The Drowned Boy Read Online Free PDF

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    “As I said, we need to find out exactly what happened,” he told her. “An officer will examine your house, but, again, it is simply a matter of routine. So you don’t need to worry.”
    Carmen stared at him. “What? The house? He died in the pond. I don’t understand!” She burst into tears again and brushed a lock of hair from her face. “There’s nothing to see in the house,” she continued. “I don’t understand how you’re even allowed to do that. Examine the house! To look for what?”
    Sejer got up from the chair, moving it so they were sitting face to face. Being confronted in this way made her even more uncertain and upset.
    “Well, I mean, I don’t want to make a fuss,” she said. “I just think it’s all so weird. It’s hard to take in. Is it you who’s going to talk to Nicolai?”
    “Yes, I will talk to Nicolai. To hear his version and see if it corresponds with yours. You do understand that’s how we have to work, don’t you?”
    “But it does correspond,” she said hastily, about to start crying again. “You don’t think I’m sitting here lying, do you?”

4
    ON THE PORCH , some jackets and coats on a row of hooks. Two pairs of hiking boots, a pair of rain boots, some shoes on a shoe rack. A knotted plastic bag, presumably with garbage in it to be taken down to the garbage can along the road. A door down to the cellar with its mysterious murkiness. Inside, a dresser and mirror in the hallway, a lonely jacket with reflective stripes on the arms. To the right, a small living room with a sofa and coffee table. The room was dominated by a flat-screen TV, maybe fifty inches wide. Two armchairs, one with a footstool. Lots of books on the bookshelves, including some large ones about animals and birds. Next to the living room, a dining room with a table and four chairs, and a desk with a Mac desktop on it.
    Skarre went from room to room, paying attention to all the details. Shriveled potted plants, magazines on the table. A remote control and an empty Coke can, a blanket with red fringe on the sofa. A play blanket on the floor with pockets and bells. On the wall, a black-and-white photograph of a child, taken by a good amateur photographer—perhaps Nicolai. The Down syndrome was obvious in his eyes and his short, stocky body and square hands. He was standing in a field full of daisies and dandelions, wearing nothing but a diaper. It had indeed been a hot summer. Every man and his dog had shed all the clothes they could. He stood looking at the photograph for a long time and was filled with sorrow as he stared at the little boy. He eventually pulled himself together and moved on to the bedroom. He paused in the doorway and felt that he was entering somewhere private. He always felt like this, like a voyeur, stomping around in someone else’s life, but he had to do it. So he shook off the feeling, went into the room, and walked over to the window. The pond could not be seen from this side of the house, and he looked out onto a cluster of trees. There were no other houses nearby. Two single beds had been pushed together to make a double. One of the bedside tables was tidy and neat, the other full of stuff: an alarm clock, nasal spray, tissues, a glass of water. A watch, a hairbrush, and a bottle of acetaminophen in case of a temperature or headache. The bed linen was blue with white clouds, no doubt from Ikea. An old worn teddy bear lay on the bed, staring blindly at him with black glass eyes. And in the corner was the boy’s white crib with a mobile above it, four flying birds with red feathers. There was also a teddy bear here, but it was new and looked expensive. Maybe a present from his grandparents. Whereas the old worn one had been abandoned, relegated to the grown-up bed. From there, into the bathroom. Some socks hanging up to dry. Otherwise little of interest. He went back into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and dialed Sejer’s number.
    “Nothing of any note,” he