The Water's Edge, Page 2

  'Schoolchildren go camping here,' Kristine remembered. 'If they choose Outdoor Studies. They go canoeing and fishing and they have to get up at three in the morning to hear the wood grouse.'

  Reinhardt shrugged. 'I've never really understood the attraction of camping,' he snorted. 'You can rent a cottage up here. With a proper bed and a toilet. When I was a boy,' he went on, 'my dad took me camping. He had an old-fashioned green tent that slept four people, I couldn't bear the smell inside it, and my sleeping bag was ancient and musty. It stank of smoke and earth and paraffin, it smelled of waterproofing chemicals. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't breathe.'

  Kristine went over to one of the mounds of grass and stepped inside a stone circle.

  'This is where their kitchen must have been,' she called out.

  Reinhardt came over to her.

  'I wouldn't call that a kitchen,' he smiled. 'More like a fireplace, I'd say.'

  She nodded. 'Just think,' she said, 'they would catch fish in the lake and snare birds and hares. What a quiet life it must have been, here by the water.'

  Reinhardt entered the circle. He stood towering over her, he was one metre ninety tall and very broad-shouldered.

  'In the evenings they would sit by the fire and talk amongst themselves,' she said, 'and when the fire died down they would curl up on the ground under their furs.'

  Reinhardt grinned broadly. 'Whereas I turn on my Bang & Olufsen music centre and stretch out in my recliner,' he said. 'Thank God, I'm alive now.'

  Kristine went quiet once again. He refused to join in her thinking, he didn't want to ponder life or humanity. He was an enterprising man, rational and self-assured, whereas she felt dizzy when she imagined herself living in another age, where people had different values, where their fears had been different from the ones she lived with. Perhaps they had feared a roaming wolf stalking the half-naked children playing on the shore of Lake Linde.

  CHAPTER 3

  'We'll go back a different route,' he called out.

  He cut through the forest, holding back the branches so they would not swipe her face. Again they walked themselves warm in the low sunshine and after half an hour they stopped for a rest. In front of them lay a clearing surrounded by spruces, an open, golden area with tufts and heather. Then the brutal scene hit them.

  'No!' Reinhardt yelled.

  And again, a few seconds later. 'No!'

  Kristine gave him an uncomprehending look. He was squeezing her arm so tightly that she started to whimper, she had never seen his strong face display such terror. She followed his gaze and spotted a cluster of trees.

  Something lay at the foot of the dark tree trunks.

  Reinhardt was speechless. She was not used to this, he was always the one who took action, who would have something to say about every situation. She stared at the bundle at the foot of the trees, it was slim and white. She was struck by the awful thought that this might be a small person.

  'It's a little kid,' Reinhardt whispered. He still did not move. Nor did he let go of her arm; his grip was vice-like.

  'For Christ's sake, it's a little kid,' he repeated.

  'No,' she said. Because it could not possibly be true, not here, not in Linde Forest.

  Reinhardt took a step forward. He was no longer in any doubt, he could see arms and legs. A T-shirt with some writing on it. Kristine clasped her mouth. They stood like this for what seemed an eternity. The bundle lay immobile on the green moss. Kristine looked up at Reinhardt, her green eyes desperately pleading with him to do something.

  'We must call the police!' she whispered.

  Reinhardt started walking towards the cluster of trees, his body exuding reluctance. Ten paces, fifteen, they saw a foot and a fragile neck. It was a boy. He was lying on his stomach, he was naked from the waist down, and between his legs they could see blood, which had coagulated into rust-coloured scabs.

  Kristine turned away in horror. But she could only look away for a few seconds. She had to look again, those green eyes had to see everything. The boy's short hair, his T-shirt with 'Kiss' written on it. The soles of his feet, pale pink against the dark moss.

  'We have to call the police,' she whispered. 'We have to call the police now!'

  Then she lost control of her body and started to shake. First her hands, then her shoulders. She had nothing to hold on to so she stumbled.

  Reinhardt reached under her armpits and helped her back to her feet.

  'Calm down now, calm down!' But she was unable to calm down. Inside her head she was issuing commands which never reached her arms and legs.

  '112,' she whispered. 'You need to call 112.'

  He quickly reached into his pocket for his mobile. 'You're sure it's not 113?'

  She protested weakly, her body was rebelling: '112,' she repeated. 'The police!'

  He entered the number at breakneck speed, started walking up and down while throwing quick glances at the dead body.

  'We're calling from Linde Forest,' she heard him say. 'We're thirty minutes from the lake. We've found a small boy.'

  Then he was silent for a few seconds, pressing the mobile against his ear.

  'Yes, my name's Ris. Reinhardt Ris, we've been out for a walk. We've found a dead boy. You need to send someone.'

  Again silence. Kristine gave in to the shaking, she sank down on to her knees and pressed her hands against the earth for support.

  'No, there's no pulse,' Reinhardt shouted. 'Of course I'm sure. We can see that he's dead, he's gone all white!'

  He came over to her, stopped, the sandy-coloured tuft stuck out.

  'Yes, we can walk back to the barrier, our car's parked there, we'll wait for you.'

  With considerable effort Kristine managed to stand up, and she started walking towards the edge of the clearing. Someone had stacked logs in a large pile and she slumped on to a log. She sat there watching the husband she knew inside out. Because she did, didn't she? Didn't she know every fibre of his powerful body, all his moods and his strong, commanding nature? He stood for a long time staring helplessly in every direction, a large man between the trees. All the qualities she normally associated with him sparkled by their absence. Authority, assurance and calm. Will and determination. It seemed as though he was prevaricating. She saw him walk back to the boy, saw him kneel down, he lowered his head and raised his hands to his face. What's he doing? she thought, baffled, is he crying, is that possible? Is he sitting there sobbing like a child? Have I misjudged him all these years, is he, in fact, a sensitive and emotional man?

  Then the truth dawned on her.

  He was taking pictures of the dead boy with his mobile.

  CHAPTER 4

  'How could you!' she screamed, outraged.

  Her usual subservience had evaporated, gone was the fear of antagonising him, her limit had been reached and there was no holding her back. She was crying and wiping away her tears, she half ran all the way to the barrier, but it took her a while because her legs were so short.

  'You're insane!' she yelled.

  Reinhardt scrambled behind her on the path, muffled swearwords reached her ears. They made it to the car simultaneously; Kristine slumped across the bonnet and sobbed. It was all too much for her: the body of the boy they had found and Reinhardt taking pictures of him. Reinhardt got into the car, found a cigarette and lit it, his lips tightened. Nevertheless Kristine thought she had detected a hint of embarrassment because she had pointed out his desire for sensation, something he would never own up to. He exhaled three times, the smoke coming out as white clouds.

  'It was just a gut reaction,' he said, 'or, I don't know. It just happened.'

  'But what do you want them for?'

  She straightened up and looked at him, her green eyes shining. 'What are you going to do with those photos?'

  'Nothing,' he replied in a sullen voice and kept smoking in defiance.

  'Think about his parents,' she appealed to him. 'Imagine if they knew you had those photos: you have to delete them, it
's not right!'

  'Well, they don't know that I've got them,' he argued, slowly starting to get riled. 'And of course I'll delete them, I'm not an idiot, Kristine, how dare you take that tone with me, I'm in charge of my own life, so don't you start telling me what to do!'

  When his outburst had finished, he carried on smoking. Kristine tried to calm herself down; she was always terrified when he raised his voice. She was still slumped over the bonnet, feeling upset and nauseous. They peered down the road for the cars, which were meant to turn up. Kristine suddenly remembered something, she looked at Reinhardt in the car.

  'That man we passed,' she said, 'the one we met at the barrier. In the blue anorak. What do you think he was doing up here?'

  Reinhardt got out of the car and squatted down.

  'It might have been him,' she said. 'He could barely look me in the eye. Surely we need to report him? They'll be asking us. If we saw anything. People or cars.'

  Reinhardt coughed to clear his throat. He suddenly became very busy. He slammed the car door hard and started pacing up and down like he always did when he was in a state about something.

  'The car?' he said. 'You saw the car?'

  'Yes,' she said. 'I saw it quite clearly.'

  'It was white,' he stated.

  'It was an older model,' she said, 'but the paintwork was in very good condition.'

  'We need to focus,' Reinhardt said. 'They'll want details.'

  Kristine thought back. She had got a good look at the man, she had looked him in the eye, and an image of his face had imprinted itself on her retina. She had flashed him a brief smile out of reflex politeness, a smile he had not returned. He had looked back at her in horror and he had certainly behaved in a suspicious manner, as if they had caught him red-handed. I didn't like him, she thought, the one second I looked him in the eye was enough to give me a feeling about him, and it was not a good one.

  'How old was he?' Reinhardt said. 'What do you think, Kristine? Come on, we need to be ready.'

  She thought carefully. 'Somewhere between forty and fifty,' she declared.

  He wrinkled his nose with displeasure. 'We need to be more specific than that,' he stated. 'No, not as old as fifty.'

  She made no reply. She, too, started pacing up and down the road, she circled their parked car. The sun shone off the silver Rover. Reinhardt made sure it was always washed and polished.

  'I hope they get here soon,' she said.

  'There'll be a whole army of them, Kristine, believe you me.'

  She turned away from him and kept silent. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and chewed on a nail, a bad habit she had never managed to quit. Time had never passed so slowly, waiting had never felt like this. She could no longer enjoy the serenity of the forest, the susurration of the enormous treetops, the rustling leaves. She looked at Reinhardt for a long time. He was leaning against the car, his arms folded across his chest.

  'What the hell is taking them so long?' he snapped.

  'It's the road,' she replied. 'It's in poor condition. You can't drive very fast on it.'

  They spoke no more. In their minds they were back by the cluster of trees, with the little boy, and Kristine was suddenly glad about the way he lay. Face down in the moss. She had not seen his eyes. She stared along the road. Finally she heard a car. Reinhardt stubbed out his cigarette and straightened his back. It was as if he was getting ready for the performance of his life.

  CHAPTER 5

  A tall, grey-haired man led the solemn group. He walked with a characteristic spring in his step and made good use of his eyes; he watched Reinhardt and Kristine, he took in the surroundings. Behind him walked a younger man with an impressive head of blond curls.

  'That took you long enough,' Reinhardt started off. 'I was the one who called you, my name's Ris, Reinhardt Ris. He's lying right by the clearing over there, by those trees. It's only a few minutes' walk.'

  He turned and pointed in between the trees. 'Like I said, it's a small boy. He's lying face down, he's half naked. We're in complete shock. We come here every Sunday, we have done for many years, but little did we think that we would ever stumble across something like that and we don't know what's happened, but I must admit that I'm prepared for the worst, and I suppose you must be, too. He's not all that old, either, six or seven perhaps. Or what do you think, Kristine, is he as old as seven?'

  Reinhardt's cascade of words ceased. The grey-haired man looked at him with narrow eyes, his handshake was crushing. He introduced himself as Konrad Sejer. While he shook Reinhardt's hand, he looked at Kristine and his face softened. She was relieved that someone was taking control. A feeling of embarrassment brought colour to her cheeks, she did not understand why, but it had something to do with his eyes and his presence.

  'You both found him?' he asked.

  'Reinhardt spotted him first,' Kristine said.

  'Are you finding this hard?'

  'Yes,' she admitted, 'it's hard.'

  He nodded. 'It's good that there are two of you, it's easier when you've got someone to share it with.'

  We haven't shared anything for ages, she thought despondently.

  'We saw a man,' Reinhardt interjected. 'A man leaving, he was in a hurry. We passed him at the barrier; he drove off in a white car. He drove off at speed.'

  Sejer's eyebrows lifted one millimetre; he rarely displayed stronger expressions than that. In the younger detective's face there was a hint of a smile as he became aware of Reinhardt's need for attention.

  'We managed to get quite a few details,' Reinhardt said. 'We had only just parked, we walked past him at close range.'

  Sejer nodded calmly.

  Kristine started walking. She felt a resistance inside her and she dreaded it. The curly-haired detective came up to her, stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Jacob Skarre. He reminded her a bit of a gangly teenager with huge, bright blue eyes and curls that any girl would envy him. Behind him followed a group of crime scene officers carrying equipment needed at the scene of the murder. Or where they had found the body, Kristine thought. Without knowing why, she was absolutely certain that the boy had been killed elsewhere and later brought here by the killer. She thought about the man at the barrier and she shuddered as she recalled his disturbed eyes.

  She sat on one of the logs as the crime scene officers started their painstaking work. She watched them as they carefully took their places. She was finally overcome by a sense of calm, now that everyone had a job to do she saw no signs of horror, only gravity. But as soon as she started to think about it, she was gripped by despair because the boy had parents, and they did not know yet. They might be sharing a joke right now. She could visualise them clearly in their living room, perhaps the sun was streaming in through the window. The image took her breath away.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Reinhardt's voice cutting through the silence, it was loud and self-assured. She was so fed up with his voice; she was mortified that he could not keep his mouth shut. The inspector and his colleague had both knelt down, shoulder by shoulder, in the heather. Now they would see what she had seen, the details which would reveal what had happened to the boy. Reinhardt suddenly came over to her. Perhaps they had told him to move back, she wondered, as she looked up.

  'Have you realised something?' he asked, sitting down beside her.

  'No,' she said in a drained voice.

  'Something's missing.'

  She gave him a perplexed look. 'What's that?'

  'The press,' he said, as if he were an expert in these things.

  Her eyes widened.

  'Thank God for that,' she exclaimed.

  'VG magazine would pay thousands for a story like this.'

  He looked at her.

  'You can't call them,' she said. 'You can't!'

  'But for God's sake, think about it. They're going to be all over this story anyway.'

  'Not if you keep your mouth shut.'

  'This will be on the news by the evening,' he said, 'and that's on
ly right and proper, in my opinion. People should be given the chance to protect their kids; that boy over there, he's only six or seven.'

  She made no reply. Her lips had narrowed and she looked tormented.

  'We need to go down to the station,' she whispered. 'We need to make a statement.'

  'I know.'

  'What if we remember it wrong? We mustn't say something unless we're sure.'