"Why was he committed?" Sejer asked. "Can you tell me that? Did he threaten someone?"
Dr Struel shook her head. "He stopped eating. When he came to us he was badly undernourished."
"Why wasn't he eating?"
"He couldn't decide what he wanted to have. He would sit at the lunch table, wavering between two different kinds of meat."
"What did you do?"
"When he gave up and went back to his room I made him a sandwich and took it to him. No milk or coffee, just the sandwich. I put it on his bedside table. The first time, he wouldn't touch it."
"Why not?"
"I made a mistake. I cut the sandwich in half, and then he couldn't decide which part to eat first."
"Are you saying that it's possible to starve to death because it's too hard to make a decision?"
"Yes."
He shook his head as he tried to comprehend how inexpressibly difficult it could be to handle daily life. "And you really believe that the man has supernatural powers?"
She threw out her hands. "I'm just telling you what I saw. Other people will tell you other stories."
"Have you ever asked him how he does it?"
"I asked him, 'Who taught you that?' He smiled and said, 'The magician. The magician in New York.'"
"But surely it's a coincidence."
"I don't think so. Once in a while things happen that we simply can't explain."
"Not for me," he said.
"No?" She was teasing him again. "You're one of those people who understands everything?"
He felt ridiculous. "That's not what I meant. What else was he able to do?"
"One time a group of us were playing cards in the smoking lounge. Errki was there too, but he wasn't playing. He can't stand games. It was late at night and dark outside, and the lights were on. Suddenly Errki said, in his peculiar, quiet way, 'We should have candles on the table.' Yes, I thought, that would be cosy. I asked him to get some from the kitchen, but he refused. No-one else wanted to go either. They said candles would get in the way of the cards. I felt sorry for Errki. For the first time he had made a suggestion, and no-one listened. The next instant the power went out. The lounge was plunged into darkness, and so was the rest of the building. There was a lot of commotion as we stumbled out to find a candle. 'I tried to tell you,' was all Errki said.
"But he wasn't always successful. Once he wanted to learn to fly, and jumped out of a third-floor window. It's a miracle he wasn't killed. But he landed on a bicycle rack, which left him with an ugly scar down his chest. It happened while they were living in New York."
"Were they taking LSD or anything like that?"
"I don't know. And his father didn't know either. He didn't pay much attention."
"Is he as physically repulsive as they say?"
"Repulsive?" She gave him a confused look. "He's certainly not repulsive. Maybe a little unkempt."
"Is he unhappy?"
As soon as he said it, the question sounded foolish it, but she didn't mock him.
"Of course. But he doesn't know it. He doesn't allow those kinds of feelings in."
"What kinds of feelings does he allow in?"
"Contempt. Forbearance. Arrogance."
"He doesn't sound as terrible as I thought."
She sighed heavily. "He's actually just a talented little boy who wants to do his best. He wants to do everything perfectly and he's so afraid of making a mistake that he has ended up quite unable to do anything at all. At school he did very poorly on verbal exercises; he would sit and mutter at the window so that no-one could hear what he was saying. Yet in writing he was at the top of his class." "And eventually you got him to talk?" "He talks now, if he feels like it. Sometimes he can be devastatingly articulate, even funny. He has a scathing sense of humour."
"Has he ever tried to take his own life?"
"I don't think so, apart from the flight out of the window in New York, which I haven't yet altogether understood."
"So you wouldn't consider him to be suicidal?"
"No. But in this profession nothing is certain."
"Would you understand it if he did do something like that?"
"I would. It's a human right to take one's own life."
"A human right? Is that how you think of it?"
She stared down at her hands. "I don't agree with therapists telling their patients that death is not a solution. It's a solution for the person concerned of course. To choose death is a logical consequence of the fact that we're able to make choices. And it's a solution that human beings have always been able to consider."
"But you do what you can to prevent it, don't you?"
"I tell them, 'It's your choice.' And I'm not always happy when I force them to accept a long life, or rob them of a psychosis which, in spite of everything, they regard as their only refuge."
I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight, he thought. Her face is going to hover in front of me in the dark and hold on to me. Her words are going to ring in my ears. He caught himself twisting his wedding ring on his finger. And then it occurred to him that if, against all odds, she might have been interested in him, she would have had to dismiss the idea at once. Maybe he ought to stop wearing the ring, but then he had decided long ago that he would always wear it, that it would go to his grave with him. Yet it did send out a signal that there was a woman in his life. Now she had noticed it too. The thought disturbed him.
"Errki likes to wander in the woods and along the country roads. But he usually doesn't go near people, does he?"
"No, he doesn't," she agreed.
"The fact that he did so this time, that he actually went all the way to town and even inside a bank – don't you think it might mean that something is bothering him? That he felt he needed help? Because something had happened?"
She looked undisguisedly worried. Another big wave surged inside him. When it retreated he looked inside his own heart, which had long been a deserted shore. For the first time in years there was a woman standing there.
"Did something happen?" Skarre was looking at him.
"What do you mean?"
"You were gone such a long time."
Sejer didn't answer. He was standing at the sink in his office with his back turned. Skarre grew wary. He knew that the chief inspector could sometimes be quite taciturn, and the rigid posture of his back signalled something was up.
"I discovered a lot of useful information," he said without turning. He filled the sink with cold water and splashed it on his flushed face. Only after he had dried his face and run his fingers over his close-cropped hair did he ask, "Have we got the photographs of the footprints from the crime scene?"
"No, but they're coming. According to the laboratory they're beautiful black-and-white pictures. The tracks are probably from trainers. They have that typical zigzagged pattern. The footprints are 39 centimetres long, which would be a size 43. That's all I know so far."
"Dr Struel finds it difficult to imagine that Errki would be capable of killing anyone. She says he bites if he's provoked."
"She? Bites?" Skarre gave him a long look. "The doctor is a woman? Did she tell you how she thought Errki would react in a hostage situation?"
"She thinks he would withdraw. Says he's very defensive. But we don't know much about this robber either, what kind of person he is."
"Maybe they're having a nice time together."
"It's happened before. But I've been thinking about something. What would happen if the robber found out that the hostage he took is wanted by the police in connection with a murder?"
"Maybe he'd be frightened and let him go."
"Maybe. And it's quite possible that he's listening to the radio."
"But the press doesn't know about the hostage being the same man who was seen at Halldis's farm."
"It's only a matter of time, isn't it?"
He stared at the door leading to the long corridors off which all the offices opened, one after the other. "This is a big place. It won't be an age before the news leaks out."
"And then things might get dangerous, right?"
Sejer looked at him. "What would you do? Try to use the part of your brain that thinks like a criminal."
"Oh, but it's such a tiny part!" Skarre protested. "Well, I'd want to let him go. Especially since he's mentally disturbed, and it's presumably not easy to deal with him. But if they've established some sort of rapport," he continued, "then it's possible that they're giving each other support. And why would one of them give the other up to the police? They're both on the wrong side of the law. On the other hand, if it comes to any kind of conflict -"
"One of them is crazy, and the other has a gun. We've got to find them," said Sejer, "before they kill each other. I suggest that we leak the information to the press."
"You think he'll let Errki go?"
"Maybe. And I want you to go up to Briggen's Grocery and talk to Halldis's grocer. He's the only one who saw her on a regular basis, once a week for years. They must have known each other well. You also need to find out who Kristoffer is – the person who sent her the letter. Have you had anything to eat?"
"Yes. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going out to Guttebakken to talk to the boy who found the body. And then I'll go over to the Municipal Hospital."
"Why?"
"To see if there are any reports on Errki's mother's death."
"But it was 16 years ago!"
"I'm sure I'll discover something. But before you leave, find a broom."
"Find a what?"
"A broom. In the caretaker's closet."
"Nobody uses brooms any more," Skarre said patiently. "They use mops."
"Then find a mop. Anything with a long handle."
Skarre left the room and came back with a mop. The handle was made of fibreglass, just like the shaft of Halldis's hoe.
Sejer took up a position. "I'm Halldis Horn," he said, "and you're the killer."
"No problem," said Skarre, standing in front of him.
"I'm standing on the steps, holding the hoe. Of course, I'm taller than she was, and the handle is longer. But I'd probably hold it like this, with my hands together at the middle of the handle."
Skarre nodded.
"You come towards me, from inside the house. Grab the hoe. Do it, Jacob."
Skarre stared at the handle for a moment, then grabbed it with both hands. Instinctively he placed one hand above Sejer's grip, the other below.
"Stay like that for a minute."
Sejer stared at the four hands. "Halldis's fingerprints were approximately here, in the middle of the hoe. At the very bottom of the handle we found another print, quite small. And another one like it at the top. Which means that he grabbed the hoe out of her hands like this, in a single movement. Then he pulled it away, lifted it up, and struck. But can you tell me, Jacob, where are the other prints from his fingers?"
Skarre thought for a moment. "What if he wiped them off, but he was in a hurry and only wiped away some of them?"
"Leaving her prints untouched on the middle of the handle? It doesn't sound very likely."
"What if for some reason his fingers leave very poor prints?"
"Why would that be?"
"I have no idea. What if his fingers were once badly burned? The prints would have been destroyed."
"Now I think you're getting carried away."
"Agreed." Skarre scratched his head. "I don't understand it either."
"Do the prints match the ones found in the house?"
"They're still working on that at the laboratory."
"There's something very odd about this," Sejer said.
"I don't believe in the very odd," Skarre said. "I believe there has to be a logical explanation; there usually is. Maybe Errki is the kind of person who chews on his fingers. He's an odd bird, after all. Did his doctor mention anything like that?"
"About chewing on his fingers?"
"Look at this," said Skarre, holding out his hand. "Look at my index finger, at the tip. What do you see?"
"Not much. It's… sort of shiny."
"That's right. This finger doesn't leave a print. Do you know why?"
"Because you burned it?"
"No. I got some superglue on it a long time ago."
"But that's only one of ten fingers."
"I'm just saying that there has to be a logical explanation, OK? So the doctor doesn't think that her patient is capable of murder?" he asked.
"No."
"Do you believe her?"
"There's no denying that she has a certain understanding of who he is, along with a solid background as a psychiatrist."
"But generally you don't take that kind of thing into consideration. I happen to think it's quite simple. I think he did it."
"You've been talking to Gurvin too much."
"I'm just trying to think rationally. Errki grew up here. He knew who she was. Nobody came to her house except for the shopkeeper. Errki was seen at her farm on the morning that the murder occurred. And he's very sick."
"Are you willing to bet on it?" Sejer asked.
"Sure, why not?"
"Then I'll bet he didn't do it."
"If you lose, you have to come with me to the King's Arms and get really drunk."
Sejer shuddered at the prospect.
"And if you lose, you have to take a parachute jump, OK?"
"Good grief. All right."
"Can I have that in writing?"
"Don't you trust the word of a Christian?"
"Of course."
Sejer shook his head and leaned the mop against the wall. "Better get going now. But there's one thing you should know. Not everything can be explained with the rational mind."
He opened a drawer to signal that the conversation was over. "Buy yourself a pair of tall boots," he said.
"What for?"
"For the parachute jump. So you won't break your ankles."
Skarre looked a little pale as he left the room.
Sejer started to write up some notes from his meeting with Dr Struel. When he had finished, he opened the phone book at the names starting with "S", keeping one eye on the door, as if he were afraid of being caught. He found what he was looking for at once. It came after the name Strougal and before the name Stiyken.
Struel, Sara. Doctor.
Sara, he thought. Romantic. Exotic.
And then: Struel, Gerhard. Doctor. With the same phone number. He sighed and closed the book. Sara and Gerhard. It sounded so nice. Feeling as disappointed as a child, he shoved the phone book back onto its shelf.