What Is Mine by Anne Holt

Author:Anne Holt [Holt, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Mystery
Publisher: Warner Books
Published: 2001-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-EIGHT

We’ve got lists of all the people who flew in and out of Tromsø in the time before and after Glenn Hugo’s death. Tromsø Police have done a fantastic job of collecting videos from all the gas stations within a two-hundred-mile radius. The bus companies are trying to draw up passenger lists, but it’s a lot more difficult. The coastal express boat is doing the same and so are the local ferries.”

Sigmund Berli scratched his neck and tugged at his shirt collar.

“And there aren’t really many other ways to get in and out of the Paris of the North. We haven’t approached the hotels yet. Seems unlikely that the guy would stay in a hotel, somehow . . . having just killed a baby, I mean.”

“There must be . . . hundreds of names.”

“Several thousand, I’m afraid. The boys are working as quickly as they can to get them onto the computer system. Then they’re checked against . . .”

Berli looked over at Adam Stubo’s bulletin board, where pictures of Emilie, Kim, Sarah, and Glenn Hugo were pinned up with big blue pushpins. Only Kim was smiling shyly; the other children all stared solemnly at the camera.

“. . . the parents’ information, who they’ve met and known and been in contact with. Shit . . . These lists are getting ridiculous, Adam.”

His voice broke and he coughed.

“I know that it’s necessary. It’s just so . . .”

“Frustrating. A whole lot of names and no connections.”

Adam gave a long yawn and loosened his tie.

“What about the man who was seen in . . .”

He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration.

“Soltunveien,” he remembered. “The man in gray or blue.”

“No one has come forward,” said Sigmund Berli, his voice a bit stronger now. “Which makes the sighting all the more interesting. And our witness was right; the woman in the red coat was a neighbor; she said herself that she must have turned into the road from Langnesbakken around ten to three. The boy on the bike has also been identified; he came forward with his father this morning and obviously has nothing to hide. Neither of them saw or heard anything suspicious. The man who was rushing without wanting to . . . show it? He hasn’t come forward. So that could be . . .”

“Our man.”

Adam Stubo got up.

“He was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. Had hair. Anything else?”

He was facing the pictures of the children, his eyes running over the series of photographs, backward and forward.

“Not really, I’m afraid. This witness, can’t remember his name off the top of my head, is evidently very careful not to say too much. He has described the walk and the build, but refuses to help to make an artist’s sketch of the face.”

“Sensible, really, if he doesn’t feel that he saw it properly. Why does he think the man was around thirty?”

“His body. His hair. The way he was walking. Energetic, but not youthful. His clothes. All of that. But between twenty-five and thirty-five is hardly precise.

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