had gone in his favour,
the company had grown and his son Casper had taken over at the top.
‘What does her boyfriend do now?’
‘Danny Flom is a photographer. That was how they met, when he took photos for the
advertising campaign. Now he runs a photographic studio in Oslo. Flomlys , it’s called.’
‘Good name. Danny Flom, Flomlys . Did he find himself another girlfriend?’
‘I think he’s been married a couple of times.’
A flurry of wind blew an old newspaper towards them. Wisting drew his jacket more
snugly around his neck.
‘Perhaps you ought to talk to Thomas,’ Suzanne suggested. ‘So that he knows what it’s
all about. They read newspapers down there too, you know.’
Thomas was Line’s twin brother who was serving for periods of six months at a time
as a helicopter pilot with the Norwegian forces in Afghanistan.
‘It’s the middle of the night right now,’ Wisting said. ‘Besides, he’s not so easy
to get hold of. I really depend on him phoning me.’
‘What about your father?’
Wisting would have to call his father. Eighty years of age and a widower for the past
twenty-four, he had been a hospital doctor. He was a sprightly old man who always
followed the coverage of Wisting’s cases.
They walked on in silence, eyes on the ground. The sound of their footsteps combined
in an uneven rhythm, hers slightly faster, shorter; his longer, heavier.
14
The dashboard clock read 00.16. Line heard fleeting messages on the radio transmitter
with updates
‘In?’
‘To the police station. We need a formal interview.’
‘But I’ve already explained myself twice!’
‘They have to write it down.’
Line shook her head. ‘That’ll have to be later. I’m working just now.’
‘So are we,’ the police officer brushed her protestations aside. ‘We’re working on
finding a killer.’
‘At least let me take my laptop from my car,’ Line pleaded.
The police officer’s head moved as though to refuse her, but changed his mind when
he looked into her determined eyes.
13
‘Shall we go?’ Wisting asked. Their glasses were empty.
‘’If you want,’ Suzanne smiled.
After taking the glasses and bottle to the counter, Wisting held her jacket open for
her before putting on his own.
Suzanne locked the door behind them. Rain was still in the air, and it was colder.
A taxi pulled up, but Wisting waved it on. The stroll home to the house in Herman
Wildenveys gate took no more than ten minutes, and they both liked to walk. They enjoyed
the silence of the streets.
Suzanne opened a small umbrella, which he ducked under beside her. ‘Have you had any
contact with Cecilia’s family since then?’ she asked.
‘A little,’ he said, thinking of how a murder always had a number of faces. In Cecilia’s
case, there were five: her mother, father, brother, boyfriend and her own cold, blue,
impassive, dead face. ‘Her mother sends me a Christmas card every year.’
‘What does she write?’
He shrugged, as though he was not quite sure. ‘Happy Christmas.’
He was well aware of what she wrote. All the cards were lying in the bottom drawer
of his desk. The same words every year: I wish you and yours a very merry Christmas and happy new year . With gratitude, Nora Linde and family. He had always felt this to be generous of her, but that was what she had been like.
Not a single time in all their conversations during the search for Cecilia had she
made a critical remark or negative comment.
‘How are they doing?’
‘Fine, I think. Even if they won’t ever get over it, at least they’ve managed to move
on.’
‘Johannes Linde has done well for himself since then. So I’ve heard.’
He agreed. When Cecilia disappeared, her father had been embroiled in a conflict with
a previous business partner over ownership and rights to a number of trademarks and
run the risk of losing a great deal of money. The legal decision had gone in his favour,
the company had grown and his son Casper had taken over at the top.
‘What does her boyfriend do now?’
‘Danny Flom is a photographer. That was how they met, when he took photos for the
advertising campaign. Now he runs a photographic studio in Oslo. Flomlys , it’s called.’
‘Good name. Danny Flom, Flomlys . Did he find himself another girlfriend?’
‘I think he’s been married a couple of times.’
A flurry of wind blew an old newspaper towards them. Wisting drew his jacket more
snugly around his neck.
‘Perhaps you ought to talk to Thomas,’ Suzanne suggested. ‘So that he knows what it’s
all about. They read newspapers down there too, you know.’
Thomas was Line’s twin brother who was serving for periods of six months at a time
as a helicopter pilot with the Norwegian forces in Afghanistan.
‘It’s the middle of the night right now,’ Wisting said. ‘Besides, he’s not so easy
to get hold of. I really depend on him phoning me.’
‘What about your father?’
Wisting would have to call his father. Eighty years of age and a widower for the past
twenty-four, he had been a hospital doctor. He was a sprightly old man who always
followed the coverage of Wisting’s cases.
They walked on in silence, eyes on the ground. The sound of their footsteps combined
in an uneven rhythm, hers slightly faster, shorter; his longer, heavier.
14
The dashboard clock read 00.16. Line heard fleeting messages on the radio transmitter
with updates
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