by Jo Nesbo
Simon turned to her. He had intended to provoke her. And it had worked. But it seemed as if her outrage had already passed. Now she just looked like she had found yet another reason to quit the force at the earliest opportunity.
‘What’s the story behind the Twin’s nickname?’
Simon shrugged. ‘I believe he had an identical twin brother. When he was eleven years old, he dreamt two nights in a row that he killed this brother. He concluded that since they were identical twins, it was logical to assume that his brother had had the same dream. From then on it was simply a question of beating the other one to it.’
Kari looked at Simon. ‘Beating the other one to it,’ she repeated.
‘Excuse me,’ Simon said and rushed after Else who was about to walk into a glass wall.
Fidel Lae saw the car before he heard it. This was the thing about new cars, they hardly made any noise. If the wind was coming from the road, across the moor and towards the farm, he might hear the crunching of tyres against the gravel, gear-changing or high-revving as the car drove up the hills, but otherwise Fidel had to rely on his eyes for warning. Of cars, yes. People or animals were another matter – then he had the best alarm system in the world. Nine Dobermann pinschers in a cage. Seven bitches that had a litter every year, which sold for twelve grand – per puppy. They constituted his kennel’s official business where dogs were delivered microchipped to buyers, insured against latent defects and their pedigree registered with the Norwegian Kennel Club.
The unofficial part of the kennel lay deeper into the woods.
Two bitches and one male. Not registered anywhere. Argentine mastiffs. The Dobermann pinschers were scared witless of them. Fifty-five kilos of aggression and loyalty covered in an albino-white short coat which explained why Fidel’s dogs all had names with the word ‘ghost’ in them: the bitches were Ghost Machine and Holy Ghost, the male Ghostbuster. The buyers could call the puppies what the hell they like as long as they paid up. 120,000 kroner. The price reflected the rarity of the dog, its effective killer instinct and the fact that the breed was banned in Norway and in several other countries. As his customers weren’t especially price-sensitive or concerned about Norwegian legislation, there was little to suggest that the price would go down. On the contrary. For that reason Fidel had moved the Argentine mastiff enclosure even further into the forest this year, so that their barking couldn’t be heard on the farm.
The car was heading for the farm, the track led nowhere else, so Fidel walked quietly down to the gate which was always shut. Not to prevent the Dobermanns from getting out, but to stop trespassers from getting in. And since everyone except his customers were trespassers, Fidel had a refurbished Mauser M98 to hand in a small shed backing onto the kennel near the gate. He kept fancier weapons in the main building, but he could always argue that he used the Mauser for elk hunting as elks did sometimes walk across the moor. Whenever the wind didn’t blow from the direction of the enclosure with the Argentine ghosts, that is.
Fidel arrived at the gate at the same time as the car with a rental company’s logo on the exterior. Fidel could tell from the crunching gears that the driver had little experience with this particular make of car; he also took his time switching off the headlights, the windscreen wipers and, finally, the engine.
‘All right?’ Fidel said, studying the guy who appeared from the car. Hoodie and brown shoes. A townie. Every now and then some of them did make their way here on their own and without having made an appointment. But it was rare. Fidel didn’t advertise with directions on the Net like the other kennels. The guy came up to the gate which Fidel showed no sign of wanting to open.
‘I’m looking for a dog.’
Fidel pushed the peak of his cap up on his forehead. ‘Sorry, but you’ve made a wasted trip. I don’t talk to potential owners of any of my dogs without getting references first. That’s just how it is. A Dobermann pinscher isn’t a cuddly family dog, it needs an owner who knows what he’s taking on. Call me on Monday.’
‘I’m not looking for a Dobermann,’ the guy said and looked past Fidel. Past the farm and the cages for his nine legal bitches. To the forest behind. ‘And my reference is Gustav Rover.’ He held up a business card. Fidel peered at it. Rover’s Motorcycle Workshop. Rover. Fidel had a good memory for names and people because he didn’t see many of either. The motorcycle guy with the gold tooth. He had been here with Nestor to buy an Argentine mastiff.
‘He said your dogs will keep an eye on the Belarus cleaners and make sure they don’t do a runner.’
Fidel spend some time scratching a wart on his wrist. Then he opened the gate. This guy couldn’t be police, they weren’t allowed to entrap people by provoking crimes such as selling illegal dogs, it would sabotage their entire case. At least that was what his lawyer told him.
‘Have you got . . .?’
The guy nodded, stuck his hand in the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a large wad of notes. Thousand-kroner notes.
Fidel opened the gun cabinet and took out the Mauser.
‘I never go and see them without this,’ he explained. ‘If one of them were to get out . . .’
It took them ten minutes to walk to the enclosure.
During the last five they could hear furious and increasingly loud barking.
‘They think they’re about to be fed,’ said Fidel, but didn’t add: with you.
The manic dogs hurled themselves at the wire fence when the men came into view. Fidel felt the ground shake when they fell back. He knew exactly how deep the fence posts had been sunk, he only hoped it was deep enough. The imported German cages had metal floors, so that dogs like terriers, dachshunds and bloodhounds couldn’t dig themselves out, and corrugated-iron roofs that kept them dry and prevented even the fittest ones from leaping over the fence.
‘They’re most dangerous when they’re in a pack,’ Fidel said. ‘Then they follow the top dog, Ghostbuster. He’s the biggest.’
The customer just nodded. He looked at the dogs. Fidel knew he must be scared. The open jaws with rows of glistening, gleaming teeth arranged on pale pink gums. Fuck, he was even scared himself. Only when he was with a single dog, preferably one of the bitches, could he be sure that he was the boss.
‘With a puppy you must establish yourself as the top dog quickly and make sure it stays that way. Remember that kindness in the form of indulgence and forgiveness will be viewed as weakness. Undesirable behaviour must be punished, and that’s your job. Do you understand?’
The customer turned to Fidel. There was something strangely remote in his smiling eyes when he repeated: ‘Punishing undesirable behaviour is my job.’
‘Good.’
‘Why is that cage empty?’ The customer pointed to an enclosure near the dogs.
‘I used to have two males. If I had put them in the same cage, one of them would have ended up dead.’
Fidel took out a bunch of keys. ‘Come and have a look at the puppies, they have their own cage over there—’
‘Before you do that, tell me something . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Is it desirable behaviour to let a dog bite a young girl in the face?’
Fidel stopped in his tracks. ‘Eh?’
‘Is it desirable behaviour to use dogs to bite off a girl’s face when she tries to escape slavery, or should it be punished?’
‘Listen, the dog is just acting on instinct and you can’t blame it just because—’
‘I’m not talking about the dog. The owners. Should they be punished, in your opinion?’
Fidel looked closely at his customer. Could he be a cop after all? ‘Well, if such an accident did happen, then—’
‘I doubt it was an accident. Afterwards, the owner cut the girl’s throat and dumped her body in the forest.’
Fidel gripped the Mauser harder. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘But I do. The owner’s name was Hugo Nestor.’
‘Listen, do you want a dog or not?’ Fidel r
aised the barrel of his rifle – which up until now had been pointing at the ground – a few inches.
‘He bought the dog from you. He has bought several dogs from you. Because you sell dogs that can be used for such purposes.’
‘What would you know about that?’
‘A lot. For twelve years I sat in a cage listening to people tell me stories. Ever wondered what it’s like to sit in a cage?’
‘Listen—’
‘You can try it now.’
Fidel didn’t have time to get the rifle in place before the other man had locked him in a hold from behind and was pressing his arms so tightly against his body that the air left Fidel with a hiss. The kennel owner barely registered the frantic barking as he was picked up. The other man leaned back as he lifted Fidel and threw him in a large arc over his head. But when Fidel hit the ground neck and shoulders first, the guy threw himself so that he landed on top of Fidel. Fidel gasped for air as he struggled to free himself. But he stopped abruptly when he stared into the muzzle of a gun.
Four minutes later Fidel was staring at the retreating back of the man who looked as if he was walking on water as he crossed the moor in the fog. Fidel’s fingers were gripping the meshed fence next to the big padlock. He was locked in the empty cage. In the next cage, Ghostbuster had lain down and was watching him lazily. The man had filled the bowl in Fidel’s cage with water and left him four boxes of Raw dog food. And he had taken his mobile, his keys and his wallet. Fidel started to scream. And the white devils responded with howling and barking. From an enclosure built so deep into the forest that no one could hear or see them.
Fuck!
The man had gone. A strange silence descended. A bird screeched. Then Fidel heard the first drops of rain hit the corrugated-iron roof.
27
WHEN SIMON STEPPED out of the lift and into Homicide’s office at 8.08 on Monday morning, he had three things on his mind. That Else had been bathing her eyes in the en suite bathroom earlier, completely unaware that Simon had been watching her from the bedroom. That he had possibly given Kari too much work to do on a Sunday. And that he hated the office layout, especially after one of Else’s friends who was an architect had told him that it was a myth that open-plan offices save floor space per employee, that noise issues meant that so many meeting rooms and buffer zones had to be created that any gain was eaten up by the additional expenditure.
He went over to Kari’s desk.
‘You’re in early,’ he said.
A rather bleary face looked up. ‘Good morning to you too, Simon Kefas.’
‘Thank you. Found anything?’
Kari leaned back in her chair. Even though she was yawning, Simon thought he detected a certain satisfaction behind her expression.
‘First I looked for a connection between Iversen and Farrisen. Nothing. Then I looked up Sonny Lofthus’s convictions and any other potential suspects. Lofthus was convicted of the murder of an unidentified, possibly Vietnamese girl who died from a drug overdose, and at first the police had suspected Kalle Farrisen. But Lofthus was also doing time for another killing. That of Oliver Jovic, a drug dealer, a Kosovo Serb who was trying to butt into the market when he was found in Stensparken with a glass bottle of Coke down his throat.’
Simon pulled a face. ‘They slashed his throat?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. A bottle of Coke had been rammed down his throat.’
‘Down his throat?’
‘The bottle neck first. Easier that way. Pushed right down so that the bottom presses against the back of the teeth.’
‘How do you know . . .?’
‘I saw the photos. The Drug Squad thought it was a message to show potential competitors what would happen if you try to bite off more than you can chew in the coke market.’ She looked up quickly at Simon and added: ‘Coke bottle as in Coca-Cola.’
‘Yes, thank you, I get it.’
‘The police launched an investigation, but got nowhere. The case was never actually abandoned, but very little happened until Sonny Lofthus was arrested for the murder of the Asian girl. He confessed to murdering Jovic as well. In the interview records he states that he and Jovic had met in the park to settle a debt, that Lofthus didn’t have enough money and that Jovic had threatened him with a gun. Lofthus had attacked him and floored him. I guess the police thought it sounded reasonable, given that Lofthus used to wrestle.’
‘Hm.’
‘The interesting thing is that the police lifted a fingerprint from the bottle.’
‘And?’
‘And it didn’t belong to Lofthus.’
Simon nodded. ‘And how did Lofthus explain that?’
‘He said he’d found the empty bottle in a nearby bin. That junkies like him do this all the time to get the deposits on them back.’
‘But?’
‘Junkies don’t collect recyclables. It would take too long to get together enough money for that day’s fix. And the report stated that the fingerprint was a thumb and that it had been lifted from the bottom of the bottle.’
Simon could see where she was going with this, but didn’t want to spoil it by beating her to it.
‘I mean, who puts their thumb on the bottom of a bottle when they drink from it? If, however, you were forcing a bottle down someone’s throat . . .’
‘And you don’t think the police considered that at the time?’
Kari shrugged. ‘I don’t think the police ever prioritise drug hits. They hadn’t found a match for the thumbprint in the database. So when someone offers them a confession to a case they’ve had lying around for a while . . .’
‘Then they say thank you very much, mark the case as solved and move on?’
‘That’s how you work, isn’t it?’
Simon sighed. You. He had read in the newspapers that the police’s reputation among the public was starting to rise after the last few years’ scandals, but the force was only slightly more popular than the railways. You. He imagined she was thanking her lucky stars that she already had one foot out of this open-plan office.
‘So Sonny Lofthus was convicted of two murders, but in both cases suspicion pointed to drug dealers. Are you saying that he’s a professional scapegoat?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Perhaps. But there still isn’t anything that links him to either Farrisen or Agnete Iversen.’
‘There is a third murder,’ Kari said. ‘Kjersti Morsand.’
‘The shipping owner’s wife,’ Simon said, although his thoughts had now turned to coffee and the coffee machine. ‘That’s Buskerud Police’s case.’
‘That’s correct. Had the top of her head sawn off. Sonny Lofthus was also suspected of that killing.’
‘That can’t be right, surely? He was banged up when it happened.’
‘No, he was out on day release. He was in the area. They even found one of his hairs at the crime scene.’
‘You’re joking,’ said Simon, instantly forgetting all about coffee. ‘There would have been something about it in the papers. Notorious killer linked to crime scene – what could be more newsworthy than that?’
‘The Buskerud officer who is heading the investigation has chosen not to make it public,’ Kari said.
‘Why not?’
‘Ask him.’
Kari pointed and Simon noticed a tall, broad man walking towards them from the coffee machine with a mug in his hand. Despite the summer temperature he was wearing a thick woolly jumper.
‘Henrik Westad,’ the man said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m an inspector with Buskerud Police. I’m leading the Kjersti Morsand investigation.’
‘I asked Henrik to drive over here this morning for a chat,’ Kari said.
‘You drove all the way from Drammen in the morning rush hour?’ Simon said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘We’re very grateful.’
‘Before the morning rush hour,’ Westad said. ‘We’ve been here since six thirty. I didn’t think there was much more to be said about the inves
tigation, but your colleague here is very thorough.’
He nodded to Kari and sat down in the chair opposite her.
‘So why didn’t you make it known that you had found a convicted killer’s hair at the scene?’ Simon said, looking enviously at the mug Westad was raising to his lips. ‘It’s as good as saying you’ve solved the case. The police don’t normally hold back good news.’
‘That’s true,’ Westad said. ‘Especially when the owner of that hair had confessed to the killing the first time we interviewed him.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Leif happened.’
‘Who’s Leif?’
Westad nodded slowly. ‘I could have issued a press release with what we had after the first interview, but something didn’t add up. Something about the suspect’s . . . attitude. So I waited. And the second time we interviewed him, he retracted his confession and claimed that he had an alibi. A guy called Leif who drove a blue Volvo with an “I ♥ Drammen” sticker, and who Lofthus for some reason thought had heart problems. So I checked with the Volvo dealers in Drammen and the Cardiology Unit at Buskerud Central Hospital.’
‘Yes?’
‘Leif Krognæss, aged fifty-three. He lives in Konnerud in Drammen and he immediately recognised the suspect from the photo I showed him. He had seen him at a lay-by on the old main road that runs parallel to Drammensveien. You know, one of those areas with picnic benches and tables where you can enjoy being outside. Leif Krognæss had gone for a little drive in the sunshine, but had pulled over and sat in the lay-by for several hours because he felt strangely exhausted. I don’t believe it’s popular with motorists, they prefer the new road, and besides there’s a pond with midges. Anyway, on that day two men were sitting at another picnic table. They just sat there, without saying anything for hours as if they were waiting for something. Then one of the men glanced at his watch and said that it was time to go. As they passed Krognæss’s table, the other man bent down, asked Krognæss what his name was and then told him to see a doctor, that there was something wrong with his heart. Then the first man pulled the second man away; Krognæss assumed that he must be a psychiatric patient on an outing, and they had driven off.’
