Punishment by Anne Holt

daughter’s mouth were due to neither stupidity nor impudence, but rather a short circuit that no doctor could repair. Normally she waited too long. It was as if she hoped for a miracle every time. That her daughter would be rational. Logical. Coherent. Or that she would suddenly develop an obvious deformity – a lolling tongue or squinting eyes in a flat face that made everyone smile with warm understanding. Instead it was just awkward.
    Kristiane settled down to watch 101 Dalmatians in her mother’s study.
    â€˜I don’t usually . . .’
    Again she made that vague, apologetic gesture towards the room where her daughter was sitting.
    â€˜No problem,’ said the policeman in the sofa. ‘I have to admit that I sometimes do the same. With my grandson, I mean. He can be pretty demanding. The video is a good babysitter. Sometimes.’
    Johanne felt the red flushing over her face and went out into the kitchen. Adam Stubo was a grandfather.
    â€˜Why did you come here?’ she asked when she returned with a cup of coffee that she put down in front of him, with a serviette underneath. ‘That “in the neighbourhood” explanation isn’t really true, is it?’
    â€˜It’s this case of ours.’
    â€˜Cases.’
    He smiled.
    â€˜Correct. Cases. You’re right. At least . . . I feel that you canhelp me. It’s as simple as that. Don’t ask me why. Sigmund Berli, a good friend and colleague, can’t understand why I am pursuing you in this way.’
    His eyes narrowed again in a way that had to be flirting. Johanne concentrated hard on not blushing again. Cakes. She didn’t have any cakes. Biscuits. Kristiane had eaten them all yesterday.
    â€˜Do you take milk?’
    She started to get up before he indicated otherwise with his right hand.
    â€˜Listen,’ he started again, pulling out a pile of photographs from the envelope on the coffee table. ‘This is Emilie Selbu.’
    The photo was of a pretty little girl with a garland of coltsfoot in her hair. She was very serious and her deep-blue eyes looked almost mournful. There was a small hollow at the base of her thin neck. Her mouth was small, with full lips.
    â€˜The picture is very recent. Taken about three weeks ago. Lovely kid, isn’t she?’
    â€˜Is she the one they haven’t found?’
    She coughed as her voice gave way.
    â€˜Yes. And this is Kim.’
    Johanne held the photograph right up to her eyes. It was the same one that they had shown on TV. A boy clutching a red fire engine. Red fire engine. Sulamit. She dropped the picture quickly and had to pick it up from the floor before pushing it back to Adam Stubo.
    â€˜As Emilie is still missing and Kim is . . . What on earth makes you think that the crimes were carried out by the same person?’
    â€˜I’ve been asking myself the same question.’
    There were several photographs in the pile. For a moment it seemed that he intended to show them all to her. Then he clearly changed his mind and put the rest back in the envelope. The photos of Emilie and Kim remained on the table, side by side, both facing Johanne.
    â€˜Emilie was abducted on a Thursday,’ he said slowly. ‘In the middle of the day. Kim disappeared on Tuesday night. Emilie is nine years old and a girl. Kim was a five-year-old boy. Emilie lives in Asker. Kim lived in Bærum. Kim’s father is a plumber and his mother is a nurse. Emilie’s mother is dead and her father is a linguist who earns a living translating literature. None of them know each other. We’ve hunted high and low to see if there are any connections between the two families. Apart from discovering that Emilie’s father and Kim’s mother both lived in Bergen for a while at the start of the nineties, there’s nothing. They didn’t even know each other there. All in all . . .’
    â€˜Strange,’ said Johanne.
    â€˜Yes. Or tragic.