Excerpt of Don't Look Back: An Inspector Sejer Mystery by Karin Fossum
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Ragnhild opened the door cautiously and peered out. Up on the road everything was quiet, and a breeze that had been playing among the buildings during the night had finally died down. She turned and pulled the doll's carriage over the threshold.
"We haven't even eaten yet," Marthe complained.
She helped push the carriage.
"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 carriage toward the front gate. It was heavy going, so she turned it around and pulled it instead.
"See you later, Ragnhild."
The door closed behind hera 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 carriage. Just then a neighbor closed his garage door. He smiled at her and buttoned up his coat, a little awkwardly, with one hand. A big black Volvo sat 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."
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 carriage 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 Eliseafter herself, because her name was Ragnhild Eliseslid down to the front of the carriage. 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 sweat suit with Simba the Lion across the chest and a green anorak over it. Her hair was extraordinarily thin and blond, 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 you guess that she was already in school.
She met no one on the hill, but as she approach ed 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 sidewalk on the other side, and her mother had told her always to walk on the sidewalk. 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 carriage up on the sidewalk. 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 carriage?"
She nodded. "I live in Granittveien."
"It'll be awfully heavy. What have you got in it, then?"
From Don't Look Back by Karin Fossum, pages 1-6. Copyright Karin Fossum 2002. English translation copyright © Felicity David, 2002. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.