by Jo Nesbo
He sniffed at the marker pen and raised a surprised eyebrow.
Waaler put up his hand. Aune nodded.
‘What sentence is apportioned is very interesting,’ Waaler began, ‘but first we have to catch him. Have you any practical advice we can use?’
‘Are you crazy? I’m a psychologist, aren’t I?’
Laughter. Aune, gratified, bows.
‘Yes, I’ll be coming to that, Inspector Waaler. Let me first say that if any of you are already becoming impatient, you have a tough time ahead of you. From experience, nothing takes as long as catching a serial killer. If they are the wrong type, at any rate.’
‘What’s the wrong type?’ It was Magnus Skarre’s question.
‘First of all, let’s have a look at how the people who draw up psychological profiles for the FBI distinguish between psychopaths and sociopaths. The psychopath is often a maladjusted individual without a job, without any education, with a criminal record and a variety of social problems. Unlike the sociopath, who is intelligent, apparently successful and living a normal life. The psychopath stands out and easily falls under suspicion, whereas the sociopath can disappear in the crowd. It always comes as quite a shock to neighbours and friends when a sociopath is uncovered. I was talking to a psychologist who works as a profiler for the FBI and she told me that the first thing she considered was the timing of the killings. Killing takes time of course. A useful lead for her was whether the killings had taken place on weekdays, at weekends or on national holidays. The latter would suggest that the killer had a job and would increase the likelihood that you were dealing with a sociopath.’
‘So if our man kills during the national holidays it suggests that he has a job and is a sociopath?’ Beate Lønn asked.
‘It is somewhat premature to draw such conclusions of course, but taking that into account with what we already know, perhaps. Is that practical enough for you?’
‘Practical, yes,’ Waaler said, ‘but it’s also bad news if I read you right?’
‘Correct. Our man looks a lot like the wrong type of serial killer. The sociopath.’
Aune gave the gathering a couple of seconds to let that sink in before going on.
‘According to the American psychologist, Joel Norris, the serial killer goes through a mental process involving six phases with each killing. The first is called the aura phase where the person gradually loses their grip on reality. The totem phase, the fifth phase, is the killing itself, the serial killer’s climax, or, to be more precise, the anticlimax, because the killing is never able to fulfil the hopes and expectations of catharsis and purification that the killer associates with the taking of a life. That’s why the killer goes straight into the sixth phase, the depressed phase. This in turn leads into a new aura phase in which he builds himself up, ready for the next killing.’
‘Round and round in circles then,’ said Bjarne Møller, who had crept in unnoticed and was standing by the door. ‘Like a perpetuum mobile.’
‘Except that a perpetual motion machine repeats the operations without any changes,’ Aune said. ‘However, the serial killer goes through a process that changes his behaviour over the long term. Characterised, fortunately, by a decreasing level of control, but, unfortunately, also by an increasing level of brutality. The first murder is always the one that is most difficult to recover from and thus the so-called cooling-down period afterwards is also the longest. It produces a long aura phase in which he builds himself up for the next killing and he gives himself a good long time to plan it. If the killer has taken a great deal of care with details at the scene of a crime, if the rituals have been carried out with precision and the risk of discovery is small, it suggests that he is still at the beginning of the process. In this phase he is perfecting his technique to become even more efficient. This is the worst phase for the people trying to catch him. However, after he has killed a few times, the cooling-down periods typically become shorter and shorter. He has less time to plan, the murder scenes are messier, the rituals less neatly performed and he takes greater risks. All of this indicates that his frustration is growing. Or let me put it another way, that his thirst for blood is escalating. He loses self-control and is easier to catch. But if at this time attempts to capture him fail, he can be frightened off and he will stop killing for a while. In this way he has time to calm down and he will begin at the beginning again. I hope these examples are not too depressing?’
‘We’re surviving,’ Waaler said. ‘Could you say a little about this particular case?’
‘Fine,’ Aune replied. ‘Here we have three premeditated murders –’
‘Two!’ It was Skarre again. ‘For the time being, Lisbeth Barli is only reported missing.’
‘Three murders,’ Aune said. ‘Believe me, young man.’
Some of the policemen exchanged glances. Skarre seemed to want to say something, but then changed his mind. Aune continued.
‘The three murders have been committed with the same number of days between each one. And the ritual of mutilation and decorating the body has been carried out in all three cases. He cuts off one finger and compensates by giving the victim a diamond. Compensation is, by the way, a familiar feature with this kind of brutality, typical of killers who have been brought up according to strict moral principles. Perhaps this is a lead you can follow up since there is not much morality left in homes around Norway.’
No laughter.
Aune sighed.
‘It’s called gallows humour. I’m not trying to be cynical and my points could probably be better made, but I am trying not to let this case bury me before we have even started. I recommend you do the same. Anyway, in this particular case, the intervals between the killings and the fact that rituals are being performed indicate self-control and an early phase.’
Someone cleared their throat gently.
‘Yes, Harry?’ Aune said.
‘Choice of victim and place,’ Harry said.
Aune rubbed his index finger against his chin, considered for a moment and nodded.
‘You’re right, Harry.’
Others round the table exchanged enquiring looks.
‘Right about what?’ Skarre called out.
‘The choice of victim and place suggests the opposite,’ Aune said. ‘That the murderer is moving quickly into the phase where he loses control and begins to kill indiscriminately.’
‘How so?’ Møller asked.
Harry talked without looking up from the table.
‘The first shooting, of Camilla Loen, took place in a flat where she lived alone. The killer could go in and out without any risk of being caught or identified. He could carry out the killing and the rituals without being disturbed, but he’s already taking chances when he goes for the second victim. He kidnaps Lisbeth Barli in the middle of a residential area, in broad daylight, probably using a car, and obviously a car has a number plate. The third killing is of course a pure lottery – in the ladies’ lavatory in an office area. True, it’s after normal office hours, but there are so many people around that luck has to be with him if he’s not to be caught or at least identified.’
Møller turned towards Aune.
‘So what’s the conclusion?’
‘That we can’t conclude anything,’ Aune said. ‘The most we can assume is that he is a well-integrated sociopath. And we don’t know whether he’s about to go bananas or whether he is still in control of himself.’
‘What can we hope for?’
‘One scenario is that we are about to witness a bloodbath, but there is a chance that we might nab him as he’ll be taking risks. The other scenario is that there will be longer intervals between each murder, but all our experience tells us that we will not manage to capture him in the foreseeable future. Make your own choice.’
‘But where shall we begin to look?’ Møller asked.
‘If I believed my statistics-minded colleagues I would say among bedwetters, animal tormentors, rapists and pyromaniacs, particularly pyrom
aniacs. But I don’t believe them. Unfortunately I have no alternative idols, so I suppose the answer is: I have no idea.’
Aune put the top on his marker pen. The silence was oppressive.
Tom Waaler jumped up.
‘OK, folks. We’ve got a bit to do. To begin with, I want everyone we have talked to so far to be interviewed again. I want all convicted murderers checked out and I want a review of all the criminals who have been convicted of rape or arson.’
Harry observed Waaler as he delegated assignments, noted his efficiency and self-assurance, the speed and flexibility with which he dealt with relevant, practical objections, his strength of mind and decisiveness when the objections were not relevant.
The clock above the door showed 9.15. The day had hardly begun and Harry already felt drained of energy, like an old, dying lion who hung back from the pack when once he could have challenged the leader. Not that he had ever nurtured ambitions of leading the pack, but things had taken a nosedive anyway. All he could do was lie low and hope that someone would throw him a bone.
And someone had thrown him a bone. A big one.
The muffled acoustics in the small interview rooms gave Harry the feeling he was talking into a duvet.
‘I import hearing aids,’ the short, stout man said, running his hand down his silk tie. A discreet gold tiepin held his tie in place against the white shirt.
‘Hearing aids?’ Harry repeated, looking down at the interview sheet which Tom Waaler had given him. In the box for his name the man had written André Clausen and under profession, Private Businessman.
‘Have you got hearing problems?’ Clausen asked. Harry couldn’t decide whether this sarcasm was being directed towards himself or whether Clausen was being ironic.
‘Mm. So you were at Halle, Thune and Wetterlid’s to talk about hearing aids?’
‘I just wanted an evaluation of an agency contract. One of your kind colleagues took a copy of it yesterday afternoon.’
‘This?’ Harry pointed to a folder.
‘Exactly.’
‘I was looking at it just now. It was signed and dated two years ago. Is it going to be renewed?’
‘No. I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t being conned.’
‘Only now?’
‘Better late than never.’
‘Haven’t you got your own solicitor?’
‘Yes, but he’s getting on, I’m afraid.’ There was the flash of a gold filling when Clausen smiled and continued speaking. ‘I asked for an introductory meeting to hear what this firm of solicitors could offer.’
‘And you agreed this meeting before the weekend? With a firm which specialises in debt collection?’
‘I only realised that in the course of the meeting. That is, the short while we had before all the uproar.’
‘But if you’re looking for a new solicitor, you must have arranged meetings with several,’ Harry said. ‘Can you tell us which ones?’
Harry didn’t look at André Clausen’s face. That wasn’t where a lie would reveal itself. Harry had known immediately they met that Clausen was one of those people who didn’t like his facial expression to reveal what he was thinking. Possibly because of shyness, possibly because his profession required a poker face or possibly because, in his past, self-control had been seen as an essential virtue. Accordingly, Harry kept an eye open for other signs, such as if his hand came up from his lap to stroke his tie again. It didn’t. Clausen just sat looking at Harry. He wasn’t staring, but his eyelids were heavy as if he found the situation irritating, just a little tedious.
‘Most solicitors I rang didn’t want to arrange a meeting until after the holidays,’ Clausen said. ‘Halle, Thune and Wetterlid were a great deal more obliging. Tell me: Am I under suspicion for anything?’
‘Everyone is under suspicion,’ Harry said.
‘Fair enough.’
Clausen said this in English with a precise BBC accent.
‘I’ve noticed that you have a slight accent.’
‘Oh? I’ve travelled a lot in recent years. Perhaps that’s why.’
‘Where do you travel to?’
‘In point of fact, mostly inside Norway. I visit hospitals and institutions. Otherwise I’m often in Switzerland, at the factory where they manufacture the hearing aids. The way products are advancing you have to keep up to date professionally.’
Again this indefinable sarcasm in the tone of his voice.
‘Are you married? Have you got a family?’
‘If you look at the form your colleague filled in, you’ll see I haven’t.’
Harry looked at the form.
‘Yes, I see. So you live on your own . . . let’s see . . . in Gimle terrasse?’
‘No,’ Clausen said. ‘I live with Truls.’
‘Exactly. I know.’
‘Do you?’ Clausen smiled, his eyelids sinking a little lower. ‘Truls is a golden retriever.’
Harry could feel a headache coming on behind his eyes. A look at his list showed that he had four interviews before lunch, and five after. He didn’t have the energy to trade blows with them all.
He asked Clausen to tell him again what had happened, from the time he entered the building in Carl Berners plass until the police arrived.
‘More than gladly,’ he said, yawning.
Harry sat back in the chair as Clausen, fluently and with self-confidence, told him how he had arrived by taxi, taken the lift up and, after a brief exchange with the receptionist, had waited for five or six minutes for her to return with the water. When she didn’t come back, he wandered through to the offices and found Mr Halle’s nameplate on his door.
Harry saw from Waaler’s notes that Halle had confirmed the time Clausen knocked on the door as 5.05.
‘Did you see anyone go into or come out of the Ladies?’
‘I couldn’t see the door from where I was waiting in reception. And I didn’t see anyone on the way in or out when I went to the office. In fact, I have repeated this several times now.’
‘And there will be even more times,’ Harry said, yawning aloud and running his hand across his face. At that moment Magnus Skarre knocked on the window of the interview room and held up his wristwatch. Harry recognised Wetterlid standing behind him. Harry nodded in assent and cast a last look at his interview sheet.
‘It says here that you didn’t see any suspicious persons coming into or leaving reception while you were sitting there.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Well, thank you very much for your cooperation thus far,’ Harry said, putting the sheet in the folder and pressing the stop button on the tape recorder. ‘We’ll certainly contact you again.’
‘No suspicious persons,’ Clausen said, getting up.
‘What?’
‘I said that I didn’t see anyone suspicious in reception, but there was the cleaning lady who came in and went into the offices.’
‘Yes, we’ve talked to her. She says she went straight into the kitchen and didn’t see anyone.’
Harry got up and ran his eye down the list. The next interview was at 10.15 in room four.
‘And the courier of course,’ Clausen said.
‘Courier?’
‘Yes. He went out through the front door just before I went to look for the solicitor. Must have delivered something or picked something up. Why are you looking at me like that, Inspector? A standard courier in solicitors’ offices is, quite frankly, not particularly suspicious.’
Half an hour later, after checking with the firm of solicitors and several courier companies in Oslo, Harry was clear about one thing: no-one had registered the delivery or collection of anything at all at the offices of Halle, Thune & Wetterlid on Monday.
Two hours after Clausen had left Police HQ, just before the sun reached its peak, he was picked up at his office and brought back to describe the courier again.
He couldn’t tell them very much: height around one metre 80; average build. Clausen had not exactly studied the man�
�s physical details. He considered that sort of thing both uninteresting and inappropriate for men, he said, and repeated that the courier was wearing what bike couriers usually wear: a yellow and black cycle shirt in some tight-fitting material, shorts and cycling shoes which clicked even when he walked on the carpet. His face was masked by the helmet and sunglasses.
‘His mouth?’ Harry asked.
‘White cloth covering his mouth,’ Clausen said. ‘Like Michael Jackson uses. I thought bike couriers wore them to protect themselves from inhaling exhaust fumes.’
‘In New York and Tokyo, yes. This is Oslo.’
Clausen shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, it didn’t strike me as unusual.’
Clausen was given leave to go and Harry went to Tom Waaler’s office. Waaler was sitting with the phone to his ear, mumbling uh-huh and m-hm when Harry walked in.
‘I think I’ve got an idea how the killer got into Camilla Loen’s flat,’ Harry said.
Tom Waaler put down the phone without finishing the conversation.
‘There’s a video camera connected to the intercom at the main entrance to the block where she lived, isn’t there?’
‘Yes . . . ?’ Waaler leaned forwards.
‘Who can ring any bell, stick a masked face up into the camera and still be fairly sure that they’ll be let in?’
‘Father Christmas?’
‘Hardly, but you would let in a person carrying an express package or a bunch of flowers, a courier, wouldn’t you.’
Waaler pressed the engaged button on his phone.
‘Just a little over four minutes passed from the moment Clausen arrived until he saw the courier leave through reception. A courier runs in, delivers and runs out again, he doesn’t spend four minutes hanging about.’
