Hell Fire by Karin Fossum Page A

seven men and three women. They took notes, listening carefully and with great respect. They met in this room every morning at seven o’clock, when the day’s tasks were assigned. All of them had their own field.
    â€œHe’s left no fingerprints,” Sejer said. “So we have to assume he was wearing gloves. Which is why it’s strange that he left the knife behind. That’s quite something to forget. So it’s chaotic. Planned but still a bit chaotic. This didn’t happen in the heat of the moment; this was intentional.”
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    Sejer and Skarre sat in the break room at lunchtime. It was warm outside, and the long-term forecast said that the heat would continue. Sejer had only bought a mineral water, whereas Skarre was working his way through a prawn-and-egg sandwich. When they were finished, they went down to the parking garage under the station. Skarre reversed the patrol car out, and they set off toward Geirastadir, which was a popular area for walkers.
    â€œWe’ll get him,” Skarre said. “But he’s psychotic and he won’t go to prison. He’ll end up in a psychiatric hospital and will be released after a couple of years, with the help of medication. He’ll say he can’t remember anything. I suggest we throw him into the cell headfirst. And throw the key away in deep water.”
    Sejer stared out of the car window. “I’m sure plenty would agree with you. But our system’s not like that. Yes, he’ll be out on the streets again in a few years, living among us. He’ll get a house, he’ll get a job, he’ll get a life.”
    â€œYou can’t atone for something like this.”
    â€œProbably not. But you work for the police, so you just have to swallow it. Here, don’t forget to turn. We’re going to the right.”
    The road was full of stones and potholes, and Skarre piloted the car as carefully as possible along the final stretch to the parking lot. There were a number of other cars there, and a young couple was busy putting their toddler, a thin little body with a sun hat, into a blue child carrier. There was a wooden signpost at the far end. Saga 5 1/2 miles, Svarttjern 2 1/2 miles, Haugane 1 3/4 miles. The man had gotten the child in place and lifted the carrier up onto his back, while the woman put on a pair of sunglasses. But they stayed standing where they were when the two men approached.
    â€œDo you come here often?” Sejer asked.
    Yes, they told him that they did, but no, they had not been here on July 5. They hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. They chose the path up to Svarttjern, and Sejer and Skarre set off along the path over the fields to Skarven Farm. Skarre took his time. As they walked, they kept an eye out for the Polish workers. Even though Randen said he could vouch for them, there was no getting around the fact that they had been near the crime scene. They had seen the woman and child at close hand, followed them with their eyes. No one knew about their past in Poland, and the eldest, Woiciech, was in fact a butcher. But it was perhaps a bit unfair to hold that against him. They walked in silence for a while under the baking sun. Skarre was sweating in his uniform. He was firing on all cylinders.
    â€œAt the very least, we’re talking about a behavioral disorder,” he said, “and there’re all kinds of them. Maybe he’s been deeply offended by something or maybe he was high.”
    They walked in silence again. Skarre checked the time. “Thirteen minutes,” he reported. “And there’s the trailer.”
    They stopped and stared, and then ducked under the red-and-white police cordon and walked over to the small house on wheels surrounded by the dark trees. From a distance, it looked idyllic, but as they approached they both got a knot in their stomach. The narrow door was closed and they stopped at the step. Skarre sat down. He had a