Killing Moon

23 Friday

The yellow log

‘Rough night?’ the woman asked, holding the door open for Harry.

Helene Røed was smaller than he had expected. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a black polo neck. Her blonde hair was held in place by a simple hairband. He concluded she was as pretty as the photographs.

‘Is it that obvious?’ he said, stepping inside.

‘Sunglasses at ten in the morning?’ she said, showing him into what he already could make out to be a huge apartment. ‘And that suit is too nice to look like that,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said.

She laughed, led him into a large room with a living area and an open kitchen with an island.

Daylight flooded in from every side. Concrete, wood, glass, he assumed everything was of the highest quality.

‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘I was going to ask what kind, but you look like the sort who’ll drink anything.’

‘Anything,’ Harry said with a crooked smile.

She pressed a button on the shiny metal espresso machine which began to grind the beans as she rinsed a filter holder under the tap. Harry let his gaze drift over the items attached by magnets to the double-doored fridge. A calendar. Two pictures of horses. A ticket bearing the logo of the National Theatre.

‘You’re going to see Romeo and Juliet tomorrow?’ he said.

‘Yes. It’s a fantastic production! I was at the first night with Markus. Not that he’s interested in the theatre, but he’s a sponsor so we get a lot of tickets. I handed out loads of the tickets for that production at the party, I think people simply must see it, but I still have two or three lying around. Have you ever seen Romeo and Juliet?’

‘Yeah, sort of. A film version.’

‘Then you have to see this.’

‘I...’

‘You do! Just a sec.’

Helene Røed disappeared, and Harry let his eyes wander over the rest of the fridge door.

Pictures of two children with their parents, taken on holiday it looked like. Harry guessed Helene was the children’s auntie. No pictures of Helene herself or Markus, together or on their own. He walked over to the windows which went from floor to ceiling. A view over the whole of Bjørvika and the Oslo Fjord, the Munch Museum being the only obstruction. He heard Helene approaching with brisk steps.

‘Apologies for the museum,’ she said, handing Harry two tickets. ‘We call it Chernobyl. Not every architect is able to ruin an entire city district with a single building, but Estudio Herreros was, I’ll give them that.’

‘Mm.’

‘Just go ahead with what you came for, Hole, I’m good at multitasking.’

‘OK. For the most part, I’d like you to tell me about the party. About Susanne and Bertine, of course, but in particular the man who brought the cocaine.’

‘Right,’ she said. ‘So you know about him.’

‘Yes.’

‘I presume no one is going to jail because of a little coke on the table?’

‘No. Anyway, I’m not a policeman.’

‘That’s right. You’re Markus’s boy.’

‘I’m not that either.’

‘Sure, Krohn told me you’ve been given carte blanche. But you know how it is. The person paying the bills is the person in control at the end of the day.’ She smiled, with a hint of contempt which Harry wasn’t sure was directed at him or at the man paying. Or perhaps at herself.

Helene Røed told him about the party while she made coffee. Harry noted that what she said matched both her husband’s and Øystein’s accounts. The man with the green cocaine had shown up pretty much out of nowhere and approached her and Markus on the roof terrace. Might have gatecrashed the party, but if so, he wasn’t the only one.

‘He was wearing a face mask, sunglasses and a baseball cap, so he did look rather dodgy in that gathering. He insisted Markus and I test his powder, but I told him that wasn’t going to happen, that Markus and I had promised each other never to touch the stuff again. Then, after just a few minutes, I noticed Markus and a few of the others were missing. I was already a little suspicious, because one of the people who’d popped up at the party was the guy Markus usually buys his blow from. I walked into the apartment. And it was so pathetic...’

She closed her eyes and placed her palm on her forehead. ‘Markus was leaning over the table with a straw already up his nose. Breaking his promise right there in front of me. And then that cocaine nose of his causes him to sneeze and ruin it for him.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Harry. ‘I wish I could laugh about it.’

‘The dealer with the face mask, he tried to gather together enough powder from the floor to make a line for Markus, I understand.’

‘Yeah. Or maybe he was just trying to tidy up. He even wiped Markus’s snot off the table.’ She nodded towards the large glass table in front of the sofa in the living area. ‘He probably wanted to make a good impression, have Markus as a regular customer, who doesn’t? You may have noticed that Markus isn’t exactly the type to haggle. He prefers to overpay than underpay, it gives him a sense of power. Or rather, it gives him power.’

‘You mean power is important to him?’

‘Isn’t it important to everyone?’

‘Well. Not to me. Granted, that’s just self-analysis.’

They had sat down at the dining table, across from each other. Helene Røed was looking at Harry in a way that made him think she was assessing the situation. Assessing how much she should say. Assessing him.

‘Why do you have a metal finger?’ she asked, nodding towards his hand.

‘Because a man cut off the finger I had. It’s a long story.’

Her gaze didn’t flinch. ‘You smell of stale alcohol,’ she said. ‘And vomit.’

‘Sorry. I had a rough night and haven’t got round to getting fresh clothes.’

She smiled vaguely, as though to herself. ‘Do you know the difference between a handsome man and an attractive man, Harry?’

‘No. What is it?’

‘I’m asking because I don’t know.’

Harry met her eyes. Was she flirting?

She shifted her gaze to the wall behind him. ‘Do you know what I found attractive about Markus? I mean, apart from his surname and his money.’

‘No.’

‘That he seemed attractive to other people as well. Isn’t that strange? How that sort of thing is self-reinforcing?’

‘I know what you mean.’

She shook her head as though in resignation. ‘Markus has no talents apart from one. He can send out the signal that he’s in charge. He’s like that boy or girl in school who, without anyone understanding why, takes the lead and decides who is in and who is out. When, like Markus, you’re sitting on that social throne, then you have power, and power begets power. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing more attractive than power. You understand, Harry? It isn’t calculated opportunism that makes women fall for power, it’s biology. Power is sexy, full stop.’

‘OK,’ Harry said. She probably wasn’t flirting.

‘And when, like Markus, you’ve learned to like that power, then you’re terrified of losing it. Markus is good with people, but because he and his family have power, he’s probably more feared than liked. And that bothers him. Because it’s important for him to be liked. Not by the people who don’t matter, he couldn’t care less about them, but by those he wants to identify with, those he sees as his equals. He went to BI Norwegian Business School because he wanted to take over the family’s property business, but there was more partying than studying, and in the end, he had to go abroad to get a qualification. People think he’s good at his job because money has been accumulated, but if you’ve been in property for the last fifty years, it’s been impossible not to make money. Markus was actually one of the few who almost managed to run his company into the ground all the same, but the bank bailed him out at least twice. And money tells the only success story people are capable of hearing. Myself included.’ She sighed. ‘He had a regular table at a club where men with money pick up girls who like men with money and do as they’re told. It sounds banal, and it is. I knew that Markus had a marriage behind him, but it had been years ago, and that he’d been single since. I figured he hadn’t met the right woman. And that was me.’

‘Was it?’

She shrugged. ‘I was right for him, I suppose. A bombshell thirty years his junior to be shown off, capable of conversing with people his age without it becoming embarrassing, and keeping things in order at home. The question was probably more if he was the right one for me. It took a long time before I asked myself that question.’

‘And?’

‘And now I live here, and he lives in a man cave in Frogner.’

‘Mm. Yet the two of you were together on both of the Tuesdays the girls went missing.’

‘Were we?’

Harry thought he saw something challenging in her eyes. ‘That’s what you told the police.’

She smiled briefly. ‘Yes, then I suppose we were.’

‘Are you trying to let me know you weren’t telling the truth?’

She shook her head with a resigned expression.

‘Is it you or Markus that is most in need of an alibi?’ Harry asked, and followed her reaction closely.

‘Me? You think I could have...’ The look of astonishment on her face disappeared and her laughter resounded in the room.

‘You have a motive.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t have a motive. I’ve let Markus run around, the only condition I set was that he doesn’t embarrass me. Or let them take my money.’

‘Your money?’

‘His, ours, mine, whatever. I don’t think those two girls had any plans like that. And they weren’t exactly high-maintenance either. Anyway, you’ll realise soon enough that I really don’t have any motive. My lawyer sent a letter to Krohn this morning stating that I want a divorce, and that I want half of everything. You see? I don’t want him, they can take Markus, whoever is so inclined. I just want my riding school.’ She laughed coldly. ‘You look surprised, Harry?’

‘Mm. A movie producer in Los Angeles told me that your first marriage is the most expensive college. That it’s where you learn to ensure there’s a prenuptial agreement in your next marriage.’

‘Oh, Markus has a prenup. Both with me and his ex, he’s not stupid. But because of what I know, he’ll give me what I ask for.’

‘And what is it you know?’

She smiled broadly. ‘That’s my leverage, Harry, so I can’t tell you that. The chances are I’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement. I hope to God someone finds out what he’s done, but if they do it’ll be without my help. I know that sounds cynical, but right now I need to save myself not the world. Sorry.’

Harry was about to say something but thought better of it. She wasn’t going to be manipulated or persuaded.

‘Why did you agree to this meeting?’ he asked instead. ‘If you knew you weren’t going to tell me anything?’

She thrust out her bottom lip, nodded. ‘Good question. You tell me. That suit of yours will have to go to the dry cleaner’s, by the way. I’ll give you one of Markus’s, you’re around the same size.’

‘Sorry?’

Helene had already got to her feet and was walking further into the apartment. ‘I’ve put aside a few suits he’s too fat to fit into any more, which I was going to give to the Salvation Army,’ she called out.

While she was gone, he stood up and went over to the fridge. He saw now that there was a photo of Helene after all; she was holding the bridle of one of the horses. The theatre ticket was for the following day. He looked at the calendar. Noticed ‘horse ride Valdres’ written in for next Thursday. Helene returned with a black suit and a garment bag.

‘Thank you for the thought but I prefer to buy my own clothes,’ Harry said.

‘The world needs more reusing,’ she said. ‘And this is a Brioni Vanquish II, it’d be a crime to throw it away. Come on, do the planet a favour.’

Harry looked at her. He hesitated. But something told him to humour her. He took off his jacket and put on the other one.

‘Well, you’re slimmer than he was, even back then,’ Helene said, her head cocked to one side. ‘But you’re the same height and your shoulders are just as broad, so it works.’

She held out the trousers. Didn’t turn round as he changed.

‘Perfect,’ she said, threading the garment bag over the hanger with the other suit. ‘I thank you on behalf of future generations. If there’s nothing else, I have a Zoom meeting now.’

Harry nodded as he accepted the garment bag.

Helene walked him out to the hall and held the door open for him. ‘Actually, I just remembered the one good thing about the Munch Museum,’ she said. ‘Which is Edvard Munch. Go take a look at The Yellow Log. And have a nice day.’

Thanh manoeuvred herself and the advertising board out the door of Mons Pet Shop. She spread the legs of the board, placing it to be clearly visible beside the display window, but not so as to obscure anything. She didn’t want to test Jonathan’s goodwill; after all, the board was advertising her own business within the shop — dog sitting by appointment.

She looked up from the advertising board and saw her reflection in the display window. She was twenty-three now, but still didn’t quite know where she was going. She knew what she wanted to be: a vet. But the entry requirements for veterinary studies in Norway were through the roof; you needed better grades than for medical school, and her parents couldn’t afford to send her to veterinary school abroad. But she and her mother had looked at courses in Slovakia and Hungary, and they might be feasible if Thanh worked at Mons for a couple of years and looked after dogs before and after work.

‘Excuse me, are you the manager?’ a voice said from behind her.

She turned. The man was Asian in appearance but was not from Vietnam.

‘He’s tidying behind the counter,’ she said, pointing to the door.

She inhaled the autumn air and looked around. Vestkanttorget. The fine old apartment buildings, the trees, the park. This was the place to live. But you had to choose, becoming a vet wouldn’t make you rich. And she wanted to be a vet.

She entered the small pet shop. Sometimes people — especially children — would express disappointment when they came in and saw the shelves of animal feed, assorted cages, dog leashes and other equipment. ‘Where are all the animals?’

Then she sometimes took them around to show them what they had. The fish in the aquariums, the cages with hamsters, gerbils and rabbits, and the glass terrariums with insects.

Thanh walked over to the aquariums with the Ancistrus fish. They loved vegetables, and she had brought some dinner leftovers of peas and cucumber from home. She heard the man tell the owner he was from the police, that they had found a Hillman Pets bag dated from after it was banned and asking whether this was something he had any knowledge of since Mons had been the import agent and the sole vendor.

She saw the owner just shake his head mutely. Knew that the policeman had his work cut out if he wanted Jonathan to talk. Because her boss was the introverted, quiet sort. When he did speak it was in short sentences, a little bit like the text messages from her ex-boyfriend, all lower case without punctuation or emojis. And he could come across as ill-tempered or annoyed, as though words were unnecessary encumbrances. In her first few months working here she’d wondered if he didn’t like her. Perhaps it was because she herself came from a family where everyone spoke all at once. Gradually she’d understood that it wasn’t her but him. And that it wasn’t because he didn’t like her. But might be the opposite.

‘I see online that a lot of dog owners think it’s a shame about the importation ban, that Hillman Pets is a lot more effective than the other products on the market.’

‘It is.’

‘Then it’s possible to imagine someone could make a tidy profit by circumventing the ban and selling it under the counter.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Really?’ She saw the policeman waiting, but nothing more came. ‘And you yourself haven’t...?’ the policeman asked tentatively.

Silence.

‘Brought any in?’ the policeman concluded.

When Jonathan answered, it was in such a low and deep tone of voice that it was more like a vibration in the air. ‘Are you asking if I’ve smuggled goods?’

‘Have you?’

‘No.’

‘And you don’t know anything you think might help me find out who could have managed to get hold of a Hillman Pets bag with a best-before date for next year?’

‘No.’

‘No,’ the policeman repeated, rocked on his heels and looked around. Looked around as though he had no intention of giving up, Thanh thought. As though merely pondering his next move.

Jonathan cleared his throat. ‘I can check in the office if I have a note of who ordered it last. Wait here.’

‘Thank you.’

Jonathan squeezed past Thanh in the narrow aisle between the aquariums and the rabbit hutches. She could see something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before, unease, yes, anxiety. And he smelled of sweat more than usual. He went into the office, but the door was left ajar, and from where she was standing, she could see him lay a blanket over the glass cage he had in there. She knew exactly what was in the glass cage. The one and only time she had brought some children into the office and shown them it, he had been furious and told her customers had no business being in the office, but she knew that wasn’t the reason. It was the animal. He didn’t want anyone to see it. Jonathan was a decent enough boss. She was allowed time off when she needed, and he had even given her a raise without her having asked. But to work so closely with another person — there was only the two of them — and still not know anything about that person was strange. Sometimes it seemed he liked her a little too much, and other times not at all. He was older than her, but not by so much; she figured he was around thirty, so they ought to have things in common to talk about. Yet any efforts she made to get a conversation going elicited only terse replies. But occasionally he would gaze at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Was he interested in her? Was that sullen manner of his bad temper, shyness, or an attempt to conceal what he felt for her? Maybe she was just imagining it, a flight of fancy you come up with when you’re bored, when the days drag out and the alternatives are few. Sometimes she thought his behaviour was like the boys back in primary school, throwing snowballs at the girls they fancied. Only that he was an adult. It was weird. He was weird. But there wasn’t much she could do about it, apart from take him for what he was; after all, she needed the job.

Jonathan was walking back towards her. She moved aside, standing as close to the aquarium as she could, and still his body brushed against hers.

‘Sorry, I don’t have anything,’ Jonathan said. ‘It’s too long ago.’

‘Right,’ the policeman said. ‘What was it you covered in the office?’

‘What?’

‘I think you heard what I said. May I take a look?’

Jonathan had a slender, white neck with black stubble which Thanh found herself sometimes wishing he shaved a little closer. And now she could see his Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat. She felt almost sorry for him.

‘Sure,’ Jonathan said. ‘You can look at what you like in here.’ Again, he used that low, deep voice. ‘All you have to do is show me a search warrant.’

The policeman took a step back and tilted his head slightly to the side, as though taking a closer look at Jonathan. Reassessing him, as it were.

‘Then I’ll make a mental note of it,’ the policeman said. ‘Thank you for your help thus far.’

He turned and walked towards the door. Thanh gave him a smile but got nothing in return.

Jonathan opened the box of fish feed and began hanging the bags up behind the counter. She made her way to the toilet, located beyond the office, and when she was coming out, Jonathan was standing waiting just outside.

He was holding something in his hand and slipped in behind her without shutting the door.

Her eyes fell automatically on the glass cage. The blanket had been removed and the cage was empty.

She heard Jonathan pull the chain above the old toilet and the water flush.

She turned round and saw him standing at the little sink soaping his hands thoroughly. Then he turned on the hot-water tap. He rubbed his hands together under the jet of water, which was so hot steam rose to his face. She knew why. The parasites.

Thanh swallowed. She loved animals, all animals. Even those — yes, maybe especially those — other people thought were hideous. Many people found slugs disgusting, but she remembered the disbelieving, excited children’s faces when she had shown them the big bright pink slug and tried to convince them that no, it hadn’t been painted, it was as nature made it.

Perhaps that was the reason a sudden wave of hate swept through her. Hate for this man who did not love animals. She thought about the sweet wild fox cub someone had brought in, which he had taken payment for, hadn’t he? She had nursed and fussed over it, loved the lonely, abandoned pup. Even given it a name. Nhi, meaning small. But then one day when she came to work, he wasn’t in his cage. Or anywhere to be seen. And when she asked Jonathan, he had only answered in that gruff way of his: ‘Gone.’ And she hadn’t asked any more, because she didn’t want confirmation of what she had already understood.

Jonathan turned off the tap, came out and looked with a little surprise at Thanh who was standing in the middle of the office with her arms folded.

‘Gone?’ she asked.

‘Gone,’ he said, sitting down at the desk, which was always cluttered with piles of papers they never got through.

‘Drowned?’ she asked.

He looked at her as if she had finally asked a question that interested him.

‘Possibly. Some slugs have gills, but Mount Kaputar slugs have lungs. On the other hand, I know some slugs with lungs can survive under water for up to twenty-four hours before they drown. You’re hoping it survives?’

‘Of course. Aren’t you?’

Jonathan shrugged. ‘I think the best thing for something that’s separated from its species and ends up in a strange environment is death.’

‘Really?’

‘Loneliness is worse than death, Thanh.’

He stared at her with something in his eyes she couldn’t interpret.

‘On the other hand,’ he said, scratching at his bearded throat thoughtfully, ‘this particular slug might not be lonely, it’s actually a hermaphrodite. And it will find nourishment in the sewers. Reproduce...’ He looked down at his newly scrubbed hands. ‘Poison everything else living down there with rat lungworm and eventually take over the whole of Oslo’s sewer system.’

Thanh could hear Jonathan’s laughter from the office as she walked back to the aquariums. It was a laugh she had heard so seldom that it sounded unfamiliar, strange, yes, almost unpleasant.

Harry stood looking at the painting in front of him. It showed a felled log lying with the yellow end towards him and the rest of it stretching back into a wooded landscape. He read the plaque next to the painting: ‘The Yellow Log’, Edvard Munch, 1912.

‘Why were you asking about this painting in particular?’ asked the boy in the red T-shirt, which denoted him as one of the staff.

‘Well,’ Harry said, glancing at the Japanese couple standing next to them, ‘why do people want to see this painting in particular?’

‘Because of the optical illusion,’ the boy said.

‘OK?’

‘Let’s move a little. Excuse me!’

The couple smilingly made room for them both by stepping to the side.

‘See?’ the boy said. ‘The end of the log appears to be pointing directly at us no matter where we view the picture from.’

‘Mm. So the message is...?’

‘You tell me,’ the boy said. ‘Perhaps that things aren’t always how they look.’

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘Or that you need to move and look at things from a different angle in order to see the whole picture. Anyway, thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ the boy said, and walked away.

Harry remained looking at the picture. Mostly to rest his eyes on something beautiful after having stood on escalators through a building that even on the inside made Police HQ appear human and warm.

He took out his phone and called Krohn.

While waiting for him to pick up, he grew aware of the pulse in his temple throbbing, as was normal the day after he had been drinking. And it occurred to him that his resting heart rate was around 60. That if he remained standing here looking at art, he could, in other words, expect his heart to beat slightly under four hundred thousand times before Lucille was killed. Considerably fewer if he panicked and raised the alarm in the hope the police could find her... where? In Mexico someplace?

‘Krohn.’

‘Harry here. I need an advance of three hundred thousand.’

‘For what?’

‘Unforeseen expenses.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘No.’

The line went quiet.

‘All right. Come by the office.’

As Harry put the phone back in the pocket of the jacket, he noticed something was already in there. He took it out. It was a mask. A half-mask depicting a cat, it looked like, which must have been from a masquerade ball Markus Røed had attended. He felt in the other pocket, and sure enough, there was something in there too. He pulled out a laminated card. It seemed to be a membership card for something called Villa Dante, but instead of Name it read Alias. The alias on the card was ‘Catman’.

Harry looked at the picture again.

Helene Røed hadn’t forgotten to empty the contents of the pockets. She may even have put the items there.