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The Wetsuitman

The Wetsuitman
A gale was blowing from the south-west as the elderly architect put on his jacket and rubber boots and went to face the elements. Down in the bay, four metre high waves crashed against the cliffs and sent sea spray hundreds of metres across the grazing land at Norway’s southernmost tip. The first thing the architect noticed when he approached the sea was a wetsuit. It lay stretched out on the small patch of grass between the cliffs, right outside the reach of the waves. “That might be useful,” the architect thought. It was rare for him or anyone else in the village to take a walk down there. He could smell seaweed and the sea and a faint, sickly scent of something else. The wetsuit was the Triboard brand. Sherriff Kåre Unnhammer from Farsund police station is an authoritative figure with large serious eyes, a big moustache and gold teeth that gleam when he speaks. “This is a peaceful place,” says Unnhammer. He turns to his computer and reads from the log. John Welzenbagh knew this. “No.

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