Headhunters

23 NEWS TONIGHT

THE SIGNATURE TUNE of the news programme News Tonight was a simple guitar riff reminiscent of a bossa nova, swaying hips and colourful drinks, not hard facts, politics and depressing social problems. Or, like this evening, crime. The tune was brief in order to signal that News Tonight was a programme without unnecessary frills, it dealt with the nitty-gritty and went straight to the point.

That was presumably why it started with the jib camera in Studio 3 that showed the evening’s guests from above, then swept down to finish with a head shot of the presenter, Odd G. Dybwad. As the music stopped, he looked up from his papers and removed his reading glasses. That had probably been the producer’s idea; he or she might have thought it gave the impression that the news item they were going to discuss was hot off the press, so much so that Dybwad had only just managed to read it himself.

Dybwad had short, thick hair which was greying at the temples and one of those fortyish faces. He had looked forty when he was thirty and forty now that he was fifty. Dybwad had majored in social sciences, was analytical, verbally bright and by predilection tabloid through and through. It was probably not this attribute that had been decisive in the channel controller’s decision to give him his own talk show, but rather the job Dybwad had been doing as a news anchorman for half a human lifetime. By and large the task had been to read aloud prepared texts with the right intonation and facial expression, dressed in the right suit with the right tie, but in Dybwad’s case the intonation, the expression and the tie had been so right that it had given him more credibility than any other living person in Norway. And it was credibility that was needed to carry a programme like News Tonight. Strangely enough, publicly stating several times that he loved his ratings and that at editorial meetings it was he, and not the channel controller, who pushed for the most commercial news items just seemed to reinforce Dybwad’s impregnability. He wanted to have slants with the potential to create heat and stir emotions, not doubts, nor a variety of views and debate. That was best managed by newspaper feature articles. His stock response was: ‘Why leave discussions about the royal family, homosexual foster parents and welfare abuse to frivolous media operators when we can have them on News Tonight?’

News Tonight was an unqualified success and Odd G. Dybwad a star. So much of a star that after an extremely painful and extremely public divorce he had been able to marry one of the channel’s young female stars.

‘This evening we have two items,’ he said with a voice that was already trembling a fraction with suppressed emotion as he stared with piercing eyes from the TV screen. ‘First we will be giving an overview of one of the most dramatic murder cases in Norway’s history. After a month of intense investigation the police now believe they have unravelled all the threads of the so-called Greve case. In all, it involves eight murders. A man who was strangled on his farm outside Elverum. Four policemen whose car was rammed by a stolen juggernaut. A woman who was shot in her Oslo home. All of this before the two main protagonists in this drama gunned each other down in a house in Tonsenhagen here in Oslo. The last episode in this drama was caught on film because the house was fitted with CCTV, and copies of the video have already leaked out and have been circulating on the Internet over the last few weeks.’

Dybwad bumped up the dose of pathos.

‘And, as if that were not enough, at the centre of this bizarre case is a world-famous painting. Peter Paul Rubens’s The Calydonian Boar Hunt had been missing, feared lost, ever since the last world war. Until it was found four weeks ago in a…’ Here Dybwad became so excited that he started to stammer. ‘… in – in an outside toilet here in Norway!’

After this introduction Dybwad had to touch down before taking off again.

‘We are joined by someone who can help us get to the heart of the Greve case. Brede Sperre…’

Dybwad paused for a moment as this was the cue for the producer in the control room to switch to camera 2. The producer chose a side shot of the only guest in the studio, a tall, good-looking, blond man. An expensive suit for a civil servant, an open-necked shirt, mother-of-pearl buttons, probably put together by the ELLE stylist he was secretly – or almost secretly – shagging. None of the female viewers would be switching channels for the time being.

‘You led the Kripos investigation into this murder case. You have almost fifteen years’ experience in the police force. Have you ever encountered anything like this before?’

‘All cases are different,’ Brede Sperre said, with effortless self-assurance. You didn’t need to be a fortune teller to know that his mobile phone would be crammed with texts after the broadcast. A woman wondering if he was single and fancied a coffee with an interesting person; a single mother, living just outside Oslo, with her own car and loads of free time next week. A young man who liked older, resolute men. Some skipped the preliminaries and just sent a photo. One they were pleased with, nice smile, straight from the hairdresser, nice clothes, suitably low neckline. Or without a face. Or clothes.

‘But, of course, eight murders is not your usual bread-and-butter case,’ Sperre said in his stilted voice. And added, hearing that an understatement was a trifle on the nonchalant side: ‘Not here and not in countries which it would be na-ural to compare ourselves with.’

‘Brede Sperre,’ said Dybwad, who was always careful to repeat the guest’s name a couple of times, so that it stuck in viewers’ minds, ‘this is a case which has aroused international interest. Aside from the murder of eight people, this heightened attention is primarily down to the fact that a world-famous old master has played a key role, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it’s certainly a painting familiar to art connoisseurs.’

‘Now I think we can say without fear of contradiction that it is world-famous!’ Dybwad exclaimed, trying to catch Sperre’s eye, perhaps to remind him about what they had discussed before the show, that they were a team, two people who should work together to tell a fantastic story. Devaluing the fame of the painting had the effect of making the story less fantastic.

‘Nevertheless Rubens’s painting must have been of central importance when Kripos, with no survivors or other witnesses to rely on, had to fit all the pieces of this puzzle together. Isn’t that right, Inspector Sperre?’

‘That is correct.’

‘You will be presenting the final case report tomorrow, but I understand you can already tell our viewers what actually happened in the Greve case, the whole course of events from start to finish.’

Brede Sperre nodded. But instead of starting to speak he raised the glass of water on the desk in front of him and took a small sip. Dybwad, to the right of the picture, was beaming. The two of them might have arranged this little spot of theatricality in advance, this pause that made viewers perch on the very edge of their sofas, all eyes and ears. Or perhaps Sperre had taken over the stage management. The policeman put down his glass and took a deep breath.

‘Before I joined Kripos, I was, as you know, in the Robberies Unit and had inve-tigated the many art thefts that have occurred in Oslo over the last two years. The similarities suggested that there was a gang behind them. At a very early stage we had been focusing on the security company Tripolis as most of the residences that were burgled had alarms from there. And now we know that one of the people behind the thefts worked for Tripolis. Ove Kjikerud had access to property owners’ keys at Tripolis and thus could also switch off alarms. In addition, Kjikerud had clearly found a way to delete reports of break-ins from the system’s databases. We assume Kjikerud himself carried out most of the bur-laries. But he needed a person who had some insight into the art world, who spoke to other art enthusiasts in Oslo and could gain an overview of which pictures were hanging where.’

‘And this is where Clas Greve came in?’

‘Yes. He himself had a fine collection of art in his apartment in Oscars gate and hung out with art connoisseurs, particularly at Galleri E, where he was often observed. There he spoke to people who themselves had valuable paintings or could tell him who had. This was i-formation that Greve in turn passed on to Kjikerud.’

‘What did Kjikerud do with the paintings after stealing them?’

‘Through an anonymous tip-off, we have managed to trace a fence, a receiver of stolen goods, in Gothenburg, an old friend of the police who has already confessed to having been in contact with Kjikerud. In interviews this person has told our Swedish colleagues that the last time he heard anything from Kjikerud was when he called and said that the Rubens picture was on its way. The fence said he found it difficult to believe that this was true. And neither the painting nor Kjikerud turned up in Gothenburg…’

‘No, it didn’t,’ Dybwad rumbled with tragic gravity. ‘Because what happened?’

Sperre smirked before continuing, as though finding the presenter’s melodrama rather amusing. ‘It seems that Kjikerud and Greve decided not to deal with the fence in Gothenburg. They may have decided to sell the painting themselves. Remember that the receiver rakes in fifty per cent of the sale price, and on this occasion the sums they were talking about were quite different from the proceeds from other pictures. As the former CEO of a Dutch technology company which had dealings with Russia and several ex-Eastern bloc countries, Greve had a pile of con-acts, not necessarily all on the right side of the law. And this was Greve and Kjikerud’s chance to be financially secure for the rest of their lives.’

‘But on the face of it Greve seemed like a person who had enough money, didn’t he?’

‘The technology company which he part-owned was going through a rough patch, and he had just lost his post there. Apparently he had a lifestyle which necessitated income. We know he had recently applied for a job with a Norwegian company in Horten.’

‘So Kjikerud didn’t turn up for the meeting with the fence because he and Greve wanted to sell the painting themselves. What happened then?’

‘Until they found a buyer they had to hide the painting somewhere secure. So they went to a cabin Kjikerud had rented from Sindre Aa for several years.’

‘Outside Elverum.’

‘Yes. The neighbours say that the cabin wasn’t used much, from time to time there were two men around the place, but no one had ever exchanged words with them. It seemed almost as though they were in hiding.’

‘And you believe this was Greve and Kjikerud?’

‘They were incredibly professional and extremely paricular in their dealings with others. And they didn’t want to leave any traces that might connect the two of them. We don’t have any witnesses who ever saw them together, and no phone records to show they had spoken.’

‘But then an unforeseen event took place?’

‘Yes. Precisely what, we don’t know. They had gone to the cabin to hide the painting. Not unnaturally when the sums are so huge there is a tendency for suspicions to sneak in about the partner you trusted before… Perhaps they started arguing. And they must have been high: we found traces of drugs in both their blood samples.’

‘Drugs?’

‘A mixture of Ketalar and Dormicum. Strong stuff and very unusual among addicts in Oslo, so our guess is that Greve must have brought this with him from Amsterdam. The combination may have made them careless and in the end they totally lost control. Which ended up with them taking the life of Sindre Aa. Afterwards-’

‘One moment,’ Dybwad interrupted. ‘Could you explain to viewers exactly what happened in connection with this first murder?’

Sperre raised an eyebrow, as if to express a certain displeasure with the presenter’s undisguised bloodthirstiness. Then he gave in.

‘No, we can only guess. Kjikerud and Greve may have taken the party down to Sindre Aa and boasted about the famous painting they had stolen. And Aa rea-ted by threatening to or actually trying to contact the police. Whereupon Clas Greve garrotted him.’

‘And a garrotte is?’

‘A thin piece of wire or nylon which is tightened around the victim’s neck, blocking the flow of oxygen to the brain.’

‘And he dies?’

‘Er… yes.’

A button in the control room was pressed and on the live monitor – the screen showing what was being transmitted to the thousands of TV viewers – Odd G. Dybwad was nodding slowly while staring at Sperre with a studied mixture of horror and earnestness. He let it sink in. One, two, three seconds. Three TV years. The producer was presumably sweating now. And then Dybwad broke the silence. ‘How do you know it was Greve who carried out the killing?’

‘Forensic evidence. We later found the garrotte on Greve’s body, in the jacket pocket. Sindre Aa’s blood and traces of Greve’s skin were found on it.’

‘And so you know that both Greve and Kjikerud were in Aa’s sitting room at the time of the murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know that? More forensic evidence?’

Sperre squirmed. ‘Yes.’

‘What evidence?’

Brede Sperre coughed and shot a look at Dybwad. They might have had discussions about this point. Sperre may have asked him to skip the detail, but Dybwad had insisted it was important to fill out the story.

Sperre braced himself. ‘We found some evidence in the vicinity of Sindre Aa’s body. Traces of excrement.’

‘Excrement?’ Dybwad interrupted. ‘Human?’

‘Yes. We sent it to the lab for DNA analysis. Most matches the DNA profile of Ove Kjikerud. But there was also some from Clas Greve.’

Dybwad opened his palms. ‘What on earth was going on here, Inspector Sperre?’

‘It is difficult to form a detailed picture, of course, but it looks as if Greve and Kjikerud…’ Another pause to brace himself. ‘… smeared their own excrement over themselves. Some people do that, don’t they?’

‘In other words, we’re talking about some very sick individuals here?’

‘They’d been taking drugs, as I mentioned before. But, yes, it is undoubtedly… er, deviant behaviour.’

‘And it doesn’t stop there, does it?’

‘No.’

Sperre paused as Dybwad raised his forefinger, the agreed signal for Sperre to take a tiny break. Enough for viewers to be able to digest the information and prepare themselves for what was to follow. Then the inspector continued.

‘Ove Kjikerud, in his drug-fuelled state, discovers a sadistic game to play with the dog that Greve has brought along. He skewers it on the prongs of a loader at the back of a tractor. But this is a fighting dog and in the heat of the struggle Kjikerud receives deep bites to the neck. Afterwards Kjikerud drives the tractor around the area with the dog hanging from the loader. He is obviously so high that he can barely keep the tractor on the road and is stopped by a motorist. The motorist has no idea what he has stumbled upon and does what any right-minded citizen would feel duty-bound to do – he puts the injured Kjikerud in his car and drives him to hospital.’

‘What a contrast in… in human qualities,’ exclaimed Odd G. Dybwad.

‘One might indeed say that. It was this motorist who was able to tell us that Kjikerud was covered in his own excrement when he met him. He thought Kjikerud had fallen into a muck heap, but the hospital staff who washed Kjikerud said that it was human ex-rement, not animal. They have had some experience of… of…’

‘What did they do with Kjikerud at the hospital?’

‘Kjikerud was semi-conscious, but they showered him, bandaged the wound and put him to bed.’

‘And it was at the hospital that they found traces of drugs in his blood?’

‘No. They did take blood samples, but they were routinely destroyed. We found traces of drugs in his blood during the post-mortem examination.’

‘OK, but let’s go back. We’ve got up to Kjikerud being admitted to the hospital with Greve still at the farm. What happens then?’

‘Greve, naturally enough, suspects something when Kjikerud doesn’t return. He discovers the tractor’s gone, fetches his own car and starts driving around the district searching for his companion. We assume that Greve has a police radio in his car and through it hears that the police have found the tractor and – getting on for morning – the body of Sindre Aa.’

‘Right, so now Greve is in trouble. He doesn’t know where his accomplice is, the police have found the body of Sindre Aa, the farm is a crime scene and in their search for the murder weapon there is a chance the police may uncover the Rubens painting. What is going through Greve’s mind?’

Sperre hesitated. Why? police reports always avoid descriptions of what people think, keeping only to what can be proved At most, one might refer to what those involved said they were thinking. But in this case no one had said anything. On the other hand, Sperre knew he had to come up with something, had to help bring the story to life so as to… to… He probably hadn’t allowed himself to think that thought through to its logical conclusion because he had an inkling what lay at the end. That he liked being the person the media rang, the one they wanted a sound bite from if a comment or an explanation was needed, the nods of recognition on the street, the unsolicited photos on the mobile phone. But if he stopped delivering, would the media stop ringing? So what did it all boil down to? A question of integrity versus media attention, respect from colleagues versus popularity with the man on the street?

‘Greve is thinking…’ Brede Sperre said, ‘… that the situation is tricky. He drives around searching, and it is morning by now. Then he hears on the police radio that Kjikerud is going to be arrested, collected from the hospital by the police and taken in for questioning. And now Greve knows the situation has gone from tricky to desperate. You see, he knows that Kjikerud is no hardboiled thug, that the police won’t need to push him very far, that Kjikerud may be offered a reduced sentence if he informs on his partner and, of course, that Kjikerud will not accept the guilt for the murder of Sindre Aa.’

‘Logical,’ Dybwad nodded, bending forward, egging him on.

‘So Greve realises the only way out is to rescue Kjikerud from the police before the questioning starts. Or…’

Sperre didn’t need Dybwad’s discreetly raised forefinger to tell him that this was the right place for another little pause.

‘… or kill him in the process.’

The TV signals seemed to crackle in the studio air, which was so dry from the stage lighting that it could catch fire at any point. Sperre went on.

‘So Greve starts searching for a car he can borrow. And in a car park he comes across an abandoned truck with a trailer. With his background in a Dutch counter-terrorism unit he knows how to start an engine. He still has the police radio with him and has obviously studied the map to be clear which route the police car transporting Kjikerud will take from the hospital to Elverum. He waits for them in the truck on a side road…’

Dybwad launched himself into the story with a dramatically raised finger. ‘And then the greatest tragedy in the whole case takes place.’

‘Yes,’ Sperre said, eyes downcast.

‘I know this is painful for you, Brede,’ Dybwad said.

Brede. Christian name. That was the cue.

‘Close-up of Sperre now,’ the producer said in the earplug to camera 1.

Sperre took a deep breath. ‘Four good policemen were killed in the collision that followed, one of them a close Kripos colleague of mine, Joar Sunded.’

They had zoomed in with such care that the average viewer wouldn’t have noticed that Sperre’s face now took up a slightly bigger part of the screen; they only perceived it as a tenser, more intimate atmosphere, a feeling of getting inside this visibly moved stalwart policeman.

‘The police car is hurled over a crash barrier and disappears beneath the trees right by the river,’ Dybwad went on. ‘But, miraculously, Ove Kjikerud survives.’

‘Yes.’ Sperre has recovered. ‘He clambers out of the wreck, either on his own or with Greve’s help. After dumping the truck they get into Greve’s car and go back to Oslo. When the police later find the patrol car and one body is missing they believe it’s landed in the river. Furthermore, Kjikerud has dressed one of the police bodies to look like himself and for a while this creates confusion about who has survived.’

‘But even though Greve and Kjikerud are safe for the moment their paranoia is in full bloom, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Kjikerud is aware that when Greve drove the truck into the patrol car, he had to be indifferent as to whether Kjikerud lived or died. And Kjikerud has realised that his life is in danger; Greve has at least two good reasons to get rid of him. The first because he witnessed the murder of Aa, the second because Greve wouldn’t have to share the proceeds from the Rubens painting. He knows that Greve will strike whenever the opportunity offers itself again.’

Dybwad leaned forward with excitement. ‘And that’s where we move into the last act of the drama. They have arrived in Oslo and Kjikerud has gone back to his house. But not to relax. He knows he has to make the first move – eat or be eaten. Then from his huge arsenal of weapons he takes out a little black pistol, a… a…’

‘Rohrbaugh R9,’ Sperre said. ‘Nine millimetres, semiautomatic, six bullets in the magaz-’

And he takes it with him to where he believes Clas Greve is staying. At his lover’s. Right?’

‘We’re not sure about the relationship Greve had with this woman, but we do know that they were in regular contact, that they met and that Greve’s fingerprints have been found in her bedroom, among other places.’

‘So Kjikerud goes to the lover’s address and is standing there with the weapon when she opens the door,’ Dybwad said. ‘She lets him into the hall where Kjikerud shoots her. Then he searches the apartment for Greve, but he isn’t there. Kjikerud puts the body of the woman into her bed and goes back to his own place. He makes sure he has the weapon to hand wherever he is, even in bed. And then Greve appears…’

‘Yes. We don’t know how he gets in, perhaps he picks the lock. At any rate he is not aware he has activated the soundless alarm when entering. But that sets off the CCTV cameras in the house.’

‘Which means that the police have pictures of what happens from now on, the final showdown between these two criminals. And for those who do not have the stomach to see this on the Internet, could you tell us briefly what happens?’

‘They start shooting at each other. Greve fires off two shots first, with his Glock 17. Amazingly enough, he misses with both.’

‘Amazing?’

‘At such a close range, yes. Greve was a trained commando after all.’

‘So he hits the wall instead?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No, there were no bullets in the wall by the bed head board. He hits the win-ow. That is, he doesn’t hit the window, either, because it’s wide open. His shots go outside.’

‘Outside? How do you know that?’

‘Because we’ve found the bullets outside.’

‘Oh?’

‘In the forest behind the house. In a bird house for owls hanging from a tree trunk.’ Sperre gave a wry grin, the way men do when they think they’re underplaying a success story.

‘I see. And then?’

‘Kjikerud starts shooting back with an Uzi machine gun which he has in his bed. As we can see on the film, the bullets hit Greve in the groin and the stomach. He drops his pistol, but picks it up again and manages to fire off a third and final shot. The bullet hits Kjikerud in the forehead above his right eye. It causes massive damage to the brain. But it’s not how people imagine from films – that every shot to the head inflicts instant death. You see, Kjikerud manages to fire a final salvo before dying. And this kills Clas Greve.’

A long silence followed. The producer probably raised one finger to Dybwad, the signal that there was one minute left on the schedule and it was time to summarise and round off the news item.

Odd G. Dybwad leaned back in the chair, more relaxed now. ‘So Kripos has never been in any doubt that this was how it all happened?’

‘No,’ said Sperre, fixing his gaze on Dybwad. Then he splayed his arms. ‘But it goes without saying that there will always be some uncertainty with regard to details. And a little confusion. For instance, the pathologist who was at the crime scene felt that the temperature of Kjikerud’s body had fallen with surprising rapidity. On the basis of the usual charts and figures he would have put the time of death at least twenty-four hours earlier. But then the police officers at the scene pointed out that the window behind the bed had been open when they arrived. And this was, as you remember, the first day of sub-zero temperatures in Oslo. This kind of uncertainty exists all the time, it is part and parcel of our work.’

‘Yes, for even though you can’t see Kjikerud on the recordings, the bullet in Kjikerud’s head…’

‘Came from the Glock that Greve fired, yes.’ Sperre smiled again. ‘The forensic evidence is what the press likes to call “overwhelming”.’

Dybwad gave a befitting beam as he shuffled the papers together in front of him, signalling that things were being rounded up. All that was left to do now was to thank Brede Sperre, stare straight into the lens of camera I and see to the evening’s other item: another round of agricultural subsidies. But he stopped, his mouth half open, his eyes flicked down. A message in his ear? Something he had forgotten?

‘Just one last thing, Inspector,’ Dybwad said, calm, deft, experienced. ‘What do you actually know about the woman who was shot?’

Sperre hunched his shoulders. ‘Not a lot. As I said, we believe she was Greve’s lover. One of the neighbours says he saw Greve come and go. She doesn’t have a criminal record, but we have found out via Interpol that she was involved in a drugs case many years ago when she and her pa-ents lived in Suriname. She was the girlfriend of one of the drug barons there, but when he was killed by a Dutch commando unit she helped them to reel in the rest of the gang.’

‘But she wasn’t charged?’

‘She was underage. And pregnant. The authorities sent her family back to their home country.’

‘Which was…?’

‘Er, Denmark. And there she stayed living, as far as we know, a quiet life. Until she came to Oslo three months ago. And met a tragic end.’

‘Apropos of tragic ends, I’m afraid we have to say thank you and goodbye to you, Brede Sperre.’ Glasses off, look into camera 1. ‘Should Norway cultivate its own tomatoes at any price? In News Tonight we’re going to meet…’

The TV picture imploded as I pressed the ‘off’ button on the remote control with my left thumb. I would usually have done it with my right thumb, but that arm was busy. And even though it was going to sleep through poor blood circulation, I would not have moved it for anything in the world. In fact, it was supporting the most beautiful head I knew. The head turned to me, and her hand pushed away the duvet to have a good look at me.

‘Did you really sleep in her bed after shooting her that night? Next to her? How wide did you say it was?’

‘One hundred and one centimetres,’ I said. ‘According to the IKEA catalogue.’

Diana’s big blue eyes stared at me in horror. But – if I wasn’t mistaken – there was a certain admiration there, too. She was wearing a gauzy negligée, an Yves Saint Laurent creation which was cool when it caressed my skin like now, but burning hot when my body pressed it against hers.

She propped herself up on her elbows.

‘How did you shoot her?’

I closed my eyes and groaned. ‘Diana! We’ve agreed that we won’t talk about this.’

‘Yes, we did, but I’m ready for it now, Roger. I promise.’

‘Darling, listen…’

‘No! Tomorrow the police report will be out and I’ll get to hear the details anyway. I’d rather hear them from you.’

I sighed. ‘Sure?’

‘Absolutely positive.’

‘In the eye.’

‘Which one?’

‘This one.’ I placed my forefinger against her finely formed left eyebrow.

She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. In and out. ‘What did you shoot her with?’

‘A small black pistol.’

‘Where did…?’

‘I found it at Ove’s place.’ I ran my finger along her eyebrow to the side of her face, stroked it over her high cheekbones. ‘And that was where it stayed, too. Minus my fingerprints of course.’

‘Where were you when you shot her?’

‘In the hall.’

Diana’s breathing was already noticeably faster. ‘Did she say anything? Was she frightened? Did she understand what was happening?’

‘I don’t know. I shot her as soon as I entered.’

‘What did you feel?’

‘Sorrow.’

She gave a faint smile. ‘Sorrow? Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though she tried to lure you into Clas’s trap?’

My finger stopped. Not even now, a month after it was all over, did I like her using his Christian name. But, of course, she was right. Lotte’s mission had been to become my lover; it was she who was to introduce me to Clas Greve and persuade me to invite him to a job interview with Pathfinder and who was to make sure that I selected him. How long had it taken her to hook me? Three seconds? And I had splashed about helplessly as she had reeled me in. But then something unexpected had happened. I had dropped her. A man had loved his wife so much that he had, of his own accord, renounced a self-sacrificing and totally undemanding lover. Very surprising. And they had had to change plans.

‘I suppose I felt sorry for her,’ I said. ‘I think I was just the last in a succession of men who had let Lotte down throughout her life.’

I felt Diana give a little jerk when I articulated her name. Good.

‘Shall we talk about something else?’ I suggested.

‘No, I want to talk about this now.’

‘OK. Let’s talk about how Greve seduced you and persuaded you to take over the role of manipulating me.’

She chuckled. ‘Fine by me.’

‘Did you love him?’

She turned and her eyes lingered on me.

I repeated the question.

She sighed and wriggled closer. ‘I was in love.’

‘In love?’

‘He wanted to give me a child. So I fell in love.’

‘So simple?’

‘Yes. But it’s not simple, Roger.’

She was right, of course. It isn’t simple.

‘And you were willing to sacrifice everything to have this child? Even me?’

‘Yes, even you.’

‘Even though it meant I would have to pay with my life?’

She nudged my shoulder with her temple. ‘No, not that. You know very well that I thought he would only persuade you to write the report in his favour.’

‘Did you really think that, Diana?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Really, Diana?’

‘Yes, I think so anyway. You have to understand that I wanted to believe that.’

‘Enough for you to place the rubber ball filled with Dormicum on the car seat?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when you came down to the garage it was to drive me to the place where he would persuade me, wasn’t it?’

‘We’ve been through all this, Roger. He said this way entailed the least risk for all parties. Of course, I should have known it was madness. And perhaps I did, too. I don’t know what else I can tell you.’

We lay absorbed in our own thoughts while listening to the silence. In the summer we could hear the wind and the rain on the leaves of the trees in the garden outside, but not now. Now everything was stripped bare. And quiet. The only comfort was that it would be spring again. Perhaps.

‘And how long were you in love?’ I asked.

‘Until I realised what I was doing. The night you didn’t come home…’

‘Yes?’

‘I just felt like dying.’

‘I didn’t mean in love with him,’ I said. ‘I meant with me.’

She chuckled. ‘I can’t know that until I’ve stopped loving you.’

Diana almost never lied. Not because she couldn’t, Diana was a wonderful liar, but because she couldn’t be bothered. Beautiful people don’t need shells, are not obliged to learn all the defence mechanisms we others develop in order to protect ourselves against rejection and disappointment. But when women like Diana make up their minds to lie, they are thorough and efficient. Not because they are less moral than men, but because they have greater mastery of this aspect of the treachery. And that was precisely why I had gone to Diana that last evening. Because I knew she was the perfect candidate for the job.

After unlocking the door, standing in the hallway and listening to her footsteps on the parquet floor for a while, I had gone upstairs to the living room. I had heard her steps stop, the phone fall onto the coffee table, the whispered half-sob ‘Roger…’, seen the tears welling up in her eyes. And I had done nothing to stop her when she had thrown herself around my neck. ‘Thank God you’re alive! I kept ringing you all day yesterday and I’ve been trying all day today… where have you been?’

And Diana was not lying. She was crying because she thought she had lost me. Because she had sent me and my love out of her life like a dog to the vet to be put down. No, she was not lying. Said my gut instinct. But, as I have said, I am no great judge of human beings, and Diana is a wonderful liar. So when she had gone to dry her tears in the bathroom, I picked up her phone and checked that it was in fact my phone number she had been trying to ring. To be on the safe side.

When she came back, I told her everything. Absolutely everything. Where I had been, who I had been, what had happened. About the art thefts, about the phone under the bed in Greve’s apartment, about Danish Lotte who had pulled the wool over my eyes. About the conversation with Greve at the hospital. The one that had made me see that he knew Lotte, that she was his closest ally, that the person who had rubbed the gel containing transmitters into my hair was not Diana but the brown-eyed pallid-faced girl with the magical fingers, the translator who spoke Spanish and liked others’ stories better than her own. That I had had the gel in my hair since the evening before I had found Kjikerud in the car. Diana had stared at me in silence with wonder-filled eyes while I had told her.

‘At the hospital Greve said I’d persuaded you to have an abortion because the baby had Down’s syndrome.’

‘Down’s?’ It was the first thing Diana had said for several minutes. ‘Where did he get that idea from? I didn’t say-’

‘I know. It was something I made up when I told Lotte about the abortion. She told me her parents had forced her to have an abortion when she was a teenager. So I made up the Down’s syndrome story because I thought she might see me in a better light.’

‘So she… she…’

‘Yes. She’s the only one who could have told Greve that.’

I had waited. Let it sink in.

Then I had told Diana what would happen now.

She had stared at me in horror and shouted: ‘I can’t do it, Roger!’

‘Yes, you can,’ I had said. ‘You can and you will, my love.’ Said the new Roger Brown.

‘But… but…’

‘He was lying to you, Diana. He can’t give you a child. He’s sterile.’

‘Sterile?’

‘I’ll give you the child. I promise. Just do this for me.’

She had refused. Cried. Begged. And then she had promised.

When I went down to Lotte’s to become a murderer later that evening, I had instructed Diana and knew she would accomplish the mission. I could see her before me, receiving Greve when he came, the dazzling perfidious smile, the cognac already in the glass, passing it to him, toasting the victor, the future, the as yet unconceived child. Which she insisted should be conceived as soon as possible, tonight, now!

I recoiled as Diana pinched one of my nipples. ‘What are you thinking about right now?’

I pulled up the duvet. ‘The night Greve came here. Him lying with you where I am now.’

‘So what? You were lying with a dead body that night.’

I had desisted from asking, but now I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. ‘Did you have sex?’

She chuckled. ‘You did well to restrain yourself for so long, darling.’

‘Did you?’

‘Let me put it like this: the drops of Dormicum that were left in the rubber ball and that I squeezed into his welcome drink worked faster than I had imagined. I dolled myself up and when I came in here, he was already sleeping like a baby. The following day, however…’

‘I withdraw the question,’ I said with alacrity.

Diana stroked my stomach with her hand and laughed again. ‘The next morning he was very much awake. Not because of me, but because of a phone call that had woken him up.’

‘My warning.’

‘Yes. At any rate he was dressed and off at once.’

‘Where was his gun?’

‘In his jacket pocket.’

‘Did he check the gun before he left?’

‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t have noticed the difference anyway, the weight was about the same. I just exchanged the top three cartridges in the magazine.’

‘Yes, but the blank cartridges I gave you have a red B on the end.’

‘If he’d checked he would probably have thought it stood for “back”.’

The laughter of two people filled the bedroom. I enjoyed the sound. If all went well and the litmus test was positive, the room would soon be filled by the laughter of three people. And it would suppress the other sound, the echo I could still wake up to in the night. The bangs as Greve fired, the flash of the muzzle, the fraction of a second thinking that Diana had not switched the cartridges after all, that she had changed sides again. And then, the echo, the clink of empty cartridge cases landing on the parquet floor that was already covered with cartridges, live and blank, old and new, so many that the police would not be able to tell them apart regardless of whether they suspected that the video recording was a put-up job.

‘Were you frightened?’ she asked.

‘Frightened?’

‘Yes. You never told me how it felt. And you don’t appear in the pictures…’

‘Pic-’ I moved away to be able to see her face. ‘Do you mean to say you’ve been on the Net looking at the film?’

She didn’t answer. And I thought there was still a lot I didn’t know about this woman. Perhaps there would be enough mysteries for a whole lifetime.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was scared.’

‘What of? You knew his gun didn’t have any-’

‘Only the top three cartridges were blanks. I had to make sure he fired all of them so that the police wouldn’t find unused blanks in the magazine and see through the plan, didn’t I? But he could have fired some of the live bullets too. And he could have changed the magazine before coming. And he could also have brought along a sidekick I knew nothing about.’

Silence fell. Until she asked in a whisper: ‘So there was nothing else you were frightened of?’

I knew she was thinking what I was thinking.

‘Yes, there was,’ I said, turning to her. ‘I was frightened of one more thing.’

Her breathing on my face was fast and hot.

‘He might have killed you during the night,’ I said. ‘Greve didn’t have any plans to start a family with you, and you were a dangerous witness. I knew I was putting your life in danger when I asked you to be the decoy.’

‘I knew I was in danger the whole time, darling,’ she whispered. ‘That was why I gave him the welcome drink as soon as he came through the door. And didn’t wake him until you rang his phone. I knew he would be up and away after hearing the ghost’s voice. And besides, I had swapped the first three bullets in the gun, hadn’t I?’

‘True,’ I said. Diana, as I have said, is a woman with a relaxed relationship to prime numbers and logic.

She caressed my stomach with her hand. ‘And another thing – I appreciate the fact that you knowingly and deliberately put my life in danger…’

‘Oh?’

She ran her hand further down, over my penis. Held my balls in her hand. Weighed them, gently squeezed the two testicles. ‘Balance is of the essence,’ she said. ‘That applies to all good, harmonious relationships. Balance in guilt, balance in shame and pangs of conscience.’

I chewed on that, tried to digest it, let my brain assimilate this somewhat weighty nugget of thought.

‘You mean…’ I began, gave up and started afresh. ‘You mean to say you put yourself in mortal danger for my sake… that that…’

‘… was an appropriate price to pay for what I had done to you, yes. The same as Galleri E was an appropriate price for you to pay for the abortion.’

‘And you’ve thought this for a long time?’

‘Of course. So have you.’

‘Correct,’ I said. ‘Penance…’

‘Penance, yes. It’s a very much underrated method of gaining peace of mind.’ She squeezed my testicles a bit harder and I tried to relax, to enjoy the pain. I inhaled her fragrance. It was wonderful, but would I ever wipe out the stench of human excrement? Would I ever hear anything that would drown the sound of Greve’s punctured lungs? Afterwards he had seemed to be staring at me with glazed, wronged eyes as I pressed Ove’s cold fingers against the stock and the trigger of the Uzi and the small black Rohrbaugh pistol with which I had shot Lotte. Would I ever be able to eat anything that could dull the taste of Ove’s dead flesh? I had bent over him there in bed sinking my canine teeth into his neck. Tightened my jaws until his skin was pierced and the corpse taste filled my mouth. There had been almost no blood, and when I had stifled my retching and wiped away the saliva, I had studied the result. It would probably pass as a dog bite to a detective looking for precisely that. Then I had crawled out of the open window behind the top of Ove’s bed to make sure I wasn’t recorded by the camera. Walked quickly into the forest; found paths, routes. Greeted walkers with a friendly gesture. The air, which became colder the higher I climbed, had kept me cool all the way to Grefsentoppen. There I had sat down and contemplated the autumn colours, which winter had already begun to suck from the forest beneath me, the town, the fjord and the light. The light that always presages the oncoming darkness.

I could feel the blood surging into my dick, the shaft throbbing.

‘Come on,’ she whispered close to my ear.

I took her. Systematically and completely, like a man who has a job to do. Who enjoys his work, but nonetheless sees it as a job. And he works until the siren goes off. The siren goes off and she places her hands with protective care over his ears, and the reins are slipped and he sprays her full of hot, life-giving seed, even though the place is already taken. And afterwards she sleeps, and he lies listening to her breathing, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done. Knowing things can never be the same as they were. But they could be similar. There could be a life ahead. He could look after her. He could love someone. And as if that alone were not overwhelming enough, he even sees a point to loving, a ‘because’, an echo of an argument used at a football match in London fog: ‘Because they need me.’