The sound of a car approaching is unmistakable. Thorleif sits up, goes straight to the kitchen window and looks outside. Down the road an Audi comes to a halt before it turns left, towards the cabin. Thorleif’s heart skips a beat. Panicking, he considers rushing to the larder to hide when he notices an estate agent’s sign at the roadside by the crossroads. The sign wasn’t there yesterday.
There must be a viewing at one of the cabins this weekend, he concludes. It could attract many potential buyers. Thorleif swears softly. He hears the car spray gravel as it comes down the road. He steps back behind the curtain as it drives past. With a sigh he sits down at the dining table where a notepad and pen are waiting for him.
When he came home last night he began to write, inspired by Mia, the hotel receptionist. He did it in an attempt to keep himself busy since he couldn’t concentrate on reading, and he realised at once how good it felt to express himself in the old-fashioned way again. Writing on a computer is so quick by comparison.
He started with the man who forced him to kill Tore Pulli, tried to describe him in as much detail as possible in case he needed to remember it later. Then he tried to articulate what he had been through in the past week. At the end he realised that what he had written was a confession and an apology to Tore Pulli’s family and to his own. It was as if the words took on a will of their own.
It’s Saturday, Thorleif thinks. It’s almost twelve hours since he emailed Iver Gundersen. Perhaps Gundersen was working last night or he is at work today. Worst-case scenario is he won’t see Thorleif’s email until Monday. But he might get his emails forwarded to his mobile; he might be one of those people who can’t help checking their messages all the time. It could mean that Gundersen has already taken action and contacted someone he knows or trusts.
There is still hope, Thorleif says to himself.
Never give up hope.