Smoke Screen

by Jorn Lier Horst

  It was silent on the other end.

  ‘You have to work … now?’

  The sound of sirens erupted somewhere in the distance. Emma walked to the window, looked out.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave, not right now.’

  She was about to say that Kasper would have understood, but chose not to. Even though she didn’t explicitly say it, Emma could hear that Asta Bjerringbo was disappointed, sad.

  ‘Maybe I can find some time a little later?’ Emma offered.

  ‘We had hoped that you might want to come back with us, to Denmark,’ Asta said. ‘With Kasper. His coffin will travel back on the plane tonight too. The Norwegian police have organised everything. I asked them to book a seat for you as well. His brother, and the rest of the family, would like to meet you.’

  ‘I understand,’ Emma said. ‘This is … all a bit sudden. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Asta thanked her and hung up.

  Emma took a deep breath and tried to shake off her guilt. She checked the box of sleeping pills to see if there was any information about how long they worked for, but there wasn’t. She could check online, but couldn’t be bothered. Instead, she walked into the bedroom, took off her wig, undressed and crawled under the duvet.

  56

  Tine Abelvik stood waiting outside Amy Linh’s flat on Sars gate. Kovic used the keys they had found at the crime scene to let them into the building. They stamped the snow off their boots and allowed the door to close slowly behind them. The smell that met them was something like a mixture of wet dog and oriental spices. There was a pram partially blocking the staircase. Eight post boxes were fastened to the wall in two perfectly straight rows. Bright red, as if brand new. Kovic found Amy Linh’s name and, with her phone, took a few photos of the names of the other residents.

  ‘We should talk to all of them,’ she said. ‘See if anyone knows anything.’

  Abelvik nodded.

  It wasn’t the first time Kovic had been inside the home of a person who had recently died. As a single woman, she was not unfamiliar with the silence that could fill an empty flat, but there was something about a home to which the owner would never return. A different kind of emptiness. It was charged, more powerful. It was in the walls and the ceiling, almost as if they knew that someone was gone, as if they were grieving for them.

  Amy Linh’s flat was small and cramped, with parquet laminate flooring and walls painted white. A red-and-blue raincoat hung on a hook closest to the entrance, next to a black umbrella with a broken rib poking out. Hats, mittens and scarves had been scrunched up and tucked away in a basket on the floor. Lined up beside the basket were a pair of wellies, ankle boots, one of which had a hole in the toe, and some trainers that looked like they might have been white once.

  A tame yet inquisitive meow was followed by the pitter-patter of paws against the laminate flooring and the appearance of a black cat from out of the kitchen. It stopped in the doorway, as if it were scrutinising the visitors. Kovic bent down and tried to lure it over, but the cat just stared at her warily, before it turned and walked back into the kitchen.

  Kovic straightened up. ‘Let’s see what we can find,’ she said.

  Abelvik started in the hallway, making her way towards the bedroom, while Kovic took the kitchen. There was a receipt stuck to the fridge, one of those vouchers from the plastic-bottle recycling machines that you could claim some money back with. She mustn’t have had the chance to cash it in. Magnetic letter tiles – some had been organised into a few well-chosen words, the rest scattered randomly across the fridge. A handwritten recipe. A credit note from a clothing shop. Tickets to see an Icelandic artist in concert in a few months’ time. A photo of an older Asian woman sat on a staircase outside a dilapidated house; she didn’t seem particularly happy to be photographed.

  The kitchen reminded Kovic of her own. A half-loaded dishwasher, a used saucepan left to soak in the sink. A strip of tablets, ibuprofen, had been left on the counter. A bowl of clementines. A book with what she presumed were Vietnamese recipes. Perched on the windowsill were several pot plants and a rustic candlestick with the candle almost burned down to the wick. A tall jar with kitchen utensils stood below.

  What Kovic was looking for was something that could tell her what Amy Linh had been up to over the last few days, and who she had spent that time with. Everything was of interest. A receipt from a restaurant, a cinema ticket, a note with a phone number.

  Kovic’s gaze travelled across the room, up and down, side to side, slowly, as she had learned during her training, but not too slowly either, as Blix had instilled in her. She had to let her first impression form by itself, to trust it. Even though Amy Linh’s flat wasn’t exactly a crime scene, the principle was the same. Let her instincts lead her, at first. And then proceed methodologically.

  The cat had settled next to an empty food bowl under the table. Kovic glanced around for something she could give it, but couldn’t see anything obvious. She looked up and noticed a calendar fastened to the wall. Amy Linh’s plans for the month had been written across it in various colours. An appointment with the chiropractor, 9th of January. ELENA had turned twenty-eight at the beginning of the month – a drawing of a blue balloon accompanied that entry. Amy Linh was supposed to start yoga classes next Tuesday. She was also meant to attend a writing course for beginners on a Monday later in the month. And every Sunday, written throughout the entire calendar, was a note to remind her to call her mother.

  Kovic moved on into the living room, where she met Abelvik.

  ‘No trace of any visitors,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t even own a single sex toy.’

  Kovic let her eyes wander while Abelvik spoke.

  ‘Only one toothbrush in the bathroom. She was healthy too, from what it seems. No medicines in the cabinet, other than the usual. Plasters, paracetamol.’

  There were even more plants on the floor in the living room. A TV stood on top of a small, white stand. A large amateur painting hung on the wall behind it. The painting depicted a small boat, full of people, in the midst of a violent storm. Amy Linh had several bookshelves too, mostly holding foreign literature.

  On one of the small coffee tables, next to the armchair, was a used cup and a notebook with a pen attached to it. Kovic sat down, imagining that she were Amy Linh. She picked up the notebook and browsed through it, realising immediately that it had been well-used. It was full of journal entries, written in neat handwriting.

  Kovic flipped to the final page, dated the day before Amy Linh had been murdered. The entry consisted of a few notes.

  Why alone at the hotel? For days, behind a locked door?

  – secret lover(s)

  – hiding from someone

  – taking some time off

  – has done something bad

  There were several other entries made up of questions about, and descriptions of, various guests from the hotel. The kind of life she imagined they had, details of the clothes they had packed, the things they had bought, the receipts from places they had visited. Considering the way Amy Linh wrote about the guests, there was little to suggest that she had actually interviewed any of them. In some instances, she described them right down to the moles on their faces, and even the size of shoe she thought they might wear. She had included no names.

  Kovic showed Abelvik the last entry.

  ‘She was going to start a writing course,’ Kovic added. ‘These look like writing exercises.’

  Abelvik had a brief flick through the notebook.

  ‘It’s good she had a cat,’ she commented. ‘There wasn’t much else going on in her life.’

  Kovic looked around. There was a laptop on the floor, next to a stack of books. She picked it up.

  ‘Can you take this and the notebook back to HQ?’ she said as she stood up. ‘Maybe they’ll provide us with something to go on.’

  ‘What’s the next step?’

  ‘The hotel she worked at,’ Kovic answered. ‘I
f her life was as lonely as it looks, her colleagues were probably the people who knew her best.’

  57

  The questioning of Sophus Ahlander had taken almost five hours. It had been an exhausting exercise in concentration. A headache had begun to pulse behind Blix’s right eye. He was going to have to try and find a few painkillers, and something to eat.

  The door to Gard Fosse’s office was closed. Blix knocked and popped his head in, without waiting for an answer. The room was empty.

  He needed to confirm whether the search dogs were on their way to Undrumsåsen. Then he would have to get down there himself. It was eerily quiet in the spacious, open-plan office. Neither Wibe nor Abelvik were there. One junior investigator was busy on the phone, another appeared to be engrossed in something on their computer screen. Other than those two, the place was completely empty.

  Blix grabbed a spotted apple that someone had left on a plate, took a bite out of it and headed back to his desk. He picked up the phone to call Oslo Prison, and asked to speak to Christer Storm Isaksen.

  ‘What is it?’ Isaksen asked the second the line was connected. ‘Has something happened?’

  The line crackled. Blix pressed the phone closer to his ear.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It … There is something. And I didn’t want you to find out about it on the news. We … have arrested someone. He’s been charged for kidnapping Patricia.’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you there?’ Blix asked eventually.

  ‘Who?’ Isaksen enquired.

  Blix hesitated. He knew the question would come, but had decided to withhold the details for now.

  ‘One of Ruth-Kristine’s old acquaintances,’ he replied.

  ‘So I was right,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘She was in on it.’

  ‘There is certainly a lot of evidence to point to that,’ Blix said. ‘But there are a lot of questions we still need to find answers for.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Isaksen interrupted. ‘Did he say what he did to her?’

  ‘He took her and looked after her for a few days until Ruth-Kristine took over. He doesn’t know what happened after that. Ruth-Kristine might be the only person who does know.’

  ‘And where is she?’

  ‘We’re looking for her. She’s missing.’

  He could hear Isaksen’s ragged breathing on the other end of the line.

  ‘Her fingerprints were on the photo,’ Blix continued. ‘Along with prints belonging to several other people.’

  ‘Did she deliver it then?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Blix admitted. ‘We don’t know anything other than the fact that her fingerprints were on the photo.’

  Silence again. The sound of Isaksen’s shallow breathing.

  ‘You have to talk to Jette Djurholm,’ he said suddenly. ‘She was Ruth-Kristine’s alibi the day Patricia disappeared. Now you know that Ruth-Kristine was involved in the kidnapping. Maybe Djurholm was involved too.’

  Blix understood where he was coming from. There were recordings of Ruth-Kristine and Jette Djurholm together that day, from one of the CCTV cameras at the shopping centre, captured at the same time Patricia had been kidnapped. That had obviously been a part of Ruth-Kristine’s plan, but it didn’t necessarily mean that Djurholm knew anything.

  ‘We’ll talk to her,’ Blix assured him.

  ‘She has to know something,’ Isaksen persisted. ‘She might know where Patricia is.’

  Blix could hear in Isaksen’s voice just how much the news had affected him.

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you over the phone,’ Blix said. ‘I should have let you know face-to-face, but I haven’t—’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Isaksen interrupted.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘The man you arrested. Who is it?’

  ‘We have to wait to—’

  ‘Is it Sophus Ahlander?’

  Blix was taken aback.

  ‘How—?’

  ‘Just answer the question – is it him?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No. Is it him?’

  Blix couldn’t help but tell him the truth.

  ‘It’s him, he’s the person we’ve arrested,’ he confirmed. ‘But there is still a lot we don’t know. How do you know about Sophus Ahlander?’

  He was quiet for a moment.

  ‘A journalist was here,’ Isaksen answered. ‘She mentioned him.’

  Emma, Blix thought. The information had come full circle.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I have to hang up now. I just wanted to let you know.’

  ‘Find her,’ Isaksen begged him. ‘Just find Patricia. She’s alive, I am sure of it.’

  58

  Despite the old-fashioned name, Hotel Gyldenløve was a modern hotel with a colourful interior.

  Kovic joined the queue for the reception desk, behind a German couple checking in. When it was her turn, she discreetly revealed her ID card to the receptionist and asked to speak to the hotel manager.

  The man behind the desk nodded, lifted the receiver and pushed one of the keys. It only took a few seconds before he said in a hushed voice, ‘The police are here, they want to speak with you.’

  Kovic could just about hear the man’s voice on the other end of the phone. She could tell that he was surprised, but couldn’t hear what he said. The receptionist answered yes twice, before hanging up.

  ‘He’s on the third floor with the caretaker at the moment, but he will be down soon.’

  It took all of one minute, before a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the lift. His name tag only displayed his surname – Rønning – but he introduced himself by his first name: ‘Theodor,’ he said with a friendly handshake. ‘But everyone calls me Teddy.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we could talk in private?’ Kovic asked.

  ‘We can use my office,’ he said, pointing to a small room to the side of the reception.

  Kovic followed him in and closed the door. All that separated them from the guests in the lobby was a glass wall with one frosted strip at chest-height running along the length of it.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Rønning asked before he sat down.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Kovic replied, taking a seat on the other side of the desk. ‘I’m here about a suspicious death.’

  Rønning tilted his head.

  ‘One of your employees was found dead early this morning,’ Kovic continued. ‘Amy Linh.’

  Rønning’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Amy,’ he said. ‘How…?’

  ‘She was probably killed yesterday afternoon or evening,’ Kovic continued. ‘We need to know where she was and what she was doing before then.’

  Rønning looked stunned.

  ‘I spoke to her yesterday,’ he spluttered. ‘She was at work.’

  ‘Do you know what time she went home?’

  ‘Her shift ended at four o’clock, but I don’t know if that’s when she left. We don’t have a clock-in, clock-out system here.’

  ‘What has her behaviour been like recently?’

  Rønning paused.

  ‘I’m not quite sure I understand the question?’

  ‘Could something have happened to her here that may have led to her death?’

  Rønning thought about it.

  ‘I have a hard time imagining that would be the case,’ he concluded. ‘But I’m not the one she had the most contact with.’

  ‘Who should I talk to?’

  ‘Housekeeping.’

  ‘Is there somewhere I could interview them?’

  ‘I’m sure we have an available meeting room,’ Rønning said.

  Kovic stood up. ‘Great,’ she said.

  The hotel manager found a room for her at the end of a corridor, next to the toilets. Kovic met the employees, one after the other. There were eight of them at work that day. None of them knew Amy Linh particularly well. They had no contact with her outside of work, and they were usually so busy on the job that they never really had time for small talk. T
hey didn’t know if she had a partner, didn’t know the names of any of her friends or acquaintances. All in all, they painted a picture of a woman who mainly kept to herself, who was unassuming, reserved and introverted. An innocent woman, Kovic thought as she left the hotel.

  59

  The names of towns and villages along the Oslo Fjord whistled past the car. Sande, Holmestrand, Horten. Blix was sat in the back seat, resting his head against the window. They only had about three hours of daylight left. A little longer, maybe. He pulled his phone out and dialled Merete’s number.

  ‘Are you sure you have time to talk now?’ she asked. ‘With everything going on?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t. Where are you?’

  ‘At home. Doing a bit of packing.’

  ‘For … Singapore?’

  ‘Yes, you know … we’ll be there for quite a while. A completely different country with a completely different culture. You’ve got to plan a little differently.’

  Blix had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘It was probably a bit of a surprise, finding out that I was going too?’

  ‘It certainly came as a surprise to your daughter, anyway.’

  ‘Not really, but that’s probably how she made it sound.’

  Blix didn’t have an answer for that.

  ‘So what’s going on then? Why have you decided that it’s okay to leave Iselin now, while she’s in the state she’s in?’ It came out a little harsher than he had intended.

  Merete sighed and was silent for a moment, before she began:

  ‘Firstly: Your daughter is tough, so she’s coping pretty well, given the circumstances. Secondly: I have been her mother and then some for twenty years and nine months. I’m the one who’s been there for her while you studied and worked and dealt with … your stuff.’

  ‘I have—’

  ‘Wait, I am not done. I have never, as long as I have known you or your daughter, done anything that has been just for me. The longest trip I’ve ever been on was to Budapest, and that was only for three days for work. And yes, you and I went to Copenhagen a few times, but now, for the first time, I – I – have the opportunity to go on an adventure too. Experience something. Be something other than someone’s mother or cheerleader. This is a chance for me to see some of the world for myself. And Iselin has Toralf, and you, and some friends who can take care of her, so she’s not alone. She just won’t be depending on me for once.’