The Water's Edge - By Karin Fossum Page 0,3

cigarette, the low sun touched his broad cheekbones and his forceful chin. And she recalled the first time she saw him and how he had seemed carved out of granite. There were many edges and protrusions in his broad face, but his eyes were deep-set. On Sundays he skipped shaving and a pale shadow was spreading across his jaw.

'Schoolchildren go camping here,' Kristine remembered. 'If they choose Outdoor Studies. They go canoeing and fishing and they have to get up at three in the morning to hear the wood grouse.'

Reinhardt shrugged. 'I've never really understood the attraction of camping,' he snorted. 'You can rent a cottage up here. With a proper bed and a toilet. When I was a boy,' he went on, 'my dad took me camping. He had an old-fashioned green tent that slept four people, I couldn't bear the smell inside it, and my sleeping bag was ancient and musty. It stank of smoke and earth and paraffin, it smelled of waterproofing chemicals. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't breathe.'

Kristine went over to one of the mounds of grass and stepped inside a stone circle.

'This is where their kitchen must have been,' she called out.

Reinhardt came over to her.

'I wouldn't call that a kitchen,' he smiled. 'More like a fireplace, I'd say.'

She nodded. 'Just think,' she said, 'they would catch fish in the lake and snare birds and hares. What a quiet life it must have been, here by the water.'

Reinhardt entered the circle. He stood towering over her, he was one metre ninety tall and very broad-shouldered.

'In the evenings they would sit by the fire and talk amongst themselves,' she said, 'and when the fire died down they would curl up on the ground under their furs.'

Reinhardt grinned broadly. 'Whereas I turn on my Bang & Olufsen music centre and stretch out in my recliner,' he said. 'Thank God, I'm alive now.'

Kristine went quiet once again. He refused to join in her thinking, he didn't want to ponder life or humanity. He was an enterprising man, rational and self-assured, whereas she felt dizzy when she imagined herself living in another age, where people had different values, where their fears had been different from the ones she lived with. Perhaps they had feared a roaming wolf stalking the half-naked children playing on the shore of Lake Linde.

CHAPTER 3

'We'll go back a different route,' he called out.

He cut through the forest, holding back the branches so they would not swipe her face. Again they walked themselves warm in the low sunshine and after half an hour they stopped for a rest. In front of them lay a clearing surrounded by spruces, an open, golden area with tufts and heather. Then the brutal scene hit them.

'No!' Reinhardt yelled.

And again, a few seconds later. 'No!'

Kristine gave him an uncomprehending look. He was squeezing her arm so tightly that she started to whimper, she had never seen his strong face display such terror. She followed his gaze and spotted a cluster of trees.

Something lay at the foot of the dark tree trunks.

Reinhardt was speechless. She was not used to this, he was always the one who took action, who would have something to say about every situation. She stared at the bundle at the foot of the trees, it was slim and white. She was struck by the awful thought that this might be a small person.

'It's a little kid,' Reinhardt whispered. He still did not move. Nor did he let go of her arm; his grip was vice-like.

'For Christ's sake, it's a little kid,' he repeated.

'No,' she said. Because it could not possibly be true, not here, not in Linde Forest.

Reinhardt took a step forward. He was no longer in any doubt, he could see arms and legs. A T-shirt with some writing on it. Kristine clasped her mouth. They stood like this for what seemed an eternity. The bundle lay immobile on the green moss. Kristine looked up at Reinhardt, her green eyes desperately pleading with him to do something.

'We must call the police!' she whispered.

Reinhardt started walking towards the cluster of trees, his body exuding reluctance. Ten paces, fifteen, they saw a foot and a fragile neck. It was a boy. He was lying on his stomach, he was naked from the waist down, and between his legs they could see blood, which had coagulated into rust-coloured scabs.

Kristine turned away in horror. But she could only look away for a few seconds. She had to look again, those green