A long, lingering moment hung, pregnant with unspoken words, emotions, desires, and regrets. Rey held Jiji’s gaze, knowing it was dangerous to wait there together this long, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She opened her mouth to speak but Jiji pressed a gloved finger to her lips. The metallic scent of Leif’s blood was powerful.
“Don’t,” Jiji said. “Don’t say things you don’t mean. We bofe know ya heart belongs to Ethan. Maybe he’s the only one who will truly know what it means to be loved by ya. And that’s okay. I accepted my place a long time ago. People’s biggest mistake is expecting love when they give it. It’s a gift. Ya don’t give it to receive it back.”
Rey stood silent, absorbing the words of her best and oldest friend. Rey had felt just that way. Constantly giving her energy and time away only to be kicked in the teeth because she expected the same back from them. Jiji had stood by her side for as long as Rey could remember and asked for nothing in return. Her little ditsy friend, who turned out to have more wisdom than Rey ever had. And now she was going to prison, maybe even a psychiatric prison, for Rey and her son.
“You got your phone on you?” Jiji asked, breaking Rey’s train of thought.
“Yeah,” she said pulling it out.
Jiji took the phone, navigated to the music app and scrolled Rey’s playlist. She landed on a song and pressed play. “One last song, Rey,” she said. “Now go. I love you, and Ethan, and Connor.” She sniffed away a tear. “Go.”
Rey hesitated for a second and then kissed Jiji hard on the lips before turning and walking briskly out into the rain. Using all her will to not look back, she placed the wireless buds into her ears.
Already halfway through verse one, Foy Vance sang in his beautiful Irish lilt, “Two Shades of Hope.” Rey’s skin prickled and a stone formed in her throat. It was one of her favorite songs. This version, anyway. Live, and full of the echoes of the concert hall. A song about people’s hurt stemming from hope in things that will never be—curing cancer by being a good person, wishing for someone who is distant and cold to love them. Yet, while they know this to be true, humans can’t help but hope.
With tears burning her eyes, Rey powered off in a solid march to the nearest tram station. Time to get her escape packet from the hostel and catch her flight—time to go home to her son. There was no excuse now. Jiji had put all her hope into this plan, expecting Rey would finally be happy and free and that little Ethan would never experience the terrible childhood that defined her own life.
Oslo, Norway, 2016
Arne packed another wrinkled, flower-printed shirt into a tatty suitcase, though his gaze was fixed on the television sitting on the dresser at the foot of his bed. The news of Georgina Thompson’s—the King Kubb Killer’s—capture played out on every station. The reporter that morning, a young lady with bright orange hair and huge doe eyes, spoke about the astonishing murders committed by a British female, and the immense work of the Kripos in catching her. A sting operation a year in the making. Arne’s role had been played down with Huus lifted into the limelight as the hero.
Huus was a good kid, he deserved the credit. The rest of it—lies.
The papers glossed over Arne’s bumbling. A last favor from Aksel before Arne was to take leave. The whole story fit well and relieved any further pressure from the Kripos.
The perp caught in France had been flown back to Oslo and charged within six hours. The evidence was overwhelming. The video footage at the liquor store looked like her. The fingerprint found at Leif’s house was a perfect match. A kubb piece with the victim’s blood and even a stray hair belonging to Airplane Georgina, and a blood-spattered chem suit were found not far from Leif’s home. But Arne knew “Plane Georgina” wasn’t his Georgina. Georgina Thompson, or whoever that woman was, had not worked alone. There was more to it. The other woman, the one he’d knocked down with Huus’s car, she was involved somehow. Huakaas knew it in his bones.
Not that it mattered now.
“It’s watertight,” Huus had said, smiling from ear to ear. “That’s why she broke and confessed. Even owned up to the Tøyen boys. She’s a victim, really. Beaten up and raped. Abused. Kinda feel sorry for her. But she still needs to go to prison. Probably a psych ward. We did it, Huakaas. After a year, the stars aligned. We got her.”
It was too perfect.
A year of nothing and then a veritable cornucopia of evidence? Huakaas called bullshit. But who would care about his hunch? Aksel was happy. Oslo’s media had their murderer, who would serve life in a psychiatric wing of a maximum-security prison. Hansen had gotten a job at a local paper as a junior reporter. People could sleep at night again. An open and shut case, never to be revisited.
Huakaas couldn’t bring himself to even interrogate the perp from the plane. What was the point? He’d be pissing in the wind, and for what? Thirty years dedicating his life to the force had cost him everything. His home, his wife, his daughter. Chasing down a loose end—one he’d not stumbled across but run down in his partner’s car—just wasn’t worth it. Might even muddy the case. Arne figured his young partner deserved to have a big win, anyway. So, Huakaas had let Huus have the glory and kept his debacle secret.
He shoved a pair of shoes into the case and zipped it closed. For a beat he froze there, hands resting on the suitcase, listening to his lungs suck in air—they sounded so clean. Day one of giving up the cigarettes and he already felt better, though he craved one badly.
No, Clara doesn’t like cigarettes. He’d learned that this morning on the phone.
A small smile broke across his face.
Clara.
Her voice had been sweeter than he’d imagined. Light and airy. Different to how he remembered it from when she was a girl, and perhaps tinged with trepidation, but that was to be expected. Standing in boxers and a T-shirt in his bedroom that morning, shaking uncontrollably, he’d called her up out of the blue. His heart had been pounding so hard he’d thought he might end up in hospital, again. He’d not even known what he would say if she answered. As it turned out, he hadn’t needed to say anything other than, “It’s Dad.”
Clara had cried.
He’d cried.
A full ten minutes had passed with only the sound of them both sobbing, then laughing at themselves for being emotional. Eventually, Arne had managed to get out how much he missed her and how sorry he was for everything. He wasn’t going to leave her ever again.
Arne’s ex-wife had called him three minutes and fifteen seconds after the call with his daughter had ended. Huakaas had planned a half-baked speech for Aslaug as to why he should be allowed to visit. He’d been fully prepared for a deluge of deserved venom. Initially, she’d ranted at him and decried his attempt at reconciliation as pathetic. But, after a while, she’d given in with tired resignation. Aslaug’s life after their divorce had not been as easy for her as he’d imagined. The man she’d been seeing had cheated and left years ago, she just hadn’t told Arne. Raising Clara alone had been tough. On the phone, Aslaug had admitted that her stubbornness prevented her from demanding Arne take on his paternal responsibility.
To Arne’s mind, they both seemed exhausted.
Life had a way of wearing people down over time. Though, time had its advantages. There was a certain acceptance—wisdom even—that came with older age. Sometimes in life, shit happened, and people needed to move on. Arne had apologized to Aslaug all the same. Because he should have done so years ago and Aslaug deserved to hear it. For more than a decade he’d blamed her and, subconsciously, himself. Such hate had eaten at his core.
Not anymore.
Arne was to take medical leave and visit them both. To apologize in person. To talk and build again. Maybe he’d never go back to the force. Early retirement seemed appealing. Bamse would come on the trip, too, of course. The rabbit sat in a cage in the back of Huakaas’s Saab. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Clara’s face when she saw her pet—realized he’d looked after the dopey, now arthritic, rabbit all these
years.
One last glance at the television, then Arne clicked it off and unplugged it from the socket. He’d be gone for a week or two. After a quick scan of the clean room, he grunted and pulled the suitcase from the bed, then wheeled it out into the living room-cum-kitchen area. His desk, once laden with files and evidence on the King Kubb Killer, was now spotless. The floor was also swept and cleared of rabbit shit and newspaper. Couldn’t have possible new tenants see it in a bad state. He would find a new apartment soon. One where Clara could visit and stay over if she wanted.
He grabbed up the photo of his daughter and touched the glass, imagining how it would feel to touch her in just a few hours. Arne smiled again, feeling the folds in his face crease up. He hadn’t smiled so much in years. Maybe, from now on he’d smile more.
The drive to Bergen was seven hours, so he wanted to get a good start before heavy traffic took to the roads. Arne collected his long coat from its peg and slipped it on, ready to head out of the door. A weight on the inside pocket tapped at his ribs. Huakaas fished out the culprit—his police badge.
A pang of fear struck him in the gut. Leaving the force, for extended medical reasons and even permanently, was a good idea on paper, but was still a difficult decision. Like separating from a lover you knew was no good for you, but somehow the familiarity brought a sense of safety and comfort. Thirty years. The need for a cigarette burned hot.
No. Huakaas shook his head and placed his badge on the side next to the sink.
Then, a deep breath held—full of hope more than air—Arne opened the front door to his apartment and dragged his suitcase out to the Saab waiting on the curb.
The sun was bright, the warmth of spring finally defeating the endless winter. It felt prophetic. The rays caressed his old face and he closed his eyes to relish in the sun’s kiss. He’d been so scared all these years to call his daughter, but if the King Kubb Killer had taught him anything, it was if he didn’t do something he’d die, either at the hands of someone like her or slowly from the crushing weight of guilt and hate. The sun’s warmth signaled a new beginning.
Arne opened the rear door and shoved his suitcase alongside Bamse, who quietly munched on a lettuce leaf. He patted the rabbit’s cage gently, then closed the door.
A vibration in his pocket. That better not be Huus. His partner had wanted to see him off, but Arne had said no. Arne pulled out his phone and examined the screen. The caller wasn’t Huus. In fact, it wasn’t a number he knew. He let his finger hover over the answer key, debating whether or not he should answer.
He sighed and pressed answer.
“Yes?”
“Detective Huakaas?” a man’s voice said.
“It is. Who is this?”
“This is Doctor Jensen from the hospital. You brought in a woman the other night.”
Arne’s heart cramped. The hospital? What did they want, now?
“Well obviously, we saw the news, Detective. Can’t quite believe we had her on our ward. Georgina Thompson. Would never have guessed.”
“Ah, well, same name, different person. A coincidence.” It wasn’t a lie.
“Oh, really? That is odd. We thought we’d stumbled on something here to help you.”
“How so?”
“Clearly, you have the killer and the conviction, but, well, we thought you could use everything possible for the case.”
Arne checked his watch. “I’m kinda on the clock here, Doc. I could give you the number of my partner—”
“Of course. Sure, we can send the report to him.”
“Report?”
“Blood work,” the doctor said. “We did blood work when she came in. We found the capecitabine in her system, but no other drugs—which was odd in itself.”
“Why?”
“Well, she said she had breast cancer and was on docetaxel, too. We didn’t find any. And Capecitabine alone, which she had with her, is highly unusual to give as a monotherapy. Not to mention the level of cape in her blood was extremely high.”
“Why would someone take a drug like that alone?”
“That’s a good question, Detective. The side effects are not pleasant. Though, if one wanted to get away with a crime ...”
Arne leaned on the hood of his car, his head now fuzzy. “What do you mean?”
“Well, besides hair loss, cape can—in certain cases—cause the patients to lose their fingerprints.”
She didn’t have cancer? Arne thought, his mind now racing. She was dosing herself with chemo to make sure she didn’t leave fingerprints or hair. He had never found any trace evidence at a crime scene—not a hair or fingerprint, at least, until that last kill. This was why.
The evidence was circumstantial and therefore didn’t mean anything. He couldn’t tie that to the murders. Besides, then he’d have to confess to running the woman down while on the job and inebriated. He shook his head. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “I think we have everything we need.”
“Oh, okay. Well, we thought we’d let you know anyway.”
Arne just needed this to go away. He was on his way to see his daughter. The case was shut. Nothing more to be done.
“Still, we have a good sample here, so if you need more DNA to confirm her identity—”
The doctor’s words hit Huakaas in the head as if the King Kubb Killer herself had just bludgeoned him. “What did you say?”
“DNA sample. I mean, to rule her out. She did flee the hospital ...”
All words caught in Arne’s throat. What should he do now? Here’s a chance to ID Georgina from the hospital. The possibility to know just who she really was. Then what? Could he tie it to the case? Did she know the killer? Was she an accomplice? Had the woman they caught thrown herself on her sword, and if so, why?
Too many questions for a closed case. This wasn’t a priority before, why now?
“Thank you, Doctor. Please, just send it to my department addressed to my attention,” Arne said.
“Okay, will do, Detective. Have a good day.”
The line clicked off.
Arne’s legs wouldn’t move. He stared at his knees, willing himself to his feet, yet he could only sit there on the hood of his car—an old boulder placed there, far too heavy to move. Why give a shit now? He’d been apathetic for as long as he could remember. Yet, now—brought back to life by the thought of seeing his daughter—passion had been reignited in his heart. A desire for justice he hadn’t felt since being a rookie.
“At what cost, Arne?” he said out loud to himself.
Get sucked back into a case—one you can’t even change. It’s done.
A message from Clara flashed up on his phone.
Looking forward to seeing you. x
Through the fabric of his shirt, Arne rubbed at the scar on his chest. Clara was expecting him. Her message even had an x, a kiss. Was finding “Hospital Georgina” more important? No, it couldn’t be. Not now. Whoever she was, she had bested him. It was time to let it go. Let the other crazy woman, Airplane Georgina, enjoy her soon-to-be-heavily-drugged padded-cell life.
Now was Arne’s chance to enjoy his family and his life. He could take his daughter on a cruise. Together, they could smell that sea air. He could be an old Viking and explore the world. He didn’t have to talk to the other people necessarily, but just marvel at the historical sites and see the coastlines his ancestors had seen when they had crossed the oceans for the first time.
He breathed out slowly and typed out a quick message to Clara—be there soon—then jammed the phone back into his pocket. With renewed determination, he slid off the hood and got in the car. The key went into the ignition and he twisted it. The old Saab fired up. Arne glanced back at Bamse, his chest filling with warmth at the thought of seeing Clara, and even Aslaug. He turned back to the road, popped the car into first gear, and slowly pulled away, heading west for Bergen and his family.
London, England, 2016
Rey marched with purpose down the street in London’s famous Notting Hi
ll area. She’d taken slightly longer to get home than she’d wanted. The emergency landing in Paris had delayed things. Rey had been sure she’d been caught and would be hauled off to jail, but no one had come for her. The emergency landing had been because someone had died on the plane. Paramedics had come on board to collect the woman. Rey had been duly taken to hospital for her heart attack, which turned out to probably be a capecitabine-related coronary spasm, according to the doctors. After one more night away, as a guest of the Medical Center Roissy, she’d been discharged and had taken the next flight home.
Her house, a lovely shade of fuchsia, sat in the middle of a terraced row, each building its own kind of pastel yellow, blue, or green. No two houses the same. A faded rainbow full of happy families who were lucky enough to be able to afford the rent in one of London’s upscale neighborhoods.
It was a far cry from the council estate on which she had grown up; unkempt hedges, syringes on the street. Cop cars patrolling for youths standing suspiciously on corners. Children afraid to walk alone so they grouped like sheep. Fat women in deck chairs sitting on their lawn with a beer. Yes, Notting Hill was now her home. And now, finally unburdened—lighter for being rid of her past and Joe Blackburn—Rey could enjoy her utopia. Connor and Ethan would be waiting at home for her to return from her final round of chemotherapy for the breast cancer she’d never really had. They would wrap their arms around her and she could allow the love to seep into her soul. No longer a wall between them. No longer afraid she might explode and harm her family.
I’m free. I’m free, she repeated in her head.
A Time For Monsters Page 21
