by Samuel Bjork
‘And the boy?’
‘Like most teenagers, he was very active, especially on Snapchat. Not so much on Facebook and Instagram – those are more for older users,’ Gabriel said.
‘Snap—?’ Munch said.
‘You take a picture and send it to someone, and they can look at it for just a few moments, and then it’s gone,’ Ylva explained.
‘Gone?’ Munch echoed.
‘Yes.’
‘So what’s the point of that? The point of the picture?’
Gabriel concealed a smile as Ylva started to explain, but Munch just waved a hand dismissively.
‘OK, good, so Snap—?’
‘He has been very active, lots of streaks with plenty of people.’
Munch looked as if he was about to ask another question but decided against it.
‘But there’s still nothing to suggest that any of these people know one another? They haven’t met somewhere? Online or in real life?’
‘Not so far, I’m afraid,’ Grønlie said.
‘Sports? Hobbies? Political involvement? Do they shop on the same website? Have you checked their search histories?’
‘I’ve been through the browser histories of all three of them quite carefully,’ Gabriel said, ‘as well as all their Google searches in the past few weeks, but the only common denominator is NRK TV.’
‘And?’ Munch said, sounding optimistic.
‘Berg and Wang looked at the news. Iversen watched a youth programme. That’s all, I’m afraid.’
‘By the way,’ Ludvig said, ‘Ruben Iversen’s uncle called me this morning.’
‘Did he now? And?’
‘He was wondering if we could help them. Their house is besieged by journalists. They ring the family round the clock. It’s the same with the boy’s school; they won’t leave the students alone.’
Munch sighed.
‘That’s not something we can do anything about, unfortunately.’
‘I know.’ Grønlie nodded. ‘That’s what I told him.’
‘Those poor people,’ Munch said, and shook his head as the door suddenly opened and a breathless Anette Goli rushed into the room.
‘Why aren’t you picking up your phone?’
The normally composed police lawyer was wide-eyed and almost ashen-faced.
‘It’s in my jacket,’ Munch said. ‘What’s happened?’
Goli glanced at the other three.
‘Your office. Now.’
‘We’re in the middle—’
‘No. Now. Right now,’ Goli ordered him, and half ran ahead of him down the corridor.
Chapter 48
‘So what’s happened?’ Munch wanted to know when Anette had closed the door behind them.
‘I’ve just had a phone call from the top,’ Goli said when she had got her breath back.
‘Mikkelson?’
The police lawyer shook her head.
‘The top top. The office of the Justice Minister. I’m guessing it was really FST, but it was presented as such.’
‘FST?’
‘Army intelligence. You know that journalist?’ Goli said. ‘Rønning?’
‘Yes?’
‘He had a visitor last night. They think he’s our man.’
‘What?’ Munch said, glancing at the clock on the wall, which was showing twelve thirty already. ‘Last night? And we haven’t heard about it until now?’
‘That’s the last thing we need to worry about, Holger,’ Goli said.
‘Our man? How the hell can they know that?’
‘Holger,’ Goli said.
‘Bloody idiots.’
‘Holger,’ Goli said again, holding up a hand towards him. ‘There’s a list.’
‘What are you saying?’
Anette grew quiet for a moment. It was almost as if she were bracing herself for what she was about to say.
‘A list of names.’
‘What names?’
‘A kill list.’
‘What the …?’
‘Fifty names,’ Goli whispered. ‘Vivian Berg. Kurt Wang. Ruben Iversen. As you know, we haven’t published the numbers of any of the victims, but they’re all on the list. I’ve just had the phone call from the Ministry.’
‘But this has got to be a hoax. It’s—’ Munch began, but Anette interrupted him again, a look of urgency in her eyes that he hadn’t seen before.
‘The Prime Minister has raised the threat level to five. They’re talking about evacuating the royal family.’
‘But for God’s sake,’ Munch mumbled under his breath.
‘Fifty random people,’ Goli said, and shook her head.
‘Do we have the list?’
‘No, it’s classified.’
‘What? Then how are we supposed to …?’
Munch looked at her and could see it now. There was something she wasn’t telling him.
‘What?’ he said again as she looked away. ‘We’re out, is that it? They’re taking over the investigation?’
‘No, no,’ Goli said, and started chewing her lip. ‘We’re in, or …’
‘Or …?’
‘It’s just you and me,’ Anette said reluctantly. ‘People with the highest levels of security clearance. They’re putting together a management group as we speak. They’ll be calling me back within the hour.’
‘But, that’s outrageous, Anette. So no … Mia?’
‘What would you have done? In their position?’ Anette said with a shrug. ‘You know her history? Her many problems? They don’t trust her. She hasn’t got clearance. I mean, fifty people? Random victims? Imagine if it were made public.’
‘So who is in?’
‘You and me. Everyone else will keep the wheels turning but it’s just you and me at the top table.’
‘Yes, but who are the other members of this management group?’
‘Like I said, FST, and I’m guessing PST, the security service, as well as civil servants from the Ministry of Justice.’
‘Mikkelson?’
‘No idea,’ Goli said. ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
‘And definitely no … Mia?’
‘Definitely not.’ Anette’s phone rang. ‘Do you want to tell her? Or shall I?’
‘No, no, I’ll do it.’ Munch sighed as her mobile rang again.
‘Goli speaking,’ the blonde police lawyer said, and left his office.
Chapter 49
Forty-two-year-old Jon Ivar Salem was a plumber by trade, but that was obviously not his claim to fame in Ullersmo prison. He was serving a maximum sentence of twenty-one years and was one of the longest-serving inmates on the wing. That alone earned him enough respect for the other inmates to leave him alone. Until a group of Kosovo Albanians had arrived. Those bloody idiots hadn’t read the newspapers or watched the telly and thought they could mess with the system. Play at being king. Take over the kitchen and the phone, decide who would be doing what. Jon Ivar Salem had decided it was time to teach them a lesson.
Normally, he didn’t give a toss. He tended not to get involved in the internal discipline of the prison for the simple reason that the other inmates rarely dared raise a finger to him or deny him anything. It might be hard for outsiders to understand that grown men, covered in tattoos, could fight over something as petty as a packet of sausages or access to the shower, but that was life on the inside. He had served seven years and had fourteen left. He could apply to be released on licence once he had served two thirds of his sentence, so there was no reason to be a good boy.
Not yet.
It would be burning soon and he couldn’t wait.
He was older than most of the men in here and regarded himself as a kind of father figure to them all. The prison food was as bad as you would expect; they were lucky if they got stew or something vaguely reminiscent of fish. Usually, they were given food that tasted as if it had come out of a camel’s arse. Fortunately, they also had the opportunity to order their own food, paid for with their own money, obviously, and he had t
aken the initiative and put himself in charge. Got together a group of his closest friends, taken over the kitchen and now felt almost like a chef with his own restaurant. While he wouldn’t call it fine dining, at least he offered edible meals every day and his fellow inmates handed over their cash almost voluntarily.
Oh, the flames.
Like a man in the desert.
Many years without water.
But soon he would be quenching his thirst again.
The Kosovo Albanians. There were just the three of them, convicted of importing cocaine and heroin, and the idiots who ran this dump had placed them in the same wing. They were big kids, really. Twenty-something-year-olds, tough gangster types with the obligatory tattoos. Just having your girlfriend’s name on your forearm was no longer enough these days – no, it had to be skulls and teardrops, preferably in the middle of your face or all over your throat, and something on your knuckles, LOVE-HATE, KILL-FUCK. To begin with, Salem had ignored them, as he did with all the newbies in here, those doing less than ten long ones, but then they had attacked a couple of young inmates down in the basement. Beaten them senseless with their fists and cans of tuna in socks, taken over the showers, the kitchen, and now the time had come to put them in their place.
The flames.
He was itching all over.
His toes were tingling.
Up through his groin.
He hadn’t slept for days.
The Kosovo Albanians could have saved themselves a lot of bother if they had only watched TV. Then they would have known who he was. They might even have lived to see thirty. But they hadn’t. Probably because they didn’t speak Norwegian, but more importantly because, in 2006, while it had been at its worst, these boys had been only thirteen or fourteen years old. He could feel a smile spread across his face now and had to check himself to remain calm.
Oh, it would be wonderful.
The flames.
Finally.
He could barely breathe.
He was woken up by the squeaking of the post trolley as a smiling Muffins, one of his closest friends on the inside, came down the corridor. He was a tattooed guy from Trøndelag who was serving time for the same reason most of the young men were in here: drugs, violence; usually both.
‘For me?’ Salem said, surprised, and looked at the parcel Muffins had just handed him.
‘Yes.’ Muffins smiled and picked his teeth with a filthy finger. ‘Got yourself a girlfriend?’
‘Not as far as I know.’ Salem grinned back and felt his curiosity stir.
He hadn’t been sent anything from the outside for as long as he could remember.
The parcel had been opened, obviously, but he couldn’t see what it contained. The guards had resealed it and written the usual wording – CHECKED – in glossy blue letters on the brown paper.
‘I tell you, they were scratching their heads in the post room.’ Muffins looked up and down the corridor.
‘Were they now?’
‘Ha-ha, yeah. They were discussing whether or not they were going to let you have it, I think.’
‘Really? What is it?’
‘How would I know? Do you think they would let me see? I’m just the delivery guy. Are we on, by the way?’
The latter was whispered through tight lips as he glanced over his shoulder. Not that he needed to; there were no guards around. There rarely were at this end of the wing, unless it was time to let the prisoners out of their cells or back into them, or if someone needed the loo after lights-out.
Norway’s resources were spent elsewhere.
Open season in here.
It couldn’t have suited him better.
They had to get them now.
The time had come.
Flames over skin.
‘Yes, absolutely,’ Salem said, and nodded, not taking his eyes off the parcel.
‘After lunch? In the basement?’
‘Yep. The Kosovo Albanians are playing basketball until one o’clock. We’ll get them just after that.’
‘Ker-pow! That’ll be fun. How far do we go? Will we be sent to Solitary?’
Salem looked sternly up at the young man.
‘All the way, of course.’
‘Come on, Jon. I only have sixteen months left. I can’t kill anyone. You see that, don’t you?’
‘Who said anything about you doing it?’
The young drug dealer’s eyes widened.
‘So you’ll do it?’
‘You keep a lookout, I’ll handle it.’
‘Awesome.’ Muffins grinned and raised his hand in something which was probably meant to be a high-five or another equally idiotic greeting the kids used these days, but Salem left him hanging.
‘You’ll get a few days in Solitary, max.’
‘I can cope with that, no worries.’
‘Oi, Muffins, are the two of you getting married or what? Get a bloody move on!’
Impatient cries from further down the corridor. For most of this wing, the rattling trolley was as exciting as Christmas.
‘Take it easy, I’m coming. Keep your hair on.’
Muffins sighed, winked one last time and rolled on with the trolley to the waiting inmates.
A parcel?
Salem closed the door to his cell and sat down eagerly on the chair by the small desk. He opened the parcel carefully but was none the wiser when he saw the contents. A gold ring and a short note.
Dear Jon Ivar Salem. You don’t know me, and yet I’m asking you to do me a favour. Take care of this ring; someone will come for it soon. You will be rewarded. Thank you for your help.
No signature.
What the hell was this? How odd. If the note hadn’t had his name on it, he would have been convinced the sender had made a mistake. Salem picked up the ring from the small box; it glistened faintly in the light from the desk lamp. He examined the paper it had been wrapped in, but there was nothing else. Bizarre, but whatever. He could look after some ring. And be rewarded for it as well? No problem.
It will burn soon.
Tomorrow morning.
Jon Ivar Salem smiled to himself, stuffed the gold ring under his pillow and lay down on his bunk to rest.
Chapter 50
Mia was woken up by a familiar singing voice and staggered from the strange bed and into the kitchen as she yawned.
‘Moonbeam.’ Charlie Brun smiled and gave her a big hug. ‘Someone’s had a long sleep. Breakfast?’
‘What the hell did you give me?’ Mia yawned again and sat down, dazed, on a chair.
Charlie was in his element. He was wearing a billowing green dress today beneath an apron which read ‘Kiss the Chef’.
‘Eggs? Bacon?’ The charming man beamed and waved a frying pan.
‘No, thank you,’ Mia mumbled. ‘What time is it?’
‘You don’t want any food? But you have to eat. You’re nothing but skin and bones.’
Charlie danced across the floor and filled her plate.
‘There are sausages as well. Would you like some?’
‘For breakfast?’ Mia yawned.
‘Why not? The Brits love it. Did I tell you I was in London two weeks ago? Saw a musical. The Lion King. Completely lived up to the hype. Absolutely wonderful. I cried my eyes out. Isn’t it funny how these things can move us?’
‘What is?’ Mia said, popping a rasher of bacon into her mouth.
‘Grown men sobbing at something originally written for children.’
‘Nothing about you surprises me, Charlie.’ Mia smiled and felt herself slowly starting to return to reality.
Something to sleep on.
She had stumbled through the door of his club, desperate for oblivion, a drink, anything, and he had calmly talked her down.
Thank God.
Not one drop of alcohol.
Just a sleeping pill.
She reached her arms towards the ceiling and glanced around the small, cosy flat.
‘Have you redecorated?’
&nbs
p; ‘Yes,’ Charlie said with a big smile. ‘Everything is new. The carpet, the furniture, new colour on the walls. Feng shui. You need to change your surroundings from time to time; otherwise you die, you know?’
Charlie jabbed his temple as he opened the door to the fridge.
‘What would you like to drink? Let me see. I have juice, a smoothie?’
‘Just some water, thank you. Unless you have coffee?’
‘Coffee? Do I have coffee? I have a brand-new machine. State of the art. Me and George Clooney, you know? Now there’s a man for me. Did you know that he likes dressing up as well? No, really, he does.’
Charlie winked and presented her with a board of capsules.
‘Arabica? Linizio? Kazaar?’
‘Something strong.’
‘Ristretto. With a combination of the best South American Arabica beans and a hint of Robusta for extra intensity.’
He presented the capsule to her with an extravagant gesture and pursed his lips.
‘You sell them?’ Mia smiled and slipped a slice of bread under her fried egg.
‘I’m the new face of Nespresso.’ Charlie tilted his head. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’re perfect.’ Mia giggled.
‘George and me,’ Charlie said, raising his eyebrows seductively.
‘You were just making it up, weren’t you?’
‘Making what up?’
‘That he, too, likes dressing up in women’s clothes?’
‘In my dreams, Mia.’ Charlie winked and pressed a button on the coffee maker. ‘Though I don’t mind – I love him just the way he is. Did you say you wanted a glass of water?’
‘Yes, please.’
Her mouth was dry. There was also a veil behind her eyes, but it was starting to lift.
He had talked her out of it.
You just need something to make you sleep.
Thank God for Charlie Brun.
He was nothing less than a living saint.
‘I see you put the family up,’ Mia said as he brought her coffee.
‘Yes,’ Charlie said somewhat wistfully, and gazed at the wall behind her. ‘It hasn’t been easy for them, all this. Their little Charlie, who was such a promising boy. Did you know I used to play ice hockey?’
‘Did you now?’
