Requiem

by Geir Tangen

  “Bestastuå,” he said out loud to himself. The nightclub had a reputation for being a “flea market” for worn-out old ladies seeking fresh pastures, but Viljar still had a hard time seeing that they were happier after their nocturnal escapades.

  He knew that he’d been at the nightclub only two times so far this year. Once in connection with a sponsor party for FK Haugesund in March. The other time a few weeks ago, when Henrik Thomsen insisted that he and Øystein Vindheim go with him after they met by chance at Café MM on a Saturday night. Viljar had protested, but after a while they let themselves be dragged along by that idiot.

  Viljar opened his online bank account and searched back until he found entries from the bar at Bestastuå. September 20, he noted. It was a Sunday. The entries were listed with the times 12:30 A.M., 1:03 A.M., 1:47 A.M., and 2:22 A.M. Steadily larger amounts. It was evident that he’d been on a spending spree toward the end.

  He remembered very little.

  The arrival and the first drink together with Henrik were there, but after that…? Viljar remembered dancing at the disco, and he vaguely recalled a dispute with a massive guy who claimed to be a policeman out in the smoking area, but no Rita Lothe. He wrote down on his to-do list that he had to talk with Henrik and Øystein about this.

  Viljar started checking out the friend list for Rita. He quickly determined that they had no friends in common, and the fourteen friends she had were all unfamiliar to him, apart from two local celebrities that “everyone” in Haugesund was friends with on Facebook. Radio journalist Hans Indbjo obviously, and the TV 2 personality Ragnar Håtveit. Most of the others had private profiles, and he didn’t get as far with the search as he’d hoped.

  Viljar was suddenly struck by a suspicion. He looked at the status updates. Not a single friend had posted an “R.I.P.” or similar message after her name was published earlier today. None of the fourteen friends. No one from the family, who he knew were out there, had written anything. This didn’t add up. When people die, very little time passes before the whole Wall is spiced with hearts and final greetings to the deceased. This could not possibly be Rita Lothe’s real Facebook profile. But the picture of him and Rita was genuine. Someone is trying to make me a scapegoat, thought Viljar.

  His train of thought was disturbed by sounds from out in the hall. Viljar froze.

  The door to the apartment opened, and he heard a thud, as if something was thrown on the floor. Viljar was on his feet in a bound, but stopped abruptly when he saw the figure in the hall.

  “What the hell! Are you here now?”

  Viljar looked at the ungainly body standing with stooped shoulders in the doorway. It was as if legs and arms had decided that the boy would play professional basketball, while the rest of his body struggled hard against it. Alexander’s gaze wandered. An uncertain look crossed his face before he assumed his usual sullen expression.

  “You don’t want me here now either, maybe? Are you hooking up with someone?”

  Two-part question. One part made Viljar want to open his arms to give him a hug, while the other provoked him so that he wanted to give the boy a good tongue-lashing. The result was neither. He stood there like a post and stammered out what was supposed to be a clear message that Alex wasn’t allowed to talk to him that way.

  Alexander looked around and wrinkled his nose. He drew his fingers through his greasy black hair and shook his head. Since his hands were at head level anyway, he could just as well squeeze a pimple.

  “My God, Dad. You need to get some Polish cleaning help or something. Seriously! That woman you work with had to clean up here after the cops left. Fucking embarrassing.”

  Viljar looked at the boy in despair. This was no place for a sixteen-year-old. Ranveig was completely right about that. According to the agreement, his mother should have Alex on weekdays and Viljar on weekends. They’d arranged it that way because she often had weekend shifts in the kitchen at the nursing home. Necessary extra income to pad the meager returns from the hairstyling salon she ran at home. But the past year, Alexander had more or less thumbed his nose at all agreements and came and went as he pleased.

  The high-rise apartment reeked of smoke and old sweat, even though Ranveig had cleaned the worst of it. She had stacked empty pizza cartons in the corner of the hall. The clothes were lying where he’d stepped out of them the past few days.

  The boy looked at his father and shook his head once more. “You’d think you were the one with ADHD, not me. Don’t you ever clean up when I’m away, or what?”

  The correct answer would have been no, but Viljar declined to confirm his son’s assertions.

  “Listen up, now. You can’t just stroll into my living room and throw a lot of abuse at me. I damn well don’t accept that. I can stand living in this mess, and you should be at your mother’s now.”

  The boy just stood there by the sink with his back to his father without saying anything.

  “I can’t take any more of that fucking bitch!” he screamed suddenly, throwing a half-full glass of milk at the wall with full force.

  Viljar cowered and knew he had to do something. Say something. He sat down on a chair. Alexander’s shoulders were shaking. A long time passed without anything being said or done. Viljar wanted to get up. Go over and hug the boy who was standing there. Instead he stayed seated. In no condition to seize the moment.

  Alexander turned and walked calmly toward the doorway to the living room. He wiped away what must have been tears with the sleeve of an oversized hoodie.

  Viljar tried to hold him back by taking hold of his arm. “Listen. Now, you clean up that mess you made. There are shards of glass all over the floor.”

  His son drew his arm back, turned around quickly, and shoved his father. “Don’t touch me! Clean it yourself. It’s completely disgusting in here anyway! Why should I care when you don’t?”

  Alexander slammed every door that he passed on his way to the little room that Viljar tried to convince himself was completely adequate for an adolescent. Seconds later “The Eternally Damned” by Einherjer boomed from worn-out speakers.

  Viljar sighed and tried to return to the thought he was having before Alexander stomped in.

  Who is trying to nail me to these killings?

  If he had any enemies who were willing to go as far as this, then somehow or other, they must be connected to the Jonas case.

  Reluctantly, Viljar took his eyes off the screen. He wouldn’t get anything else done until he had put his thoughts in order, and right then and there, that was an impossibility. Alexander had turned up the volume on the stereo to max in pure defiance. Viljar entered Hilde’s number. He had to call her, even if it was unpleasant. She had to see about coming and getting Alex. His fingers trembled over the numbers on the display. He had to concentrate to hit them right. The cooperation between the two of them could hardly be called good. He steeled himself against the tirade of accusations that usually came before he had finished the first sentence. There were days when he was completely convinced he’d had a child with the Antichrist.

  Four years earlier …

  Torvastad, Karmøy

  Friday midmorning, August 20, 2010

  Jonas looked quickly around him, like a deer that catches the scent of the hunter in the bushes. Knew that no one could see them in here, but felt the fear even so. What if … He could not allow himself that. Could not even finish the thought.

  Jonas let himself be embraced by the outstretched arms. Felt his pulse rate rise as he lay his head next to the hollow of Fredric’s throat. He drank in the aroma of a fresh and spicy cologne. Enjoyed the tingling feeling along his spine as the beard stubble scraped his cheek. Fredric stroked his back with one hand while the other kept a firm hold around his waist.

  There was still summer in the air. Almost twenty degrees Celsius, and the sun broiled against Jonas’s brown thighs. He loosened the tense grip a little and let his hands stroke the muscles along his friend’s back. Carefully he let one hand gli
de down under the denim shorts and noticed that Fredric was getting short-winded. With tender and careful kisses, he moved from the neck and down along Fredric’s chest.

  He stood up and pulled Fredric next to him again. Kissed him. Affectionately at first, then more greedily. He could both see and feel the desire in Fredric now. In this one moment, nothing else existed. No worries. No fear. No regret. No shame.

  Hermann Eliassen was history. Everything that had happened in the hotel room in Haugesund the day before was swept away.

  His friend took his face carefully in his hands. Pushed it gently away from him and studied it. With his thumb he stroked Jonas from his nostrils and in under his eyes. He shifted his head a little and gasped as Jonas took a firmer hold around his rear end. Fredric always got a mischievous gleam in his eyes when he got horny. Jonas knew this, and loved it. The lust bubbled up in him, but he controlled himself. Wanted to enjoy the moment. Keep the wonderful feeling of bare arm muscles holding him tight. He bit Fredric on the earlobe and whispered loving words. Stroked his free hand across the suntanned chest and stomach. Brushed teasingly over his shorts at regular intervals. He could see that Fredric was on the edge of losing control. He was breathing heavily against Jonas’s neck, and he felt his friend’s heart pounding against his chest.

  When he loosened the button a little later and pulled down the zipper, it was if all the energy was released from Fredric’s body. He clung to Jonas and gasped for air.

  Jonas let it happen, and didn’t care if he got soiled. This was pure and lovely. Not dirty like the day before. Here there was balance. Two people who had sincere feelings for each other. He stroked Fredric across his back and let himself be thrown into a wave of pleasure as his friend gradually allowed him to release everything that had built up inside him the past twenty-four hours.

  A branch that snapped in the grove made him wake suddenly. His heart turned a somersault, and he looked in panic from side to side. Suddenly he felt certain. Someone had been standing in the forest watching them.

  Uncertainty and fear took hold in him. For a brief moment everything had just been a sea of delight. What was happening between him and Fredric was one thing. If that was discovered, it would no longer be bearable for him on the island. He knew how his father would react.… Something else altogether were the consequences of what he’d done the day before in the hotel room. He hadn’t thought for a second that he was also putting his friend in danger. It was only in the hours afterwards that he understood what concentric circles in the water his choice had entailed.

  For all Jonas knew, this could be the end. The end of everything fine and beautiful they had together. From here on, there were only denials, playacting, and lies. The die was cast. There was no way back. Nothing could be made undone.

  Haugesund Police Station

  Thursday morning, October 16, 2014

  Lotte saw that Olav Scheldrup Hansen was ready to confront her the moment she rounded the corner on her way to the conference room. He was in a wide stance by the door, puffing himself up. Dressed in a suit as always, and the little that was left of his hair on top was combed back. Lotte raised her cell phone to her ear as she walked and acted as if she were talking to someone. As she approached the Kripos investigator, she pointed at her phone while she walked right past him.

  The entire investigation group was gathered, waiting obediently for her to start the meeting. She ended the fictional call and waved Scheldrup Hansen to his place. He tried to take the floor as he was sitting down. Lotte simply raised her voice louder than his.

  “We’ll wait a little for open discussion, Olav. There’s a lot on the agenda today, but the city attorney has asked to speak first to explain some structures and chain of command for us as a team. Synne, can you do that right now?”

  Synne Lie stood up and took the floor. In extremely clear terms, she accounted for what the various roles in the team involved. She was crystal clear about the chain of command. No one should do anything at all on orders from anyone other than the investigation leader, and Lotte, for her part, must clarify everything that concerned arrests, house searches, interviews, and confiscation with her. Synne made a dramatic pause after the word “arrests” and looked straight at the Kripos investigator.

  Lotte’s deliberate move this morning had its effect. Olav Scheldrup Hansen was off balance and had lost the room. She was a little unhappy that she indirectly corrected him in public, but realized there was no other way if she was going to regain control over the team and the investigation.

  “And who do we go to if we are in sincere disagreement about which way the investigation is going?” Scheldrup Hansen put on a scornful sneer to be sure that everyone got the sarcasm.

  “Then you come to me,” said Synne Lie. “I will listen to your objections. Last time I checked the papers, Kripos was asked to assist the investigation, not lead it.”

  The attorney looked at him with a mild and friendly expression as she said that.

  Lotte was about to start the review of evidence when the phone vibrated in her pocket. She looked quickly at the display and then asked the group to take a five-minute break. She had to answer this.

  It was Anne. Lotte cursed to herself on the way out of the meeting room. She had completely forgotten to deal with her sister’s problems, and now she knew there would be a new round of accusations and reproaches about how little she cared about her. It didn’t turn out that way. There was a calmer version of Anne today. The problems she had on Tuesday were already forgotten. Heroin has that effect. New problems always show up that overshadow the old ones.

  “Lotte … Do you have time to see me today? I want to talk with you about something important.”

  It was always something important.

  “I’m terribly busy until lunch, but maybe after that,” Lotte said, so her sister wouldn’t think she didn’t want to.

  She had a perennial guilty conscience that she wasn’t supportive enough, even though she knew that giving drug addicts too much support to lean on only helped them stay in that life. The only motivation an addict has to get out of the hell of heroin is that it really is hell. If you give them money, food, consolation, a job, and a roof over their head, there’s no point in quitting.

  “After that is fine.”

  Lotte noticed that there was a tenderness in her sister’s voice she hadn’t heard in a long time. Maybe this was important.

  “Great, Anne. I’ll try to be there in a few hours, but I can’t promise an exact time. Okay?”

  Lotte breathed out after the call, pressed the mental button that suppressed her guilty conscience, and went back into the meeting room.

  “First item on the agenda is the crime scenes. Lars, you have the lead there?”

  Lars Stople got up from his chair, but in contrast to most in the new century, Lars still swore by flip chart and marker. He turned to a blank page and wrote down the main points while he talked.

  “We are undoubtedly dealing with a man who does not have the slightest intention of concealing his tracks. It has actually occurred to us that there are so many traces at each crime scene that they may be put there to mislead us. We have fine-combed both Rita Lothe’s apartment and the ridge behind Johannes Fredriksen’s house in Stord.

  “We have good fingerprints that don’t match Rita Lothe’s on a wineglass that had been used and a cognac glass in the apartment. The same print is found on the Nesbø book and on a plastic glass we found in the forest at the other scene. In other words, there is no doubt that the same person has been at both places.

  “Besides the fingerprints, we have biological material. We will get a complete DNA analysis of the killer. However, we don’t expect to get hits in the database when this analysis is finished.”

  Lotte got up and went over to Lars. Straightened one leg on the flip chart so that it stood right. She cleared her throat nervously and turned back to the constable. “Did we get any results from the pharmacies?”

  “Unfortunate
ly, no. That lead is dead. He must have bought the anesthetic somewhere other than in town. We expanded the search to the neighboring municipalities, again without result.”

  “Fine. Is there anything else that can link us to who the perpetrator is, Lars? As I understand it, we have enough on him to get a conviction once he’s found?”

  “That’s right. It’s probably as simple as what we talked about yesterday. Either he intends to stay completely beyond suspicion, or else being arrested is utterly inconsequential to him.”

  Lars paused, but continued when Lotte indicated with a hand gesture that he should say something else. “Yes … So … The rest of what I have to say is pure speculation. Based on the crime scene investigations, we choose to conclude the following.” He wrote four points on the flip chart.

  “First, we choose to believe that this is a man. In addition to the obvious fact that Rita Lothe demonstrably had sex a short time before she died, we also have other circumstantial evidence. Short strands of gray hair that don’t originate from Rita. For that matter, we found the same in the sleeping bag at Stord. The size of the fingerprints from both places shows that this concerns a person with large hands. Finally we include the fact that it takes a certain amount of physical strength to lift an unconscious person weighing seventy kilos over a balcony railing. Everything indicates that it is a man,” Lars concluded the first point.

  “Second, there is a lot that indicates that the man resides in Haugesund or in the immediate area. Both of the killings happened in our district, and the emails have gone to a local journalist.

  “Third, we think that the man is over forty. Here we are far from certain, but we have a few indications. Some of the hairs we found are gray, as I said. Now, obviously men can turn gray at a young age, but the majority have passed forty before that starts to happen. At Stord, there were pans left behind and some food scraps that are not typical everyday fare for younger people. In addition we found cigarette butts in the lean-to at Rommetveit. Not commercial cigarette butts but hand-rolled. That too is a dying art. Basically it’s older people and drug addicts who still swear by loose tobacco.