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By Karin Fossum

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She had flashed him a brief smile out of reflex politeness, a smile he had not returned. He had looked back at her in horror and he had certainly behaved in a suspicious manner, as if they had caught him red-handed. I didn't like him, she thought, the one second I looked him in the eye was enough to give me a feeling about him, and it was not a good one. ' Reinhardt said. 'What do you think, Kristine? ' She thought carefully. 'Somewhere between forty and fifty,' she declared. He wrinkled his nose with displeasure.

In the midst of this anonymous glass, stone and concrete building was a large, bright office with colourful curtains. She noticed individual details: a stately chair with a tall back, a lamp with a yellow shade and underneath it, a clumsy figure made from salt dough. The ravages of time had caused the figure to grow mouldy, but there was no doubt that it represented a police officer in a blue uniform. On the desk was a laminated desk pad with a map of the world; a pen covered Italy and the coastline of Tunisia.

Not the hysteria of summer, or the storms of autumn, or the cold of winter, or even the treacherous late frost or the early spring with its sudden sleet and unpredictable gusts of wind, but September with its unique serenity. Dark cool nights, refreshing mornings. Suddenly she felt exhausted, she was weighed down by so many thoughts and though it was warm, she wrapped her coat around her body more tightly. 'It's Sunday,' Reinhardt said, 'it's Sunday and the weather is fine. And there's not a soul to be seen.

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