by Samuel Bjork
‘Idiot, of course you should have. What did you find? Is it in there?’
She moved her chair a little closer and nodded eagerly towards his laptop.
‘It’s useless to us but, funnily enough, I was just thinking about it. You know Horowitz?’
He nodded towards Ludvig’s notes. ‘He was admitted to Blakstad as a psychiatric patient.’
‘So why can’t you use it?’ Ylva wanted to know. ‘What if Ivan Horowitz was one of Ritter’s patients? Perhaps we might find a link there?’
‘I’ve already checked,’ Gabriel said, and shook his head. ‘He isn’t there.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’ve already checked,’ Gabriel said again.
‘I just thought you said it was useless?’
‘What we have are Ritter’s handwritten notes scanned as PDF files, do you see? So you can’t run a search. Not of the documents.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were handwritten and then scanned. Do you see the problem?’
But Ylva looked as if she still couldn’t follow him.
‘Say that I want to search for the word “fire”, OK? Or The Brothers Lionheart? There’s no way the computer can search for them; you need a method to recognize the symbols. If I want to search his notes, I need to teach the computer his handwriting – A looks like this, B looks like that, and so on, but it would still be tricky. How one character is written when the handwriting is joined up, L to K, M next to N. Do you understand?’
‘Oh,’ Ylva said as the penny finally dropped.
‘I mean, I’m sure there’s a way of doing it,’ Gabriel went on. ‘But it could take weeks …’
‘But how …?’ Ylva began, and pushed her spectacles further up her nose.
‘How what?’
‘How can you be so sure Horowitz isn’t in there?’
‘Titles, file names. Take a look at this,’ Gabriel continued, and opened one of the documents. ‘Ritter has used the patient’s name and date of birth to identify them. And that I can search, of course, that’s not the problem. As I can search all the other files I have here.’
‘But what if …?’ Ylva said as an idea began to take shape in her mind.
‘If what?’
‘Well, we know his age, don’t we?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We can search his date of birth? Can’t we? I mean, it’s right there?’
‘Yes, but I just told you, he’s not one of the patients. His name isn’t listed.’
‘So how about Karl Overlind?’
‘Not there either. I’ve checked.’
‘OK, but look up there.’
Ylva pointed to the wall in front of them.
‘The artist’s sketches? You can see they’re different, can’t you?’
‘Where are you going with—?’
‘The killer is clearly – well, I don’t know what, but he seems very calculating, doesn’t he? None of this is random. He wears glasses there, a different hairstyle in that picture. What if Horowitz is in the files after all, under another name?’
‘But that makes no sense,’ Gabriel objected. ‘Why would he see a psychiatrist under a false name? And is that even possible? Don’t they check? No, that’s a non-starter, I’m afraid.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Ylva said, taking off her glasses. ‘Why would he?’
‘That’s what I just said.’
‘No, why on earth would he want to do that?’
She rubbed her eyes again and put her glasses back on.
‘Ah, well.’
They sat in silence, staring at the colourful wall.
‘Unless …’ Ylva said.
‘What?’
‘No, it still makes no sense,’ she said, cradling her head in her hands. ‘Damn it. It would have been so cool to be able to show the old-timers a thing or two. I mean, they’ve just dumped us in here like spare parts. I hate not being able to contribute.’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’ Gabriel nodded.
‘But Blakstad? A psychiatric hospital? You had the same thought, didn’t you? He must have found his victims somewhere. I mean, come on, completely at random? Something must have triggered him. And Vivian Berg? She was the first one, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes …?’
‘Vivian Berg was Ritter’s patient, wasn’t she? And you know what Mia is like,’ Ylva said, getting up, excited now. ‘Why would she ask you to hack Ritter’s files unless she had a hunch? Did she say what they had talked about up there?’
‘When?’
‘When they interviewed him? Ritter, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘Come on, Gabriel. There must have been something, surely?’
‘Of course, but what?’
‘I’ll be damned if I know. What about this, we know Horowitz’s age, don’t we?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Right, let’s add a couple of years either side.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, look at the cameras. The sketches. The descriptions from people who have actually seen him. Let’s make it … twenty-three to … say, twenty-seven?’
‘I don’t understand where you’re going with this.’
‘You said date of birth, didn’t you?’
Ylva bent over and placed her finger on his screen.
‘Which would make it? 19 … 86 to 1990? Try that.’
Gabriel entered the numbers.
‘How many hits?’
‘Two hundred and seventy-five.’
‘There you go.’ Ylva smiled and punched him happily on the shoulder.
‘You want us to read two hundred and seventy-five files? Have you any idea how long that will take us?’
‘So what? Do you have anything better to do?’
A sudden silence filled the room. Gabriel could hear the cars in the street far away, the hum of the air conditioning, which, up until now, he had never even noticed.
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Good.’ Ylva smiled and punched his shoulder again. ‘I’ll take A to … what’s halfway through the alphabet?’
‘N.’
‘Great. And you take the rest. Would you email me the files, please?’
Ylva seemed just like a schoolgirl now as she clapped her hands eagerly and grinned from ear to ear.
‘Let’s meet up here when we’ve been through them, all right? Or if we find anything?’
‘It could take several days.’ Gabriel sighed.
‘Well, that’s just too bad. So will you send me those files?’
‘They’re on their way,’ Gabriel said, and dragged the files into an email addressed to her.
Chapter 64
Mia was existing in a vacuum somewhere between dream and reality. She just couldn’t settle. Her body was shattered, but her brain continued to work overtime. She had declined Charlie’s magic sleeping potion for now; she didn’t dare risk crashing out completely. Curry might ring at any time; she had to be awake, present, so she could crack this. Munch had called her several times as she made her way to Charlie’s flat, but she had ignored his calls. They couldn’t treat her like this. Damn them, the whole lot of them. She had glanced quickly at the text message he had sent her. New victim, Paul Malley, priest. Another camera, number 29. The words had followed her down onto the soft pillow, mixing quietly with her body’s need for rest.
The numbers. Four, seven, thirteen, twenty-nine. A kill list? A little too simple, wasn’t it? What was the point of the camera, then? Scratch the number into the lens? A new one at every crime scene? Surely there were hundreds of other ways of doing it, weren’t there? Indicating a number. You could write on the wall. On the body. Wouldn’t that somehow also be more appropriate? Why the camera? She was missing something important here, wasn’t she? The numbers are … on the camera. OK. No, no, no; focus now. The numbers are inside the camera. Big difference. On the lens. Not outside. Forget the camera. The photograph. Hold that tho
ught, Mia; don’t disappear now. This is important. If you press the shutter release, the number will become … a part of the picture?
She must have dozed off anyway because suddenly Sigrid was there, in the streets of Oslo in front of her. A faceless shadow, that was all, but it was her, her bracelet clunking heavily on her skinny wrist as she beckoned Mia across the dark, wet tarmac. Come, Mia, come. A boy with a yellow beanie appeared then, bent over a woman in a red puffa jacket, but they disappeared again, swallowed up by the mist. She lost Sigrid for a moment. Mia stood with her heart in her throat and a voice that wouldn’t leave her mouth. Sudden glimpses of her mother, then of her father standing in front of their graves at the cemetery. Weeping, mournful shadows, nothing more, as Sigrid reappeared in front of her and she realized where she was. In the basement. The mattress on the floor. The dump where they had found her. Her sister lay down carefully and tightened the rubber strap around her emaciated arm. Mia desperately wanted to run to her, fling her arms around her to protect her, but her body didn’t work. Her legs were stuck. She couldn’t move. Now her sister picked up the syringe from the floor and looked at her. Mia wanted to shout, howl, scream, but she had no voice. There was a figure behind her now; there were more people in the basement. Arms grabbing her, holding her back, a stranger’s hand covering her eyes. Panic as her sister pressed the needle against her skin and smiled wistfully through the fog.
Death isn’t dangerous, Mia.
Are you coming?
Mia sat up abruptly in the bed and gasped for air. The sweat was pouring from her face. She got up and walked barefoot across the floor. Stumbled into the kitchen, the dream still sitting heavily in her body. Hell. She opened the cupboard door in a daze, then poured herself a glass of water and drained it. Refilled it and stood trembling by the sink while reality slowly came back. She let herself flop softly onto a chair and finally opened her eyes properly.
She was in Charlie Brun’s kitchen. OK. Good. A safe place. She had been so tired. She shouldn’t have allowed her body to go to sleep. The numbers. The camera. Pointing at the victim. Scratched into the lens. Look, Mia, God damn it, look properly! Look through the camera? What do you see, Mia?
Do you get it now?
She glanced at the family photos on the wall above the kitchen table. Poor Charlie. Memories of a life which hadn’t been that simple.
No, it couldn’t be …?
She nearly dropped the glass on the floor.
Surely there was no way …?
Yes, God damn it …
Four.
A ballet dancer.
Seven.
A jazz musician.
Thirteen.
A boy in swimming trunks.
Twenty-nine …
No, please, no, it …
Mia got up so quickly she bashed her knee against the table, but she didn’t even feel the pain shooting through her as she ran back to the bedroom and frantically pulled on her clothes. She couldn’t remember where she had left Charlie’s keys, but that was just too bad. She put on her jacket as she ran down the steps and left the front door open behind her.
Out.
People.
A taxi …?
There.
She threw herself into the back seat while still putting on her other ankle boot.
‘Take me to Sofies Plass number 3.’
‘That’s in Bislett, isn’t it?’
‘Just drive. It’s … important.’
‘Are you in a hurry?’
‘Just drive, will you? Drive … quickly.’
‘OK,’ said the voice behind the wheel.
And at last the taxi pulled away from the kerb.
Chapter 65
Curry glanced up at the flat as the rain started drumming on the windscreen. Bloody weather. It had been a hard, dark winter and now spring refused to come. He found a pouch of chewing tobacco in his pocket, stuffed a wad under his upper lip and looked out of the windscreen again. Kyrre Greppsgate. He had been here before, hadn’t he? He hadn’t realized it at first. Jimbo’s text message. Kevin will meet you at 15, Kyrre Greppsgate. Second floor, flat C, 6 o’clock. Bring the readies.
He had half run from the office in Mariboesgate, expecting all sorts of questions from Munch about why he needed a car, but luckily the place had been practically deserted. Only Ylva and Gabriel had been there, both of them hunched over a computer in the incident room. He had snatched a set of keys from the wall without them even realizing he had been there. Just as well. He didn’t have the energy to explain himself right now. He looked up at the second-floor flat again. He and Allan Dahl had sat in a car on a surveillance job outside this address not very long ago when the news had come in that the special unit was back. Lotte. That was her name, wasn’t it? The junkie who lived in the flat; he hadn’t been able to work out why they were wasting time watching her. He took out his mobile and tried Mia again, but she still didn’t reply. The time on the dashboard was getting dangerously close to six. Should he just head up to the flat alone?
No, he should wait for her. Shouldn’t he? After all, he had no idea what questions to ask this Kevin. Well, there was the bracelet; he could start with that. He pressed Mia’s number again, but there was no response. Bugger. Hmm. What to do? What to do? The rain was drumming even harder on the windscreen now; the wipers could barely keep up as the clock in front of him rolled over to six. A brief window of opportunity. Would Kevin be on time? Or would he just not bother, float off on another cloud? Curry tried Mia again, but there was still no reply, just the same generic voicemail.
You have reached the voicemail of …
He stuffed his mobile back in his pocket and made a decision. He opened the car door quickly, pulled his jacket over his head and ran across the street as the water splashed off the tarmac around him.
Bloody weather.
He shook off the raindrops and looked at the row of doorbells.
Second-floor flat.
Call Mia again?
No, she could thank him later.
He smiled faintly to himself and pressed the bell labelled 2C.
Chapter 66
Mia gave the taxi driver all the cash she had and ignored the stunned look on his face as she unlocked the door to her apartment building with trembling fingers and ran up the stairs. No one in the stairwell, thank God – not that it would have made a difference now, another key moving through the air. She unlocked her own front door, ran to the spare bedroom and tried to get her breath back as she stood in front of one of the cardboard boxes.
She slashed the tape with the key, took the photo album out of the box and dropped to the floor.
Mia’s album.
Her hands were still trembling, as was her body, when she carefully opened it and started to count.
Page one.
Page two.
Page three.
She could barely suppress her emotions when she saw the picture.
There.
On page four.
Sigrid in her ballet costume. Young, barely five years old. Next to her, little, insecure Mia, squinting at the camera.
In the middle.
Their ballet teacher.
A young woman in her early twenties. In full costume, pointe shoes, pearl studs in her ears, her arms wrapped around them both with a big smile in honour of the photographer.
No …
Her hands shook violently, but she managed to turn the pages.
Page seven.
Their father. With her on his lap. An open-air concert. Smiling at the camera, giving a thumbs-up. In the background someone on a stage, a jazz saxophonist. Her mother’s cursive handwriting underneath.
Daddy’s favourite song. ‘My Favorite Things’.
No, it couldn’t be …
She forced herself to carry on.
Page thirteen.
Some rocks in Åsgårdstrand. Summer. Mia in a swimming costume, squinting at the sun, barely fourteen years old. A young lad from the neighbourhoo
d with them. In swimming trunks. Beads of water on his skinny body. Sigrid waving in the background, wrapped in a towel.
The sun is out at last. The kids are having fun.
Mia carried on flicking through the album, on autopilot now.
Page twenty-nine.
Inside a church. The twins wearing identical white dresses, Sigrid with a big grin, Mia with her lips pressed shut, ashamed of her braces, refusing to smile at the photographer. In the middle, the priest.
Proud confirmands!
Four.
Seven.
Thirteen.
Twenty-nine.
A camera on a tripod. The number scratched into the lens. Look, Mia. Look through the camera.
But why the hell …?
It began to rise now, the black nausea that had been building up inside her.
She staggered to the bathroom and knelt in front of the lavatory bowl, but her stomach was empty. She got up, moved to the sink and splashed cold water over her face.
Her.
There was no kill list.
Mia’s photo album.
It was all about her.
She wiped her face and rushed back to the room with the boxes and squatted down on the floor while she tried to get her brain to work.
Shit.
OK.
Pictures.
In my own family album.
She carefully turned the pages back to the first photograph.
And that was when she noticed it. Someone had disturbed it. Taken it out. And then glued it back in place. The edges were different. Her fingers still wouldn’t obey her properly but eventually she managed to ease it out. She turned it over carefully.
Someone had written on the back of it.
Curly letters written with a blue pen.
Congratulations.
She steeled herself, flicked a few more pages forward.
Next picture. Page seven.
How clever you are.
Onwards, again on autopilot, teenagers on the rocks; she turned over the picture quickly this time.
Would you like a final hint?
Her hands were shaking badly now. She could barely turn the pages. The priest smiling at the camera, Sigrid and Mia in their white confirmation dresses.
