Killing Moon

22 Thursday

Debt

It was five minutes to ten and Katrine and Sung-min were standing outside the conference room, each with a cup of coffee in their hands. Others on the investigation team mumbled morning greetings as they passed on their way into the morning meeting.

‘Right,’ Sung-min said. ‘So, Hole thinks the perpetrator is a cocaine dealer who was at the party?’

‘Sounds like that,’ Katrine said, checking her watch. He had said he would be there early, now it was four minutes to.

‘If the cocaine was so pure, maybe he smuggled it in himself. Along with other things.’

‘What do you mean?’

Sung-min shook his head. ‘Just an association. There was an empty bag of anti-parasitic powder lying not far from the scene. It must have been smuggled in as well.’

‘Oh?’

‘The powder’s banned. Contains powerful toxins against a whole range of intestinal worms, including the serious types.’

‘Serious?’

‘Parasites that can kill dogs and are transmissible to humans. I’ve heard of a couple of dog owners who have contracted it. Attacks the liver, very unpleasant.’

‘You’re saying the killer could be a dog owner?’

‘Who feeds his pet an anti-parasitic cure in the great outdoors before killing and raping his victim? No.’

‘So why...?’

‘Yeah, why. Because we’re grasping at straws. You’ve seen the videos where American traffic cops stop motorists for being a little over the speed limit or having a broken tail light? How cautiously they approach the car, as though someone violating a traffic regulation dramatically increases the likelihood of them being hardened criminals?’

‘Yes, and I know why. Because it does dramatically increase the likelihood of them being hardened criminals. Lots of research on that.’

Sung-min smiled. ‘Exactly. Rule-breakers. That’s all.’

‘OK,’ Katrine said, checking the time again. What had happened? She had seen in Harry’s eyes that there was a danger of him falling completely off the wagon. But he usually still stuck to his word. ‘If you’ve got the bag, you should drop it in to Krimteknisk.’

‘I found it far from the scene,’ Sung-min said. ‘We could’ve picked up a thousand things within that radius which, with a little imagination, might be connected to the murder.’

One minute to ten.

She spotted the officer she had sent down to reception to meet him. And — towering a head taller behind him — Harry Hole. He looked more rumpled than his suit, and it was as if she could see the alcohol on his breath before she smelled it. Katrine noticed how Sung-min automatically straightened up next to her.

Katrine drained the rest of the coffee cup. ‘Shall we get started?’

‘As you can see, we have a visitor,’ Katrine said.

The first part of the plan was working. It was as though the weariness and apathy on the faces in front of her had been washed away.

‘He needs no introduction, but for those of you who are very new, Harry Hole began as a detective here at Crime Squad in...’ She looked at Harry.

He grimaced behind the beard. ‘The Stone Age.’

Chuckling.

‘The Stone Age,’ Katrine said. ‘He’s played a major part in solving some of our biggest cases. He’s been a lecturer at Police College. He is, as far as I’m aware, the only Norwegian who has attended the FBI’s course on serial homicides in Chicago. I wanted to bring him into this investigative team but wasn’t allowed.’ Katrine looked out at the people present. It was only a question of time before Melling got wind that she had brought Harry into the inner sanctum. ‘So, all the better that Markus Røed has hired him to investigate the murders of Susanne and Bertine, which means more expertise is being brought to bear, if not by our superiors.’ She saw Sung-min’s mildly admonitory glance and Magnus Skarre’s furious glare. ‘I’ve invited Harry to speak about these murders in general terms, and so we can ask questions.’

‘First question!’ It was Skarre. His voice shaking with indignation. ‘Why should we listen to a guy talk about serial killers? This is TV show stuff, and two murders by the same hand doesn’t mean—’

‘It does.’ Harry got to his feet from a chair on the front row, but without turning to face the audience. For a moment he seemed to sway, as though the drop in blood pressure would make him tip over, before he stood more firmly. ‘Yes, it does mean it’s a serial killing.’

There was complete silence in the conference room as Harry took two long, slow strides towards the board before he pivoted round. The words came slowly at first, then gradually a little faster, as if his mouth needed to get up to speed. ‘The term serial homicide is an invention of the FBI, and their official definition is “a series of two or more murders, committed by the same offender as separate events”, simple as that.’ He fixed his eyes on Skarre. ‘But although this case is by definition a serial homicide, it doesn’t mean the offender necessarily conforms to your ideas of a serial killer from TV shows. He doesn’t need to be a psychopath, a sadist or a sex maniac. He could be a relatively normal person like you or me with an utterly banal motive, like money, for example. In fact, the second most common motive for serial killers in the USA is just that. So, a serial killer doesn’t need to be the type driven by voices in his head or an uncontrollable urge to kill again and again. But he can be. I say “he” because serial killers are, with few exceptions, men. The question is whether what we’re looking at can be that type of serial killer.’

‘The question,’ Skarre said, ‘is what you’re doing here when you work in the private sector. Why should we believe you want to help us?’

‘Well, why wouldn’t I help you, Skarre? I’ve been assigned to make sure — or at least increase the likelihood — that this case is solved. Not that I’m the one who solves it, necessarily. I can see that that concept is a little difficult for you to take in just like that, Skarre, so allow me to illustrate. If I’m tasked with saving people from burning to death in a building but the place is already ablaze, what do I do? Use my bucket or call the fire station located round the corner?’

Katrine suppressed a smile but noticed Sung-min did not.

‘So, you’re the fire brigade, and I’m on the phone. My job is to tell you what I know about where it’s burning. And as I happen to know a little about fires, I’ll tell you what I think is special about this particular fire. OK?’

Katrine saw some nodding of heads. Others glanced at one another, but no one objected.

‘Getting right to the point about what’s special,’ Harry said. ‘The heads. Or to be more precise, the missing brains. And the question — as always — is why? Why cut open or cut off the victims’ heads and remove the brains? Well, in some circumstances the answer is simple. In the Old Testament, there’s the story of Judith, a poor Jewish widow, who saves her city when it’s under siege by seducing the enemy general and cutting off his head. The point wasn’t to kill him, but to show his head to everyone, as a display of power, to frighten his troops, who, sure enough, run away. So, a rational act, with a motive recognisable throughout the history of warfare and which we see to this day when political terrorists spread video recordings of beheadings. But it’s difficult to see that our man needs to frighten anyone, so why? In tribes of headhunters — or at least in the myths about them — they often want the victims’ heads for themselves, as trophies, or to drive out evil spirits. Or to keep the spirits. Tribes in New Guinea believed you took possession of the victims’ souls when you took their heads. And that might bring us closer to what we’re looking at here.’

Katrine noticed that even though Harry was speaking in a neutral, almost flat tone and without facial expressions or dramatic gestures, he had the full attention of the room.

‘The history of serial killers is full of decapitations. Ed Gein severed the heads of his victims and placed them on bedposts. Ed Kemper cut the head off his mother and had sex with it. But perhaps our case has more parallels with Jeffrey Dahmer, who killed seventeen men and boys in the eighties. He met them at parties or clubs, got them drunk or gave them drugs. Something I’ll come back to that may have occurred in our case too. Dahmer then took his victims home. Murdered them, usually by strangling them while they were drugged. Had sex with the corpses. Dismembered them. Drilled holes in the head, poured in various fluids, like acid. Cut off the head. Ate selected parts of the bodies. He told his psychologist he was keeping the heads because he feared rejection, and in that way ensured they could never leave him. Hence the parallel to the soul collectors of New Guinea. But Dahmer went further, he made sure the victims remained with him by eating part of them. Incidentally, psychologists believed that Dahmer wasn’t insane in the criminal sense, they thought he only suffered from some personality disorders. Like most of us can and still function. In other words, Dahmer was a person who could have sat among us now, and we wouldn’t necessarily suspect him of anything. Yes, Larsen?’

‘Our perpetrator didn’t take Susanne’s head, but her brain. With Bertine he took both the head and the brain. So, is it brains he’s after? And in that case, do the brains serve as trophies?’

‘Mm. We differentiate between trophies and souvenirs. Trophies are symbols of you having defeated your victim, and in such cases, heads are much used. Souvenirs are used as mementoes of the sexual act and for sexual gratification afterwards. I don’t know if brains stand out in that regard. But if you were to draw conclusions based on what we know about sexually motivated, psychopathic serial killers, there are all manner of reasons for them doing what they do, just like there is for everyone. And that’s why there’re no common patterns of behaviour, at least not to a level of detail that allows us to easily predict their next move. Except for one thing, which we can assume with a large degree of probability.’

Katrine knew that this wasn’t a dramatic pause, it was simply that Harry had to draw breath and at the same time take an almost imperceptible step to the side to gain balance.

‘That they will strike again.’

In the silence that followed, Katrine heard hard, fast-approaching footsteps in the corridor outside. And she recognised their sound and knew who it was. Perhaps Harry heard them too and guessed his time was about to run out. At any rate, he sped up.

‘I don’t think this person is after heads, but rather the brains of the victims. Cutting Bertine’s head off only means he’s refining his method, also a typical feature of the classic, psychopathic serial killer. He’s learned from the last time that removing the brain at the scene of the crime requires time and is therefore risky. In addition, when he saw the result of sewing the scalp back on and knew it would be discovered, he realised that in order to hide the fact it was the brain he really wanted, it would be better to take the entire head. I don’t think he choked Bertine to death in an attempt to mislead the police into thinking Susanne was killed by someone else. If that was important, he wouldn’t have chosen Skullerud both times, and he wouldn’t have left both bodies naked from the waist down. The reason for the change in method of killing was practical. He got blood on himself when he cut Susanne’s throat, you can see that by the traces of blood spray. Blood on his hands, face and clothes meant he’d be noticed if he met anyone on the way back. And he’d have needed to throw away the clothes, wash the car and so on.’

The door opened. Sure enough it was Bodil Melling. She took up position in the doorway with arms folded, fixing Katrine with a gaze promising a gloomy outlook.

‘That was also the reason he brought her to a lake. There he could minimise the blood spill by holding her head underwater while cutting it off. In that sense, this serial killer is like most of us. The more often we do something the better we get. In this case that’s bad news for what may come.’ Harry looked at Bodil Melling. ‘Don’t you think, Chief Superintendent?’

The corners of her mouth turned up in the affectation of a smile. ‘What’s coming, Hole, is you leaving this building at once. Then we’ll discuss internally how we interpret the guidelines regarding access to information for individuals without clearance.’

Katrine felt her throat tighten in a mixture of shame and anger and was aware her voice didn’t mask it. ‘I understand your concern, Bodil. But it goes without saying, Harry hasn’t been given access to—’

‘As I said, we’ll deal with this internally. Would someone other than Bratt escort Hole down to reception? And, Bratt, you come with me.’

Katrine sent a despairing look to Harry, who shrugged in response, then she followed Bodil Melling while listening to the staccato strike of heels on the corridor floor.

‘Honestly, Katrine,’ Melling said when they were in the lift, ‘I warned you. Don’t involve Hole. Yet you did it anyway.’

‘I wasn’t allowed to bring him in as part of the group, but this was as a consultant, someone sharing their experience and imparting information without getting anything in return. Neither money nor info. I consider it within my area of responsibility to do that.’

The lift pinged to announce their floor.

‘Is that so?’ Melling said, walking out.

Katrine hurried after. ‘Did someone text you from the conference room?’

Melling smiled sourly. ‘If only it were that type of conscientious leak we needed to worry about.’

Melling walked into her office. Ole Winter and Head of Information Kedzierski were at the small meeting table, each sitting with a cup of coffee and a copy of Dagbladet in front of them.

‘Good morning, Bratt,’ the head of Kripos said.

‘We’re sitting here discussing the leaks in the double murder case,’ Melling said.

‘Without me?’ Katrine said.

Melling sighed, sat down and motioned to Katrine to follow suit. ‘Without any of those who theoretically could be behind the leaks being present. No reason to take it personally. Now we might as well take it up with you directly. I presume you’ve seen what Våge has written today?’

Katrine nodded.

‘It’s a scandal,’ Winter said, shaking his head. ‘Nothing less. Våge had details from the investigation that can only have come from one place, and that’s here. I’ve checked my people who are on the case, and none of them are behind it.’

‘How have you checked them?’ Katrine asked.

Winter ignored that, just continued shaking his head. ‘And now, Bratt, you invite the competition in as well?’

‘You may be in competition with Hole, but I’m not,’ Katrine said. ‘Is there coffee for me too?’

Melling looked at her in surprise.

‘But back to the leaks,’ Katrine said. ‘Give me a few pointers on how to check my colleagues, Winter. Surveillance? Reading emails? Interrogation by Chinese water torture?’

Winter looked at Melling as though appealing to common sense.

‘But I have checked something else,’ Katrine said. ‘I’ve gone back and checked what Våge has and doesn’t have. And it turns out that everything he seems to have obtained from our investigators has appeared in print after it’s been logged in reports filed in BL. Which means that the leak could come from anybody in Police HQ with access to those files. Unfortunately, the system doesn’t register who has been in looking at which files.’

‘That’s not true!’ Winter said.

‘It is,’ Katrine said. ‘I’ve spoken to our IT people.’

‘I meant the part about everything Våge writing having been in the reports.’ He grabbed the newspaper from the table and read aloud: ‘The police have declined to make public several grotesque details, such as Bertine Bertilsen’s ankle tattoo being cut off and sewn back on again.’ He threw the newspaper back on the table. ‘That has not appeared in any reports!’

‘I should hope not,’ Katrine said. ‘Because it’s simply not the case. Våge is making things up. And surely that’s beyond the bounds of what we can be blamed for, Winter?’

‘Thanks, Anita,’ Harry said, his eyes fixed on the beer the elderly waitress had just put down in front of him.

‘Anyway.’ Anita sighed, as a continuation of something she had thought but not said. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’

‘What’s up with her?’ asked Truls, who had already been sitting at the window table in Schrøder’s when Harry arrived at the agreed time.

‘She doesn’t like serving me,’ Harry said.

‘Then Schrøder’s isn’t the right place to work,’ Truls grunt-laughed.

‘Maybe not.’ Harry lifted the beer. ‘Maybe she just needs the money.’ He brought the glass to his lips and drank while holding Truls’s gaze.

‘What was it you wanted?’ Truls asked, and Harry saw a twitching below one eye.

‘What do you think?’

‘Dunno. Brainstorm again?

‘Maybe. What do you think about this?’ Harry drew Dagbladet from his jacket pocket and placed it in front of Truls.

‘About what?’

‘About what Våge writes about Bertine’s tattoo. That it was cut off and sewn back on.’

‘Think? I think he seems well informed. But that’s his job, I guess.’

Harry sighed. ‘I’m not asking so I can drag this out, Truls. It’s to give you the chance to say it before I do.’

Truls had his hands on the worn tablecloth, one either side of a paper napkin. He hadn’t ordered anything. Didn’t want anything. His hands were red against the white of the napkin, and looked bloated, swollen. As though they would shrink to a pair of gloves if Harry were to stick a pin in them. His forehead had taken on a dark red hue, the colour the devil had in comics.

‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ Truls said.

‘It’s you. You’re the one who’s been feeding Terry Våge.’

‘Me? Are you stupid? I’m not even on the investigation team.’

‘You’re feeding Våge the same as us, you’re reading the reports as soon as they’re on BL96. You were already doing it when I contacted you, so it’s not so strange you said yes to my offer. You’re getting paid double for the same job. And Våge is probably paying you even more now that you’re giving him updates on the Aune group as well.’

‘What the fuck? I haven’t—’

‘Shut up, Truls.’

‘Fuck off! I’m not going to—’

‘Shut up! And sit down!’

The few tables where there were customers had gone quiet. They weren’t staring openly, but looking down into their beer glasses, using their peripheral vision. Harry had placed his hand on Truls’s and was pressing it down so hard on the tabletop that Truls was forced to sit back down. Harry leaned forward and continued in a low voice.

‘Like I said, I’m not going to drag this out, so here it is. I got suspicious when Våge wrote about the investigators speculating if Røed had ordered the killings to look like sex attacks. That was something we’d discussed in the Aune group and is so outside the box that I checked with Katrine if anyone on their team had suggested it. They hadn’t. So I came up with that story about Bertine’s tattoo being sewn back on and told you and only you. Said it was common knowledge at Police HQ, so you’d feel comfortable passing it on without it pointing back to you. And sure enough, Våge had it in print a few hours later. So there you have it, Truls.’

Truls Berntsen stared straight ahead, his face expressionless. Took hold of the paper napkin and crumpled it up, the same way Harry had seen him do with the losing coupon at the racetrack.

‘All right,’ Truls said. ‘So I sold a little info. And you lot can just piss right off, because no damage has been done. Våge has never got anything that could wreck the investigation.’

‘That’s your assessment, Truls, but we’ll drop that discussion for now.’

‘Yes, we will, because I’m off, adios. And you can take that money from Røed and wipe your arse with it.’

‘I told you to sit.’ Harry allowed himself a wry smile. ‘And thanks, but the toilet paper at the Thief is excellent. So soft in fact it makes you want to take a second shit. Have you ever felt it?’

Truls Berntsen didn’t look like he understood the question but remained seated.

‘So here’s your chance to shit on things one more time,’ Harry said. ‘You’re going to tell Våge that your access to BL96 has been taken away, and he’s going to have to manage for himself. From now on you’re also not going to say jackshit about what’s going on in the Aune group. And you’re going to tell me how big your gambling debts are.’

Truls stared in bewilderment at Harry. Swallowed. Blinked a couple of times.

‘Three hundred thousand,’ he said eventually. ‘Give or take.’

‘Mm. That’s a lot. When’s payment due?’

‘Due ages ago. Interest is accruing, you might say.’

‘They’re eager to collect?’

Truls snorted. ‘It’s not just pliers, they threaten you with all kinds of shit. I’m walking around looking over my shoulder the whole time, if you only knew.’

‘Yeah, if I only knew,’ Harry said, closing his eyes. Last night he had dreamt about scorpions. They seeped into the room from under the door and the skirting boards, through cracks in the windows and wall sockets. He opened his eyes and gazed at his beer. He had been both looking forward to and dreading the next couple of hours. He had been wasted yesterday, and he was going to get wasted today. This was now officially a relapse. ‘OK, Truls, I’ll get you the money. Tomorrow, all right? Pay me back when you can.’

Truls Berntsen continued to blink. His eyes were moist now.

‘Why...?’ he began.

‘Don’t get confused,’ Harry said. ‘It’s not because I like you. It’s because I have use for you.’

Truls fixed his eyes on Harry as though trying to work out whether he was joking or not.

Harry lifted the beer. ‘You don’t have to sit any longer now, Berntsen.’

It was eight in the evening.

Harry’s head was drooping. He registered that he was sitting on a chair and had vomit on his suit trousers. Someone had said something. And now the voice was saying something else.

‘Harry?’

He raised his head. The room was spinning and the faces around him were blurred. But he still recognised them. Had known them for years. Safe faces. The Aune group.

‘Being sober at these meetings isn’t a requirement,’ the voice said, ‘but speaking clearly is advantageous. Are you able to do that, Harry?’

Harry swallowed. The last few hours came back to him. He had wanted to drink and drink until there was nothing left, no liquor, no pain, no Harry Hole. No voices in his head calling for help that he was unable to give. This clock ticking louder and louder. Could he not drown them in alcohol and let everything go, let time run out? Letting people down, failing. That was all he knew how to do. So why had he taken out his phone, called this number and come here?

No, it wasn’t the Aune group sitting in the chairs in the circle he was a part of.

‘Hi,’ he said, in a voice so gravelly it sounded like a train derailing. ‘My name’s Harry, and I’m an alcoholic.’