felt the goose bumps rise on his arms as he watched the long-legged girl striding into the waves. She was wearing a black bathing suit, the kind that swimmers wear, with the straps crossed over her shoulder blades, and a blue life vest.
"That board isn't for beginners," he said.
Sejer didn't reply. Annie was still walking out into the water. Then she stopped, got on the board, grabbed the sail with strong hands, and found her balance. The board made a 180° turn and picked up speed. The men were silent as Annie sailed
out. She swept through the waves like a pro. Her father followed her with the camera. They became the father's eyes now, watching his own daughter through the lens. He tried hard to hold it still—mustn't shake too much, had to grant the windsurfer the greatest possible respect. Through the images they could feel his pride, what he must have felt for her. She was in her element. She wasn't the least bit afraid of falling and ending up in the water.
And then she vanished, and they were staring at a table that had been set with a flowered tablecloth, plates and glasses, polished silverware, wildflowers in a vase. Pork chops, hot dogs, bacon on a platter. The barbecue glowing nearby. Sunlight glinting on bottles of Coke and Farris. Sølvi and her mother again, chattering in the background, the tinkling of ice cubes, and there was Annie pouring a Coke. Once more she turned around slowly, with a bottle in her hand, and asked the camera: "Coke, Papa?"
She had a surprisingly deep voice. In the next instant they were inside the cabin. Mrs. Holland was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing a cake.
Coke, Papa.
Her voice was terse and yet gentle. Annie had loved her father; they could hear that in the two little words; they heard warmth and respect—as apparent as the difference between juice and red wine in a glass. Her voice had depth and vibrancy. Annie was her daddy's girl.
The rest of the video flickered past. Annie and her mother playing badminton, out of breath in a wind that was much too strong, great for windsurfing but merciless to a shuttlecock. The family gathered around the table indoors, playing Trivial Pursuit. A close-up of the board clearly showed who was winning, but it wasn't Annie. She didn't say much; Sølvi and her mother talked all the time, Sølvi in a sweet, fragile voice, her mother's voice deeper and hoarser. Skarre blew his cigarette smoke down toward his knees and felt older than he had for a long time. The
tape flickered a little and then a ruddy face appeared with a gaping mouth. An impressive tenor voice filled the room.
"No man shall sleep," Sejer said in English, and stood up with some effort.
"What did you say?"
"Luciano Pavarotti. He's singing Puccini. Put the tape in the file," he added.
"She was good at windsurfing," Skarre said with awe.
The phone rang before Sejer could reply. Skarre picked it up, grabbing a notepad and pencil at the same time. It was an automatic response. He believed in three things in this world: thoroughness, zeal, and good humor. Sejer read along as he wrote: Henning Johnas, 4 Krystallen. 12:45 P.M. Horgen's Shop. Motorcycle.
"Can you come down to the station?" Skarre said. "No? Then we'll come to you. This is very important information. Thanks for calling. That's fine."
He hung up.
"One of the neighbors. Henning Johnas. He lives at number 4. Just got home and heard about Annie. He picked her up at the traffic circle yesterday and dropped her off near Horgen's Shop. He says there was a motorcycle there. It was waiting for her."
Sejer perched on the edge of the table. "That motorcycle again, the one Horgen saw. And Halvor has a motorcycle," he said. "Why couldn't the man come here?"
"His dog is about to have puppies."
Skarre put the piece of paper in his pocket. "It might be hard for Halvor to verify how long he was out on his motorcycle. I hope he isn't the one who did it. I liked him."
"A killer is a killer," Sejer said. "And sometimes
"That board isn't for beginners," he said.
Sejer didn't reply. Annie was still walking out into the water. Then she stopped, got on the board, grabbed the sail with strong hands, and found her balance. The board made a 180° turn and picked up speed. The men were silent as Annie sailed
out. She swept through the waves like a pro. Her father followed her with the camera. They became the father's eyes now, watching his own daughter through the lens. He tried hard to hold it still—mustn't shake too much, had to grant the windsurfer the greatest possible respect. Through the images they could feel his pride, what he must have felt for her. She was in her element. She wasn't the least bit afraid of falling and ending up in the water.
And then she vanished, and they were staring at a table that had been set with a flowered tablecloth, plates and glasses, polished silverware, wildflowers in a vase. Pork chops, hot dogs, bacon on a platter. The barbecue glowing nearby. Sunlight glinting on bottles of Coke and Farris. Sølvi and her mother again, chattering in the background, the tinkling of ice cubes, and there was Annie pouring a Coke. Once more she turned around slowly, with a bottle in her hand, and asked the camera: "Coke, Papa?"
She had a surprisingly deep voice. In the next instant they were inside the cabin. Mrs. Holland was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing a cake.
Coke, Papa.
Her voice was terse and yet gentle. Annie had loved her father; they could hear that in the two little words; they heard warmth and respect—as apparent as the difference between juice and red wine in a glass. Her voice had depth and vibrancy. Annie was her daddy's girl.
The rest of the video flickered past. Annie and her mother playing badminton, out of breath in a wind that was much too strong, great for windsurfing but merciless to a shuttlecock. The family gathered around the table indoors, playing Trivial Pursuit. A close-up of the board clearly showed who was winning, but it wasn't Annie. She didn't say much; Sølvi and her mother talked all the time, Sølvi in a sweet, fragile voice, her mother's voice deeper and hoarser. Skarre blew his cigarette smoke down toward his knees and felt older than he had for a long time. The
tape flickered a little and then a ruddy face appeared with a gaping mouth. An impressive tenor voice filled the room.
"No man shall sleep," Sejer said in English, and stood up with some effort.
"What did you say?"
"Luciano Pavarotti. He's singing Puccini. Put the tape in the file," he added.
"She was good at windsurfing," Skarre said with awe.
The phone rang before Sejer could reply. Skarre picked it up, grabbing a notepad and pencil at the same time. It was an automatic response. He believed in three things in this world: thoroughness, zeal, and good humor. Sejer read along as he wrote: Henning Johnas, 4 Krystallen. 12:45 P.M. Horgen's Shop. Motorcycle.
"Can you come down to the station?" Skarre said. "No? Then we'll come to you. This is very important information. Thanks for calling. That's fine."
He hung up.
"One of the neighbors. Henning Johnas. He lives at number 4. Just got home and heard about Annie. He picked her up at the traffic circle yesterday and dropped her off near Horgen's Shop. He says there was a motorcycle there. It was waiting for her."
Sejer perched on the edge of the table. "That motorcycle again, the one Horgen saw. And Halvor has a motorcycle," he said. "Why couldn't the man come here?"
"His dog is about to have puppies."
Skarre put the piece of paper in his pocket. "It might be hard for Halvor to verify how long he was out on his motorcycle. I hope he isn't the one who did it. I liked him."
"A killer is a killer," Sejer said. "And sometimes
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