Siri began her story: “On that Saturday, the day of the murder, I went down to Silvia Freud’s office. Gunn Brita had mentioned that she was working. I went there mostly to say hello. I was new on the job and wanted to get to know everyone as quickly as possible. When I got there, she was working on the copy of the Johannes Book. She had the real book out and was working off it. I didn’t consider that unusual at the time. If anyone would have permission to work directly with the artifact, it would be the conservator. But there were some peculiar details. I had come into the office without knocking. I’m sure you’ve been down to the basement yourself, Odd. Lots of doors and no names on them. You go knock on all of them until you get an answer. So bam! I burst in and came across her working in her office. She reacted as though my sudden appearance had pushed her stress level to the max. It was something about the tone of her voice, a little too friendly. I didn’t really think much about it at the time. I just assumed she was the type who makes a little too much effort in social situations. It was only much later that I began to mull it over. I noticed that the Johannes Book was in the vault when we discovered the murder a few days later. So the question was, When did Silvia Freud put the book back?”
“It must have been early on Saturday when you saw her working on the book,” said Singsaker. “She could have put it back well before the murder.”
“That’s true. And that’s what I thought at first, too. But I asked Jon Vatten about it when we all gathered in Knudtzon Hall, before you came to get him. He told me that nobody had been inside the book vault after we spoke with each other on that Saturday. He was positive about that, because everyone who enters the vault had to be let in and accompanied by him and Gunn Brita. Besides, he didn’t think that the Johannes Book had been loaned out to Silvia. Not for at least a week.”
“How do you know that Vatten wasn’t lying?”
“I didn’t know for sure. I did have a feeling that he was holding something back. But why wouldn’t he tell me if he had helped the conservator return a book to the vault? And everything became much more interesting if he was telling the truth. Because that would mean that either Silvia Freud was sitting in her office copying a copy, or the book I had seen in the book vault when we discovered Gunn Brita was not the original.”
“But who would put a copy in the vault?” he asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? Silvia Freud. The plan was simple. In the book vault she puts a copy that is so good that nobody can tell at first glance that it’s not genuine. If anyone wanted to have the book checked more closely, she would most likely be assigned the task. The plan for the book was that it would stay in the vault and not be touched. She could arrange a theft of the real copy, that is, the one she was working on when I surprised her, which was supposed to be used in the exhibition. After the exhibition the copy could simply be lost, something that would probably not be investigated very thoroughly, since it was just a copy that could be replaced. If somebody long afterward discovered that the original in the book vault had been switched with a book that wasn’t the real thing, no one would know who had switched it, since it would have long since vanished. The police would have no fresh leads to follow; the book would have been sold to some narcissistic book collector with a private safe; and Silvia would have conveniently found another job with a more prestigious book collection on the Continent.”
“That might have worked, but don’t underestimate the police,” said Singsaker.
“I’m not,” said Siri Holm. “But the plan was so good that it could have succeeded. So good that two smart people like Silvia Freud and John Nevins were willing to risk it. No crime is without a certain risk, but the odds were on their side. At least, until the plan was turned upside down by a murder at the worst possible moment.”
“But that would mean that Silvia Freud has nothing to do with the murders. Is that what you think?”
“Yes, don’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” he said.
“And Nevins isn’t the murderer either,” said Felicia Stone, who had been sitting and listening quietly until now. “He’s the narcissistic book collector who was going to buy the book. He’s already confessed to that. He first met Silvia Freud when he was in Trondheim at a book conference several months ago. Then, pretending that he was going to Frankfurt, he traveled back to Europe and took the train, which is far more anonymous than a plane, from Germany to Norway to finalize the deal. While he was here, the whole deal fell apart. First because of this murder, and then because you got mixed up in it.” She looked at Siri.
“You were the one who took the copy out of the book vault, weren’t you?” said Singsaker.
“I did. I sneaked into the vault. It wasn’t that difficult, since I had looked over Jon’s shoulder when he entered his code the first time we went in there. Jon Vatten is a good man but a poor security chief.”
He thought it was fairly cold-blooded of her to have remembered Vatten’s code when, just seconds later, they discovered a flayed corpse inside the vault. But he didn’t say anything. Siri Holm seemed to be a rare kind: one who could be simultaneously rational and emotional—and not be ashamed of it.
She went on: “It wasn’t hard to see that the book was a counterfeit. You could tell from the threads used to bind the book. Silvia had done a good job with almost everything, but she had done a rush job on sewing the binding. The thread was nylon and obviously not old. The plan was to confront her with what I knew. I arranged to meet her at the Egon bar at Prinsen Hotel. When I got there, things didn’t go according to plan.”
Singsaker sat there thinking of how close he’d been to running into Siri Holm at the Prinsen. Maybe he could have prevented the whole mess there and then.
“Nevins was with her,” she went on. “The two of them asked me to go out to the car with them, so we could speak in private. Fool that I was, I agreed. If we hadn’t been sitting in the back seat of the cramped Nissan, they never would have been able to overpower me.”
Singsaker thought back to the black belt on the tae kwon do outfit Siri had at home.
She went on with her story. “But a blow to the back of my head with something heavy was all it took. When I came to, I was in the trunk of the car, bound and gagged. First they drove a little way out of town. I got a glimpse of the surroundings when they opened the trunk in a deserted parking lot, removed the gag, and talked to me. I think we were somewhere near Trolla. They wanted me to put the copy back in the book vault. I refused, telling them that the plan was already blown, and that there was no going back. Apparently they realized I was right. They shoved me back in the trunk and drove out here. They only opened it twice after that, so I could go to the toilet and drink a little water. You can imagine what it was like to be squeezed into a fetal position for over twenty-four hours. When you caught up with them, they were probably planning some kind of escape. I have no idea what they were going to do with me. But I don’t think either of them is a killer.”
“And the book?”
“Both books—both the genuine Johannes Book that Silvia stole and the copy I took from the book vault—are safely stowed in Jens Dahle’s cabin, as far as I know.”
“Do you know why they chose that particular cabin?”
“I heard Silvia tell Nevins that she had a key to it. She borrowed it a few weeks ago from Gunn Brita and hadn’t given it back. It was probably just a good place to hide out while they planned their next move.”
All three of them sat there in silence. Singsaker munched on a waffle and started to share Felicia’s craving for a burger.
“But there’s one thing I wonder about,” he said. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me anything about this when I was at your place taking your statement?” The way he said “taking your statement” sounded stiff and awkward in English, and he looked over at Felicia to make sure that she hadn’t noticed.
“I did just say that I’d been a fool. I admit it. I’ve probably read too many mysteries. I thought I’d solved the crim
e, but I wanted to be sure before I went to the police. But it turns out I’m better at solving fictional cases.”
“Obviously. It didn’t occur to you that police work depends on experience, among other things?”
“Go ahead, rub it in. But there’s one thing we can all learn from this situation,” she said with smug confidence. “This case does have one thing in common with many crime novels.”
“What’s that?”
“Diversion. The case of Silvia Freud and this Nevins guy has nothing to do with the murders. The killer is still out there, and poor Jon is still missing, while we’re sitting here talking and wasting time.”
“But how can you be so sure that Jon Vatten isn’t the killer?” Felicia Stone asked.
“Don’t tell me,” said Singsaker. “You just know it, right?”
“That’s right,” said Siri Holm. “I just know it.”
He could tell that Felicia liked the young, bold librarian. He wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or not.
His cell phone rang. It was Lars again. This time Singsaker turned the phone all the way off.
29
At that moment Isak Krangsås came into the living room. He had been in the cowshed and was standing on the dark-brown hardwood floor in manure-covered boots.
“So, have you made any progress?” he asked in Norwegian.
“We’ve taken quite a detour,” replied Singsaker, also in Norwegian. In a way it seemed absurd to speak English with the sturdy farmer.
“There’s one thing I always thought was a little odd about this whole Johannes Book matter,” Krangsås said. “I’ve heard some things about the book. I’ve signed a bunch of papers, and I’ve received letters of thanks from the Gunnerus Library, the whole deal. But I never heard anything more about the knives.”
“The knives?” said Singsaker, straightening up. He noticed that Siri Holm did the same.
“Yes. I had a big leather bundle full of knives, and there were some drills in there, too. According to my father, they apparently belonged with the Johannes Book. The gentleman who came here to the farm with the book also brought these knives. They were very old, but many of them were in good condition. I gave them to Jens Dahle when he took the Johannes Book. I thought I would hear more about them, too. A book with a bunch of knives as accessories, that’s a really good story. But it was like the knives just disappeared.”
“Did any of these knives look like a scalpel?” Singsaker asked eagerly.
“Yes. Several of them could have been surgical instruments, but old-fashioned ones. I wouldn’t let a doctor use them on me, I’ll tell you that.”
Several thoughts began whirling around in Singsaker’s head.
“This farm that belonged to Jens Dahle’s parents,” he said, just to start somewhere. “Where is it located?”
“It’s down by the fjord. Just keep going down the road that goes past the first cabin, the way you drove before.”
“The first cabin?”
“Yes. The second cabin was built where the Dahle farm once was. The whole farm burned down. That’s how Jens’s parents died. They say it was arson, but they never caught the person who did it. Jens built a cabin on the property several years later. So when Jens Dahle talks about the cabin, it’s the place on the old Dahle farm he’s talking about. The place that Gunn Brita’s family owned they call ‘the storehouse’ for some reason. Don’t ask me why. The family always lived at the storehouse whenever they were out here together. The cabin was Jens’s place. Somewhere he could be alone. Gunn Brita said that Jens didn’t like her to go there with him. But I don’t think it mattered to her. ‘A man needs a place to himself,’ she said.”
“Does that mean that if Jens Dahle’s kids say that he was at the cabin, they mean the place down by the water?” asked Singsaker, the pieces beginning to fall into place.
“That’s right,” said Krangsås.
“Do you know if the couple would ever leave the kids alone in the cabin, I mean, the storehouse?”
“The kids are quite independent. I don’t think they would have had any problem being alone for a few hours. They would have just played with those little game machines, I think. Isn’t that what kids do these days?”
“Do you know if Jens Dahle has a boat at the second cabin?” Siri Holm broke in.
“Yes, he does. One of those really fast speedboats. He uses it sometimes to go to the city. He says it doesn’t take any longer than driving his car.”
“In other words: If he wanted to get back and forth to Trondheim in a few hours without being registered electronically anywhere, he could simply take the boat? And if anyone asked the kids where he’d been, they would say that he was at the cabin?”
A text came in with a ping. Felicia Stone took out her iPhone from the pocket of her all-weather jacket, which she hadn’t taken off, and read what it said.
“Well, anything’s possible, I suppose,” Krangsås said. “You don’t think that Jens Dahle has anything to do with this case, do you? He’s not the type. He’s such a calm and rational person.”
Felicia cleared her throat.
“I can see that you’re in the midst of a serious conversation,” she said, in English. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I think you ought to hear this, Odd.”
“OK,” he said impatiently.
“The names you asked me to check for entry to the USA around the time of the murder in Richmond,” she went on.
“Let me guess. You got a hit on Jens Dahle.”
“How did you know?” Felicia asked, looking at him with something that approached admiration but maybe was just surprise.
“If you understood Norwegian, you would have known, too,” he said. “Come on, I’ll explain in the car.” He got up and walked toward the door.
The last thing he said before leaving the room was directed at Siri Holm:
“No, you stay here.” It bothered him that he sounded like her father.
* * *
“But why me? Isn’t this all a mistake?” said Vatten. “Don’t you know I’m the prime suspect in the case? If you’d left me alone, I probably would have been arrested, and you’d never be caught.”
Jens Dahle had hung Vatten from a roof beam in the cabin. He was hanging by his feet with his head about three feet above the floor. There he hung, looking at his killer upside down. The perspective made Dahle seem somehow supernatural.
“Maybe. But I did make one mistake, and that was not finishing you off,” said Dahle, studying the tip of a scalpel. “First of all, you had sex with that fat whore. But you didn’t think you could get away with it, did you? Don’t you think I noticed the bottle of red wine and the two glasses when I came to the library last Saturday? Who do you think cleaned that up? I got a confession out of her before I cut her throat. Nice of you two to leave the book vault open for me. I was able to do the whole job inside and then lock it afterward. That’s how I got such a head start on the police.”
“I can’t remember, but I think you’re right. I did have sex with your wife. But wouldn’t a prison sentence for murder have been punishment enough?”
“I thought so, at first. But I’d made a mistake. Do you remember the bit of parchment I sent you after I killed your family? Do you remember what was written on it?”
This is the first time he’s openly admitting it, Vatten thought. Ever since he saw Gunn Brita’s corpse, he’d known that the same person had killed Hedda and Edvard. But here at last was the confession.
“‘The center of the universe is everywhere and its circumference nowhere,’” Vatten said.
“That’s right. I knew you had a good memory. Well, I was sloppy and talked a little too much about that quotation to a detective. That it wasn’t very smart of me. I know you didn’t tell the police about the parchment. That says a lot about you. But if, at some point, once you no longer saw any way to avoid being convicted of the murders, you might have changed your mind. And if you showed the parchment to the p
olice, I’m afraid this Singsaker might remember our conversation.”
“I burned it. It was Hedda’s skin,” Vatten said.
Dahle was utterly still. Vatten could hardly hear him breathing. The blood was throbbing in his temples. How long can someone hang upside down before he passes out? he wondered.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Dahle said at last. “I really brought you here because I want to finish what I started. When I’m done with you, the rest won’t matter. Oh, and the parchment wasn’t from your wife. It was a little piece from the boy’s back. A first-class specimen. So soft and supple.”
Now everything was about to go black for Vatten. Only his rage kept him from fainting.
“You must be wondering why I took them. I don’t know if it will be any consolation if I tell you that it was random. I’d seen all of you in the neighborhood many times, and I knew your routines: You often came home late from work; she seldom locked the door. Do you remember all the newspaper articles about how they vanished without a trace? That was just luck. Beginner’s luck. It wasn’t planned well. That afternoon I opened the gate, went to the front door, and rang the bell. When she opened the door, the boy was standing by her side. I hit her on the head with the crowbar and tossed her right into the trunk of my car. I had to chase the boy through the house. But he thought the way most kids do. I found him under the bed and dragged him out by his hair. A kick to his head was enough to subdue him. Then I put him in the trunk next to his mother and drove off. I remember how amused I was with that eyewitness who claimed he’d been sitting on his balcony all evening. Before I moved in on your place, I sat and watched him. He was drinking beer and went inside every fifteen minutes to get another one. Apparently he stopped to take a leak each time, too. He was inside the apartment almost as much as he was outside on the balcony. Why the police trusted his account, I have no idea. When he went back for his fourth beer, I began, and managed to finish the job before he came back out. To this day I don’t know why he told the police he’d been sitting on the balcony the whole time. I’ll probably never know. As I said, beginner’s luck. It wasn’t a sophisticated plan, just a gamble that succeeded.”
Where Monsters Dwell Page 28
