‘Who?’ Blix asked. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Patricia!’ Isaksen cried. ‘I’m looking at her right now! She’s grown up. She looks about eight, I think, in the photo.’
‘What photo?’
‘It came in the post,’ Isaksen replied, agitated. ‘I just opened it.’
‘And you’re sure it’s Patricia?’
‘Yes. No doubt in my mind! Who else would it be?’
Blix bit his lower lip. ‘Who sent it?’
‘Doesn’t say. Someone left the envelope in the prison’s post box. There’s nothing else, just the photo.’
‘How do you know it’s Patricia?’ Blix repeated.
‘She’s my daughter!’ Isaksen shouted. ‘I recognise her. I knew it. I knew she was alive, all this time. I told you…’
Blix was struggling to gather his thoughts.
‘I’m coming over,’ he said eventually.
‘You can see for yourself,’ Isaksen continued. ‘She’s alive. And she’s somewhere out there. You have to find her.’
Blix ended the conversation and contacted one of the prison officers to inform them that he was on his way. He hung up and sat for a while, trying to come to terms with the growing feeling that everything was somehow connected, and trying to grasp the fact that the investigation into Patricia’s disappearance was starting to open up again.
He was about to grab his jacket from the back of his chair when Kovic came in. He filled her in about Isaksen’s phone call.
‘How can he possibly recognise her?’ she asked. ‘Patricia was only a year old when she was kidnapped.’
‘I don’t know,’ Blix said. ‘Probably wishful thinking, but with everything that happened last night, and now this, it does seem interesting. Are you coming? You said we should talk to him as soon as possible.’
Kovic nodded eagerly.
Although there was a tunnel stretching the short distance between Police Headquarters and Oslo Prison, Blix and Kovic decided to use the main entrance on Åkebergveien instead.
The high walls of the prison towered over the pavement. A glass-domed security camera was positioned next to the visitor entrance. There was a grey, steel post box fixed to the wall below it. Blix rang the bell and looked directly into the camera as he introduced himself.
It was getting dark and starting to drizzle. They stood outside and waited for a prison officer to come and let them in.
Kovic buried her hands deep into her coat pockets and peered up at the prison wall.
‘Tell me more about him,’ she said.
Blix took a deep breath and told her about the evening Patricia’s father had become a murderer. The cold rain. How they had found Isaksen, sat on a rock, staring blankly ahead of him. His bloody hands. The blue lights flashing brightly through the trees. Knut Ivar Skage sprawled on the ground below him. The dog-walkers and joggers who had started to gather around the crime scene.
‘Poor guy,’ Kovic commented. ‘Can you imagine? You wait that long for an answer, for anything, and when you think you’re close, that happens. You’re suddenly a killer. Twelve years ahead of you, under lock and key.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s almost a miracle he hasn’t killed himself in there.’
Blix had visited Christer in prison regularly during the first few years after his sentencing, mainly to update him on the investigation, but to check up on him too. He arrived each time with a guilty conscience, having failed to find Patricia. The visits had become shorter and shorter. There hadn’t been much to tell him. The investigation had come to a standstill. After each visit, Blix would leave the prison with a feeling that he was gradually contributing to another man’s destruction.
‘What was his life like, before his daughter was kidnapped?’ Kovic asked.
‘He worked for Nordea Finance, something to do with shares,’ Blix replied. ‘Made good money.’
The door buzzed as it was unlocked. A guard appeared. He let them in and took them into one of the visiting rooms.
Christer Storm Isaksen was in there already, standing in the middle of the room, waiting for them. He was unshaven. The white hairs that peppered his dark beard were sticking out at odd angles. The hair on his head was shaved short but looked as if it had been hacked at. The receding hairline and a large, shiny circle on the crown of his head made him look much older than he was. As did the deep, dark-blue bags under his eyes.
‘See!’ he exclaimed.
He handed the photo to Blix and glanced at Kovic.
Blix took it from him and held it gingerly between two fingers. It was a photo of a young girl. She had braces and chestnut hair, which had been tied up into a ponytail. Blix spent time studying it, looking back and forth between Isaksen and the photo, comparing the two faces.
He had kept a photo of Patricia tucked inside a plastic wallet beneath the mouse pad on his desk for years. He had looked at it almost every day, but couldn’t find any similarities between the photos. Other than the blue eyes.
‘I don’t know…’ he started. ‘We need to get the experts to look at it. Get them to do a forensic image analysis.’
‘You’re not her father,’ Isaksen interjected. ‘I’m telling you, it’s Patricia.’
‘Who could have sent it?’ Kovic asked.
Isaksen threw his arms up, as if to say he had no idea.
‘Someone who knows something,’ he surmised.
Blix nodded. ‘We’ll have to take this with us,’ he said. ‘Examine it for fingerprints and the like.’
An agonised expression appeared on Isaksen’s face, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that he would have to give up the photo.
‘I’ll make you a copy,’ Blix added. ‘Tonight. We just got a new photocopier in the office. You can barely tell the difference.’
Isaksen nodded. Kovic found a plastic wallet.
‘Do you still have the envelope?’ she asked.
He took it out of his back pocket and handed it to her.
‘Shall we take a seat?’ Blix suggested. ‘There’s something else we need to talk to you about.’
They each pulled up a chair in the small seating area.
‘It’s about Ruth-Kristine,’ Blix said.
Christer’s eyes flashed momentarily. ‘What’s she done?’
‘She’s in hospital.’
Christer didn’t seem to fully grasp the fact that something had happened to Patricia’s mother.
‘She’s in pretty bad shape,’ Kovic added. ‘She may not make it.’
‘We’re looking into the possibility that someone was trying to take her life,’ Blix said.
Isaksen raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘What happened?’
‘She was seriously wounded in the explosion by the harbour yesterday,’ Blix explained.
‘But that was a terrorist attack,’ Isaksen objected.
‘It may well be,’ Blix said. ‘But we’re trying to look at it from as many angles as possible.’
‘Okay, but what was Ruth-Kristine doing there?’ Isaksen pondered. ‘Outside City Hall?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Blix said.
‘Could it have something to do with the photo?’ Isaksen suggested.
‘As of right now, all we know is that she was there when the bomb went off.’
‘Alone?’
‘Looks like it,’ Blix nodded.
Isaksen shook his head. ‘That can’t be,’ he said.
‘What can’t be?’
‘Ruth-Kristine has never been anything but drunk out of her mind on New Year’s Eve. Watching the fireworks at City Hall is the last thing she’d do. That may have changed, of course. But I doubt it.’
Blix and Kovic exchanged a look before Blix asked:
‘So what do you think she was doing there?’
‘All I’m saying, is that if she happened to be there right at that particular moment, there was probably a good reason.’
‘Have you had any contact with her while yo
u’ve been here?’ Kovic asked.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Spoken to anyone about her?’
‘Not since the trial.’
Blix looked at Kovic. ‘We should get going,’ he said.
They stood up, and Blix rang the button on the intercom to let the officers know they were done.
Christer Storm Isaksen was escorted back to his cell. Blix and Kovic were accompanied to the security room to talk to the prison officer who had emptied the post box.
‘I only found it about half an hour before he called you,’ he explained.
Blix hadn’t been paying attention when he had introduced himself, so he glanced down at the officer’s ID. The name Frankmann was stitched into his shirt pocket.
‘When was the post last collected?’ Kovic asked.
Frankmann shrugged. ‘Friday, maybe?’
‘So four days ago?’
‘We don’t really have a set procedure for dealing with the post that gets delivered directly to the door, at least not over the weekend. And then it was New Year’s Eve yesterday, of course. But there was nothing else in there. Just the letter, so it probably hadn’t been there that long.’
Blix looked at the two screens behind him, both displaying live footage from the CCTV cameras. Each monitor was divided into eight smaller squares.
‘Do any of the cameras face the post box?’ he asked.
The officer clicked on the screen labelled ENTR: Family – Visits. The image was grey and grainy in the gloominess of the evening. A drop of rain was distorting the lens. It was the same camera that Blix had stared into when he and Kovic had arrived earlier. It was angled so that the visitors waiting at the entrance were captured, and very little of the people passing by on the pavement behind them was seen.
‘The post box itself isn’t actually in the frame,’ Frankmann said. ‘But whoever puts something in there should be caught by the camera.’
‘Was the camera running?’
Frankmann nodded. ‘I’m not an expert,’ he admitted. ‘But I can have a look.’
He navigated through the recording and found the footage of himself emptying the post box. From there, he began rewinding. A few pedestrians hurried by in both directions. Those who carried on walking to the end of the road were only seen from the waist down.
‘Has Isaksen had many visitors lately?’ Kovic asked without taking her eyes off the screen.
‘No,’ Frankmann answered. ‘I don’t think he has anyone on his visitor list. No one’s been here since his mother died.’
A cyclist appeared, peddling backwards into the frame. He stopped, bent down and checked the hub on the rear wheel, then rode on.
‘Has he made any contacts in here?’ Kovic carried on.
‘Isaksen pretty much just keeps to himself,’ Frankmann replied. ‘Why?’
Blix understood that she hadn’t given up on the theory that Christer Storm Isaksen may have had someone try and murder Ruth-Kristine for him.
‘Has anyone been released recently who he was particularly friendly with?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been his contact officer for six years,’ Frankmann replied. ‘I think I might be the only one he talks to in here.’
‘Has he ever said anything about Patricia’s mother?’
Frankmann didn’t answer.
‘There!’ he exclaimed instead, pointing at the screen.
Blix couldn’t see anything other than a shadow. Frankmann pressed a few keys and played the recording at normal speed.
The time indicated the photo had been delivered just thirty-seven minutes before Frankmann had found it. Someone’s back appeared at the very edge of the frame. Then a shoulder and an arm. The person stood almost exactly where they had seen Frankmann standing when he had opened the post box.
The person was wearing a dark waterproof coat. They could see just enough of the back of their head to tell that they had a hood pulled up. Then they disappeared.
‘Well, that must be the person we’re looking for; they were right next to the post box,’ Kovic commented.
Frankmann clicked back through the recording and stopped on the image that had most of the person’s body in the shot. It was impossible to say anything about their height or gender.
Blix took a photo of the screen. ‘We’ll need all of the recordings from that evening,’ he said.
‘That’ll have to be done by the day shift tomorrow,’ Frankmann said.
Kovic got up. ‘We’ll also need a list of all the inmates Isaksen has served with over the last six months,’ she said. ‘And a log of his phone calls.’
‘We’ll need a warrant in that case,’ Frankmann replied.
‘It’s on its way,’ Kovic assured him.
They thanked him for his help, and he escorted them out. It had stopped raining and the temperature had plummeted. The pavement was covered with a thin sheet of ice. Blix walked cautiously and cast a glance behind him, up at the grey walls of the prison. He tugged his jacket collar up to his chin and bowed his head against the bitter wind.
15
It had been a New Year’s Day tradition for as long as Emma could remember, eating the rest of the pinnekjøtt from the night before with her sister. They would always take turns hosting the festivities, and this time it had fallen on Irene.
The plan had originally been for Emma and Kasper to arrive together at six o’clock that evening, but with all that had happened, Emma had no intention of going. Irene had called once she had finished her shift at work, and while Emma had been in the middle of telling her that she wouldn’t be joining them, Martine had snatched the phone out of Irene’s hand and insisted that Emma had to come. Regardless of how she felt, it had been impossible to say no.
It was her niece who opened the door when she arrived a short while later. As always, she threw her arms around Emma’s neck.
‘Hi, Sweetie,’ Emma said, hugging her tight. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she murmured into her hair.
It was one of the best hugs Emma had ever had.
She stepped into the hallway and let go of Martine. Irene emerged from the kitchen and made her way down the hallway to them. The sisters stood there for a moment, staring at each other. It was all Emma could do to keep from crying. Irene took a step closer and pulled her in tight. They stayed like that for quite a while. Emma held back the tears.
‘Martine doesn’t know,’ Irene whispered. ‘I thought you might want to tell her yourself, or … not say anything at all.’
Emma sniffed as they parted.
‘Are you hungry?’ Irene asked.
The smell of traditional pinnekjøtt always made Emma hungry.
‘There’s loads of leftovers,’ her sister assured her.
Martine came back into the hallway with the TV remote in her hand. ‘Can we watch a film?’ she asked.
‘Maybe after we’ve eaten,’ Irene said, looking at Emma.
‘As long as it’s not a sad film,’ she said. ‘I can’t deal with that today.’
‘Ice Age?’ Martine suggested. ‘I know that makes you laugh.’
‘True,’ Emma replied with a smile. ‘All of that series make me laugh, even though the last two were pretty rubbish.’
Martine cheered, and disappeared back into the living room. Emma followed her sister into the kitchen. Irene lifted the lid from the pan of pinnekjøtt and had a quick peek inside.
‘Nearly there,’ she announced and sat down at the table, opposite Emma. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Irene finally spoke:
‘He was a great guy.’
Emma nodded. ‘He was.’
She had visited Kasper twice in Copenhagen, but this was his third trip to Oslo. She had been sure that he had felt something for her, but she had been a lot less sure about how she felt about him. In the days leading up to New Year’s Eve, she had really just wanted to be alone. It wasn’t that she wanted to be single, she just preferred her own company, preferred to make her own plans, to see to her ow
n needs. Whether that was because the relationship had started to progress a little, that it had become more serious, or because she had simply started to tire of him, she wasn’t sure. They hadn’t talked about the future.
‘Have you spoken to his parents?’ Irene asked.
‘Briefly,’ Emma nodded. ‘Earlier today.’
‘How did that go…?’
‘It was … awful. Completely awful. They were fine, of course. With me, I mean. Said that it was all just an unbelievable coincidence. A terrible accident.’
‘They’re not wrong,’ Irene said. ‘You can’t blame yourself for his death, Emma. Nothing good will come of that.’
That’s what Kasper’s father had said, too.
‘They invited me to Denmark,’ Emma said, shaking her head. ‘If I wanted to go and … just stay with them for a while.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
‘That there’s not a chance in hell of me going.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because…’
She thought about it.
‘I’m not good at being in other people’s homes. Overnight. I get uncomfortable, especially when I don’t know them very well.’
‘Because of the wig?’
‘Because of everything,’ Emma replied. ‘I don’t know them, and I don’t really have a connection to them anymore.’
‘I just think that it might be good for you, to go. Have a break from work for a while and get out of here. Process everything that’s happened, from a distance.’
‘But I wouldn’t exactly be distancing myself if I’m staying with his family,’ Emma argued.
‘I meant geographically,’ Irene said. ‘Distance yourself from your life here.’
Emma shook her head again. ‘I have too much to do.’
Irene was about to say something, but chose to return to the stove instead. She stirred the pot of mashed swede and took the potatoes off the heat, tipped them into a colander. The steam rising out of the sink engulfed her face.
She walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of aquavit and two cans of beer. Carlsberg. They had been drinking another brand the night before.
‘I thought we should have some Danish beer tonight,’ she said.
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