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daycare, so I will talk to the staff there, and there’s Bonnie’s boss at the health and social services office. I’ll also go back and talk to the farmer at Skarven and his Polish farmhands. They’ve been coming here regularly for a while now and know the area well.”
    â€œIs that what you’re thinking?” Snorrason asked.
    â€œTo be honest, my thoughts are all over the place,” Sejer replied. “I’ll keep you posted. You carry on with what you’re doing, and I’ll swing by later.”
    Snorrason left and immediately Jacob Skarre appeared in the doorway with his golden locks.
    â€œShall we get started?” he said. “Tell me what you’ve got.” He sat down on the chair that Snorrason had just vacated and looked through the papers.
    â€œThe only thing we have is a right foot,” Sejer commented, “but it’s a big one. We’re not talking about a small man. And he was furious.”

5
December 2004
    THE SNOW WAS wet and heavy and stuck stubbornly to the shovel, so after Eddie had been shoveling for half an hour, he had to straighten up and stretch his aching back. His hair was slick with sweat, but there was still some way to go down to the road. And then he’d have to clear the snow around the garbage cans. Otherwise they wouldn’t be emptied, his mother said. There were rules for things like that. He rested for a while, breathing heavily as he stared at the snow. He knew his mom was hovering at the window to make sure he was doing the work. So he put his back into it again and tried to find a rhythm. He chanted “heave-ho” in his mind as he threw the snow to the sides. The edges were high now. As he worked, he tried to decide what he wanted for supper because his mom normally asked, and it was best to have an answer. It eventually stopped snowing and the sky that had been as gray as lead started to clear. The horizon was blushed pink by the setting sun, and it looked like the valley was covered in a white veil, like something out of a fairy tale. He was wearing his new top under his jacket,
I Love New York.
His mother had asked why he wanted that one. Because New York is a good city, he’d replied. But you’ve never been there. No, but we could go there. And then we could go for a walk together in Central Park. His mother had turned her back and said, I couldn’t cope with the jet lag. And he knew then that they would never go to New York, and he would just have to be satisfied with the sweatshirt.
    Finally he was finished and he leaned the shovel up against the wall. It was dusk, beautiful and blue, but soon the dark would settle over the small house. Inside, his mother would turn on all the lights, which always put him in a good mood. It made him feel safe and secure. On a sudden impulse, he waded through the snowdrifts and over to the wall. He stood by the window where his mother could see him. The snow was wet, so he could form it into whatever he liked. He made a hard, compact snowball, which he put down on the ground. Then he made another one and placed it beside the first. And just as he had thought, his mother opened the window.
    â€œWhat on earth are you doing?”
    He glanced up at her and carried on making snowball number three. They were as big as oranges.
    â€œI’m making a snow lantern,” he told her enthusiastically.
    â€œGosh, you haven’t done that since you were little.”
    â€œNo. It’s for you, so you have something to look at.”
    He hadn’t lost the knack. The first circle was perfect, and he worked the snowballs for so long that they were as hard as possible and would last a long time. As he worked, he hummed the song “New York, New York,” which he had heard so many times on the radio. He hadn’t traveled much, except one vacation to the Mediterranean and the odd day trip over to Sweden, where his mother bought meat and red wine and he would