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to take over. The thought of being retired irritated him beyond reason. What was he going to do? Sit on the balcony with a generous whiskey? Listen to Monica Zetterlund and go for walks with Frank? He crossed the room and sat down at the desk. He opened the top drawer and took out a pile of photographs of the two victims, the mother and child. He knew that the pictures would plague him; they would reappear in his thoughts when he was old. The first photograph showed the old trailer from a distance. It was white with a dark stripe under the window and the name
Fendt
written in silver letters across the back. A couple of the Poles who worked on the farm had slept in it in the past. Now it was too dilapidated, and this year they were staying in one of the outbuildings, where there was room for four. They came in May every year and went home again in November. Sejer had never owned a trailer. He had a cabin on Sandøya and spent a few weeks there every summer, but he had always thought that trailers were a good idea. A little house on wheels, with the people inside them like snails, happy to be on their way to the sea and sun and summer. He would never think like that again. From now on, whenever he was driving behind a trailer, he would think about the woman and her child.
    Somewhere a killer was sitting, waiting for his pursuers. Or he might be standing by the window looking out. Or following the news, perhaps discussing the case with his neighbors. He was most likely over twenty, and possibly under forty, but almost certainly of Norwegian descent. It was in all likelihood his first murder. All the same. He had without a doubt some behavioral disorder, although that would not necessarily be apparent to those around him. Perhaps he had a job, perhaps not. Family? No, he didn’t think so. Nor any close friends. And he was pretty sure the man would have had some previous contact with a psychiatrist.
    Sejer was still of the view that the murders had been planned because nothing of value had been taken from the crime scene. The killer had made no effort to remove any clues. The knife was left lying on the floor. The deed had perhaps given him some kind of satisfaction, and he was less bothered about what happened afterward. His mission was accomplished, whatever it was. To punish them or to get rid of them. He had walked across the fields with awful intent. In his hand, presumably the right hand, he had carried a knife. He had approached the woman and child with determination. Perhaps the door had been left open—it was warm. Maybe the woman had looked out of the doorway to see who was coming. Maybe nothing had been said. Maybe he’d just forced his way in, thrown them to the floor, and killed them in cold blood. Or maybe it wasn’t cold at all, maybe his blood was boiling. No one had heard a thing. The farm was too far away. He must have been covered in blood but had obviously not met anyone. And Sejer guessed he had come from Haugane or Geirastadir.
    Frank chewed the toe of his shoe; he wanted attention. Sejer leaned over and patted him on the head.
    â€œSoon,” he said. “I’m busy right now.” He moved on to the next picture. The forensics technician had taken it from the doorway, looking in at the two victims. Even the torn curtains were sprayed with blood. Some bloody playing cards lay on the small table; they might have been playing Crazy Eights, if the boy was old enough to understand the rules. On the countertop: a handbag, an empty pizza box, and a bunch of wildflowers. At the other end of the trailer, two beds had been made up on the narrow sofas. Flowery comforters and pillowcases, and a teddy bear in one. He looked at the next photographs. The first was of the child, lying on his back. His tracksuit, which was red, white, and blue, was far too big for him and lay in folds. He had blond curly hair and his sneakers looked new. There were no wounds on his hands or arms to indicate that