Killing Moon

17 Tuesday

The more interesting portion of humanity

‘We learn to lie as children between the ages of two and four, and by the time we’ve reached adulthood, we’ve become experts,’ Aune said, adjusting his pillow. ‘Believe me.’

Harry saw Øystein grin and Truls frown in confusion. Aune went on.

‘A psychologist called Richard Wiseman believes most of us tell a lie or two each day. Proper lies, that is, not just white, your-hair-looks-lovely lies. What are the chances of us being found out? Well, Freud contended that no mortal could keep a secret, that if the lips are sealed, then the fingertips chatter. But he was wrong. Or rather, the listener isn’t capable of sorting through the different ways a liar gives themselves away, because they vary from person to person. That’s why a lie detector was needed. They had one in China three thousand years ago. The suspected criminal had his mouth filled with grains of rice and was asked if he was guilty. If he shook his head, he was asked to spit out the rice, and if any grains remained in his mouth, the logic was that it was dry due to his being nervous, and therefore guilty. Useless, of course, because you could, after all, be nervous due to fear of becoming nervous. And similarly useless is the polygraph which John Larson invented in 1921, and is, in principle, the lie detector in use to this very day, even though everyone knows it’s a piece of junk. Even Larson regretted inventing it in the end, calling it his Frankenstein monster. Because it lives...’ Aune raised his hands and clawed at the air with his fingers. ‘But it lives due to so many people believing it works. Because it’s fear of the lie detector which can sometimes actually force a confession, whether true or false. Once, in Detroit, the police captured a suspect, put his hand on the photocopier they’d convinced him was a lie detector and asked him questions as the machine spat out A4 sheets with HE IS LYING written on them, until the man became so terrified he confessed everything.’

Truls snorted.

‘But God knows if he was guilty,’ Aune said. ‘That’s why I prefer the method they used in ancient India.’

The door opened, and Sethi and his bed were wheeled in by two nurses.

‘Listen, Jibran, you’ll like this too,’ Aune said.

Harry had to smile. Aune, the most popular lecturer at Police College, holding forth again.

‘The suspects were admitted one by one into a room that was pitch-dark, and told to feel their way in the darkness until they found a donkey which was standing in there and then to pull it by the tail. If they’d lied under questioning the donkey would shriek or bray or whatever it is donkeys do. Because this particular donkey was, the priest informed them, a holy donkey. What he didn’t tell them was that the tail was smeared with soot. So when the suspects came back out and said that, yes, they had pulled the donkey’s tail, all they needed to do was check their hands. If they were clean, it meant the person had been afraid the donkey would expose the fact he had lied, and he was sent to the gallows or whatever they used in India at the time.’

Aune glanced over at Sethi, who had taken out a book, but nodded ever so slightly.

‘And if he had soot on his hands,’ Øystein said, ‘then all it meant was the guy wasn’t a complete moron.’

Truls grunted and slapped his thighs.

‘The question,’ Aune said, ‘is whether Røed walked out of there with soot on his hands or not.’

‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘what we carried out was probably more of a cross between the old photocopier trick and the holy donkey. I’m pretty certain Røed believed this was a lie detector.’ He pointed at the table with Truls’s laptop and the leads and electrodes they had borrowed from down on the third floor, where they were used for ECG monitoring. ‘So, I do think he was wary of lying. But he passed the donkey test in my opinion. He showed up and took what he believed to be a real test. That in itself indicates he doesn’t have anything to hide.’

‘Or,’ Øystein said, ‘he knows how to fool a lie detector and wants to use that to mislead us.’

‘Mm. I don’t think Røed is trying to deceive us. He didn’t want Truls on the team. Understandably so, as the whole project would lose credibility if it became known. It was only when we convinced him about how much it meant to gain access to the police reports that he agreed. Yes, he wants some names to make his investigation appear serious on paper and in a press release, but finding out the truth is even more important to him.’

‘You think?’ Øystein said. ‘Then why refuse to give a DNA sample to the police?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘As long as there’s no reasonable suspicion, the police can’t force anyone to take a DNA test, and Krohn says volunteering a test is tantamount to an implicit agreement that there is reasonable suspicion. Anyway, Alexandra has promised me an answer within days.’

‘And you’re sure the profile won’t match the saliva found on Susanne?’ Aune asked.

‘I’m never sure of anything, Ståle, but I crossed Røed off my list of suspects when he knocked on the door of my hotel room today.’

‘So what do you want with the DNA analysis?’

‘To be sure. And have something we can give to the police.’

‘So they don’t arrest him?’ Truls asked.

‘So we have information to offer them, and they might give us something in return. Something not in the reports.’

Øystein smacked his lips loudly. ‘That’s, like, smart.’

‘So with Røed out of the running and a brain that’s been removed,’ Aune said, ‘do you still believe the killer is someone with a connection to the victims?’

Harry shook his head.

‘Good,’ Aune said, rubbing his hands. ‘Then maybe we can finally start looking at psychopaths, sadists, narcissists and sociopaths. In short, the more interesting portion of humanity.’

‘No,’ Harry said.

‘All right,’ Aune said, looking miffed. ‘You don’t think the perpetrator is to be found within their ranks?’

‘Yes, I do, but I don’t think we’ll find him there. We’re going to look where we are best equipped to find something.’

‘Which is somewhere we assume he isn’t?’

‘Exactly.’

The three men looked at Harry with incomprehension.

‘It’s pure mathematics,’ Harry said. ‘Serial killers pick their victims at random and cover their tracks. The probability of finding them in the space of a year is less than ten per cent, even for the FBI. For the four of us, with the resources we have? Let’s just put it at two per cent, to be kind. If, on the other hand, the killer is to be found among the victims’ acquaintances and there’s an understandable motive, the chances are seventy-five per cent. Let’s say there’s an eighty per cent probability the killer is in the category Ståle wants us to look at, let’s say it is a serial killer. If we focus on that category and exclude the victims’ acquaintances, then the chances of us succeeding are...’

‘One point six per cent,’ Øystein said. ‘And the probability of success if we concentrate on people the victim knew is fifteen per cent.’

The others turned in surprise to Øystein, who flashed them a broad, brown grin. ‘Have to have a head for numbers in my job, you know.’

‘Pardon me,’ Aune said. ‘I hear the numbers, but to be honest it feels slightly counter-intuitive.’ He registered the look Øystein gave him. ‘Contrary to common sense. To look where we don’t think they are, I mean.’

‘Welcome to police investigation,’ Harry said. ‘Try to think of it this way. If the four of us find the guilty party... fantastic, jackpot. If we don’t then we’ve done what detectives do on most of their working days, we’ve contributed to the total investigation by eliminating some people from our inquiries.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Aune said. ‘What you’re saying is rational, but you aren’t so rational, Harry. You’re not the type to do work based on percentages. Yes, the professional side of you sees that all the circumstantial evidence points to a serial killer. So you’re of the opinion it’s a serial killer, but you believe something else. Because your gut tells you so. That’s why you’ve come up with this calculation, you want to convince yourself and us that the right thing to do is follow the gut instincts of Harry Hole. Am I right?’

Harry looked at Aune. Nodded.

‘My mother knew God didn’t exist,’ Øystein said. ‘But she was still a Christian. So who are we going to, like, eliminate as suspects?’

‘Helene Røed,’ Harry said. ‘And the guy selling coke at the party.’

‘Helene, I understand,’ Aune said, ‘but why the drug dealer?’

‘Because he’s one of the few people at the party who hasn’t been identified. And because he turned up in a face mask and sunglasses.’

‘So what? Maybe he hasn’t been vaccinated. Or suffers from mysophobia. Sorry, Øystein, a fear of bacteria.’

‘Maybe he was sick and didn’t want to infect people,’ Truls said. ‘But did all the same. The reports say both Susanne and Bertine had a high temperature a couple of days after the party and at any rate, felt unwell.’

‘But now we’re overlooking the most obvious reason,’ Aune said. ‘A drug dealer is, after all, involved in something which is highly illegal, so it’s hardly remarkable he should wear a mask.’

‘Øystein,’ Harry said. ‘Explain.’

‘OK. If you sell... let’s say cocaine, then you’re not that worried about being identified. The police know pretty much who is selling on the street anyway and they don’t care, it’s the men behind the scenes they want. And if the police bust you, it happens during the transaction, and then a mask isn’t gonna be much use to you. So it’s the other way round — if you’re going to sell on the street, then you want the customers to recognise your face and remember that you sold them good shit the last time. And if you offer home deliveries, which it sounds like this guy does, then it’s even more important that the customer sees and trusts your honest face.’

Truls grunted a laugh.

‘Do you think you can find out who the guy at the party was?’ Harry asked.

Øystein shrugged. ‘I can try. There aren’t many Norwegians at the home-delivery end of the business.’

‘Good.’

Harry paused, closed his eyes before opening them again, as though he were keeping to a script and had mentally turned a page.

‘Since we’re going to stick with the hypothesis that the killer knew at least one of the victims, let’s take a look at what might actually support this idea. Susanne Andersen heads right across the city, from the lively west side of the city centre to a place where there’s no evidence to suggest she knows anyone, where as far as anyone is aware she hasn’t been before and where not much happens on a Tuesday night...’

‘Some nights fuck all happens,’ Øystein said. ‘I grew up nearby.’

‘So what was she doing there?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Øystein said. ‘She was meeting the guy who did her in.’

‘OK, then we’ll work based on that,’ Harry said.

‘Cool,’ Øystein said. ‘The country’s leading expert agrees with me.’

Harry gave a crooked smile and rubbed the back of his neck. He would soon need the one drink he had left today; he had dispatched the other two on the way from the Forensic Medical Institute when he and Øystein had made a pit stop at Schrøder’s.

‘While I’m at it,’ Øystein said, ‘I was wondering about something. The guy took Susanne for a walk in Østmarka, and that worked for him, yeah? The, like, perfect murder. Isn’t it bloody odd that he takes Bertine to Grefsenkollen? Never change a winning formula — wouldn’t that go for murderers too?’

‘It’s probably true of serial killers,’ Aune said. ‘Unless repeating the approach means increasing the risk of being discovered. And Susanne had already been reported missing around Skullerud, so there were police and search parties in the area.’

‘Yeah, but they went home as soon as it was dark,’ Øystein said. ‘No one could have known another girl would disappear. No, the guy wouldn’t have been taking much of a risk bringing her to Skullerud. And he obviously knew the area well.’

‘I don’t know,’ Aune said. ‘Perhaps it was simply that Bertine agreed to take a walk with him, but she insisted on Grefsenkollen?’

‘But it’s further from where she lives to Grefsenkollen than to Skullerud, and in the reports it says that nobody the police spoke with had any knowledge of Bertine ever being in Grefsenkollen.’

‘Maybe she had heard good things about Grefsenkollen,’ Aune said. ‘It offers views at least. As opposed to Østmarka, where it’s just forest and small hills.’

Øystein nodded thoughtfully. ‘OK. But there is one other thing I don’t get.’

He focused on Aune, since Harry seemed to have dropped out of the conversation and was sitting with his fingers to his forehead, staring at the wall.

‘Bertine could have walked only so far from the car, right? And they’ve been searching for two weeks now, so I don’t understand why the dogs can’t find her. Do you know how good dogs smell? I mean, what a good sense of smell they have? In one of the reports Truls got there’s a tip-off from a farmer in Wenggården in Østmarka. He got in touch with the police a week ago to say that his lame old bulldog was lying in the living room barking like it only does when there’s a carcass nearby. I know Østmarka, and that farm is at least six bloody kilometres away from where they found Susanne Andersen. If a dog can smell a corpse from that far away, why can’t they find Bertine—’

‘It can’t.’

All four men turned in the direction the voice was coming from.

Jibran Sethi lowered his book. ‘If it had been a bloodhound or an Alsatian, then yes. But a bulldog has a very poor sense of smell for a canine. They’re actually at the bottom of the list. That’s what happens when we breed dogs to fight bulls, and not to hunt as nature intended.’ The vet raised his book again. ‘Perverse, but that’s the sort of thing we do.’

‘Thanks, Jibran,’ Aune said.

The vet gave him a brief nod.

‘Maybe he’s buried Bertine,’ Truls said.

‘Or dumped her in one of the lakes up there,’ Øystein added.

Harry sat looking at the vet while the voices of the other three men sounded like they were fading out. Felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

‘Harry!’

‘What?’

It was Aune. ‘We said: “What do you think?”’

‘I think... do you have the number of the farmer who sent in that tip-off, Øystein?’

‘No. But we have his name, and Wenggården, so it’s no problem to find it.’

‘Gabriel Weng.’

‘Good afternoon, Weng. This is Hansen, Oslo Police. Just a quick question regarding the information you called in with last week. You said your dog was barking, and that you thought there could be a carcass or a corpse nearby?’

‘Yes, sometimes dead animals can lie out here rotting in the woods. But I’d read about the girl who was missing, and Skullerud isn’t so far away, so when the dog started barking and howling in that particular way, I called you. But I never heard anything back.’

‘Apologies, it takes time to follow up on all the leads we have on a case like this.’

‘Yes, yes, you found the girl of course, poor thing.’

‘What I was wondering,’ Harry said, ‘is whether your dog is still making those sorts of noises.’

There was no reply but he could hear the farmer breathing.

‘Weng?’ Harry said.

‘Was it Hansen you said your name was?’

‘That’s right. Hans Hansen. Constable.’

Another pause.

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes, he’s still making those sorts of noises.’

‘OK, thank you, Weng.’

Sung-min Larsen stood looking at Kasparov, who had positioned himself at the wall of a building with his hind leg raised. Sung-min already had the plastic bag in hand so passers-by would understand he had no intention of leaving dog waste lying among the expensive apartment buildings in Nobels gate.

He was thinking. Not so much about the brain being removed as about the fact the scalp had been sewn back up. What did it mean that the person who had taken the brain had tried to conceal the fact? Trophy hunters didn’t usually care. And the killer must have realised it would be discovered, so why take the trouble? Was it to clean up after himself? A fastidious killer? It wasn’t as far-fetched as it might sound — the rest of the crime scene had been cleansed of the evidence you usually found. Apart from the saliva on Susanne’s breast. The killer had made a mistake there. Granted there were those on the investigative team who thought the spit had to have come from someone other than the killer, since Susanne’s upper body had been clothed when they found her. But if the killer was neat enough to sew the scalp back on, why not put all the clothes back on the body too?

His mobile rang. Sung-min looked in surprise at the display before he tapped Accept.

‘Harry Hole? It’s been a while.’

‘Yeah, time marches on.’

‘I read in VG that we’re working on the same case.’

‘Yeah. I’ve tried calling Katrine a couple of times, but her phone is going straight to voicemail.’

‘Putting the child to bed, maybe.’

‘Maybe. Anyway, I have some information I thought you’d want as soon as possible.’

‘OK?’

‘I just spoke with a farmer living out in the forest who says his bulldog smells a carcass in the vicinity. Or a corpse.’

‘A bulldog? Then it’s not far off, bulldogs have—’

‘A poor sense of smell, so I’ve been told.’

‘Yes. A carcass in the forest isn’t unusual, so since you’re calling I’m guessing this is in Grefsenkollen?’

‘No. In Østmarka. Six or seven kilometres from where Susanne was found. Doesn’t have to mean anything of course. Like you say, large animals die in the woods all the time. But I wanted to let you know. As you haven’t found Bertine in Grefsenkollen, I mean.’

‘Okey-dokey,’ Sung Min said. ‘I’ll notify the team. Thanks for the tip-off, Harry.’

‘No problem. I’ll forward you the number of the farmer now.’

Sung-min hung up and wondered if he had managed to sound as calm as he had been trying to. His heart was beating wildly, and the thoughts and conclusions — which had obviously been lying in wait, but had not been given leeway before now — went sliding through his mind like an avalanche. Could the perpetrator have murdered Bertine on familiar territory, in the same area where he had killed Susanne? The thought had, of course, occurred to him before, but then it had been in the form of a question as to why the killer hadn’t done that. And the answer had been obvious. Everything indicated that the killer had arranged to meet the girls — why else would they go all alone to places they’d never been to previously? And because the media had been writing page after page about the missing girl in Skullerud, the killer had invited Bertine to a totally different part of town so she wouldn’t make the connection. What Sung-min had not thought, or at least not all the way through, was that the killer could have arranged to meet Bertine at Grefsenkollen, and then driven her in his car to Skullerud. Before setting off, he must have convinced her to leave her phone behind in the car in Grefsenkollen. Maybe presented it as a romantic notion, something along the lines of let’s-be-all-on-our-own-without-anyone-disturbing-us. Yes, this could make sense. He checked the time. Half past nine. It would have to wait until tomorrow. Or? No, it was only a tip-off, and chasing after every fire engine in a murder inquiry soon tired you out. All the same. It wasn’t only his own intuition telling him that rather too many pieces fitted, Harry Hole himself had called him because he thought the same. Yes, the very same thoughts had gone through Harry’s mind as had gone through his own.

Sung-min looked at Kasparov. He had taken in the retired police dog because it had outlived its previous owner. It had suffered from hip trouble in the past couple of years and didn’t like to walk too far or uphill. But unlike bulldogs, Labrador retrievers had one of the keenest senses of smell in the canine world.

His mobile vibrated. He looked at the screen. A phone number and the name Weng. Half past nine. If they got in the car now, they could probably be there in thirty minutes.

‘Come, Kasparov!’ Sung-min tugged at the lead, his palms already sweaty from adrenaline.

‘Hey!’ A voice boomed from a darkened balcony, the sound echoing between the fashionable facades. ‘We pick up the shit after us in this country!’