by Samuel Bjork
‘Listen, I’m a bit busy right now, Gabriel. I’ll call you if I think of anything, OK?’
‘OK,’ Gabriel said, and rang off.
Mia would have given anything to be able to sleep, but she shook off her irritation about it. Ordered a cup of coffee and a Farris mineral water and took her papers out of the bag. Avoided the temptation of the taps behind the bar. It would have been much simpler, wouldn’t it? Shut out the world with a beer and a Jäger. Cowardly, of course, but it would have been welcome now, she had to admit it.
The coffee tasted of dishwater, but she drank it anyway. She put pen to paper in front of her.
A burning doll’s house?
Same type of clue, wasn’t it?
The Brothers Lionheart?
A house in flames?
Bamboo?
Handmade?
Irrelevant.
The numbers?
Four? Seven? Thirteen?
A date of birth?
No.
Fourth of the seventh, thirteen.
Made no sense.
Or did it?
She moved them around the paper, but they didn’t turn into anything. 7 April, 4 July, 13 something? 74?
Was she onto something?
Thirteen, new victim, 1974?
She took another sip of the disgusting coffee.
Damn.
One beer wouldn’t hurt, surely?
Just to loosen up her thoughts?
She overcame the urge again and opted for more mineral water.
Swimming trunks.
Same theme again, wasn’t it?
Water.
Ice.
Watch what I can do.
What if she was wrong? What if it had nothing to do with Bambi, because, why would it? There could be a million other reasons.
Do you see me?
I’m laughing right in your face.
Can you see what I’m doing?
And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
Watch what I can do.
Her pen moved more swiftly across the paper now.
Victim 1.
Vivian Berg.
Ballet clothes.
Costume?
Why?
This is important, isn’t it?
Victim 2.
Kurt Wang.
Music on his mobile?
‘My Favorite Things’.
What was … his costume?
The saxophone? The whole scene?
This is important.
She could feel it coming now.
She was onto something.
Victim 3.
Ruben Iversen.
Age? Did his age matter?
Swimming trunks?
Not symbolic?
No?
No water?
More concrete?
Look at … what he was wearing?
A new costume?
A mind game?
Her fingers flew more eagerly across the paper now.
Wolfgang Ritter?
The psychiatrist?
A dance of death …
Shit, she had almost forgotten that.
Wolfgang Ritter.
They would have to talk to him again.
There had to be more to it.
She underlined his name and chewed her pen.
Klaus Heming?
Is he still alive?
No, impossible.
Mia hadn’t noticed that the door had opened, didn’t notice him until he was standing next to her table. A face far away in the fog.
‘Isn’t your phone working?’ the deep voice said, and the man sank into the chair in front of her.
Chapter 43
Erik Rønning hadn’t bought a single drink all night and now yet another one was placed on his table, followed by a new face with the same expression they had all had. Fifty per cent jealousy, fifty per cent curiosity. Yet another scruffy colleague pushed his way forward and slumped down beside him in the hope of extracting the latest news. Someone from Nettavisen. Now what was his name again? Rønning couldn’t remember. Not that it mattered. He raised the gin and tonic with a small smile and turned his attention back to Veronica Mossberg, who looked even more attractive after – was it six drinks he had had? He had lost count.
They were at Stopp Pressen. Not a bar he went to very often; it was a little too proletarian for his taste. For the people. Editors rarely frequented it, so he saw no reason to waste his time here, but Mossberg had suggested it.
‘So how did you really get that film?’ Mossberg asked, her eyes swimming with the alcohol.
Was that another button undone on her blouse? It was, wasn’t it? He had turned away for just a moment to say hello in response to yet another hand in the air. He blinked and smiled, sphinx-like, over his drink, moving a little closer to her.
‘Ah, you know,’ he said, putting his arm on the back of the sofa. ‘I have a nose for it. Hard work.’
Mossberg giggled and shook her head.
‘No. Seriously, Erik, I’m curious. Go on, tell me.’
‘My lips are sealed.’ He grinned and trailed a finger across his mouth.
‘Oh, please, it’s just the two of us here.’ Mossberg winked at him.
‘So it is,’ Erik said, flashing his teeth at her.
He had had them bleached only a few days ago. At the dentist’s on Rådhusplassen. He was tempted to have them capped. It was a real faff, keeping them shiny white, so why not opt for a more permanent solution? If he was going to be appearing more frequently on TV – and that was definitely on the cards now – then it was important to have a dazzling smile. But he had put it off for the time being. He had been at a dinner party a week ago with some investors, something about a hotel in Dubai, and the wife of one of them – or was it the mistress? It was hard to tell – anyway, she had looked like a horse with her new teeth, so perhaps he should just stick with what he had.
He moved even closer to Mossberg, his lips brushing her soft cheek. He could smell her perfume now.
‘I know a quiet little place,’ he whispered.
‘Do you indeed?’ Mossberg giggled again and stuck a drinking straw into her mouth.
Someone else appeared in the background, probably about to offer him another drink. More curious well-wishers. It had been like that the whole day. Bloody fools. Did they really think he would reveal how they had caught the killing on film? No way.
‘Oh, hi,’ Mossberg said, and stood up.
She kissed the new arrival.
‘Erik, this is my husband, Konrad. You haven’t met, have you?’
Husband?
Rønning gulped and suppressed a burp. Got up reluctantly to shake the guy’s hand.
‘Konrad Larsen,’ the man introduced himself.
Suit jacket, open shirt. A dense moustache and glasses.
‘Delighted,’ Rønning muttered as the man sat down.
Shit.
He could feel it now.
Was it six or seven?
He struggled to find his way back to the seat.
‘That’s what I call a scoop,’ Larsen said, stroking Mossberg’s shoulder. ‘So did you just get lucky or what?’
Where had this guy come from, and why now?
What a pain.
He plastered a smile on his face, mumbled a reply and made his excuses. He found his way to the Gents and spent a long time looking at himself in the mirror. What a bloody waste of time. Sitting there flirting. He had given away some of his drinks, too. And all for some silly cow. He turned on the taps and splashed water onto his face. The bar at the Grand, perhaps? A glass of champagne?
He staggered back and was thinking about leaving when he noticed a pair of eyes staring at him from the bar. Red lips over a cocktail. Blonde hair. A tight dress that didn’t hide much. His age, possibly a little younger. He didn’t see the point of the green baseball cap, but hell, why not? Maybe she was going for the sporty look?
He adjusted his tie and made a beeline f
or the bar.
‘What’s your poison?’ He grinned, nodding at her glass.
‘I’m all out,’ the young woman flirted back.
‘Oh,’ Rønning winked. ‘We can’t have that.’
He tried and failed to get the bartender’s attention.
Didn’t he know who he was?
‘It’s a bit crowded here, isn’t it?’
‘Sorry?’ Rønning said, turning back to her.
‘Too many people.’
‘Absolutely.’ Rønning smiled and moved closer to her. ‘So what would you suggest?’
‘It’s a shame I live so far away. How about you?’
Score.
‘I live just round the corner.’ He grinned and trailed his fingers tentatively down her naked arm.
‘And what are you offering?’ The young woman giggled.
‘Oh, you know. Whatever takes your fancy,’ Rønning leered.
‘Hang on two minutes.’
The girl in the green baseball cap touched his hand lightly before winking at him again and moving graciously across the floor towards the Ladies.
Chapter 44
‘I’m sorry,’ John Wold said. ‘I can see that you’re working, but I’ve tried calling you. Have you thought further about our conversation?’
He unbuttoned his coat, took off his leather gloves and placed them on the table.
‘Listen …’ Mia was frustrated.
She had been on the right track. She had been onto something. She had almost grasped it.
‘I understand,’ Wold said, holding up his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘You’re busy. But it’s important.’
‘Don’t you read the newspapers?’ Mia snapped, and stared him down.
‘Of course I do. And I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was necessary. Can I get you anything? Another cup of coffee? A beer?’
‘Nothing,’ Mia said, shaking her head. ‘And listen—’
‘I know, I know. Five minutes and I’ll be out of your hair. Only I have to know whether you’re in or out. I know that this might be against your principles, Mia. Your own team. And a friend, too, for all I know – I get it, but we’re talking about a main importer here. Of heroin that ends up on the streets. And I, well, I too am risking my reputation here, do you understand? Mia Krüger? Can we trust her? Isn’t she …?’
He smiled faintly.
‘Go on?’ Mia said. ‘Isn’t she what?’
‘You know,’ Wold said. ‘Your file? You’re not exactly a model citizen, are you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Mia asked icily.
‘I’m just repeating what I’ve read,’ Wold said in a conciliatory voice. ‘What the others are thinking. I mean, shooting a suspect? Being repeatedly suspended from work? What was it he wrote about you …?’
‘Who?’
‘Mikkelson? He’s not your biggest fan, is he?’
‘Now listen—’
‘Mia,’ Wold said in a voice designed to calm her down. ‘Not my words, OK? I was the one who suggested you, don’t forget. Don’t take it out on me. This is very hush-hush, even internally. Tell Mia Krüger what we’re doing? Take that chance? Tell her that one of her closest colleagues might be bent? I’m running a big risk here, I hope you realize that.’
Suddenly Mia fancied that beer after all.
‘OK.’ She sighed and took a sip of her mineral water. ‘So what do you want from me?’
‘Curry.’
He summoned the waitress and ordered a cup of coffee.
‘I think you’re wrong. Is that what you wanted to know?’
‘No. I wanted to know if you might be willing to work with us. To prove us wrong, if nothing else.’
‘Didn’t you hear me the last time?’ Mia sighed. ‘It’s not Curry. He’s a police officer through and through. He would never sell his soul for anything.’
‘The old Curry, perhaps,’ Wold said. ‘But what about the new one? How has he been lately? On time? Sober?’
Wold raised the cup to his lips and pulled a face when he tasted the coffee.
‘Have you met his new girlfriend?’
Mia shook her head.
‘Luna Nyvik? Twenty-one? Dreadlocks? Bartender?’
‘Like I said, no.’
Wold stuck a hand into his coat and slid a photograph across the table towards her.
‘Oslo Airport last summer. Newly arrived from Bangkok. We let her through in the hope that she would take us to someone higher up the food chain, but we lost her, unfortunately.’
‘So Curry has got himself a girlfriend, so what?’ Mia said, pushing the picture back. ‘Coincidence. Doesn’t sound like you have much of a case.’
‘I wouldn’t have come to you if we weren’t sure, would I now? We’re very close, we really are. Lorentzen, the lawyer. He’s involved, there’s no doubt about it. He launders money. Has a company on the Cayman Islands. We could have picked him up a long time ago, but the top brass wants the man on the inside. A police officer responsible for the streets overflowing with heroin? It doesn’t look good for any of us, does it?’
‘I’m busy enough as it is. And I don’t think it’s Curry, OK? You have to find somebody else. So, no. Can’t we just leave it at that?’
The handsome agent grew silent for a moment. He seemed to be weighing his words very carefully before finally making up his mind and opening his mouth again.
‘Yes, of course we could pick somebody else. But there’s another reason for choosing you, Mia. Do you know what I’m referring to?’
‘No.’
‘Heroin?’ Wold said, leaning close to her now.
She could almost smell him. It reminded her of something. Summer. A rock. An old boyfriend.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously, I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
Wold stroked his chin. Looked at her sideways. The eyes were similar as well. A kind of warm curiosity. She had been wearing a swimming costume. Giggling under a towel in the roasting sun out in the archipelago. Now what was his name?
‘Listen. The others were against it; they said we should have picked one of the others. Grønlie. Goli. You were my choice. Asking you, I mean.’
‘Wow. I’m impressed. Thank you so much,’ Mia said sarcastically.
‘I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that – well, I thought you would be the right one. Because you’re already involved.’
‘How?’
‘You haven’t been told? About your sister?’ Wold said, sounding genuinely surprised.
An animal crawled up from her stomach.
‘No?’ said her dry mouth while the room around them suddenly contracted.
The chess players got up and left.
The artist at the bar turned to her.
Come, Mia, come.
‘Mia? Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ Mia mumbled, and drained the Farris bottle.
‘Can I get you anything? Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘We have reason to think that she was one of the first,’ Wold said, folding his hands in front of him on the table.
‘First what?’
‘Mules,’ Wold said. ‘That’s why. Do you understand now?’
‘Why you picked me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s up to you, of course.’ Wold smiled. ‘But think about it. Why did she die, Sigrid? Did she really inject herself with an overdose?’
Mia glanced at the taps.
‘Markus Skog? She imported drugs for him. We think it’s all connected. I thought you knew. That was why I came to you.’
A beer.
‘No,’ Mia said. ‘I didn’t know.’
He glanced at her bracelet.
‘Nothing? I mean …?’
A Jäger.
She needed something
now.
‘What is it?’ Mia asked.
‘Your bracelet?’
‘Yes?’ Mia said quietly, lifting her hand from the table.
She could feel the bracelet tickle her skin.
A heart, an anchor and an initial.
You take mine and I’ll have yours?
‘This?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about it?’
‘There’s a rumour,’ Wold said gravely. ‘One of the other mules, a middle-aged woman. Her name is Cecilie. They say she was there.’
‘Where?’
‘When your sister died. They say she walked around town with a bracelet like yours.’
Wold nodded towards her wrist.
‘Looking for something. Wanting money for it – I’m not sure.’
‘What was her name again?’ Mia said, and she felt the room disappear around her.
‘Cecilie. They call her Cisse. We don’t know her surname. A junkie. Coming up to forty. Blonde hair. Red puffa jacket. That’s all we know, I’m afraid. I still can’t believe they haven’t …’
Pills.
Anaesthetic.
Anything.
It made no difference now.
She needed to feel nothing, just for a little bit.
Mia raised a hand and gave him a disarming smile.
‘It’s OK. Thank you. And if you could leave now, that would be great.’
‘Of course.’ Wold nodded and got up. ‘But are you in?’
‘Absolutely.’
Anything to get him to leave.
‘You have my number?’
‘I do.’
‘And you’ll call me?’
‘As soon as I have something.’
‘Thank you. I really appreciate it. I’m glad you’re in. I really am.’
‘Super,’ Mia said, taking the hand that came through the air in front of her.
Wold put on his coat, raised two fingers to his forehead and headed for the door.
Mia waited until he was completely out of sight.
Then, with trembling fingers, she took her mobile out of her leather jacket.
And found the number for Charlie Brun at his bar.
FOUR
Chapter 45
Father Paul Malley had finished morning Mass and couldn’t wait to get to the confessional. He had rushed there yesterday as well but had ended up sitting all on his own for two hours. The young man hadn’t come back, not that Father Malley was going to give up that easily. Admittedly, he had been a little disappointed. The other day had been so good. He had had this idea about extended confession hours and not only had someone seized the opportunity to come but someone who really needed him had turned up. A new member of the flock. Someone who hadn’t been to confession before.
