were starting to grow tired from holding onto the carriage, so she laid the doll on the floor and put her foot between the wheels as a brake.
"This is where I live," he said suddenly and stopped.
"With your wife?"
"No, with my father. But he's in bed."
"Hasn't he got up?"
"He's always in bed."
She peered curiously out of the window and saw a peculiar house. It had been a hut once, and someone had added on to it, first once, then again. The separate parts were all different colors. Next to it stood a garage of corrugated iron. The courtyard was overgrown. A rusty old trowel was being slowly strangled by stinging nettles and dandelions. But Ragnhild wasn't interested in the house; she had her eye on something else.
"Bunnies!" she said faintly.
"Yes," he said, pleased. "Do you want to look at them?"
He hopped out, opened the back, and lifted her down. He had a peculiar way of walking; his legs were almost unnaturally short and he was severely bowlegged. His feet were small. His wide nose nearly touched his lower lip, which stuck out a bit. Under his nose hung a big, clear drop. Ragnhild thought he wasn't that old, although when he walked he swayed like an old man. But it was funny too. A boy's face on an old body. He wobbled over to the rabbit hutches. Ragnhild stood spellbound.
"Can I hold one?"
"Yes. Take your pick."
"The little brown one," she said, entranced.
"That's Påsan. He's the nicest."
He opened the hutch and lifted out the rabbit. A chubby, lop-eared rabbit, the color of coffee with a lot of cream. It kicked its legs vigorously but calmed down as soon as Ragnhild took it in her arms. For a moment she was utterly still. She could feel its heart pounding against her hand, as she stroked one of its ears cautiously. It was like a piece of velvet between her fingers. Its nose shone black and moist like a licorice drop. Raymond stood next to her and watched. He had a little girl all to himself, and no one had seen them.
***
"The picture," Sejer said, "along with the description, will be sent to the newspapers. Unless they hear otherwise, they'll print it tonight."
Irene Album fell across the table sobbing. The others stared wordlessly at their hands, and at her shaking back. The woman officer sat ready with a handkerchief. Karlsen scraped his chair a bit and glanced at his watch.
"Is Ragnhild afraid of dogs?" Sejer said.
"Why do you ask?" she said with surprise.
"Sometimes when we're searching for children with the dog patrol, they hide when they hear our German shepherds."
"No, she's not afraid of dogs."
The words reverberated in his head.
She's not afraid of dogs.
"Have you had any luck getting hold of your husband?"
"He's in Narvik on maneuvers," she whispered. "On the plateau somewhere."
"Don't they use mobile phones?"
"They're out of range."
"The people who are looking for her now, who are they?"
"Boys from the neighborhood who are home in the daytime. One of them has a phone with him."
"How long have they been gone?"
She looked up at the clock on the wall. "More than two hours."
Her voice was no longer quavering. Now she sounded doped, almost lethargic, as if she were half asleep. Sejer leaned forward again and spoke to her as softly and clearly as he could.
"What you fear the most has probably
not
happened. Do you realize that? Usually, children disappear for all sorts of trivial reasons. And it's a fact that children get lost all the time, just because they're children. They have no sense of time or responsibility, and they're so maddeningly curious that they follow any impulse that comes into their head. That's what it's
like to be a child, and that's why they get lost. But as a rule they turn up just as suddenly as they disappeared. Often they don't have a good explanation for where they've been or what they were doing. But generally"—he took a breath—"they're quite all right."
"I know!" she said, staring at him. "But she's never gone off like this before!"
"She's growing
"This is where I live," he said suddenly and stopped.
"With your wife?"
"No, with my father. But he's in bed."
"Hasn't he got up?"
"He's always in bed."
She peered curiously out of the window and saw a peculiar house. It had been a hut once, and someone had added on to it, first once, then again. The separate parts were all different colors. Next to it stood a garage of corrugated iron. The courtyard was overgrown. A rusty old trowel was being slowly strangled by stinging nettles and dandelions. But Ragnhild wasn't interested in the house; she had her eye on something else.
"Bunnies!" she said faintly.
"Yes," he said, pleased. "Do you want to look at them?"
He hopped out, opened the back, and lifted her down. He had a peculiar way of walking; his legs were almost unnaturally short and he was severely bowlegged. His feet were small. His wide nose nearly touched his lower lip, which stuck out a bit. Under his nose hung a big, clear drop. Ragnhild thought he wasn't that old, although when he walked he swayed like an old man. But it was funny too. A boy's face on an old body. He wobbled over to the rabbit hutches. Ragnhild stood spellbound.
"Can I hold one?"
"Yes. Take your pick."
"The little brown one," she said, entranced.
"That's Påsan. He's the nicest."
He opened the hutch and lifted out the rabbit. A chubby, lop-eared rabbit, the color of coffee with a lot of cream. It kicked its legs vigorously but calmed down as soon as Ragnhild took it in her arms. For a moment she was utterly still. She could feel its heart pounding against her hand, as she stroked one of its ears cautiously. It was like a piece of velvet between her fingers. Its nose shone black and moist like a licorice drop. Raymond stood next to her and watched. He had a little girl all to himself, and no one had seen them.
***
"The picture," Sejer said, "along with the description, will be sent to the newspapers. Unless they hear otherwise, they'll print it tonight."
Irene Album fell across the table sobbing. The others stared wordlessly at their hands, and at her shaking back. The woman officer sat ready with a handkerchief. Karlsen scraped his chair a bit and glanced at his watch.
"Is Ragnhild afraid of dogs?" Sejer said.
"Why do you ask?" she said with surprise.
"Sometimes when we're searching for children with the dog patrol, they hide when they hear our German shepherds."
"No, she's not afraid of dogs."
The words reverberated in his head.
She's not afraid of dogs.
"Have you had any luck getting hold of your husband?"
"He's in Narvik on maneuvers," she whispered. "On the plateau somewhere."
"Don't they use mobile phones?"
"They're out of range."
"The people who are looking for her now, who are they?"
"Boys from the neighborhood who are home in the daytime. One of them has a phone with him."
"How long have they been gone?"
She looked up at the clock on the wall. "More than two hours."
Her voice was no longer quavering. Now she sounded doped, almost lethargic, as if she were half asleep. Sejer leaned forward again and spoke to her as softly and clearly as he could.
"What you fear the most has probably
not
happened. Do you realize that? Usually, children disappear for all sorts of trivial reasons. And it's a fact that children get lost all the time, just because they're children. They have no sense of time or responsibility, and they're so maddeningly curious that they follow any impulse that comes into their head. That's what it's
like to be a child, and that's why they get lost. But as a rule they turn up just as suddenly as they disappeared. Often they don't have a good explanation for where they've been or what they were doing. But generally"—he took a breath—"they're quite all right."
"I know!" she said, staring at him. "But she's never gone off like this before!"
"She's growing
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