Death By Water

by Damhaug, Torkil

  He’d always run. Felt calmer when he was running than when he was standing or sitting down. Still not too late to start putting his name down for races. Comeback man. He’d come back before. They didn’t believe in him any more. He’d had so many chances, they said. First of all that stuff they called care. The world of athletics was big hearted about anyone who came off the rails. Don’t push kids out into the cold when what they need is warmth. But then he got caught a couple more times. Coke and pepper. They were even prepared to overlook that. He was done with it, he said, but didn’t mean it. He signed a new contract. Got another chance on condition he went for treatment. No wonder they cared about him. No one had his acceleration, not even Vebjørn Rodal when he was at his peak. I could’ve taken him, he grinned as he ran. I would’ve beaten Rodal in Atlanta, he shouted. If it had been twelve years later. Or sixteen. Rodal was too slow. Too much dead Trøndelag meat there. As for him, he was born with that acceleration. Had it in his blood, in his fibres, in the atoms of his blood.

  As he was approaching the exit to the tunnel, a car approached, a taxi. He gave it what he had left, the taxi sounded its horn, he gave it the finger and went up a gear, left it for dead and skipped up on to the narrow pavement. He ran straight across the roundabout and carried on up Schweigaards Street. A long, flat open stretch there. The road was slippery, but he had perfect balance and could adjust in a fraction of a second. His breath was warm and tasted of iron. He owed too much. Thirty grand, according to Karam. It couldn’t be that much. But no point in arguing with Karam. The guy said he hadn’t been selling enough. Taking too much off the top himself. This is business. Thirty grand before Wednesday or you won’t be able to run any more, not even crawl. Karam knows him well enough to know what the worst thing is. It’s not to be floating out somewhere in the fjord with the mackerel stripping the flesh off you until there’s only bone left. Worst of all is to be chained to a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Never run again. Not even crawl. Karam had sketched it out for him. It’s not the fucking mackerel that eat at you as you’re sitting there, but what’s crawling around inside you.

  Mailin Bjerke was the first who had never demanded anything. That was why he couldn’t face going to see her. Just a couple of times and then he dropped out. Because of that look in her eye and the way she sat there listening to him and demanding nothing. It made him desperate. Had nothing to say. Could have stood up and taken that computer of hers and chucked it at the wall. Or lifted her up out of her chair and put her down on the desk and watched her eyes turn black. Scared of me at last, finally seeing a part of what you don’t know the first thing about. How could you control anything of what goes chasing around inside of me. But she didn’t give up. Wanted him to come back. Comeback man.

  At times he believed in her. That she really might be able to help him. That it would help to talk. He should keep coming, she insisted, and she did all she could to make new appointments for him. If he didn’t turn up anyway, all he had to do was send a text. They could make another appointment, at a time that suited him better. For her, any time was all right, even at short notice. He made appointments and missed them, never sent a message, but she didn’t give up. She was naïve. Believed that all her talk could stop what it was that ravaged him inside. The same thing that made him run, that made him do drugs. She claimed to understand the connections between things. To understand why all he ever thought about was the next snort or the next pill. That those were the thoughts that enabled him to keep going. And the running. She suggested medication. No monkey dope and stuff that turns people into fat, slobbering idiots, but something new that would reduce the craving. But even if she had understood, it wouldn’t help him much now. Mailin is dead, he shouted as he accelerated past the last block before Galgeberg.

  Mailin was dead, and someone else he’d never seen before had turned up at her office, tall and thin with a strange look in her eyes. Another patient, definitely, he could always tell; someone strung out like him. But then she started following him, showed up at the station in Oslo, and then again up at Sinsen, wanting to ask him questions. Went for him and tried to choke him.

  He would have to find out who she was. Knew the right person to ask. The only person he could trust now.

  7

  JENNIFER HAD BEEN working with Professor Olav Korn for over ten years now. And yet still she hadn’t managed to locate him in her system of Hippocratic categorisations. Korn radiated a calm that was infectious. She might have been inclined to call him a phlegmatic, but he was a highly efficient worker who dispensed with tasks quickly, from pathologists’ reports to budget proposals. He had done research on sudden and unexplained infant deaths, on the effects of alcohol and drug abuse during pregnancy, as well as in a number of other fields. He published articles in the most important Norwegian and international scientific journals, and was an active voice in public debates on matters like biotechnology and ethics. And even though he spoke at seminars and conferences all over the world, to the staff at the Pathological Institute he remained their very present and involved leader. Had it not been for Korn, Jennifer would not have remained at the institute as long as she had; indeed, she might never even have become an expert on forensic medicine. She was glad that his retirement was still some years in the future, in spite of the fact that on several occasions he had hinted that she would be a very suitable candidate to succeed him as head of the department.

  Korn was on the phone when she entered his office, but he gestured for her to sit down. She observed him surreptitiously as he brought the conversation to a close. He was sixty-two, and in terms of his individual features probably looked it, but there was something about his eyes, his repertoire of facial gestures and the way he moved that suggested a younger man. He had a rich head of iron-grey hair, was clean shaven, his eyebrows weren’t bushy and there were no balls of hair emerging from his nostrils and ears, as had begun to be the case with Ivar. All in all Korn took good care of his appearance without seeming the least bit vain about it. Jennifer had always been attracted to men older than herself.

  He replaced the receiver and turned towards her.

  – It’s about the woman who was found down in Hurum, she said.

  – I hear Viken has been given the case, he nodded, perhaps hinting at a couple of earlier occasions on which she had come to him for advice on how best to handle cooperation with the detective chief inspector.

  – That’s fine by me, said Jennifer. – I don’t have any trouble with him now. But of course he doesn’t like me getting involved in the investigation.

  Korn raised his eyebrows. – And do you?

  She sighed. – He appeared in the middle of the autopsy, and I tried to pass along a piece of information that might be very important.

  She told him her thoughts on the similarity with the case in Bergen.

  – Those people down in Grønland should be very thankful it was you who volunteered for work over Christmas, Korn observed. – Not everyone would have spent Christmas morning in our basement unless they had to. And as for what you’ve just told me, they ought to be pulling out all the stops to find out whether or not there might be a connection.

  She took the compliment with a smile. He was one of the few people who could praise her and not have her looking for some ulterior motive.

  – I’ve asked myself if there’s anything more I can do. I’ve talked it over on the telephone with a colleague at the Gades Institute, and he thinks it’s interesting too. But of course he can’t send over any of their material.

  – Of course not.

  She said what she had come to say to him: – What if I were to go there? Take the pictures from here. Do a comparison of the forensic evidence. Get something more to show to Viken and his people.

  Korn didn’t look in the least surprised. He mulled the suggestion over for a few moments before replying.

  – I’ve always appreciated the fact that you show so much initiative, Jennifer. And that you are not the least
bit afraid of trespassing on someone else’s territory.

  She could feel herself blushing. With only Korn present, it didn’t matter that much.

  – I remember the case in Bergen very well, he said, his gaze moving to follow something or other through the window, probably to spare her even more embarrassment. – You say the eyes were mutilated? In the same way?

  He had spent fifteen years more than her working as a forensic expert, yet it seemed as though all that proximity with death actually made him more and more solicitous of the well-being of the living.

  He leaned over the desk. – I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to Bergen. But I’ll call the department of Violent Crimes and have a word with the head down there. This has to be about priorities.

  Jennifer had a mental picture of Viken being carpeted by Sigge Helgarsson, the section head who just a short while ago had been his junior and whom Viken, by all accounts, had regularly used as a whipping boy. She felt a malicious pleasure bubbling up in her and was unable to resist indulging it.

  – What was her name again, the girl in Bergen? Korn asked, the telephone already in his hand.

  – Richter, she answered. Ylva Richter.

  8

  Tuesday 30 December

  ROAR HORVATH RANG on one of the bells down in the yard, the one with T. Gabrielsen written next to it. She didn’t answer immediately, and he had time to start feeling annoyed. He was on time, but people in her line of business were not renowned for their concern for other people’s ideas of punctuality.

  Finally there was a buzzing from the lock. The staircase inside was musty and twisted, the whole building looking ripe for renovation. As he reached the landing on the first floor, a woman with a round face poked her head out.

  – Wait just a moment in there, she said, pointing to a door. – I’ll be finished in about half a minute.

  Roar let himself into a kitchen that perhaps also functioned as a common room. On a table directly behind the door was a hotplate, with a coffee machine next to it. A tiny fridge was slotted in below the window facing the back yard, a stand with a flipover leaning up against it. The cupboard on the wall contained a packet of coffee filters, a few cups and glasses, a large bag of salt and a curious little plastic container with a long spout. In the corner, between the fridge and the wall, stood a grey-lacquered filing cabinet. It had three drawers, all of which were locked. On the flipover, arrows had been drawn in blue felt tip between words written in black: dilemma, self-development, defence. He flipped back through it. From the handwriting, it was clear that more than one person had used it as an aid to explanations.

  Over ten minutes went by before Torunn Gabrielsen appeared again. She started making coffee without offering any apology for the delay, and left it up to her visitor to decide whether he wanted to stand or sit.

  She could be about his own age, thought Roar, although she seemed older. He couldn’t decide if her hair was longish, or shortish. She was neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark. The face was pale and rather lumpy, and the eyes a touch red around the rims. She wasn’t wearing glasses, but he saw the traces of them across the bridge of her nose, and she squinted when she looked up at him. If he had to assess her as a woman, he would, if he was feeling diplomatic about it, have said that she wasn’t his type. Not exactly vivacious, either, he thought, or maybe she was just tired. Alert now, Roar, he warned himself as he felt his dislike beginning to get the upper hand.

  – It’s very convenient for us to meet here, he said. – It gives me the chance to see Mailin Bjerke’s office at the same time.

  – Is this the last place where she was before she went missing?

  – That we don’t know yet, said Roar.

  – But I gather she had an appointment here, that she called in after she’d been to her cabin. And her car was parked outside, further up the street.

  He realised she was a woman who would rather ask questions than answer them.

  – Did you see the car when you left here?

  She shook her head firmly. – I walked the other way, down towards Holbergs Place.

  – And the time then was?

  – Around half three. My tram goes at twenty to. I explained this when I was down talking to the crime response unit.

  – You’ll have to forgive us if you get asked the same questions more than once, he said evenly, glancing over at the coffee machine, which had started to bubble. – So you didn’t see her that day at all?

  – The day before was the last time I saw Mailin. She popped in to leave a message. That was at three o’clock. She was on her way out to the cabin.

  This concurred with what Viljam Vogt-Nielsen had told them. Roar sat down. The back of the rickety wooden chair slid out of its joints and it felt as if the whole thing would collapse if he so much as moved a finger.

  – What was the message about?

  Torunn Gabrielsen sat down too.

  – A patient, she said, appearing to study the content of her coffee cup. – There’s a limit to the information I can give you about that.

  Roar could see the way things were heading. Countless cases dragged on or were never even solved on account of this damned professional secrecy, which in reality was just an excuse for doing nothing and had precious little to do with the protection of individual rights. So it was a surprise when Torunn Gabrielsen continued:

  – It was about a patient who used to come and go. He could appear suddenly without any warning and usually didn’t turn up when he had an appointment. Mailin asked me to let her know if he’d been there.

  – Even though your office is on the floor below?

  – I take breaks, or when I’m doing paperwork I leave the corridor door open.

  She stood up and fetched the coffee jug and two cups. There was an inscription on Roar’s: Today is your day. It had no handle and the rim was chipped.

  – Do you know of anyone who might want to harm Mailin Bjerke?

  Torunn Gabrielsen took a mouthful of coffee and held it for a long time before swallowing. Funny way to drink coffee, thought Roar. He didn’t expect a reply to his question. Again he was taken by surprise.

  – Are we talking about someone who might want to, or someone who was actually capable of it?

  – Both, he said hopefully.

  Another swig of coffee, more pondering as she swilled her mouth with it.

  – Mailin was someone it was easy to like. But she was also very upfront and never afraid to say exactly what she thought.

  – Meaning?

  – That she could be really quite … direct. Sometimes people felt hurt. A lot of people can’t take it when things are said straight out, without a lot of padding and packaging.

  Roar waited for more and didn’t interrupt.

  – But mostly this is about patients. As I’m sure you know, Mailin worked with people who had been the victims of abuse. Several of them turned into abusers themselves.

  – Anyone in particular you have in mind? he asked, fishing.

  – Actually, yes.

  She poured herself more coffee. – A couple of years ago Mailin had a patient who … I’m not quite sure what happened. I think he threatened her.

  – You say he.

  – It was a man. Mailin didn’t say much about it. But she had to terminate the treatment. It wasn’t her way to give up, quite the contrary, she could be amazingly stubborn with hopeless cases.

  – But this time she was threatened.

  – I don’t know that’s what he did, but that was my impression. It must have been serious, because Mailin seemed very upset.

  – When was this?

  Torunn Gabrielsen looked to be thinking it over. – Autumn two years ago. Directly after Pål got his office here.

  – Did you meet this patient?

  He took the fact that she didn’t reply as an encouragement and went on. – Since he wasn’t your patient, I’m guessing you’re at liberty to say who it was.

  She let out a sig
h. – I never met him. I think he came in the evenings. And Mailin never said what his name was. He was here just a few times, before she terminated. After that, I heard nothing more about it.

  Roar persisted. – Autumn two years ago. August? September?

  – Pål came here in September. It was straight after that.

  – All the patients are presumably registered with social security?

  – Not many. Mailin wasn’t part of the reimbursement scheme. Most of her patients were people who’d fallen outside the net completely.

  Roar took a note. At that moment, the door slid open. The man standing there was wearing a T-shirt and cord trousers; he was unshaven and his hair was unkempt. For an instant, Roar assumed he was a patient.

  – Sorry, said the new arrival on seeing the officer. – Didn’t know you were still at it.

  – Quite all right, Roar assured him as soon as he realised who this was. – You are Pål Øvreby?

  – Correct, said the other and held out his hand.

  Roar noticed that he spoke with an accent; it sounded American, despite the very Norwegian name.

  – You’ve already given us a statement about Thursday the eleventh of December, he said. – But just to avoid any misunderstandings I’d like to ask you a few of the questions again.

  – Sure, he replied in English.

  – You were working here most of the afternoon?

  – I am definitely not a morning person. Late but strong.

  – How long were you here on that particular day?