Wilfred Arent Brein watched life go by from the window of his prison cell. He had settled in well. True, he fawned like a dog to the other prisoners, he kept his head down and he spoke in a low, mumbling voice. He was scared of their condemnation and waited on them like a servant. He lent them money and gave them cigarettes. This was how he managed to be left in peace and that was what he wanted. The day was divided into fixed routines. He liked the workshop and he liked the food. He liked helping out in the kitchen, all the smells and the heat from the cooker, the huge, steaming, bubbling pots.
He slept fairly well at night, curled up on his bunk in a foetal position. He was serving ten years. On completing his sentence he would be released back into the community, back to his lonely existence on benefits, the same man with the same passion for young boys. He rarely thought about the day he would be released; life on the outside did not appeal to him. No one would welcome him, he would be left to his own devices, his own pain and his own urges. All things considered, prison life was not as bad as he had imagined. Every now and then a prison officer would stop by for a chat. Then he would come alive and talk himself warm about this and that, about his father whom he should have supported, the last book he had read, which had a sad ending. Society had already forgotten about him. New murders had been committed, new crimes that had been carefully planned, simple economic crimes for personal gain, which were obviously far worse that his own deed, which he had not wanted to commit anyway. He was driven by his passions. He was adamant when it came to this. It was the notion that saved him, which meant that he could sleep at night. He slept a dreamless sleep.
However, spring had finally arrived now, lush and teeming with life. Teenagers bloomed like the crocuses in the flowerbeds, they unfolded and started flirting with each other, they hung around on street corners, they lay on the grass in parks. The snow on the fields of Fagre Vest Farm finally melted, and the mound with its few bushes became visible; it lay like a small island in the fields and pretty rowan trees grew on it. Early one April evening a group of young people walked down towards Loch Bonna. One of them was Signe Lund, who worked behind the till at Kiwi. She had swapped the green uniform for a red miniskirt; her round knees were milky-white after the long winter. There was her cousin, Mai-Britt, small and chubby, with a mass of ginger hair, puffing away at a Benson & Hedges. Ellemann and Rolf were at the front, determining their direction, and Signe sensed what it was all leading up to.
Inside the mound in the field was an earth cellar, and last summer she had lost her virginity there. She was consumed by trepidation twinned with fear of what she wanted and yet at the same time did not want, but life was like that, and boys always got what they wanted anyway and she did not want to come across as uptight. Neither did Mai-Britt. They meandered across the fields and punched each other playfully. They were so full of life and they were up for anything. Walking in the wet soil was hard work and they were worried that they might be spotted by the farmer from Fagre Vest who would set his Alsatian on them. After all, they were trespassing.
They sat down on a large stone. The boys circled the girls like sheepdogs herding sheep, but something distracted them and interfered with their chat. A smell. A dense, rotten vapour drifted through the air. The older of the boys, Ellemann, got up to investigate.
'It's coming from the earth cellar,' he said.
Excited and nervous he started looking for the trap door. He stamped the ground methodically with his heavy boots. Soon they heard the sound of heels against wood. They cleared away some grass and leaves, and none of them said a word because the smell was unnerving and it frightened them.
The trap door was bolted.
Its rusty iron hinges groaned and whined as they opened it.
CHAPTER 46
Edwin Åsalid lay on an old sprung mattress.
He lay on his stomach with his arms outstretched and he looked like a beached whale. There was a fair amount of rubbish inside the earth cellar, magazines and old newspapers, wrappers from chocolate bars, and empty beer cans. A rotting wooden ladder with four steps led to the bottom and the ceiling was low. A long time ago the earth cellar had been used for storing potatoes. Years later the town's children had discovered it and put it to new use. Thanks to the frost the body had kept well and it had been protected from damp and animals, but now the mild weather had set in, and it was starting to decay.
There was a crowd of onlookers on the road to the loch. The police vans also had to park there. The crime scene officers had to carry their equipment across the fields.
Skarre snapped off a long piece of grass.
'What do you think?' he asked.
'Not a great deal so far,' Sejer said.
'He's dressed. He's not naked from the waist down like Jonas was. Perhaps we should be grateful for that.'
'Perhaps.'
Skarre started chewing the piece of grass.
'The killer is from Huseby,' he said. 'He has to be, he knew about the earth cellar.'
'What's the name of the farmer?' Sejer asked, nodding towards Fagre Vest.
'Skagen. Waldemar Skagen.'
'Was he questioned when Edwin went missing?'
'Yes.'
'We need to interview him again.'
'Will there still be evidence of sexual assault after such a long period of time?' Skarre wondered.
'I hope so,' Sejer said. 'Snorrason won't miss a thing.'
'How big is the earth cellar?'
'Six square metres? Or what do you think? The local teenagers have clearly been having a good time on the old mattress. Perhaps there is nothing else to do down there in the dark.'
'Will they finish this evening?'
Sejer looked at the men working away.
'I hope so. I want Edwin's autopsy carried out tomorrow morning. I hope Snorrason finds something. What do you think of the hiding place for the body?'
'Clever, obviously,' Skarre said. 'No one would come here in the winter, and he didn't have to dig a grave. All he had to do was shut the trap door and bolt it.'
'And if the local youth hadn't been in the mood for love this very evening, Edwin could easily have lain there the whole summer,' Sejer said.
A crime scene officer walked past them with a bag. Its contents were visible through the clear plastic.
'This is what we found,' he said. 'Do you want to take a look?'
Sejer took the bag.
'Remove the topsoil,' he said, 'and sift it. Check every twig and blade of grass. Let's hope he's left something behind. Have you found any weapons yet?'
'No.'
Sejer held up the bag and studied its contents. 'One copy of Hello! magazine,' he said, 'and one of VG magazine. A packet of Petterøe cigarettes, empty. Cigarette stubs with and without filters. Two cans of Frydenlund beer, bottle tops. A comb missing practically all its teeth. Candle stumps, orange peel. A hair band. That is a hair band, isn't it?'
'Yes,' Skarre replied.
Sejer continued looking at the contents of the bag.
'Do you recall what the boys were doing down on the jetty the day Edwin went missing?' he asked.
'They chatted about Alex Meyer,' Skarre said, 'and they ate sweets.'
'Correct,' Sejer said. 'Jelly turtles.'
He pointed at the bag. 'And here's the empty packet.'
CHAPTER 47
Snorrason was an unhurried and methodical man with a mild and gentle view of the world, and he was moved by the body of the child who lay before him. A few parts of Edwin's body were covered by light grey corpse wax, a heavy, swollen substance which replaces fatty tissue. It was this wax which had preserved his body during the last eight months. Now his chest had been opened up and the ribs removed. His internal organs had been weighed, examined and placed in steel basins on the autopsy table. His liver, kidneys and his heart which had beaten for ten years. The smell was raw and acrid, a blend of something sweet and cloying, and something else, reminiscent of fish entrails. The strawberry-blond forensic pathologist got hold of an oscillating saw to open up his cranium. Its whirring sound screeched through the autopsy room, and an odd, burning smell filled the air.