"He doesn't have a name."
She started down the corridor but turned round one last time. "I was never able to make up my mind. This is my punishment."
The lift doors closed behind her. He went into his office and slammed the door. Finally! Two men, one blond, one dark, in a green car. Zipp and Andreas.
Two officers left to pick up Sivert Skorpe. His mother stood in the doorway, regarding them with growing concern. "He always comes home at night," she insisted. They drove around town looking for him. Sejer wanted to be notified the second he was found. Then he went home, stopping at the Shell garage to put petrol in the car. Bought a CD at the tilclass="underline" Sarah Brightman. The traffic was at its peak, a steady roar that he hardly heard. As he drove, he went over his day's work. It had consisted of decisions he had made on the handling of various incidents, some major, some minor. Yet for others, the worst of all things had happened. They got at him, but at the same time he could deal with them, file them away. Was he made differently from other people? Plenty of people could not have handled the job he did. All he had to put up with, on the path to becoming chief inspector. Drunkenness and brawls, vomit all over his uniform. People with no willpower or strength or opportunities. And worse still, occasionally people with no scruples, no remorse and no fear. Even if he was confident that he had held on to most of his humanity, he was also capable of closing it off. To sit down and eat. Put it behind him, as Robert had said. Maybe sleep for half an hour on the sofa. He could usually sleep soundly through the night, though sometimes the itching on his elbows or his knees disturbed him. But his eczema had got better. When Sejer had reached home and Kollberg had finished greeting him, he caught sight of Sara. She wore only an undershirt and panties, and her hair was dishevelled, her cheeks red.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Yoga," she said, smiling. "I was doing some yoga exercises."
"Without any clothes on?"
She laughed as she pointed out how hard it was to do a headstand with a skirt falling over your head. He could surely see that. "You should learn some of the postures. I could help you."
"I don't have any ambition to stand on my head," he said.
"Are you afraid of acquiring a new perspective?" He shrugged. Wasn't it too late for that? He was too old.
"Did anything exciting happen?" she asked, as she pulled on a skirt and blouse. He didn't want to stare at her while she got dressed so he went into the kitchen and turned on the oven. She came padding after him, barefoot.
"No," he said quietly. "Not what you'd call exciting."
Something about his voice made her uneasy.
"Robert," he said. "He's no longer alive."
"Anita's boyfriend?"
"They found him in his cell."
"How did he do it?" she asked. Professional interest. She had experienced similar things in her own work.
"He tore a shirt into strips and hanged himself. From the door handle of the wardrobe."
He went into the living room. Pulled the CD out of his jacket pocket and put it in the player. Found the track he liked best: "Who Wants To Live Forever?" He now had 537 CDs, all with female vocalists. He sat down heavily, thinking about what kind of determination it took to hang yourself from a kneeling position. All that willpower he could have used for a new life. Kollberg trotted over and lay at his feet. Sejer leaned down and took the dog's enormous head in his hands. He stared into the black eyes, touched his snout. It was as it was supposed to be, cool and moist. He lifted the silky soft ears and peered inside. His ears looked fine and didn't smell. He drew his fingers through the thick fur, which was longer and shinier than ever, reddish-yellow, with a few lighter patches; only his face was black, with hints of silver in places. His claws were long without being troublesome. In short, Kollberg was perfect. The only thing he lacked was the proper training.
"You may be huge," Sejer told him, "but you're not especially smart." The dog wagged his tail expectantly, but seeing there were no dog biscuits, he let his head fall onto Sejer's feet with its full weight. Sara appeared in the doorway. She had a packet of spaghetti in her hand.
"So what do you do? In those situations?" He sighed. "The usual things. The incident is investigated as what is called a suspicious death. Forensics take pictures of the cell. The prison staff are interviewed. Was the cell locked? Did anyone visit him? Was he depressed? And if so, had he seen a doctor? Forensics handle the case after that."
"Do you feel responsible?" she asked softly. He shrugged. Did he?
"He was very cooperative," he said. "Almost too much so. He was eager to get through everything. He had plans. He had even managed to eat something, for the first time in days. I don't work at the prison. But I should have known."
"You're not a mind reader," she said. He looked at her. "But you would have known, wouldn't you?"
She leaned against the doorframe. "I've lost a number of patients."
"Yes?"
"But it's true that I would have been on the alert. They often seem to liven up at the same time as they become suicidal. Because they've finally made a decision and can see an end to their despair. When patients come to us and want their medication decreased or ask to be allowed out, we're usually on the alert. But Robert was not a psychiatric patient. He was in prison."
"I've learned something, anyway."
"You're not a doctor," she said gently. "Have you told Anita's parents?"
"I talked to her father. He was very upset. Said he hoped it wasn't because of them. They didn't feel any resentment towards him. I don't think they had enough strength left for that."
Sara disappeared into the kitchen and he could hear the water starting to boil in a pan. Ten minutes later she called him. He washed his hands and sat at the table. It was lovely to sit quietly with Sara. She was capable of leading her own life, even though he was barely a metre away, capable of thinking her own thoughts without including him. Her face took on many amusing expressions as she followed her train of thoughts. He cast a swift glance at her every time he reached for the salt or pepper. He sprinkled a generous portion of Parmesan over his spaghetti.
"Sara. Your job is to make people talk. About themselves. About difficult subjects. How do you get them to talk?"
She smiled in surprise. "But you've conducted hundreds of interviews and interrogations. Don't tell me that you don't know how to do your job."
"No, but sometimes I get stuck when I'm talking to someone. And I sit there and know that he knows! And I simply don't have the power to get anything out of him."
"That happens to me too."
"But still. What method do you use to get inside them?"
"Time."
"Ah. But I don't have time! An 18-year-old has disappeared without trace and his one close friend is so frightened that he practically faints on my desk. But then he purses his lips the way Ingrid used to when we tried to get her to take cod-liver oil."
"There's a gate to every garden," she said cryptically.
He had to smile in spite of himself.
"And if an exception shows up, then you have to jump over the fence."
"I'm a police officer. There are rules that I have to follow."
"Imagination is a good thing."
"Don't I have any imagination?"
"Of course you do. But you don't use it. How many times have you asked him to come in?"
"Twice."
"And where do you meet?"
"In my office. We need a backdrop of authority. So the suspects understand that it's serious." She picked up the ketchup bottle and shook it vigorously over her spaghetti.
"Invite him out for a beer. Go to the bar where he went with Andreas. Find the same table. Wear some other clothes. Jeans and a leather jacket. Couldn't you let your hair grow a little longer, Konrad? I have a feeling that it would curl around your ears if you only gave it a chance." He opened his eyes wide. "What is it with girls and curly hair? Just leave the dishes. I'll do them."