Requiem

by Geir Tangen

  You promised to protect me. You didn’t. My sister is dead. Soon I will be too.

  Austmannavegen, Haugesund

  Sunday afternoon, October 19, 2014

  In six days, the number of police, Kripos investigators, technicians, and constables had tripled, so Lotte Skeisvoll had to force her way up to the high-rise apartment. The press corps grew with every passing day, and to her surprise, she noted that it actually said BBC on one camera that captured her movements toward the entry to Viljar’s apartment.

  She avoided any contact with the press, and the more of them there were, the less they got out of her. Hans Indbjo had been in his element all week, and of course had redone the broadcast schedule to fill it with six hours of live coverage every day. But for once, it wasn’t Indbjo standing with microphone in hand. A pimply teenager who could barely have finished the media and communications program at Vardafjell High School had taken his place.

  Lotte couldn’t understand why Indbjo had let a whippersnapper handle a case like this, but the short-statured radio journalist had become a national celebrity from all his “revelations” the past few days, and probably had his hands full nursing his own ego. It wouldn’t surprise Lotte if he showed up on a reality show next season.

  Inside the doors, a slightly more subdued chaos prevailed. She quickly made eye contact with Scheldrup Hansen.

  He waved at her. “We don’t think he left the apartment of his own free will. There’s a lot that suggests he was attacked right by the door and then carried out of the building.”

  Lotte gave Scheldrup Hansen a searching gaze. “Carried…?”

  “Yes. We have a witness statement from a neighbor who saw the back of a man who was probably carrying something heavy out the door down in the entry last night.”

  Lotte felt a stab in her chest. If a person is carried out like that, that person is either unconscious or dead. Either one gives Viljar very poor odds.

  “So … We have the witness statement. Time established at about ten o’clock last night. We have to check if any other neighbors observed him. It was early enough that someone must have seen something.”

  Scheldrup Hansen looked down at his notes before he continued.

  “If we assume that it’s our man who struck again, he would have managed to carry out this, the shooting at the high-rises, and the murder at the stadium. The question is, how did he do such quick work, and why was it important to remove Gudmundsson, dead or alive?”

  Lotte didn’t say anything, but gave him a sign to continue.

  “There was a minor scuffle at the front door. An overturned coat stand and a heavy vase were lying on the floor, and some blood has been found on the flooring.” Scheldrup Hansen sighed a little and shook his head.

  “Is there more?” asked Lotte.

  “Hmmm…”

  She looked at her colleague.

  He pointed at the rest of the apartment. “We have the computer here, for example. It was logged in. We found a folder where he had lots of notes about our case. It turns out that he’s been holding some things back from us, and that he has had suspicions about why he was involved in the case.”

  “I see.…” Lotte went over to the computer that was on the table over by the window.

  “Look at this,” Scheldrup Hansen said, and double-clicked on a folder. A series of image files and Word documents appeared on the screen.

  “Pictures…?”

  “Well, not that interesting. Mostly screenshots of the emails he received, besides the picture of him and Rita Lothe at the bar. What gets me is what he writes in the documents. These are his thoughts about why things are happening around him. Here, for example, he’s figured out where and when the picture was taken, and who was with him.”

  “Are you kidding?” Lotte asked, leaning closer to the screen. Viljar hadn’t said a thing to them about this.

  “He thinks that the picture was taken at the Bestastuå nightclub on Strandgata in September, and that he and a buddy went there, accompanied by Henrik Thomsen. If I recall correctly, that’s one of the names we’re starting to look at closer, isn’t it? The big journalist?”

  “Yes, it sure is. He’s an arts reporter at the newspaper.”

  “‘Don’t remember anything,’ it says here, and a little farther down, ‘Who were the dames we checked out?’ I think we need to have a chat with this Thomsen, because he had opportunity, in any event, to take the picture that we found on the fake Facebook profile for Rita Lothe.”

  “Anything else?”

  Olav aimed his index finger at another document in the folder. “Here,” he said, opening it.

  Lotte looked down at the screen again and registered the name, but was unable to glean anything from it. It just said Jonas.

  It was only when she opened the folder that it occurred to her. It was the case with Jonas Ferkingstad he referred to.

  She tugged on Olav’s shirt collar. “Here is the last puzzle piece in the picture, Olav. This case may explain why Gudmundsson is linked so closely to the murders. We have to talk with Jonas’s father, André Ferkingstad, and very soon. He has a motive to avenge himself on Viljar.”

  “Ferkingstad? The one you talked with at the courthouse?”

  “Executive officer. He works at the courthouse, and he behaved strangely, to put it mildly, on Thursday when his old house was in flames at Torvastad. The guy is not completely balanced. He was clearly nervous when I talked with him too.”

  “Excuse me, Lotte.… Why hasn’t anyone told me about this before? Shouldn’t he have been checked out days ago?”

  Lotte Skeisvoll’s mouth tightened, and she took Olav Scheldrup Hansen aside outside hearing range of the others. “Now, you back off, Hansen. You were the one who in no uncertain terms wanted to check out the Eliassen lead. Do you mean to say you haven’t done that?”

  Scheldrup Hansen looked at Lotte Skeisvoll in surprise. Shook his head, and seemed to have problems starting the sentence. “No, now … What do you mean? I have checked out Eliassen. He’s still in prison for the assaults, but what does his case have to do with this Ferkingstad?”

  Lotte stood there by the one armchair, puzzled. She mostly had a desire to sink down in it. She’d been careless again. Took it for granted that Scheldrup Hansen had been told of the connection between the Eliassen case and the Jonas case. It was obvious, of course, for everyone here in Haugesund that they were linked, but not for a Kripos investigator from East Norway with minimal interest in anything that happened outside Ring 3 in Oslo.

  She patted him on the shoulder and nodded quietly. The furthest she could extend herself to make a confession. “Fine, Olav. Fine…”

  Lotte had a patrol sent out to pick up Ferkingstad, while she studied the rest of the clippings, the pictures, and the Word files more closely.

  There was no doubt. It fit together. It has to, she thought.

  “God damn you, Viljar!” she said out loud as she slammed the cover on his laptop.

  Requiem: Sanctus

  I love Sundays. They are so innocently pure. So white. So refreshingly naïve. But … I know it’s getting closer now! It can’t be long before they have the whole score. I went too far in my eagerness to get them on the right track, and now the tempo has to slow down. What until now have been small adjustments have become more time consuming and extensive. There are false notes in my requiem, and they must be removed. Cleared away. The orchestra must be tightened up before the remaining movements.

  The sweat is collecting at the base of my spine and under my arms. Small hints of doubt and fear make my body react irrationally. I spend time on the adjustments, and that means less time for preparations. In the next round, this means greater risk. The thought of making a mistake now when I’m so close to the goal is unbearable. I’m restless and impatient. Two things I had promised myself I wouldn’t be. Time should be my best friend, not my enemy. I need a perfect glissando toward a change in tempo. It must go faster to create chaos and desperation, but I ha
dn’t thought that this also leads to less foreseeability and therefore bigger adjustments. To get a combined orchestra together in a crescendo is demanding, and it increases the danger that someone will play wrong, that strings break.

  I observe the final changes in the artwork, and consider myself satisfied for now. The certainty that it won’t be the last time I’ll have to change it annoys me more than I like. What in principle was the whole point behind the actions has become a distraction. I ought to have been happy every time I raised the conductor’s baton. Been happy that they are following my instructions. I am driven by something else now. The urge toward a climax where everything melts together to a heavenly unison tone. The execution will give me so much more than the preparations. The electrical impulses that glide through my body as I inhale the last breaths of my chosen ones are an erotic experience. A rush that surpasses anything else I have experienced. My restlessness increases at the very thought.

  I can do it here and now. All I need is ready on the table before me. I have access to the chosen one. He is in the same room. If it hadn’t been that the artwork still has perfection in itself, and that I still have a trace of self-control, I would have done it now. Let all inhibitions loose and simply felt the rush, the lust, and the glow in the final exhalation. It strikes me in the fraction of a second that this is madness, but my defenses hold up. It is the art that forces me to be rational and perform my actions out of necessity, not lust. I force the thoughts back where they should be. Focus. The time schedule must be observed, even if I feel that my senses are failing. Everything moves more sluggishly. Movements, reasoning, memory, like measure after measure of whole notes. Probably due to lack of sleep after having to be on the move during the night, but sleep will have to wait. Now the email must be sent. I can’t delay it any longer.

  I place the laptop in the backpack along with the rest of the equipment I need. Think through what I have to do one last time before I leave the room. Everything is in place. New sender and new recipient. Both are arranged, and this time it won’t help the police that they manage to narrow down possible victims. He is already taken care of. A little, ingenious trick that will surprise them. It wasn’t part of the original plan to do it this way, but now it is. It lacked a trill. Now it’s there. I can no longer risk them getting involved in my selection, so it’s nice to be out in front. They won’t know what hit them until it’s too late.

  I walk quietly across the creaking floor and out the door. Take in fresh sea air as I look over the water of Smedasundet. I feel safe and secure. The chosen one knows what is coming. I could actually feel the scent of pure terror. It was pleasant and liberating.

  Now, a few hours later, the smell has evaporated, and another, more penetrating odor has entered the room. He has evidently relieved the pressure of his bladder. The bait is set, and out here the air is fresh and new. As if it too is cleaned and ready for a new day with new sins. I set a course for the Inner Pier. A long series of unprotected networks stands in line, waiting for me in the sunshine.

  I love Sundays. They are so innocently pure. So white. So refreshingly naïve.

  Gjøvik

  Sunday, October 19, 2014

  The publisher Harald Madsen stretched on the couch and concluded that the coffee was done brewing in the kitchen. It was not long since the final sputtering sounds had come from the Moccamaster. He had great plans for enjoying the last day of autumn vacation to the fullest. His body still felt the jet lag after journeying home from rainy Scotland, but a few hours of sleep in his own bed had done him good.

  He had actually intended to travel to more southerly regions, but didn’t get around to ordering tickets in time. At last he gave up the attempt to get some cheap sunrays and instead pounced on a theme vacation to Scotland in the fall. Whiskey tour …

  Scotland was damp. Both he and his wardrobe screamed for a spin in the dryer, and he hoped that his bloodshot eyes would stop watering before he had to be at work the next day. He had this one day for recuperation, and now his body was crying for industrial-strength coffee and a solid quantity of Tylenol.

  A pale sun struggled with the cloud cover. The temperature was quite satisfactory. Sixteen degrees Celsius was much warmer than what he’d experienced for over a week in windblown northern Scotland. He looked out at the farms. If he’d owned a fraction of such a farm, he would have multiplied many times over what he made in salary from the publishing company he started in Gjøvik ten years ago. He had dreamed of big money. Finding a Harry Potter out there, or a Dan Brown. Something that took the market by storm and got rid of his financial worries for all time. The reality was mournful. Every time he got wind of something that might be big, the major Norwegian publishers had already signed the joker. There was only pocket lint left over for him and his three employees at Alfa Madsen Publishing in Gjøvik.

  They kept it going, and the ship afloat, even though it could have used a thorough floor coating. Mainly due to a lucky signing the second year they were in business. Then they had received a manuscript from a first-time author who actually had followed the advice of not submitting to more than one publisher at a time. Ridiculous advice, but for Alfa Madsen, it was worth gold. They were first on all the alphabetical lists. The author had long since moved to Aschehoug with his next books, but the debut book still sold by the bucketload, and it also kept finding new markets abroad. This revenue stream meant that the liquidity was good enough, but didn’t allow for any risk-taking or major investments. Two times Aschehoug and the author had tried to buy back the rights to the book, but Harald Madsen knew better. The money they got out of something like that would be like pissing in your pants to stay warm. Good finances for a couple of years, and then … end of the line if no new golden manuscripts dropped down in the mailbox.

  Harald Madsen settled down comfortably on the couch. Supported himself with pillows behind his back, the cup of coffee, cigarettes, and ashtray within reach. In his hands he had his iPad, which he had written off as a business expense, but seldom used for anything other than a little free-time surfing on various websites. He had been in a kind of haze for a whole week. Starting the day with four whiskies at some isolated farm meant that the rest of the day flowed by in a mist he could barely recall. No more than waking up in another hotel every morning with the same travel companions on their way to new distilleries.

  As usual, he opened the news sites first, and could quickly establish that Norway had been turned on its head while he tippled whiskey on the other side of the sea. The ultra-bold fonts screamed at him and made it impossible to go past them in silence. He sipped at the coffee while he read. After the first article, he lit a cigarette. Something about the case excited him. A little thread far back in his head was calling for his attention, but he was unable to get hold of it.

  Four homicides in one week committed by what must be the same man. After having skimmed the first few articles from the national papers, he started to read carefully. There is something here.… Something he recognized. Something from the past, but he couldn’t pin it down just yet. Harald Madsen raised himself up and immediately felt the hangover still lurking by the bridge of his nose. He knocked back yet another Tylenol from the package on the coffee table before he leaned toward the screen again. The whole thing was presented in such tabloid fashion that he couldn’t make out the essence. The fear propaganda that made people worried and nervous.

  Harald abandoned the Oslo press and concentrated on the local web paper, Haugesund News. It was when he opened it that it occurred to him. How could I know that the local newspaper was called Haugesund News? He started reading the articles, but quickly made his way to an overview story instead. Here all four murders were listed. Place, date, victim, and method of killing were all presented. Harald Madsen stopped in mid-summary. He got goose pimples all over his body. The truth struck him with full force. He tried to convince himself that this couldn’t be true, but as quickly as that thought tried to take root, more images showed up steadily in
his mental photo album.

  Gradually, as Harald read article after article, his suspicions were confirmed. He was right. Toward the end, he knew what was going to be in the various articles before he’d read them. What Harald could not understand, however, was why no one had gone to the police with this earlier. It was so obvious that even a listless, hungover Norwegian with a fog of whiskey before his eyes saw it at once.

  What the hell are the police up to when they haven’t managed to catch this? he thought, sitting back on the couch.

  With trembling hands, he fished a cigarette out of the pack.

  He didn’t need to read any more articles. He knew perfectly well what was in them. He also knew very well what was going to be in the news tomorrow, and the day after that. He picked up the iPad again and connected it to the work server. A brief search later gave him the answer he knew was in the database at the publishing house.

  Harald Madsen picked up his phone and found the number to Haugesund Police Station. After three ringtones, a voice came on the other end who claimed she could help him.

  “Can you transfer me to a detective by the name of Skeisvoll? I have a tip in the case you’re investigating.”

  “Yes, right now there are a lot of people calling and wanting to give us tips, and the investigation team can’t take all the tips themselves. Could you say what your name is and what the tip concerns?”

  There was silence for a moment. Madsen thought a little about how he should formulate this without being perceived as some kind of idiot. He went for the hard-line version. Right to the point.

  “My name is Harald Madsen, and I think I have the name of the killer you’re after.”

  Haugesund

  Sunday afternoon, October 19, 2014