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wandered around carrying the warm aluminium bag. When he got to the checkout, he found what he was looking for: a rack of postcards. There were pictures of kittens and puppies and horses, and there were small packs with thank-you notes and birthday cards. One instantly caught his attention. He picked it off the rack and read the back: Norwegian mammals. Lynx. Photographer Gøran Jansson .
    With this discovery Sejer looked around with new eyes. He has been here, he thought. He lives here in Bjerkås, or perhaps in Askeland. It’s even possible he shops at this Spar. Sejer put his bag on the conveyor belt. He grabbed three newspapers and nodded at the girl behind the till. ‘Do you have more of these cards? With other animals?’
    She glanced at the picture of the lynx and shook her head, then pushed a streak of bleached-white hair away from her forehead, so that her little eyebrow piercing came into view.
    ‘No idea,’ she said. ‘I don’t keep track of those cards.’
    ‘So you don’t remember one with a wolverine?’
    ‘A wolverine?’
    She hesitated. Apparently she didn’t know about wolverines. She was very young, Sejer thought. Her green Spar uniform had a name tag which said her name was Britt. She keyed in his items. He paid seven kroner, sixty øre for the lynx. When he got back to the car, he gave one of the meatballs to Frank, then thumbed quickly through the newspapers.
    BLOOD-SOAKED BABY FOUND IN GARDEN .
    GROTESQUE JOKE IN BJERKETUN.
    SLEEPING BABY BATHED IN BLOOD.
    Our friend likes to be in the spotlight, Sejer thought. Now he’s getting his moment.
    He chewed small bites of his meatball as he stared across the water. Lake Skarve lay before him like a mirror. The ducks rocked gently on the water, undisturbed.
    ‘That was a damn fine meatball, Frank.’ He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and found Skarre’s number. ‘There will be more attacks,’ he said. ‘We’re dealing with a beast of prey.’

Chapter 6
    Johnny Beskow took off on his Suzuki.
    He shifted gears and sped away, relaxed and free as a bird. He wore his red helmet, lined with small yellow wings on either side. On his belt he had a Swiss army knife. With the knife he could stab and cut, open a bottle of cola or, if he had a mind to, slice the tongue from his mother’s mouth. He never went anywhere without it. It was a relief to get away from the house, to leave behind the smell, the disarray and his mother’s pointless babbling. He loved riding his moped, loved driving at high speeds and feeling the rush of wind on his face. While he drove, he imagined people’s faces as they read about the incident in Bjerketun: the collective gasp of horror and fright and indignation. Angry men, upset women, furious old people. The thought made him smile as he zoomed along. He almost wanted to clap his hands, but he thought it best to keep them on the handlebars. No one should take life for granted, he thought. They shouldn’t take anything for granted.
    Everyone dies.
    I’ll show them, damn it.
    He parked at the Shell station down in Bjerkås and bought newspapers. Next to the station was a small bar with Formica tables and slot machines where he liked to drink a cola. It felt good to walk around freely, without people knowing who he was, be the talk of the town but anonymous at the same time. He settled on a bench outside the station and quickly scanned the papers. Karsten Sundelin from Bjerketun was interviewed by VG , and he made it clear that whoever had done this to his family shouldn’t feel safe for a single second.
    ‘What do you mean by that?’ VG ’s reporter asked.
    ‘It’s not fit to print,’ Sundelin answered.
    Johnny folded the newspapers and put them in the storage compartment under the seat of the moped, started the motor and drove on. Not fit to print. Ha! he thought. Boy, I’m really scared now. After a few minutes he reached the Sparbo Dam. He turned right and drove the last stretch down a narrow forest path, got