Authors: Karin Fossum
'How old would you say they were?' Skarre asked.
Sejer studied the girls.
'Sixteen, perhaps?'
Skarre rolled his eyes. 'Honestly, you're miles off, they're thirteen or fourteen. Remember there's a lot of icing on those cakes.'
'Icing?'
'Make-up.'
They passed the girls. Skarre sent them one of his most dazzling smiles.
'Not a day over fourteen,' Skarre whispered.
'Where are you going with this?'
'I'm flying a kite; we work with morality and it gives rise to plenty of food for thought. Imagine a young man out looking for a girlfriend. My point is: the girls look like this and yet they're still off limits. And I'm thinking about the age of consent, it's sixteen in Norway.'
'Correct,' Sejer said. 'Do you have any objections?'
'Perhaps it should be lower,' Skarre. 'What kind of signals were they sending out, the two girls we just passed? Here we are, arm in arm, we're attractive and we're up for anything.'
Sejer turned to get a second look.
'If one of them meets a boy,' Skarre said, 'and they end up in bed and she later regrets it, he could be put away for two to three years. And labelled a sex offender.'
'We need to have some rules,' Sejer stated. 'We must protect children and we do that by setting a limit.'
'But girls today are so grown up,' Skarre said. 'And whether we like it or not, they're sexual beings.'
'You don't have children,' Sejer said, 'you don't understand the instinct to protect them. It rises up in you, once you're responsible for another human being. A young person,' he added, 'your beautiful daughter, perhaps, goes out into the world. Only you aren't allowed to come with her any more, you just have to stay at home and wait for her to come back. While you imagine the worst.'
They made themselves comfortable with their beers.
'The thing is,' Skarre said, 'I was wondering if we could have a chat about sex.'
Sejer bent down and started patting his dog. 'You go first,' he said quickly.
'In Sweden,' Skarre went on, 'the age of consent is fifteen.'
'Right.'
Sejer was drinking Pilsner Urquell. His face had a closed expression, but he was paying attention.
'In other words,' Skarre continued, 'a man is branded a sex offender and given a severe sentence in Norway, but the same act is legal in Sweden.'
'Is that a problem?'
'Of course it is, it's too arbitrary. The problem with sex is that it becomes about morality. Let's take another example,' he said. 'Think of oral sex.'
Sejer kept his eyes firmly on his dog.
'In a few states in the US it's considered a perversion,' Skarre said, 'and consequently it's a criminal offence. My point is: what's abnormal, what's perverted? And what constitutes an assault?'
'We're working in Norway,' Sejer said, 'and here the rules are clear. And we should be thankful for that.'
'Possibly,' Skarre said. 'But there's something else I've been thinking about quite a lot, there's something we have to face up to. When it comes to paedophiles, it's a fact that the offender himself has been unable to develop normally. He may himself have been the victim of abuse and he seeks out children to solve a problem. I just wanted to remind you of that side of the argument.'
'Many people have problems,' Sejer said. 'There are several acceptable ways of solving them and then there are unacceptable ways. Many paedophiles never give in to their urges, it's a question of staying in control. Our man didn't do that.'
'Nevertheless,' Skarre said, 'the possibility that he was himself abused is high. Up to seventy per cent have been. Perhaps he should receive treatment rather than condemnation. Any lawyer who knows their stuff would exploit this for all it's worth.'
'He's unlikely to have asked for help,' Sejer said. 'You could argue that was his responsibility. Many people have a miserable childhood: that doesn't give them the right to abuse others. On the contrary, they ought to know better. Or what do you think?'
'How easy is it to go to a therapist and say "Help me, please, I'm turned on by kids"?'
'No, that's not easy, I grant you. But life's hard for all of us.'
'I won't be able to get you to change your mind just a tiny bit?'
'No.'
'All I'm saying is that it's frighteningly complex,' Skarre said. 'What is force? Is it force to use deceit? Is it morally reprehensible to entice anyone into bed? Should we even be seducing one another at all? It's not easy being a man and getting to grips with all these rules.'
Sejer looked at Skarre across the table. 'I have no wish at all to discuss my private life,' he said, 'but following the rules has never been a problem for me.'
'I believe you because I know you. But imagine that you're a young lad in a dark, overheated room, surrounded on all sides by pretty girls flirting with you. You're tanked up with beer and hormones and your pulse is throbbing to the beat of the music. To make matters worse, you might even have taken an ecstasy tablet.'
'I wouldn't dream of it.'
'Of course not. But that's the reality we live in and my argument is that when it comes to our sexuality, we're struggling to catch up. We may think we're liberated, but it's only a façade. Research shows that we haven't come very far at all. Last night I sat down to do some reading. I wanted to know why some people become paedophiles. I didn't find any real answers because research has revealed almost nothing. There are individual triggers, but perhaps it's the case that nobody wants to know about this. No one cares about these men and certainly no one wants to talk about them; everything is reduced to universal contempt.'
'Well,' Sejer said, 'it appears you learned something after all, you're a mine of information.'
'Yes,' Skarre replied. 'And I was struck by how much can be accommodated within a framework of normality. I mean, as long as both parties are adults and consent. At the same time the world is full of people who have bizarre sexual fantasies, which they never carry out. And we should probably be grateful for that. And I've been thinking a lot about what Åkeson said. That we're dealing with a first-time offender.'
'We might well be,' said Sejer. 'So the question is: will he be so horrified that he'll never reoffend or has he now developed a taste for it?'
After a short pause Skarre had another idea. 'Now what about your grandson?' he asked, 'Matteus. Has he turned sixteen yet?'
'He's seventeen. Why do you ask?'
'He does ballet?'
'Correct. He dances classical ballet, and some people think that he shows promise.'
'Does he have a girlfriend?'
Sejer looked at him across the table. 'There was talk of a girl called Lea once. I don't know much about it and I didn't want to intrude.'
'Has Lea turned sixteen?'
Sejer frowned. 'I don't know. Please don't add to my worries, I've got more than enough as it is. Matteus is a very sensible boy, and he is very conscientious in absolutely everything he does. He needs to be responsible, he needs to be the best. He needs to train harder than anyone so that no one can point the finger at him for anything.'
'He's ambitious?'
Sejer nodded. 'He needs to be, he's from Somalia. He needs to work twice as hard as everybody else, he has to defend his place on a daily basis.'
'I hear what you're saying,' Skarre said, 'but most people grew up with some sort of baggage. My father was a clergyman, he had very high expectations of me and he never got over the fact that I didn't want to study theology. Because of him, I've often felt like a failure. It has affected my entire personality that I was such a major disappointment to him, the knowledge that he went to his grave with his grief. If Matteus hadn't been black, it would have been something else that would haunt him his whole life.'
'I suppose you're right,' Sejer said. 'And the man we're looking for probably has an explanation as well, a reason for why it happened, for what happened to Jonas. But when you think about it, it's actually quite straightforward. We all have to abide by Norwegian law, every single one of us.'
CHAPTER 20
September 8th.
Edwin Åsalid was staring out of the window, waiting.
He noticed that the leaves were changing colour. They had gone from green to red and yellow. A light mist drifted across the houses and bathed them in a ghostly veil. Perhaps something evil is about to happen, he fantasised. His mother was busy cooking dinner when she heard a joyous squeal followed by heavy feet plodding across the floor. Edwin waddled into the kitchen, his big body quivering with excitement and anticipation. A sound pierced the silence in the house, the familiar ringing of a sharp, tinkling bell.
'It's the ice-cream van,' he pestered her. 'The ice-cream van's here! Please can I buy a box of choc ices, Mummy? Please, please?' He grabbed hold of one of her wrists and yanked her arm like a puppy pulling at a toy. Tulla Åsalid snatched back her hand and folded her arms across her chest. An expression of anxiety flashed across her face. Her son was morbidly obese and his weight was increasing rapidly. He wanted ice-cream now, he was on his knees pleading with her, he shifted from knee to knee, his fists opening and clenching.
'Edwin,' she said weakly, 'we've talked about this.'
'But Mum,' he begged. 'Just one box!'
He gave his mother a beseeching look. Tulla Åsalid fought an inner battle. She remembered what the doctors had said, that she had to change his diet or his health would suffer and he weighed almost ninety kilos now. But he was imploring her, and she struggled to stay firm. Again he clasped her wrist, his brown eyes sparkling.
'There are twenty ice-creams in a box,' he pushed on, 'and there's hardly any fat in them because the ice-cream is made from powdered milk.'
Tulla Åsalid had to turn away. His brown eyes held their own power over her, she had to get away from them. She wanted to be strong, wise and consistent, but he was her child and the bond between them was as thick as a ship's hawser. She started to soften, intoxicated by his presence, weakened by the fact that he needed her, and she liked it when people begged her on their knees.
'How much is it?' she sighed.
'One hundred and twenty kroner,' said Edwin. 'It's a bargain.'
His choice of words made her smile. All the same it was with a heavy heart that she went to the kitchen drawer to find her purse. She pulled out a note and found some loose change in a glass. Edwin snatched the money from her hand and darted out of the house as fast as his fat legs could carry him. She went over to the window. She had lost yet another battle, but she was used to it. She spotted the large, pale blue van; it had stopped a short distance from their drive. And then she saw Edwin lumbering down the road like an overloaded ship. When he ran his chest appeared first, then his shoulders and his head, then the fat caught up with him, he rolled forward like a wave.
The driver got out of the van, smiling at the sight of the enormous boy. Tulla turned away from the window and went over to the mirror in the hall. She was slightly overweight herself, but fate had been kind to her and hidden it in all the right places. She had big, lovely curves, her breasts were perky and her hips broad, but she had a waist. She thought she resembled a beautiful instrument, a cello. Her hair was thick, blonde and shiny and she wore it loose even though she was forty. She wore a red dress and her curves were clearly visible beneath the thin fabric. She pressed her shoulders back and stuck out her chest, turned her head to check her profile. Her large nose gave her character, she had never wanted to change anything. Her brows gleamed brightly because she brushed them with oil. She snapped out of her reverie and went back to the window where she saw Edwin chatting to the driver. The man was an immigrant, Indian or Pakistani; she saw his teeth gleam white. The door to his van was open and the engine was running. I need to watch him, she thought, because Jonas August Løwe is dead and there's a man out there looking for young boys. But this was the ice-cream van and it turned up every other Thursday.