[From] Norway''s Queen of crime...an engaging...atmospheric
thriller'' Daily Mail
內容簡介：
Don''t Look Back heralds the arrival of an exotic new crime
series featuring Inspector Sejer, a smart and enigmatic hero, tough
but fair. The setting is a small, idyllic village at the foot of
Norway''s Kollen Mountain, where neighbors know neighbors and
children play happily in the streets. But when the body of a
teenage girl is found by the lake at the mountaintop, the town''s
tranquillity is shattered forever. Annie was strong, intelligent,
and loved by everyone. What went so terribly wrong? Doggedly, yet
subtly, Inspector Sejer uncovers layer upon layer of distrust and
lies beneath the town''s seemingly perfect facade. Critically
acclaimed across Europe, Karin Fossum''s Inspector Sejer novels are
masterfully constructed, psychologically convincing, and
compulsively readable, and are now available in the United States
for the first time." "
關於作者：
Karin Fossum was born in 1954, and made her literary d-but in
Norway with a collection of poetry in 1974. She has since published
another volume of poetry, two collections of short stories and one
non-crime novel. Her five crime novels featuring Konrad Sejer have
been published in sixteen languages. She lives in Oslo.
20021018
內容試閱：
CHAPTER 1
Ragnhild opened the door cautiously and peered out.
Up on the road everything was quiet, and a breeze that had been
playing amongst the buildings during the night had finally died
down. She turned and pulled the doll’s pram over the
threshold.
“We haven’t even eaten yet,” Marthe complained.
She helped push the pram.
“I have to go home. We’re going out shopping,” Ragnhild said.
“Shall I come over later?”
“You can if you like. After we’ve done the shopping.”
She was on the gravel now and began to push the pram towards the
front gate. It was heavy going, so she turned it around and pulled
it instead.
“See you later, Ragnhild.”
The door closed behind her – a sharp slam of wood and metal.
Ragnhild struggled with the gate, but she mustn’t be careless.
Marthe’s dog might get out. He was watching her intently from
beneath the garden table. When she was sure that the gate was
properly closed, she started off across the street in the direction
of the garages. She could have taken the shortcut between the
buildings, but she had discovered that it was too difficult with
the pram. Just then a neighbour closed his garage door. He smiled
to her and buttoned up his coat, a little awkwardly, with one hand.
A big black Volvo stood in the driveway, rumbling pleasantly.
“Well, Ragnhild, you’re out early, aren’t you? Hasn’t Marthe got up
yet?”
“I slept over last night,” she said. “On a mattress on the
floor.”
“I see.”
He locked the garage door and glanced at his watch; it was 8.06
a.m. A moment later he turned the car into the street and drove
off.
Ragnhild pushed the pram with both hands. She had reached the
downhill stretch, which was rather steep, and she had to hold on
tight so as not to lose her grip. Her doll, who was named Elise –
after herself, because her name was Ragnhild Elise – slid down to
the front of the pram. That didn’t look good, so she let go with
one hand and put the doll back in place, patted down the blanket,
and continued on her way. She was wearing sneakers: one was red
with green laces, the other was green with red laces, and that’s
how it had to be. She had on a red tracksuit with Simba the Lion
across the chest and a green anorak over it. Her hair was
extraordinarily thin and blonde, and not very long, but she had
managed to pull it into a topknot with an elastic band. Bright
plastic fruit dangled from the band, with her sprout of hair
sticking up in the middle like a tiny, neglected palm tree. She was
six and a half, but small for her age. Not until she spoke would
one guess that she was already at school.
She met no one on the hill, but as she approached the intersection
she heard a car. So she stopped, squeezed over to the side, and
waited as a van with its paint peeling off wobbled over a speed
bump. It slowed even more when the girl in the red outfit came into
view. Ragnhild wanted to cross the street. There was a pavement on
the other side, and her mother had told her always to walk on the
pavement. She waited for the van to pass, but it stopped instead,
and the driver rolled down his window.
“You go first, I’ll wait,” he said.
She hesitated a moment, then crossed the street, turning around
again to tug the pram up on to the pavement. The van slid forward a
bit, then stopped again. The window on the opposite side was rolled
down. His eyes are funny, she thought, really big and round as a
ball. They were set wide apart and were pale blue, like thin ice.
His mouth was small with full lips, and it pointed down like the
mouth of a fish. He stared at her.
“Are you going up Skiferbakken with that pram?”
She nodded. “I live in Granittveien.”
“It’ll be awfully heavy. What have you got in it, then?”
“Elise,” she replied, lifting up the doll.
“Excellent,” he said with a broad smile. His mouth looked nicer
now.
He scratched his head. His hair was dishevelled, and grew in thick
clumps straight up from his head like the leaves of a pineapple.
Now it looked even worse.
“I can drive you up there,” he said. “There’s room for your pram in
the back.”
Ragnhild thought for a moment. She stared up Skiferbakken, which
was long and steep. The man pulled on the handbrake and glanced in
the back of the van.
“Mama’s waiting for me,” Ragnhild said.
A bell seemed to ring in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t
remember what it was for.
“You’ll get home sooner if I drive you,” he said.
That decided it. Ragnhild was a practical little girl. She wheeled
the pram behind the van and the man hopped out. He opened the back
door and lifted the pram in with one hand.
“You’ll have to sit in back and hold on to the pram. Otherwise
it’ll roll about,” he said, and lifted in Ragnhild too.
He shut the back doors, climbed into the driver’s seat, and
released the brake.
“Do you go up this hill every day?” He looked at her in the
mirror.
“Only when I’ve been at Marthe’s house. I stayed over.”
She took a flowered overnight bag from under the doll’s blanket and
opened it, checking that everything was in place: her nightgown
with the picture of Nala on it, her toothbrush and hair brush. The
van lumbered over another speed bump. The man was still looking at
her in the mirror.
“Have you ever seen a toothbrush like this?” Ragnhild said, holding
it up for him. It had feet.
“No!” he said. “Where did you get it?”
“Papa bought it for me. You don’t have one like it?”
“No, but I’ll ask for one for Christmas.”
He was finally over the last bump, and he shifted to second gear.
It made an awful grinding noise. The little girl sat on the floor
of the van steadying the pram. A very sweet little girl, he
thought, red and cute in her tracksuit, like a ripe little berry.
He whistled a tune and felt on top of the world, enthroned behind
the wheel in the big van with the little girl in the back. Really
on top of the world.
The village lay in the bottom of a valley, at the end of a fjord,
at the foot of a mountain. Like a pool in a river, where the water
was much too still. And everyone knows that only running water is
fresh. The village was a stepchild of the municipality, and the
roads that led there were indescribably bad. Once in a while a bus
deigned to stop by the abandoned dairy and pick up people to take
them to town. There were no night buses back to the village.
Kollen, the mountain, was a grey, rounded peak, virtually neglected
by those who lived there, but eagerly visited by people from
far-off places. This was because of the mountain’s unusual minerals
and its flora, which was exceptionally rare. On calm days a faint
tinkling could be heard from the mountaintop; one might almost
believe it was haunted. In fact, the sound was from sheep grazing
up there. The ridges around the mountain looked blue and airy
through the haze, like soft felt with scattered woollen veils of
fog.
Konrad Sejer traced the main highway in the road atlas with a
fingertip. They were approaching a roundabout. Police Officer
Karlsen was at the wheel, keeping an attentive eye on the fields
while following the directions.
“Now you have to turn right on to Gneisveien, then up Skiferbakken,
then left at Feltspatveien. Granittveien goes off to the right. A
cul-de-sac,” Sejer said pensively. “Number 5 should be the third
house on the left.”
He was tense. His voice was even more brusque than usual.
Karlsen manoeuvred the car into the housing estate and over the
speed bumps. As in so many places, the new arrivals had taken up
residence in clusters, some distance from the rest of the local
community. Apart from giving directions, the two policemen didn’t
talk much. They approached the house, trying to steel themselves,
thinking that perhaps the child might even be back home by now.
Perhaps she was sitting on her mother’s lap, surprised and
embarrassed at all the fuss. It was 1 p.m., so the girl had been
missing for five hours. Two would have been within a reasonable
margin, five was definitely too long. Their unease was growing
steadily, like a dead spot in the chest where the blood refused to
flow. Both of them had children of their own; Karlsen’s daughter
was eight, Sejer had a grandson of four. The silence was filled
with images, which might turn out to be correct – this was what
struck Sejer as they drew up in front of the house.
Number 5 was a low, white house with dark blue trim. A typical
prefab house with no personality, but embellished like a playroom
with decorative shutters and scalloped edges on the gables. The
yard was well kept. A large veranda with a prettily turned railing
ran around the entire building. The house sat almost at the top of
the ridge, with a view over the whole village, a small village,
quite lovely, surrounded by farms and fields. A patrol car that had
come on ahead of them was parked next to the letterbox.
Sejer went first, wiping his shoes carefully on the mat, and
ducking his head as he entered the living room. It only took them a
second to see what was happening. She was still missing, and the
panic was palpable. On the sofa sat the mother, a stocky woman in a
gingham dress. Next to her, with a hand on the mother’s arm, sat a
woman officer. Sejer could almost smell the terror in the room. The
mother was using what little strength she had to hold back her
tears, or perhaps even a piercing shriek of horror. The slightest
effort made her breathe hard, as was evident when she stood up to
shake hands with Sejer.
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