Black Seconds: Inspector Sejer
Autor Karin Fossum Traducere de Charlotte Barslunden Limba Engleză Paperback – 6 noi 2013
Nine-year-old Ida Joner gets on her brand-new bike and sets off to buy sweets. Thirty-five minutes after Ida should have come home, her mother, Helga, starts to worry. She phones the shop and various friends, but no one has seen her daughter. As the family begin to search for Ida, Helga's worst nightmare becomes reality.
As the police are called in, hundreds of volunteers comb the neighbourhood, but there are no traces of the little girl, or her bike. As the relatives reach breaking point and the media frenzy begins, Inspector Sejer struggles to remains calm and reassuring. But usually missing children are found within forty-eight hours. Ida seems to have vanished without a trace.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780099565529
ISBN-10: 0099565528
Pagini: 352
Dimensiuni: 128 x 195 x 27 mm
Greutate: 0.25 kg
Editura: Vintage Publishing
Seria Inspector Sejer
ISBN-10: 0099565528
Pagini: 352
Dimensiuni: 128 x 195 x 27 mm
Greutate: 0.25 kg
Editura: Vintage Publishing
Seria Inspector Sejer
Notă biografică
KARIN FOSSUM began her writing career in 1974. She has won numerous awards, including the Glass Key Award for the best Nordic crime novel, an honour shared with Henning Mankell and Jo Nesbo, and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Her highly acclaimed Inspector Sejer series has been published in more than thirty countries.
Recenzii
• "There is no room for debate: the most important female writer of foreign crime fiction at work today is the Norwegian Karin Fossum." --Rough Guide to Crime Fiction
Extras
CHAPTER
1
The
days
went
by
so
slowly.
Ida
Joner
held
up
her
hands
and
counted
her
fingers.
Her
birthday
was
on
the
tenth
of
September.
And
it
was
only
the
first
today.
There
were
so
many
things
she
wanted.
Most
of
all
she
wanted
a
pet
of
her
own.
Something
warm
and
cuddly
that
would
belong
only
to
her.
Ida
had
a
sweet
face
with
large
brown
eyes.
Her
body
was
slender
and
trim,
her
hair
thick
and
curly.
She
was
bright
and
happy.
She
was
just
too
good
to
be
true.
Her
mother
often
thought
so,
especially
whenever
Ida
left
the
house
and
she
watched
her
daughter’s
back
disappear
around
the
corner.
Too
good
to
last.
Ida
jumped
up
on
her
bicycle,
her
brand-new
Nakamura
bicycle.
She
was
going
out.
The
living
room
was
a
mess:
she
had
been
lying
on
the
sofa
playing
with
her
plastic
figures
and
several
other
toys,
and
it
was
chaos
when
she
left.
At
first
her
absence
would
create
a
great
void.
After
a
while
a
strange
mood
would
creep
in
through
the
walls
and
fill
the
house
with
a
sense
of
unease.
Her
mother
hated
it.
But
she
could
not
keep
her
daughter
locked
up
forever,
like
some
caged
bird.
She
waved
to
Ida
and
put
on
a
brave
face.
Lost
herself
in
domestic
chores.
The
humming
of
the
vacuum
cleaner
would
drown
out
the
strange
feeling
in
the
room.
When
her
body
began
to
grow
hot
and
sweaty,
or
started
to
ache
from
beating
the
rugs,
it
would
numb
the
faint
stabbing
sensation
in
her
chest
which
was
always
triggered
by
Ida
going
out.
She
glanced
out
of
the
window.
The
bicycle
turned
left.
Ida
was
going
into
town.
Everything
was
fine;
she
was
wearing
her
bicycle
helmet.
A
hard
shell
that
protected
her
head.
Helga
thought
of
it
as
a
type
of
life
insurance.
In
her
pocket
she
had
her
zebra-striped
purse,
which
contained
thirty
kroner
about
to
be
spent
on
the
latest
issue
of
Wendy.
She
usually
spent
the
rest
of
her
money
on
Bugg
chewing
gum.
The
ride
down
to
Laila’s
Kiosk
would
take
her
fifteen
minutes.
Her
mother
did
the
mental
arithmetic.
Ida
would
be
back
home
again
by
6:40
P.M.
Then
she
factored
in
the
possibility
of
Ida
meeting
someone
and
spending
ten
minutes
chatting.
While
she
waited,
she
started
to
clean
up.
Picked
up
toys
and
figures
from
the
sofa.
Helga
knew
that
her
daughter
would
hear
her
words
of
warning
wherever
she
went.
She
had
planted
her
own
voice
of
authority
firmly
in
the
girl’s
head
and
knew
that
from
there
it
sent
out
clear
and
constant
instructions.
She
felt
ashamed
at
this,
the
kind
of
shame
that
overcomes
you
after
an
assault,
but
she
did
not
dare
do
otherwise.
Because
it
was
this
very
voice
that
would
one
day
save
Ida
from
danger.
Ida
was
a
well-brought-up
girl
who
would
never
cross
her
mother
or
forget
to
keep
a
promise.
But
now
the
wall
clock
in
Helga
Joner’s
house
was
approaching
7:00
P.M.,
and
Ida
had
still
not
come
home.
Helga
experienced
the
first
prickling
of
fear.
And
later
that
sinking
feeling
in
the
pit
of
her
stomach
that
made
her
stand
by
the
window
from
which
she
would
see
Ida
appear
on
her
yellow
bicycle
any
second
now.
The
red
helmet
would
gleam
in
the
sun.
She
would
hear
the
crunch
of
the
tires
on
the
pebbled
drive.
Perhaps
even
the
ringing
of
the
bell:
Hi,
I’m
home!
Followed
by
a
thud
on
the
wall
from
the
handlebars.
But
Ida
did
not
come.
Helga
Joner
floated
away
from
everything
that
was
safe
and
familiar.
The
floor
vanished
beneath
her
feet.
Her
normally
heavy
body
became
weightless;
she
hovered
like
a
ghost
around
the
rooms.
Then
with
a
thump
to
her
chest
she
came
back
down.
Stopped
abruptly
and
looked
around.
Why
did
this
feel
so
familiar?
Because
she
had
already,
for
many
years
now,
been
rehearsing
this
moment
in
her
mind.
Because
she
had
always
known
that
this
beautiful
child
was
not
hers
to
keep.
It
was
the
very
realization
that
she
had
known
this
day
would
come
that
terrified
her.
The
knowledge
that
she
could
predict
the
future
and
that
she
had
known
this
would
happen
right
from
the
beginning
made
her
head
spin.
That’s
why
I’m
always
so
scared,
Helga
thought.
I’ve
been
terrified
every
day
for
nearly
ten
years,
and
for
good
reason.
Now
it’s
finally
happened.
My
worst
nightmare.
Huge,
black,
and
tearing
my
heart
to
pieces.
It
was
7:15
P.M.
when
she
forced
herself
to
snap
out
of
her
apathy
and
find
the
number
for
Laila’s
Kiosk
in
the
phone
book.
She
tried
to
keep
her
voice
calm.
The
telephone
rang
many
times
before
someone
answered.
Her
phoning
and
thus
revealing
her
fear
made
her
even
more
convinced
that
Ida
would
turn
up
any
minute
now.
The
ultimate
proof
that
she
was
an
overprotective
mother.
But
Ida
was
nowhere
to
be
seen,
and
a
woman
answered.
Helga
laughed
apologetically
because
she
could
hear
from
the
other
woman’s
voice
that
she
was
mature
and
might
have
children
of
her
own.
She
would
understand.
"My
daughter
went
out
on
her
bicycle
to
get
a
copy
of
Wendy.
From
your
shop.
I
told
her
she
was
to
come
straight
back
home
and
she
ought
to
be
here
by
now,
but
she
isn’t.
So
I’m
just
calling
to
check
that
she
did
come
to
your
shop
and
bought
what
she
wanted,"
said
Helga
Joner.
She
looked
out
of
the
window
as
if
to
shield
herself
from
the
reply.
"No,"
the
voice
answered.
"There
was
no
girl
here,
not
that
I
remember."
Helga
was
silent.
This
was
the
wrong
answer.
Ida
had
to
have
been
there.
Why
would
the
woman
say
no?
She
demanded
another
reply.
"She’s
short,
with
dark
hair,"
she
went
on
stubbornly,
"nine
years
old.
She
is
wearing
a
blue
sweatsuit
and
a
red
helmet.
Her
bicycle’s
yellow."
The
bit
about
the
bicycle
was
left
hanging
in
the
air.
After
all,
Ida
would
not
have
taken
it
with
her
inside
the
kiosk.
Laila
Heggen,
the
owner
of
the
kiosk,
felt
anxious
and
scared
of
replying.
She
heard
the
budding
panic
in
the
voice
of
Ida’s
mother
and
did
not
want
to
release
it
in
all
its
horror.
So
she
went
through
the
last
few
hours
in
her
mind.
But
even
though
she
wanted
to,
she
could
find
no
little
girl
there.
"Well,
so
many
kids
come
here,"
she
said.
"All
day
long.
But
at
that
time
it’s
usually
quiet.
Most
people
eat
between
five
and
seven.
Then
it
gets
busy
again
up
until
ten.
That’s
when
I
close."
She
could
think
of
nothing
more
to
say.
Besides,
she
had
two
burgers
under
the
grill;
they
were
beginning
to
burn,
and
a
customer
was
waiting.
Helga
struggled
to
find
the
right
words.
She
could
not
hang
up,
did
not
want
to
sever
the
link
with
Ida
that
this
woman
embodied.
After
all,
the
kiosk
was
where
Ida
had
been
going.
Once
more
she
stared
out
into
the
road.
The
cars
were
few
and
far
between.
The
afternoon
rush
was
over.
"When
she
turns
up,"
she
tried,
"please
tell
her
I’m
waiting."
Silence
once
again.
The
woman
in
the
kiosk
wanted
to
help,
but
did
not
know
how.
How
awful,
she
thought,
having
to
say
no.
When
she
needed
a
yes.
Helga
Joner
hung
up.
A
new
era
had
begun.
A
creeping,
unpleasant
shift
that
brought
about
a
change
in
the
light,
in
the
temperature,
in
the
landscape
outside.
Trees
and
bushes
stood
lined
up
like
militant
soldiers.
Suddenly
she
noticed
how
the
sky,
which
had
not
released
rain
for
weeks,
had
filled
with
dark,
dense
clouds.
When
had
that
happened?
Her
heart
was
pounding
hard
and
it
hurt;
she
could
hear
the
clock
on
the
wall
ticking
mechanically.
She
had
always
thought
of
seconds
as
tiny
metallic
dots;
now
they
turned
into
heavy
black
drops
and
she
felt
them
fall
one
by
one.
She
looked
at
her
hands;
they
were
chapped
and
wrinkled.
No
longer
the
hands
of
a
young
woman.
She
had
become
a
mother
late
in
life
and
had
just
turned
forty-nine.
Suddenly
her
fear
turned
into
anger
and
she
reached
for
the
telephone
once
more.
There
was
so
much
she
could
do:
Ida
had
friends
and
family
in
the
area.
Helga
had
a
sister,
Ruth,
and
her
sister
had
a
twelve-year-old
daughter,
Marion,
and
an
eighteen-year-old
son,
Tomme,
Ida’s
cousins.
Ida’s
father,
who
lived
on
his
own,
had
two
brothers
in
town,
Ida’s
uncles,
both
of
whom
were
married
and
had
four
children
in
total.
They
were
family.
Ida
could
be
with
any
of
them.
But
they
would
have
called.
Helga
hesitated.
Friends
first,
she
thought.
Therese.
Or
Kjersti,
perhaps.
Ida
also
spent
time
with
Richard,
a
twelve-year-old
boy
from
the
neighborhood,
who
had
a
horse.
She
found
the
contact
sheet
for
her
daughter’s
classmates
stuck
on
the
fridge:
it
listed
everyone’s
name
and
number.
She
started
at
the
top,
with
Kjersti.
"No,
sorry,
Ida’s
not
here."
The
other
woman’s
concern,
her
anxiety
and
sympathy,
which
concluded
with
the
reassuring
words,
"She’ll
turn
up,
you
know
what
kids
are
like,"
tormented
and
haunted
her.
"Yes,"
Helga
lied.
But
she
did
not
know.
Ida
was
never
late.
No
one
was
home
at
Therese’s.
She
spoke
to
Richard’s
father,
who
told
her
his
son
had
gone
down
to
the
stable.
So
she
waited
while
he
went
to
look
for
him.
The
clock
on
the
wall
mocked
her,
its
constant
ticking:
she
hated
it.
Richard’s
father
came
back.
His
son
was
alone
in
the
stable.
Helga
hung
up
and
rested
for
a
while.
Her
eyes
were
drawn
to
the
window
as
if
it
were
a
powerful
magnet.
She
called
her
sister
and
crumbled
a
little
when
she
heard
her
voice.
Could
not
stand
upright
any
longer,
her
body
was
beginning
to
fail
her,
paralysis
was
setting
in.
"Get
in
your
car
straight
away,"
Ruth
said.
"Get
yourself
over
here
and
together
we’ll
drive
around
and
look
for
her.
We’ll
find
her,
you’ll
see!"
"I
know
we
will,"
Helga
said.
"But
Ida
doesn’t
have
a
key.
What
if
she
comes
back
while
we’re
out
looking
for
her?"
"Leave
the
door
open.
It’ll
be
fine,
don’t
you
worry.
She’s
probably
been
distracted
by
something.
A
fire
or
a
car
crash.
And
she’s
lost
track
of
time."
Helga
tore
open
the
door
to
the
garage.
Her
sister’s
voice
had
calmed
her
down.
A
fire,
she
thought.
Of
course.
Ida
is
staring
at
the
flames,
her
cheeks
are
flushed,
the
firemen
are
exciting
and
appealing
in
their
black
uniforms
and
yellow
helmets,
she
is
rooted
to
the
spot,
she
is
bewitched
by
the
sirens
and
the
screaming
and
the
crackling
of
the
flames.
If
there
really
were
a
fire,
I,
too,
would
be
standing
there
mesmerized
by
the
shimmering
heat.
And
besides,
everything
around
here
is
like
a
tinderbox,
it
hasn’t
rained
for
ages.
Or
a
car
crash.
She
fumbled
with
her
keys
while
she
conjured
up
the
scene.
Images
of
twisted
metal,
ambulances,
resuscitation
efforts
and
spattered
blood
rushed
through
her
mind.
No
wonder
Ida
had
lost
track
of
time!
Distracted,
she
drove
to
her
sister’s
house
in
Madseberget.
It
took
four
minutes.
She
scanned
the
sides
of
the
road
the
whole
time;
Ida
was
likely
to
appear
without
warning,
cycling
on
the
right-hand
side
as
she
should,
carefree,
safe,
and
sound.
But
she
did
not
see
her.
Still,
taking
action
felt
better.
Helga
had
to
change
gears,
steer,
and
brake;
her
body
was
occupied.
If
fate
wanted
to
hurt
her,
she
would
fight
back.
Fight
this
looming
monster
tooth
and
nail.
Ruth
was
home
alone.
Her
son,
Tom
Erik,
whom
everyone
called
Tomme,
had
just
passed
his
driving
test.
He
had
scrimped
and
scraped
together
enough
money
to
buy
an
old
Opel.
"He
practically
lives
in
it,"
Ruth
sighed.
"I
hope
to
God
he
takes
care
when
he
drives.
Marion
has
gone
to
the
library.
They
close
at
eight,
so
she’ll
be
home
soon,
but
she’ll
be
fine
on
her
own.
Sverre
is
away
on
business.
That
man’s
never
here,
I
tell
you."
She
had
her
back
to
Helga
and
was
struggling
to
put
on
her
coat
as
she
spoke
the
last
sentence.
Her
smile
was
in
place
when
she
turned
around.
"Come
on,
Helga,
let’s
go."
Copyright
©
Karin
Fossum
2002
English
translation
copyright
©
Charlotte
Barslund
2007
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