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me just get this straight,” said Isak, holding up his hand as if he was about to take an oath. “We’re talking about 1965. Not the nineteenth century. Not the war. But 1965, the year that you and I were born, when Norway had been built up again after the war and bureaucracy was well established and due process was a recognized concept. Right? And he was just released without further ado? I mean, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with releasing an obviously innocent man, but . . .”
    “Exactly, there’s a huge but.”
    “Daddycar,” said Kristiane and stroked the silver-gray sports car. “Billycar. Automobillycar.”
    The adults laughed.
    “You’re a right one, you are,” said Johanne, tying Kristiane’s hat more securely under her chin.
    “Where the hell does she get it from?”
    “Don’t swear,” warned Johanne. “She’ll pick it up. At least . . .”
    She straightened her back. Kristiane sat down in a puddle and hummed.
    “Alvhild’s source, the prison chaplain, told her that an old woman from Lillestrøm had contacted Romerike Police. She’d been nursing a painful secret for a long time. Her son, a mildly retarded man who still lived with her, had come home in the early hours on the night that little Hedvig disappeared. His clothes were covered in blood and he was very agitated. The woman immediately suspected him when Hedvig’s story became known shortly after. But she didn’t want to say anything. Perhaps not so difficult to . . .”
    She looked over at her daughter.
    “In any case . . . her son had died. The case was hushed up by the police and prosecuting authorities. The woman was more or less dismissed as hysterical. But whatever happened, our friend Aksel Seier was released only a few weeks later. Discreetly. Nothing was written in the papers. Alvhild never heard any more about it.”
    The mist was clearing; some low clouds drifted slowly over the treetops to the east. But now it had started to rain in ernest. A soaking-wet English setter circled around Kristiane, barking and running to fetch the stones she threw with delighted screams.
    “But why is this Alvhild Sofienberg telling you?”
    “Hmm?”
    “Why is she telling you about this now? Thirty . . . thirty-five years later?”
    “Because something strange happened last year. The case has been bothering her for years. And now that she’s retired, she decided to study the case in detail again. She contacted the regional state archives and the National Archives to get ahold of the documents. And they no longer exist.”
    “What?”
    “They’ve vanished. They are not in the National Archives. Not in the regional state archives. Oslo Police Force can’t find them, nor can Romerike Police. More than a yard of case documents has simply disappeared.”
    Kristiane had got up from her puddle. She puttered toward them, wet and filthy from head to toe.
    “I’m glad you are not getting into my car,” said Isak, and squatted down in front of her. “But I’ll see you on the seventeenth of May, okay?”
    “Aren’t you going to give Daddy a hug before we go?” asked Johanne.
    Kristiane reluctantly allowed herself to be hugged; her eyes were miles away.
    “Do you think you’ll manage, Isak?”
    His eyes were firmly fixed on Kristiane.
    “Of course I will. I’m a wizard, don’t you know. If Aksel Seier is still alive, I’ll find out where he lives in less than a week. Guaranteed.”
    “There are no guarantees in life,” retorted Johanne. “But thank you for trying. If anyone was going to manage it, it would be you.”
    “Sure thing,” said Isak and slipped into his TT. “See you on Wednesday.”
    She stared after him until the car disappeared over the brow of the hill down toward Kringsjå.
    Isak would never be anything other than a big boy. She had just not realized it soon enough. Before, before Kristiane, she had envied him his quickness, his enthusiasm, his optimism; the childish belief that everything could be fixed. He