by Anne Holt
A car rattled past outside. Jack lifted his head and growled. Adam took a bottle out of the corner cabinet, held it at arm’s length, and nodded in satisfaction. He calmly put three glasses on the table, without comment, and opened the bottle. Then he poured a glass for himself and one for Johanne.
“I agree with the distinction you’re making,” he said, nodding. “The Fiona Helle case is a more . . . normal case, you might say. Than the other two.”
“Normal and normal,” Sigmund said and filled his own glass to the brim. “There’s nothing very normal about cutting tongues out of people’s mouths.”
Adam ignored him, took a sip, put down his glass, and crossed his arms.
“I just don’t understand the connection you’re making . . .”
He gave her a friendly smile, as if he was frightened he might annoy her. It annoyed her.
“Listen,” she said in a voice that was higher than normal, with a mixture of fear, enthusiasm, and anger. “The first case triggered the other two. That’s the only way it works.”
“Triggered,” Adam repeated the word.
“Triggered?” Sigmund was more alert now and pushed his glass away a touch.
“It doesn’t make sense any other way,” Johanne said. “As I see it, the first murder happened more or less as we think it did. Fiona Helle destroyed Mats Bohus’s dreams. He killed her and cut out her tongue, split it in two as a symbol of how he felt. She had lied about the most important things in life. Outwardly, she appeared to be a fixer of dreams, a savior to those with difficulties. When her own son needed her, he discovered it was all a show. A huge lie. How could he feel otherwise?”
Jack barked. At the same time, as if he’d caused it, the kitchen window slid open. A cold draft blew out the candle. Adam swore and got up.
“We’ve got to get these windows replaced,” he said and bashed the frame into place before taking a match and relighting the candle.
“So there has to be someone out there,” Johanne said, as if nothing had happened. Her eyes were fixed somewhere on the wall. “Someone who’s heard Warren’s lecture on proportional retribution. And who then decides to copy it. And is doing just that.”
An angel passed through the room.
The silence was prolonged.
The candle was still flickering in the draft. Jack had gone back to sleep. Sigmund was breathing through his mouth. The pleasant smell of cognac swathed the three people around the kitchen table.
“That has to be the case,” Johanne thought to herself. “Someone was . . . inspired. Someone seized the moment when they read about a murder where the victim’s tongue had been cut out and wrapped up. The first piece was in place. Mats Bohus was an ignorant, arbitrary trigger.”
Still no one said a word.
“I’ve never heard anything like it,” Adam was thinking. “In all my years on the job, with all my experience, and everything I’ve studied and read, I’ve never, ever heard of a case like that. It can’t be right. It just can’t be true.”
The silence continued.
“She’s a fantastic lady,” Sigmund thought. “But she’s lost it this time.”
“Okay,” Adam said, finally. “And what would the motive be for doing something like that?”
“I don’t know,” replied Johanne.
“Try,” Sigmund encouraged her.
“I don’t know the motive.”
“But what sort of—”
“He has to have above-average intelligence. With more knowledge than most. He has . . .” She moved imperceptibly nearer to the table, closer to the others. “It has to be someone who has unusual insight into police work. Investigations, both technical and tactical, procedures and routines. So far you haven’t found a single biological trace of any significance. And my guess is that you won’t. Tactically, you’re at a loss. This is obviously a man with no . . .”
She had a faraway look in her eyes when she took off her glasses.
“A man with no empathy,” she concluded. “A damaged person, in some way. Personality disorder. But probably well adjusted. He won’t necessarily have a criminal record. But I can’t help—”
The look she sent Adam, unclear and searching, was one of growing desperation.
“He has to be a policeman,” she said in despair. “Or at least someone who . . . How can he know so much? He must have heard Warren’s lecture. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s using the same symbolism.”
She held her breath. Then slowly she let it out again through clamped teeth.
“We’re looking for someone who works with crime professionally,” she said without expression or tone. “A twisted, clever, and knowledgeable mind.”
“So he hasn’t influenced others, made them kill?” Sigmund ventured. “Have we dropped that theory now?”
“He’s done it himself. Definitely.”
Johanne held onto Adam’s eyes.
“He doesn’t trust anyone,” she continued. “He despises other people. He probably lives what we would call a lonely life, but without being a loner. People don’t interest him. His actions are in themselves grotesque, and copying the symbolism is so sick that . . .”
She ran her hand slowly over the counter and looked away.
“He doesn’t necessarily have anything in particular against Victoria Heinerback or Vegard Krogh.”
“That would make him the only one,” muttered Adam, “regarding Vegard Krogh. If he has nothing against him, that is. But if you’re right, what would the motive be? What the hell would the motive be for someone to—”
“Wait!”
Johanne gripped Adam’s hand and crushed it.
“The motive doesn’t need to have anything to do with Victoria or Vegard,” she said with renewed enthusiasm and vigor, as if catching a thought that had slipped away. “They may have been chosen simply because they were famous. The killer wants the murders to attract attention, like the first one did, Fiona Helle’s murder. This case has—”
“Vegard Krogh wasn’t famous,” Sigmund cut in. “I, for one, didn’t have a clue who the guy was before he was killed.”
Johanne let go of Adam’s hand. She put her glasses on again, raised her wineglass, and took a sip.
“You’re right,” she said. “You’re absolutely right. I don’t quite know how—”
“He was pretty well known in certain circles,” Adam said. “He’d been on TV and—”
“Sigmund has a point,” Johanne insisted. “The fact that Vegard Krogh was not more famous weakens my theory. But on the other hand . . .”
She broke off with a thoughtful expression on her face, as if trying to grasp some vague and undefined feeling so she could share it with the others.
“But the motive,” Adam repeated. “If the primary purpose was not to harm Victoria or Vegard per se, what was it? To play with us?”
“Hush! Shhh!” Johanne was completely awake and alert now. “Did you hear that? Is that coming from . . .”
“It’s only Kristiane,” Adam said and got up. “I’ll go.”
“No, let me.”
Johanne tried to be quiet when she went into the hall. Ragnhild might still sleep for another hour before she needed food. Johanne heard sounds from Kristiane’s room that she couldn’t make out.
“What are you up to, sweetie?” she whispered as she opened the door.
Kristiane was sitting up in bed. She had put on some tights and a thick sweater. She had a felt hat on her head, a green Tyrol hat with a feather in it that Isak had once brought back from Munich. Four Barbie dolls lay strewn over the bed. The girl had a knife in her hand and was smiling at her mother.
“What . . . Kristiane! What are you . . . ?”
Johanne sat down on the bed and carefully loosened her daughter’s hand and took the knife.
“You shouldn’t . . . It’s dangerous . . .”
Only then did she notice the dolls’ heads. The Barbies had been decapitated. Their hair had been cut off and lay like old golden
Christmas decorations on the duvet.
“What have you . . .” Johanne stammered. “Why have you ruined your dolls?”
Her voice was angrier than she intended. Kristiane burst out crying.
“Don’t know, Mommy. I was bored.”
Johanne put the knife down on the floor. She hugged her daughter to her, pulled her into her lap, pushed off the ridiculous hat, and held her tight. Rocked from side to side. Kissed her tousled hair.
“You shouldn’t do things like that, sweetie. You should never do things like that.”
“But I was so bored, Mommy.”
The window was open, and the room was freezing. Johanne felt she was shivering all over. She threw the remains of the dolls into a corner, pushed the knife far under the bed, and lifted the duvet. She lay down beside her daughter, with her stomach to her daughter’s back. Johanne lay like this, whispering tender words to her, until the crying child finally fell asleep.
Kari Mundal didn’t know the ins and outs of accounting, but she did have a sharp mind and robust common sense and knew roughly what she was looking for. Not because anyone had told her, but because in the weeks since Victoria Heinerback’s death she had used her long morning walks to think, from exactly ten past six until she returned to her husband and a freshly brewed pot of coffee fifty minutes later.
Victoria Heinerback had originally been Kari Mundal’s project. It was the older woman who had discovered the girl’s talent, when Victoria was only seventeen years old. Potential successors to the throne had come and gone over the past fifteen years, but none of them had delivered what they once promised. A couple of them had even stabbed the old king, Kristian Mundal, in the back. Out they went. Others had fallen victim to extreme liberalism, which did not sit comfortably with the party’s persistent efforts to become a new popular party, the people’s party, with stringent state regulation in crucial areas of society. Such as immigration.
Out went the liberals as well, and behind them all stood Victoria Heinerback.
It was Kari Mundal who found her. The seventeen-year-old from the suburbs, from Grorud, who chewed bubble gum and tied her bleached hair up in a ridiculous ponytail. But her eyes were blue and alert, and she had a quick mind. And she was attractive once Kari Mundal persuaded her to get a new haircut and to ditch the pale pink wardrobe.
And she was loyal to Kristian, unstintingly loyal. Always.
It wasn’t easy to get close to Victoria. Even though they had seen each other every day for years, Kari and Victoria had never really been close. Not on a personal level. Maybe it was the age difference that made it difficult. On the other hand, Victoria Heinerback was not open with anyone, as far as Kari Mundal knew. Not even with that show-off she was engaged to. Mrs. Mundal thought the boy had no integrity, but was wise enough not to say it. They certainly looked good together. And that was something.
Politically, however, it was a different matter. Victoria Heinerback was not forthcoming with her views about her own and the party’s future, but when she did speak out, she always allied herself with Kristian and Kari Mundal. The three of them had long since laid down a long-term strategy for the party, aside from the manifesto and the other party members. The first milestone had been achieved when Victoria had been elected by acclamation to succeed Kristian Mundal as party leader. The next would come after the parliamentary elections in 2005, when the party would, for the first time in history, be in a position where the old king could make a comeback as a minister. Then by 2009, the country should be ready for another young female prime minister.
Rudolf Fjord might be a problem.
They had realized that already last summer during the leadership campaign, when the man was blessed with a wave of goodwill from the party apparatus. He was popular in the regions. He traveled a lot, and local government was his forte. It was easy to promise millions to local governments as long as the party was in opposition, and Rudolf was a master of the art. For a while it looked as though the race between the two leadership candidates might be closer than the Mundals cared for. But Kari knew what to do. She whispered a few well-chosen words in selected ears about Rudolf’s relationships with women, and the desired results were achieved. The man seemed to be incapable of commitment. There was something suspicious about the way he always turned up at premieres and A-list parties with a new woman on his arm. It just wasn’t appropriate for a man of his age.
Victoria felt that Rudolf was necessary for the party and seemed to be quite happy to have him as deputy leader. But Kari Mundal, with her sharp nose, well trained and finely tuned from working as Kristian’s closest adviser for over a generation, knew that Victoria was hiding something. She became very alert whenever Rudolf was near. There was something in her eyes, a watchfulness that Kari never managed to grasp and that Victoria avoided explaining the few times Kari had mentioned it.
“Rudolf should be grateful that everyone is so happy about the new building that no one takes a closer look,” Victoria had said the last time they spoke together. “He has done a good job as chairman of the works committee, but he should tread carefully!”
Victoria had been furious when she said it. Rudolf Fjord had taken part in a TV debate where he had openly broken a pact they had made. They had agreed to keep on good footing with the government for a while, as it wasn’t long until the revised national budget was to be announced. They had a plan. An agreement. He broke it, and her eyes were dark when she repeated, “That man should be careful. I could crush him. Like a louse, if I wanted to. He’s walking on thin ice. But he should watch out what’s coming from above, literally.”
And then she had to rush off to a meeting, and Kari never found out what she meant. They never saw each other again, as she was killed two weeks later. When she had confronted Rudolf about Victoria’s outburst during the memorial service at the house on Snarøya, he had claimed that he didn’t know what she was talking about. But the color in his cheeks intensified, and he had been very uncomfortable when they ran into that policeman in the hall.
It was only three days ago, when she had gone to Rudolf’s apartment in Frogner to drop off some papers for Kristian, that she had finally discovered one possible explanation for Victoria’s outburst. Rudolf was irritated by her being there, impatient for her to leave. She asked if she could use the bathroom. He looked angrily at the clock but couldn’t say no. And it was there, as she let the warm water run over her thin, sinewy, and soapy hands, that she realized where she should look.
The accounting department was situated right above Rudolf Fjord’s office. The name was a misnomer, as it wasn’t really a department, just a nice small room with cream wallpaper and cherrywood filing cabinets. The light flooded in through a large window facing the back and over the desk where Hege Hansen sat alone and kept the accounts for the party and the operations company, Kvadraturen Building Ltd.
Victoria had said, “He’s walking on thin ice, but he should watch out for what’s coming from above.”
It was late, and the building was almost empty. Kari Mundal had drunk a whole thermos of tea. She wasn’t used to figures and columns. She didn’t even do her own taxes. Kristian took care of things like that. But curiosity drove her on as she plowed through the accounts for the extensive renovation project, from cover to cover, from the ledger down to the smallest receipt. Every now and then she stopped, straightened the glasses that were perched on the end of her sharp nose, and squinted a bit longer at an invoice before shaking her head and carrying on.
Then she stopped.
Div plumbing
PStarck porcelain
Ft ++
Wk se ok 03
Tot NOK 342,293
VAT NOK 82,150.32
To pay NOK 424,443.32
She had been studying unclear and meaningless vouchers for five hours now, but this was by far the worst. The words “porcelain” and “plumbing” were easy enough, but it took a while before she realized that Ft had to mean “fittings” and that there were in fact s
paces between se and ok and 03. Had someone inspected the work and said it was okay in 2003? What did PStarck mean? Postscript tarck? And why was there a PS at the top of the invoice?
The VAT had been invoiced and paid.
Se ok 03.
Se ok, pondered Kari Mundal.
September–October 2003, perhaps? Strange abbreviation.
She thought back to autumn last year, when it looked like everything was going wrong with the building. It was primarily the cellar, roof, and façade that were causing the problems. They had chosen the wrong kind of paint. The stone couldn’t breathe, and they had to repaint the whole thing. And there was something wrong with the drainage. Following a torrential rain, the cellar flooded. The flooring on the first floor had to be pulled up and replaced due to water damage, which was an expensive and time-consuming operation that had nearly ruined all plans for a big opening Christmas party.
The bathrooms were already finished in June.
PStarck.
Philippe Starck.
When they were doing up the big house on Snarøya, their youngest daughter had deluged her with interior design magazines. “Think new, Mom,” she nagged and pointed at jacuzzis that Kari couldn’t bear and toilets that looked like eggs. She most certainly did not want to feel like a hen every time she went to the bathroom was how she dismissed her daughter’s suggestion.
The big building in the Kvadraturen area of Oslo was renovated meticulously and with great care. The toilets were old-fashioned, with high-level tanks and porcelain hand pulls on gold chains.
But in Rudolf’s apartment, in his newly refurbished bathroom, everything was of the moment. Philippe Starck. She had been there, she had seen it, and the realization of what she had just unearthed made her hands sweat. She resolutely drank what was left of the lukewarm tea.
Then she took the voucher out of the file and went to get the key to the photocopying room. When she opened the door, the silence in the corridor was like a dense wall. She hesitated for a moment, listening. She seemed to be alone.
Had Rudolf killed Victoria?
For making a fuss about a bill for 424,443.32 kroner? He couldn’t have. Or could he?
