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plumper.

    He headed for his own car in the parking lot, an elderly ice-blue Peugeot 604. In his mind he could see the face of the corpse, healthy and round, without makeup. Her clothes were neat and sensible. The straight blond hair was well cut, the Reeboks expensive. On her wrist she wore an expensive Seiko sports watch. This was a woman with a decent background, from a home with order and structure. He had found other women for whom a quite different lifestyle spoke its unequivocal language. Still, he had been surprised before. They didn't know yet whether she was drunk or drugged or full of some other misery. Anything was possible, and things were not always what they seemed.
    He drove slowly past the market square and the fire station. Skarre had promised to call as soon as the woman was reported missing. On the medallion were the letters H.M. Helene, he thought, or maybe Hilde. He didn't think it would be long before someone contacted them. This was an orderly girl who kept appointments.
    As he fumbled with the key in the lock, he heard the thump as the dog jumped down from the forbidden spot on the armchair. Sejer lived in an apartment house, the only one that was thirteen stories high, so it looked out of place in the landscape. Like an outsized Viking monument, it loomed in the sky above the surrounding buildings. When he'd moved in twenty years ago with Elise, it was because the apartment had an excellent floor plan and a spectacular view. He could see the entire town, and, compared with it, the other possible apartments seemed too closed in. Inside, it was easy to forget what sort of building
it was; inside, the apartment was cozy and warm, with wood paneling. The furniture, old and of solid sand-blasted oak, had belonged to his parents. For the most part, the walls were covered with books, and, in the little remaining space, he had hung a few favorite pictures. One of Elise, several of his grandson, and Ingrid. A charcoal drawing by Käthe Kollwitz,
Death with Girl on His Lap,
taken from a catalogue and framed in black lacquer. A photograph of himself in free fall above the airport. His parents, solemnly posing in their Sunday best. Each time he looked at the picture of his father, his own old age seemed to advance uncomfortably on him. He could see how his cheeks would sink in, while his ears and eyebrows would continue to grow, giving him the same bushy appearance.

    The rules in this apartment society, in which the families were stacked one on top of the other as in Vigeland's monolith, were extremely strict. It was forbidden to shake rugs from the balcony, so they sent them out to be cleaned every spring. It was nearly time to do that again. The dog, Kollberg, shed hair like crazy. This had been discussed at the building's board meeting but had somehow slipped through, probably because Sejer was a detective inspector and his neighbors felt secure having him there. He didn't feel trapped, because he lived on the top floor. The apartment was clean and tidy and reflected what was inside him: order and simplicity. The dog had a corner in the kitchen where dried food was always scattered about with spilled water; this corner indicated Sejer's one weak point: his attachment to his dog was an emotional one. The bathroom was the only room that displeased him, but he would get around to that eventually. Right now he had this woman to deal with, and possibly a dangerous man on the loose. He didn't like it. It was like standing at a bend in the road and not being able to see beyond it.
    He braced his legs to receive the dog's welcome, which was overwhelming. He took him out for a quick walk behind the
building, gave him fresh water, and was halfway through the newspaper when the phone rang. He turned down the stereo and felt a slight tension as he picked up the receiver. Someone might have called in already; maybe they had a name to give him.

    "Hi, Grandpa!" said a voice.
    "Matteus?"
    "I have to go to bed now. It's