clothes, he might start to shop at a different supermarket. Whatever strength he's got left, he's using to build a defence for himself. He feels that the world is against him and he is most likely resentful.'
He looked at Jacob Skarre. 'Criminals have a peculiar view of themselves,' he said. 'They regard themselves as unique, exceptional even. They think they are smarter than most people. They think they can jump the queue and help themselves, the rules don't apply to them. If anyone gets hurt, they've only got themselves to blame. So if you want to rehabilitate an offender, in other words, you have to change his entire mindset and that's not easy. When it comes to our man, he might very well have a previous conviction, and if he has, he's already an outcast. Once he's crossed the line he becomes even more dangerous; he has nothing to lose now. And if he's managed to suppress his paedophile tendencies for a long time, it might become harder for him now.'
'How do people develop such a predilection?' Skarre wondered. 'I don't understand it, it goes against nature. Kids don't send out sexual vibes.'
'That's what we need to find out,' Sejer said, 'and in order to do so we may have to put aside a great many prejudices.'
'That won't be easy,' Skarre said, 'I admit I have a lot of them.'
He leaned against the wall.
'A paedophile is someone who wanders around in shorts and a garish shirt on a beach in Thailand, watching kids play. He looks a bit scruffy. His pockets are stuffed with banknotes and he stays in a grotty room in a filthy hotel and he spends his evening in a bar. He watches people go by, while he drinks himself into a stupor. He drives a battered, old car filled with rubbish, newspapers and beer cans. Right, over to you.'
'He's weak, unsympathetic and self-obsessed,' Sejer said, 'with no friends, he's introverted and has some feminine features. His language is simple, he struggles to express himself. His mother was, or is, a domineering woman and he has never had the courage to stand up to her. His father was insignificant. He's an only child, anti-social and unattractive, he has little in the way of education and he's on a low income or on benefits. But when he's with kids he's in his element. Warm, approachable and friendly. Then he lights up and can do anything, he invites trust. What would you have done,' he wondered, 'if you were nearly eight years old walking alone down the road? And a car pulled over and someone spoke to you?'
'I would have been scared,' Skarre said: 'scared that I had done something wrong and was about to be punished.'
'Punished? Why would you think that?'
'My father was a clergyman.'
Their intention was to drive to Huseby and retrace the route that Jonas August had taken on 4 September. According to Elfrid Løwe, this was a walk of around 1.8 kilometres, with scattered houses, a few farms and little traffic. They found the house where Jonas had been for his sleepover. His friend, Anders Wessel, stood in the open doorway with his mother; they both looked weighed down with guilt. Sejer and Skarre exchanged a few words with them and walked on. A group of kids of varying ages had spotted the police car and came running. Sejer thought back to his own childhood when a police car was enough to bring excitement to an otherwise dull day. It struck him how vulnerable they all were, you could easily tuck one under your arm and run off with them; they stood no chance when faced with an adult.
A little boy had summoned up the courage to come forward.
'Are you coming to get someone?'
'No,' Sejer said, 'we're looking for something.'
'What are you looking for?'
'We don't know,' Sejer said, 'but we think that if we look hard, we might find it.'
The boy accepted this explanation.
'Did you know Jonas August? He's got a friend here, and he visits him sometimes.'
The boy spoke again. 'Anders Wessel. He lives at number eight. His dad's Danish.' He turned around and pointed to the red house, which they had just
He looked at Jacob Skarre. 'Criminals have a peculiar view of themselves,' he said. 'They regard themselves as unique, exceptional even. They think they are smarter than most people. They think they can jump the queue and help themselves, the rules don't apply to them. If anyone gets hurt, they've only got themselves to blame. So if you want to rehabilitate an offender, in other words, you have to change his entire mindset and that's not easy. When it comes to our man, he might very well have a previous conviction, and if he has, he's already an outcast. Once he's crossed the line he becomes even more dangerous; he has nothing to lose now. And if he's managed to suppress his paedophile tendencies for a long time, it might become harder for him now.'
'How do people develop such a predilection?' Skarre wondered. 'I don't understand it, it goes against nature. Kids don't send out sexual vibes.'
'That's what we need to find out,' Sejer said, 'and in order to do so we may have to put aside a great many prejudices.'
'That won't be easy,' Skarre said, 'I admit I have a lot of them.'
He leaned against the wall.
'A paedophile is someone who wanders around in shorts and a garish shirt on a beach in Thailand, watching kids play. He looks a bit scruffy. His pockets are stuffed with banknotes and he stays in a grotty room in a filthy hotel and he spends his evening in a bar. He watches people go by, while he drinks himself into a stupor. He drives a battered, old car filled with rubbish, newspapers and beer cans. Right, over to you.'
'He's weak, unsympathetic and self-obsessed,' Sejer said, 'with no friends, he's introverted and has some feminine features. His language is simple, he struggles to express himself. His mother was, or is, a domineering woman and he has never had the courage to stand up to her. His father was insignificant. He's an only child, anti-social and unattractive, he has little in the way of education and he's on a low income or on benefits. But when he's with kids he's in his element. Warm, approachable and friendly. Then he lights up and can do anything, he invites trust. What would you have done,' he wondered, 'if you were nearly eight years old walking alone down the road? And a car pulled over and someone spoke to you?'
'I would have been scared,' Skarre said: 'scared that I had done something wrong and was about to be punished.'
'Punished? Why would you think that?'
'My father was a clergyman.'
Their intention was to drive to Huseby and retrace the route that Jonas August had taken on 4 September. According to Elfrid Løwe, this was a walk of around 1.8 kilometres, with scattered houses, a few farms and little traffic. They found the house where Jonas had been for his sleepover. His friend, Anders Wessel, stood in the open doorway with his mother; they both looked weighed down with guilt. Sejer and Skarre exchanged a few words with them and walked on. A group of kids of varying ages had spotted the police car and came running. Sejer thought back to his own childhood when a police car was enough to bring excitement to an otherwise dull day. It struck him how vulnerable they all were, you could easily tuck one under your arm and run off with them; they stood no chance when faced with an adult.
A little boy had summoned up the courage to come forward.
'Are you coming to get someone?'
'No,' Sejer said, 'we're looking for something.'
'What are you looking for?'
'We don't know,' Sejer said, 'but we think that if we look hard, we might find it.'
The boy accepted this explanation.
'Did you know Jonas August? He's got a friend here, and he visits him sometimes.'
The boy spoke again. 'Anders Wessel. He lives at number eight. His dad's Danish.' He turned around and pointed to the red house, which they had just
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