Blessed Are Those Who Thirst by Anne Holt

pleasant man, the poor girl’s father, had been there and struck up a cozy conversation.
    Hanne Wilhelmsen did not listen carefully to what the old man was saying. Barely a quarter of an hour and half a cup of coffee later, she thanked him and left. Knitting her brow, she sat for a while astride the Harley without starting the engine. For one reason or another, the meeting with the father of the young girl who had been raped made her feel she was participating in some kind of race. A race she did not care for in the slightest.
    *   *   *
    It was unfortunate to be caught so obviously red-handed. He regretted having been so unprepared for his meeting with the policewoman. The danger of bumping into the police was obvious, but all the same, he had not taken it into consideration. It would also cost him an embarrassing interview tomorrow. Well, he would just have to tough it out.
    In the afternoon, he had been back to the apartment block, and now there was only one man on the fourth floor and a young woman on the second he had not quizzed. It did not matter, since the other neighbors were able to tell him that the man on the fourth floor had been abroad for two months, and the young woman had been staying at her parents’ the previous weekend.
    The old man was the only one who had told him anything specific. About a red car. A bright red foreign car that had been parked thirty meters away across the street from around eleven o’clock on Saturday evening until break of dawn on Sunday morning.
    Did the police know about the red car? Was it of any real interest? It might belong to anyone at all. It was highly unlikely an attacker would have his car parked in the vicinity of the crime scene while the attack was being executed. On the other hand, the heavily built dentist was far from inclined to assign rapists to the same category as other lawbreakers. His understanding of sexual offenders was along the lines of slavering, primitive creatures of inferior intelligence. Although he knew better, and had modified his opinion somewhat now that he was pursuing one himself, he could not—would not—preclude the possibility that the guy might be the owner of the red car.
    In any case, it was all he had. A red car. A sedan. Unknown type, unknown registration number.
    He sighed stoically and busied himself making some dinner for himself and his silent daughter.
    *   *   *
    It was nearing ten o’clock in the evening, and they were lying on the floor, having made love. They had two quilts underneath them, and over them a cool early summer breeze from the balcony door, which, audaciously enough, was left ajar. The curtains were drawn defensively, and they had kept as quiet as possible. From the other balcony doors they could hear distant noises: a married couple quarreling on the floor below and a noisy television film from the next-door neighbor. Hanne and Cecilie had been lying there since before the evening news.
    “Why are we lying here really?” Hanne giggled. “It’s a bit hard. I’ve got a pain in my tailbone.”
    “What a wimp! Look at me, I’ve got burns!”
    Cecilie bent her knee and drew it level with her face. It was true. She had a burn, quite a sizable one at that. They never learned. It had happened several times previously, one of them ending up with nasty marks on elbows or knees from friction against the carpet as soon as they landed outside the quilt beneath them.
    “Poor you,” Hanne said, kissing the sore knee. “Why do we keep lying here?”
    “Because it’s so fantastically comfortable,” her beloved explained, sitting up.
    “Are you going away?”
    “No, I just want one of the quilts. I’m freezing.”
    She grabbed hold of the top quilt and pulled. Which meant Hanne was rolled around onto her stomach. Kneeling, Cecilie kissed her exactly where her back divided.
    “Poor tailbone,” she said, snuggling down beside Hanne and spreading the quilt over them both. Hanne turned on her side,