Punishment by Anne Holt Page A

Depending on how you choose to look at it.’ She tried to avoid looking at the photographs of the two children. It was as if they were reproaching her for not wanting to get involved.
    â€˜In Norway there’s always some kind of connection between people,’ she said. ‘Especially when you live as close together as Asker and Bærum. You must have experienced that yourself. I mean, when you sit down and start talking to someone. You nearly always have a mutual acquaintance, an old friend, somewhere you’ve both worked, an experience in common. It’s true, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Um, yes . . .’
    He paused. He seemed uninterested. Then he suddenly took a deep breath as if he were about to protest, but stopped himself.
    â€˜I need someone to construct a profile,’ he said instead. ‘A profiler.’
    His English pronunciation was broad, like an American TV series.
    â€˜Hardly,’ Johanne interjected. The conversation was heading in a direction she did not like. ‘If you are to going to benefit atall from a profiler, you need more cases than this. Assuming that we are actually dealing with one and the same person.’
    â€˜God forbid,’ said Adam Stubo. ‘That there should be more cases, I mean.’
    â€˜Obviously I agree with you on that. But it’s more or less impossible to draw any conclusions based on two cases.’
    â€˜How do you know that?’
    â€˜Elementary logic,’ she replied sharply. ‘It’s obvious . . . The profile of an unknown criminal is based on the known common features of his crimes. It’s like one of those dot-to-dot drawings. Your pencil follows the numbered points until there is a clear picture. It doesn’t work with only two points. You need more. And on that point, you are absolutely right: let’s hope and pray that it doesn’t happen. That more points appear, I mean.’
    â€˜What makes you say that?’
    â€˜Why do you insist that this is one and not two cases?’
    â€˜I don’t think it’s any coincidence that you chose to study psychology and law. An unusual combination. You must have had a plan. A goal.’
    â€˜Complete coincidence, in fact. A result of youthful fickleness. And I also wanted to go to the States. And you know . . .’
    She discovered that she was biting her hair. As discreetly as possible, she pushed the wet lock of hair behind her ear and straightened her glasses.
    â€˜I think you’re wrong. Emilie Selbu and little Kim were not abducted by the same man.’
    â€˜Or woman.’
    â€˜Or woman,’ she repeated, exasperated. ‘But now, however rude it may be, I’m going to have to ask you to . . . I have quite a lot I need to do today, because I’m . . . Sorry.’
    Again she felt that pressure on her lungs; it was impossible to look at the man on the sofa. He got up from his uncomfortable position with remarkable ease.
    â€˜If it happens again,’ he said, gathering up the photographs. ‘If another child is taken, will you help me then?’
    Cruella de Vil screeched from the study. Kristiane shrieked with delight.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ said Johanne Vik. ‘We’ll see.’
    *
    As it was Saturday and the project was going according to plan, he treated himself to a glass of wine. When he thought about it, he realised that it was the first time for months that he’d had alcohol. Normally, he was worried about the effects. A glass or two made him docile. Then halfway through the third he would get angry. Fury waited at the bottom of the fourth glass.
    Just one glass. It was still light outside and he held the wine up to the light.
    Emilie was difficult. Ungrateful. Even though he wanted to keep the girl alive, for the moment at least, there were limits.
    He took a sip. It tasted musty; the wine tasted of cellars.
    He had to smile at his own sentimentality. He was just too emotional. He was too