Viken knocked twice on the half-open door and walked in. As usual he was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck to reveal a line of thick grey chest hair.
– Are we going to do this sitting down or standing up? he asked with that enigmatic smile Finckenhagen had long puzzled over but in the end found really quite sympathetic.
– Please, do sit down. Have you read VG?
– Never miss it.
– Well, what do you make of it?
– They’ve got hold of more information than we’d like. He didn’t appear to be worried in the slightest.
– Where did they get it from? she wanted to know.
He scratched beneath his chin, drew his fingers along his jawline, making the skin taut.
– Possibly from the forest deeps of Hedmark. Possibly from us.
– In which case we have a problem.
He leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of him. The polished toecaps of his shoes glinted.
– I’ll take another look at it, Chief. If we find the source, you’ll be the first to know. But even so, it could’ve been worse.
– How d’you mean?
– Journalists are like a wolf pack. If they find a bone, they’re all over it. If they don’t, they’re all over us. That would have done a lot more damage to the investigation.
Finckenhagen wasn’t sure she liked the imagery he used.
– The Chief Superintendent is not quite of the same opinion as you. Nor is the Chief Constable.
Viken grinned a rather wolf-like grin himself.
– Let him growl away a bit. That’s his job. He doesn’t bite.
She had to smile. It was reassuring to have a guy like Viken in the team, someone she could lean on when things got tough.
– Is there anything at all in this story of VG’s?
He shook his head firmly.
– Environmental criminality, yes. Hunting and trapping of protected species, sales to foreign countries. But murder and terror? I don’t think so. Sure, the guy we’ve arrested was in possession of the same tranquillising agent as was used in the murders, but I’m inclined to believe him when he says he used it on animals, not people. And anyway, he has alibis for most of the times that interest us.
He added: – Who really believes that here in Norway we’ve got terrorists who are willing to kill to protest against the government’s wildlife conservation policies? We would have known about a group like that a long time ago. But it’s enough to keep the press going for a day or two. See how much they got out of that fantasy about a killer beast roaming the streets of the city. No one much above the age of five believes that those women were attacked by a bear, but as you know, people love to read that kind of stuff. If the papers had written that we were looking for a troll with nine heads, they would have sold even more copies.
Finckenhagen had to agree with him.
– I was thinking of suggesting to the Chief Superintendent the possibility of bringing in a psychologist who knows something about profiling. It would give you someone to talk things over with. This case is so special, I think he might go along with the idea. What do you think?
Viken mulled it over.
– In that case we would be saying loud and clear that we suspect a serial killer may be on the loose. It would probably cause as much hysteria as rumours about a killer bear.
– The papers are already speculating along those lines anyway, regardless of what we do. Do we have any use for one of these psychologists?
– We’ve got a couple up here in the frozen north who think they know something about psychological profiling. What you get from them is a large pile of platitudes and an even larger pile of bills. We’d need to go abroad if we’re looking for someone good.
– Think about it. I’m open to suggestions.
– Let’s make the most of what we’ve got for the time being, Viken concluded.
39
NINA JEBSEN OPENED the incident book to see if there was anything of possible significance for the two murder cases. Thirty-five calls had been registered over the weekend, and she gave some of them a closer look. She had lost count of the number of people reported missing after the newspapers began writing about the murders. In most cases they were women who turned up again a few hours later.
Of the three missing-persons reports that were still on file, one was considered interesting enough to send a patrol car to take a closer look. An address in Rodeløkka. A thirty-six-year-old woman who hadn’t been seen since Friday afternoon. Former drug addict, Nina saw, noting how this was reflected in the tone of the report. Tempting to suspect the woman had cracked up and gone back to the street; she would probably turn up in a hospital, or at best a hospice, at some point over the next few days. But the neighbour who had reported her missing seemed certain that this wasn’t the case. She had returned home Sunday evening to find the missing woman’s door half open and the television still on. Nina made a note of the name and continued through the rest of the book.
She was almost done when the phone rang. The switchboard had a caller on the line who insisted on talking to Viken, but Viken was in a meeting. Nina reminded the operator that no phone tips were to be passed on to Violent Crimes without filtering. After Viken had been in the newspapers and on the TV a few times, every Tom, Dick and Hilda who called in insisted it was him they had to talk to. What about those who refused to speak to anyone else? the switchboard operator wanted to know. People who claimed to have vital information about the murders? Nina gave up with a sigh and asked him to put the call through to her.
– Viken? a female voice shouted into her ear.
– Viken is in a meeting, Nina informed her. – Who is this?
– You’ve got to do something, the woman continued. Already Nina was regretting her indulgence.
– We’re always doing something, she said soothingly. – Don’t worry about that.
– You’re not doing your job, the woman insisted, and Nina glanced at her watch. She’d give this woman thirty seconds before hanging up.
– It’s going to happen again. And you’re not doing anything.
Suddenly the voice changed. It became deeper and slower:
– You can’t do anything. It’s going to happen anyway.
– Perhaps you’d explain yourself, Nina suggested.
– I will. Don’t you worry about that. He who has eyes to see, let him see. As far as I’m concerned, you can go to hell, the lot of you. That’s where you’re headed. You can’t save him.
– Who can’t we save?
– There is just one righteous man in this city, and almost no one knows who he really is. And his name shall be blessed for ever. Make a note of that, sweetie, a clearing in the forest, a glen in the wilderness. But he’s the one they’re after, the killers and the rapists and rope-makers, because if they get him then Sodom and Gomorrah and Jerusalem will fall, and if you understood anything at all inside your heads, you would protect him night and day and twenty-four-seven. The chosen ones will follow him. I’ve followed him before, all the way to the terminus, the last stop, and God knows I will go on following him. Glen in the forest. But his time will soon be up, that’s what you don’t understand.
The woman hung up. Nina Jebsen remained sitting there looking at the screen for a few moments before opening a document and entering a few lines about the conversation. She asked herself why it was that every lunatic in the world felt drawn towards unsolved murder cases. Like moths to the light.
40
AXEL HURRIED UP the twisting stairway. The yellowy-brown felt carpet was worn down the middle, and the way the stairs sloped to one side gave him a strange sensation of falling. She had sent him a text. Must talk to you. He had to talk to her too, one last time.
She opened the door and let him in. Stayed standing in the dimly lit hallway and looked up into his eyes.
– Thank you for coming, she said.
He had brought two bottles of wine with him. They chinked tog
ether as he put the plastic bag down.
– I’m afraid, Axel.
He pulled her close, doubting whether he could bring himself to say what he had come to say.
– I wish so much you could stay. Never leave here again.
– What is it you’re afraid of? he murmured in her ear.
– Anita’s gone missing.
– Anita?
– The woman who lives underneath.
– The one with the daughter who was taken into care?
Miriam nodded.
– When I came home yesterday, her door was wide open. The TV and all the lights were on. I knew straight away something was wrong. I called the police. They’ve been here.
She took him by the hand, led him into the living room.
– She was supposed to fetch Victoria yesterday afternoon, but she never turned up at the foster parents’ home.
– Might she not just have gone off somewhere?
– Without saying anything? When she was finally going to be allowed to have Victoria stay overnight with her? She was looking forward to it like mad.
Axel didn’t say what he was thinking. Former drug addict, suddenly disappears.
– I know something’s happened to her. All this that’s been going on …
Miriam sat on the sofa, wrapped a blanket around herself.
– You’re thinking of the two women who were murdered, said Axel. – All that stuff in the papers, warnings about not going out alone.
She bit her lip.
– It’s as if it’s got something to do with me.
– We always think that way when we’re afraid, he reassured her. – There’s not a single person in the whole city who isn’t affected.
– It’s something else …
She reached her hand out to him. He leaned over her.
– I want you to lie down beside me, she whispered. – I want you to hold me. As tight as you can.
Lying there on her sofa, in the tiny flat. The feeling of not having to say anything. I like the person she makes me into, he thought. I like the person I am when I’m with her, better than all the other versions of Axel Glenne. And I’m to let him go? Really?
He sent a text message saying he wouldn’t be home. No explanation. He couldn’t face the thought of making up another lie.
It was 7.30. One of the bottles of red wine was almost empty. Bie had tried to call; he’d put the phone on mute. She’d sent a text: What is going on, Axel? The question brought a sense of relief. Now there was no way round it; he would have to talk to her. Will explain tomorrow, he wrote back.
– Your father was a war hero, Miriam said suddenly.
Axel shared the last of the wine between them. It didn’t surprise him that she had found this out.
– Genuine Norwegian war hero, he confirmed. – There’s a phrase for it in Norwegian, gutta på skauen, the lads in the forest. For one whole winter he had to stay hidden away in a cabin, completely alone, miles from anyone.
– I’ve heard a lot about the war in Norway, she said. – Since I came here I’ve met a lot of people who said it was the brave Norwegians who defeated the Germans. I’ve even been inside one of those cabins you’re talking about, deep in the forest. They had the operations centre in a secret room in the cellar. The grandfather of the person who owns the cabin was a … what did he call it … was it a border guide?
– That’s right.
– He helped refugees over into Sweden. In the end he was caught and sent to a concentration camp.
Axel opened the second bottle.
– It was a very dangerous job, he nodded. – When we were kids, my father plotted in the whole network of cabins and flight routes for us on a map. We imagined walking them with him. I’ve lost track of how many times he told us about the moment he was just seconds away from being captured by the Gestapo. And every time we were just as scared. Even Brede sat there listening in silence … What did you say his name was, this man who was a border guide?
– I don’t remember. I can’t go around remembering everything. Some things should be forgotten.
It occurred to him that in a subtle way she was trying to involve him. She wanted him to ask more about these things that should be forgotten, tell him stories about her past. Lead him into them as though into a labyrinth. In the end it would be impossible to let her go.
He said: – Are you good at forgetting?
Her eyebrows flew up and quivered a few times. She didn’t answer.
– If I asked you to, could you forget what we’ve shared together?
She hugged him tighter.
– You say that as though it was already in the past.
He knew he was getting close to what he was supposed to be saying to her, but then he ducked away. Changed the subject, said something unimportant.
– You left an envelope behind in the office you were using at the clinic.
He didn’t mention how close he’d come to opening it, to peering into her life and the things he wanted to know as little about as possible.
– Bring it with you next time you come, she said. – If you come.
Again she gave him the chance to say what he had come to say.
Somewhere in the distance a phone is ringing. It’s for him, but he can’t work out where the sound is coming from. He’s lying on a stone floor, he’s cold. Brede is walking down a staircase towards him. It isn’t Brede. It’s Tom, coming down step by step. Never reaching him.
Axel opened his eyes in the dark, sat bolt upright. He heard Miriam’s slow breathing. Could just make out the hair that flowed across the pillow by the bedhead. The shapes of the books on the shelf above it became clearer, and the photograph of the officer in naval uniform. The only picture he’d seen at her flat. It had to be her father. He had avoided asking. Suddenly he remembered the last thing he’d said to her before she fell asleep: one day I’ll tell you about my twin brother. One day? she murmured, half asleep. Next time I come, he said. You will be the first to hear the story. About what happened that summer he was sent away.
It was two minutes to five. He dressed quietly. Out in the hallway he picked up his shoes. There was a smell of something rotting, and it struck him that it was himself he was smelling. He opened the front door slightly and the smell grew stronger. He opened it further. Something was obstructing it. He pushed and managed to get it half open. Suddenly realised what the smell reminded him of: the pathology lab, the smell of an autopsy. He switched on the light. It cast a yellowish cone on to the landing. A hand was lying there, an arm. Ripped and bloody. He hurled himself against the door and stumbled out in his stockinged feet, stepping in something wet and sticky. The body that lay there blocking the doorway was naked. It was a woman. Both legs were missing. The hair was a cake of coagulated blood, the face had been torn open. He couldn’t see the eyes. He stepped back inside, into the hallway. The door swung closed.
From the alcove he heard Miriam’s voice. She called his name. He staggered in to her.
– Where have you been? What’s that smell? Axel, say something.
He cleared his throat.
– It’s … it’s happened again.
She jumped out of the alcove.
– What has happened?
His body felt as though it was collapsing; he held on tight to the back of the chair.
– Outside your door.
She was on her way out; he grabbed hold of her.
– Someone’s lying there. A woman.
– No!
– She’s … You mustn’t go out there.
– Anita, she whispered.
He let go of her. Tried to keep hold of his thoughts. Managed to hang on to one.
– Wait five minutes, until I’m gone. Then call the police. Lock the door and wait here until they come, don’t open up for anyone else.
She looked at him in disbelief.
– Are you going?
– I must talk to Bie. She has to hear this from me … that I was her
e last night. You do understand, Miriam, you must tell the police you were alone. That you couldn’t get the door open. That you saw a bloodied arm and didn’t dare go out until they arrived.
She was still staring at him, as though she didn’t understand what he was talking about.
– Miriam. He took hold of her hair, drew her head away so that he could see her eyes. They looked frozen. – Remember now? Remember to ring?
He held her tight and kissed her on the cheek. Her arms hung slack.
– Don’t leave now, Axel, she whispered.
He squeezed out through the door, avoided breathing in the stench. Didn’t look down at what was lying there. Staggered down the uneven staircase and out into the back yard. As he put his hand on the gate, someone opened it from the outside. He jumped back a step, stood poised in the half-dark. A man with a cap pulled down over his forehead came in through the opening, pulling a newspaper trolley behind him. For an instant Axel met his gaze.
– Good morning, the man said in heavily accented Norwegian.
Axel dashed past him.
A diffuse band of silver light hung in the eastern sky. He looked at his watch: 5.10. He hurried in the direction of Carl Berners Place before realising he was going in the wrong direction. He turned back. No taxi, he thought. Mustn’t let anyone see me. Don’t even know where I’m going.
Half an hour later, he rang on a doorbell in Tåsenveien.
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