Requiem

by Geir Tangen

  Fredric shook his head. Kicked loose a tuft of grass that had hidden between two stones.

  “With a case like this, Hermann Eliassen is politically dead in the Center Party. It won’t help to deny it. I’ll go out with my story anonymously. The journalist can use you as an extra source if he’s unsure. Eliassen is definitely not going to disclose our names. It’s not in his interest if what we’re saying is actually true.”

  “You’ve got someone who wants to write about this?”

  Jonas smiled for the first time in ages. He took a firmer hold of Fredric’s shoulders, while the color of the sky changed to slate gray. “I’ve got Viljar Ravn Gudmundsson at Haugesund News to write about the situation. The only thing to do is get out the spade. Eliassen is already a dead man.”

  Media House Haugesund News

  Thursday afternoon, October 16, 2014

  Jonas …

  That name had been a sticky mass in Viljar’s subconscious ever since the first email arrived. It was several years since the day Jonas stood at Viljar’s door and delivered the fateful letter, but he remembered every slightest detail from the meeting. His clothes, the smell of new-mown grass, the torrential rain, his sorrowful eyes.

  Everything was there. Razor-sharp high-definition images in his memory. The intense, brief meeting that had turned existence on its head.

  When Viljar got the first email on Monday, Jonas came to mind at once. Could this have anything to do with that old case? To start with, he had dismissed that. The thought was too unpleasant, but now he was forced to check up on it. There was only one place to start probing.

  The workday was over, but Viljar couldn’t bear to go home yet. He had to dig things up in the archives about the old case, and then it was best if the media building was empty of anyone other than security guards and those who worked at the desk. Radio 102 was buzzing in the background. It wasn’t often Viljar felt the need to listen to the radio station’s programs, but this particular day, he had to keep track of Indbjo, and whether he saw fit to spread the news about Viljar’s involvement in the murder case. Strangely enough, this hadn’t happened. Hans Indbjo had not yet leaked the news about the emails.

  Besides, the media sharks in Oslo would have called if they’d got wind of this. Ultra-bold fonts would be used, and the inevitable consequence of such saturation coverage was new front-page stories and more new front-page stories with follow-up, rehashing, and ever more wide-ranging theories. Anything that could create fear and panic was gold. It sold newspapers.

  Viljar went into the elevator after having a puff outside in the parking lot. While he ambled toward the workstations, he thought through how he could best approach the Jonas case again without stirring up the still-smoldering embers too much. He knew it would be difficult, but he couldn’t just ignore it.

  As he rounded the corner and the office landscape opened before him, he got a surprise. On the chair in front of his computer sat a clearly bewildered editor. He got up immediately when Viljar approached, but no quicker than Viljar was able to see what Øveraas had been up to. Clearly uncomfortable with the situation, Øveraas chose to attack rather than apologize.

  “Yes, that’s the way it is, Gudmundsson. You’ve stuck your peter into a hornet’s nest. You damned well have to accept that I keep track of you.”

  What the editor said seemed strange, awkward, and artificial.

  “Great, I’ll take that,” Viljar said calmly. “But what’s the real reason for you snooping in my computer?”

  Øveraas got a look of panic in his eyes. Anyone could see that his brain was searching feverishly for something ingenious that could rescue him from this awkward situation. It failed.…

  “I just said that. Have to make sure you’re doing your job.” Viljar chose to let him get off with that paper-thin explanation.

  He directed the editor away from his station with a servile gesture. Fortunately, Øveraas waddled off. That was the most important thing.

  The desire to get started on tracking down threads in the Jonas case disappeared as quickly as the dope peddlers on Bytunet when the police come around the corner. He took out his cell phone and saw that Ranveig had called. Pressed the Callback button, but the monotone ringtone at the other end was quickly replaced by an equally monotone voice mail. He would have to try later. Viljar packed up his things, pulled on his topcoat, and left. Assured himself one last time that the computer was turned off.

  On his way to the parking lot, he took out his keys but suddenly became aware that he didn’t have his cell phone in his pocket as he usually did. Viljar stopped and checked his other pockets, but decided that he’d probably left it behind at his workstation. He was about to go back in again, when he was witness to a scene at the other end of the parking lot. The arts reporter Henrik Thomsen was leaning over and talking with a person through a car window. They were too far away for Viljar to see who it was, but he didn’t need to. The car was a familiar sight. It was Hans Indbjo’s rattletrap.

  Seconds later, Thomsen rounded the car and got in on the passenger side. How that burly guy found room in Indbjo’s little Fiesta was a mystery.

  I’ll be damned, thought Viljar. Is that Laurel and Hardy babbling together? Then it’s not so strange that Indbjo has information he absolutely should not be in possession of.

  Haugesund Police Station

  Thursday afternoon, October 16, 2014

  Olav Scheldrup Hansen did not see himself as a sensitive man. This investigation group, however, did the most navel-gazing of any he’d experienced. No matter where he turned, he met only narrow-mindedness and resistance. He was evidently seen as a fifth wheel. A burden.

  It was only twenty-four hours since he’d arrived in town. With his baggage full of good intentions and an open mind, he had entered the arena, but Lotte Skeisvoll chose to thwart him. She clearly also had the rest of the group siding with her in this silly power play.

  Olav was deliberating whether he would be able to reestablish a certain symmetry in the investigation. Since the whole investigation group appeared to dance to Skeisvoll’s tune in everything, he would have to win their trust little by little. Get them to see and understand why he was a Kripos investigator, while Lotte Skeisvoll was still scurrying around in the corridors at the local police station.

  After the third email, things got hectic. They knew they had a maximum of twelve hours to stop the killer from striking again, probably less. Lotte sent the flock of sheep in all possible directions and commanded Olav to go through the registers to track down previous drunk drivers who had been acquitted in court. He’d been brought in from Oslo to assist with investigation tactics, but then was assigned to carefully read old court documents. A clerical task anyone at all could have done. He figured she did it to set an example for the others, and he would make damned sure to humiliate her at the next crossroad.

  Searching for reported drunk drivers was an easy matter. The digital search tools at the police building were good, and the majority of reports concerned men. What was far more difficult, on the other hand, was sorting out who had been acquitted. To get to that, he would have to pull out every single court document after entering the case number. This was a process that repeated itself for every single case, and it took an eternity every time.

  The list of women was already rather long when two hours later he’d gone through all judgments back to 2006. Olav felt like an idiot. The work he was doing was completely meaningless. They would have a list of at least twenty names before he was done. It was completely impossible to try to protect the killer’s next victim based on such a list. There were far too many names. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he’d been assigned this slave labor to be kept away from the actual investigation. Irritated, indignant, and a little angry, he put a stop to this monotonous work and instead started to make an investigation chart, where he laboriously plotted in all the details about the two murders. He emailed the list of names he’d found to Lotte Skeisvol
l. She could do whatever the hell she wanted to with it. This was a waste of resources.

  After all, human life is at stake, and it doesn’t help to count to a hundred after someone’s been shot, he thought.

  Risøy, Haugesund

  Thursday evening, October 16, 2014

  Ranveig’s plan to go to bed early was in vain. The thoughts grinding in her head wouldn’t leave her alone. There might be a connection between the emails that they had overlooked. If that was correct, it would give the police a completely different angle on the investigation. She considered calling Lotte Skeisvoll, but wanted to confirm her suspicions first. Everything would have been much simpler if Viljar had just picked up the phone. After yet another fifteen minutes of sleeplessness, she gave up. She sighed heavily, put her feet on the floor, and pattered out into the darkened living room. Ranveig warmed up a cup of tea on the Tassimo machine. The tea was supposed to be a natural sedative, but in previous attempts, the effect had been absent. She hoped for a miracle this time.

  She found the book by Unni Lindell and reviewed the descriptions of the first murder in the story. Ranveig did not like what she was reading. That people could be so vicious and vengeful was beyond her comprehension.

  On the other hand, neither did she understand why people liked reading about horrible acts or watching movies and TV shows where murder and violence were the main elements. She had never had this morbid compulsion, but she also realized that among her own social circle, she was sadly alone in thinking that way. Most everyone she knew reveled in blood, killing, rape, and spectacular methods of torture in their free time. Yet they would never be able to do something like that to others. That’s where the wrong connection is.

  She turned on the ceiling light and opened the blinds. It was dark outside. A couple of party-loving neighbors had evidently had a pre-party in the apartment next door. They laughed and hollered as they locked up and started strolling toward a night of drinking at the restaurants by the pier. One of them waved up to her where she stood at the window. She waved back. Didn’t recognize him, but he smiled at her and hollered. A moment later, it occurred to her why. She was standing buck naked in front of the picture window. Ranveig quickly stepped back and threw a white bathrobe around herself.

  She curled up at one end of the couch with her legs under her and the teacup in her hands. Both hands … Tea should be drunk that way. With both hands around the cup the way a bird wraps its wings around a newly hatched chick. Why she had acquired this peculiar habit, she didn’t know, but it was harmless enough.

  She fell asleep like that a few minutes later. The teacup rested snugly between her hands in her lap.

  Torvastad, Karmøy

  Thursday night, October 16, 2014

  The flames roared toward the night sky. Complaining woodwork crackled and sparked. An inferno. The firemen shouted and ran past each other to connect hoses to the nearest hydrant. One of the beams in the old house was about to give way, and you could see that the south wall was leaning heavily toward the chimney. The house had long since reached flashover, and couldn’t be saved. Nonetheless, the firemen worked as if lives were in danger. A large crowd of people had lined up behind the provisional police barricades. Nothing attracts more local tourism than fires. A quiet congregation present at what deep down they fear will happen to them. That everything they own will be consumed by the flames. Also standing right behind the barricades was a camera team from TV Haugaland, while a photographer from Haugesund News slipped past the barricades to get better angles.

  Lotte Skeisvoll looked up toward the house, which seemed about to collapse at any moment. She had no business there. It was completely pointless. Nonetheless, she stood there as if in a trance and followed the ravaging of the flames.

  “You don’t need to be here, Lotte, we’ve got everything under control. The house was vacant. The smoke divers were inside before we arrived. André Ferkingstad hasn’t lived here the past four years.” Knut Veldetun placed a friendly hand on Lotte Skeisvoll’s shoulder.

  She nodded absently, but stood there anyway.

  The house wakened sad memories in her. She still remembered that fateful Sunday in August four years ago, when the Ferkingstad family was torn to shreds by an incident that was on the front page of every newspaper in the country for several days.

  Lotte turned and started to trudge down the road. Fatigue was pounding in her temples. She stopped alongside the previous occupant of the house. As was the case four years ago, she was unable to look him in the eyes. There was something implacable in his gaze that always made her turn away.

  “I’m sorry about this,” she said, kicking into the gravel in front of her a little.

  André Ferkingstad did not say anything at first. It was as if he were looking into a dimension that no one else saw, holding the back of his head as if he had a kink in his neck. Suddenly he woke up. André took Lotte’s hands and smiled.

  “It doesn’t matter. It was high time that God let this pool of sin turn to ashes.”

  Lotte straightened up, pulled back her hands, and continued walking toward the car. On the way, both the Haugesund News reporter and the always irritating Hans Indbjo tried to get her to stop, but she ignored them. They would have to make do on their own.

  Inside the car, she rolled the window down a little so she could see and hear what was going on. Couldn’t take her eyes off the fire. Suddenly all the beams gave way at the same time, and the wood structure collapsed onto the foundation in a ball of sparks.

  With amazement she saw how Ferkingstad stood with his arms over his head, clapping his hands. That guy needs to be checked for insurance fraud—you’d almost think he set it himself, she thought as she let the car roll down the gravel road. In the rearview mirror, she saw Ferkingstad shake his fists one last time before getting into an old Toyota Corolla that was parked along the road.

  Risøy, Haugesund

  Thursday night, October 16, 2014

  Ranveig was wakened by a buzzing sound on the coffee table. The display on the vibrating phone showed that it was Øveraas calling. She wondered what he wanted so late as she answered the call.

  “Ranveig?”

  “Hmmm…”

  “Listen, I hope I didn’t wake you, but I need you to check something out for us.”

  “Now? It’s…” She moved the phone away from her ear to check the clock on its screen. “It’s almost eleven thirty, Øveraas. Isn’t there anyone on duty you can ask?”

  “You know Murphy’s Law, Ranveig. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, at the worst conceivable time. Thomsen’s in Stavanger. Went to cover some performer or other at the concert hall there. Don’t remember who. Must be something special, because he was quite excited. Stiansen is on vacation, and I sent the evening reporter and photographer out on a house fire at Torvastad half an hour ago.”

  “Okay … What’s so important that it can’t wait until tomorrow? The newspaper’s on press, isn’t it?”

  “Best on the net, Ranveig. Don’t forget that. We’ve received two tips independent of each other that Stein Vikshåland is dead. The police won’t confirm that—but they never do, of course, when it’s a celebrity. The tipsters say that he was found at home. He doesn’t answer the phone or messages from us either, which I have never experienced before. The guy is so media-fixated that he has the newspaper on speed dial.”

  Stein Vikshåland was perhaps Haugesund’s biggest celebrity. In two scandalous books that each sold close to a hundred thousand copies, he attacked the entire Norwegian cultural establishment with a frankness that was borderline unethical, revealing and extremely provocative all at once. In a microsecond, Vikshåland went from being a cipher to a regular on almost all the TV talk shows. He was portrayed up, down, and in the middle of every newspaper, magazine, and TV station in the country. Appeared in every celebrity context, and was hated by everyone. Nonetheless, he was in constant demand by the media. If you wanted to sell magazines and newspapers or get higher v
iewer ratings, you had only to use Stein Vikshåland in one angle or another.

  Ranveig had to think. This was the last thing she’d expected. True enough, Stein Vikshåland was a man about town who made other celebrities seem like Boy Scouts, but that he would drop dead now was extremely surprising. He was only in his early forties. Regardless, Ranveig realized that this really was news that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Øveraas was not exaggerating.

  “You said at his home? Are we talking about his little writer’s shack up in Tømmerdalen, or the See and Hear Palace on Salhusveien?”

  Vikshåland’s villa got that nickname after the magazine See and Hear had the longest “at home with” story ever from the housewarming party. Seven consecutive pages.

  “And you call yourself a cultural journalist? Everyone knows the guy never stays in that luxury mansion. It’s just for show.”

  “I know that, Øveraas. But you said there were tipsters, and it’s not certain they know the same things we do.”

  “Okay, but it’s in Tømmerdalen. One of the tipsters mentioned that in particular. Can you drive up there in a hurry, and then call me when you know anything more?”

  Ranveig answered affirmatively and quickly got dressed. She wasn’t concerned that her clothes might not match tonight. She tossed the bag with the camera and telephoto lens over her shoulder, snatched up her keys, and left the house.

  Tømmerdalen, Haugesund

  Thursday night, October 16, 2014

  Ranveig eased the car in between a rusty Toyota Corolla and a newer Audi at the Kiwi store in Skåredalen. Once it was out on social media, news like this spread like chlamydia at a senior class party, and she didn’t want to be blocked in by ambulances, media people, and curious residents who “just happened” to be in the area.