Killing Moon

25 Friday

Cocaine blues

The Aune group had gathered, but Aune himself had given word that his family were coming at three, so everyone needed to be gone by then. Harry had been filling them in on his visit to Helene Røed.

‘So now you’re walking around in your boss’s suit,’ Øystein said. ‘And your mate’s sunglasses.’

‘Plus, I have this,’ Harry said, holding up the cat mask. ‘And you still can’t find anything about Villa Dante online?’

Truls stared at his phone, grunted and shook his head. With the same minimal expression as when he had accepted the brown envelope of cash Harry had discreetly handed him when he arrived.

‘What I’m wondering, is where Våge has got this cannibalism stuff from,’ Aune said.

Harry saw Truls look up, meet his eyes and give him an imperceptible shake of his head.

‘Was wondering that myself,’ Øystein said. ‘Doesn’t say jackshit about eating human flesh in the reports.’

‘I have a feeling Våge has lost his source,’ Harry said. ‘And has begun making things up. Like that business about Bertine having had her tattoo cut off and sewn back on — that wasn’t true.’

‘Maybe,’ Aune said. ‘Våge did resort to fabrications previously in his career, and it is strange how consistent we humans are. Even though we’re punished for a pattern of behaviour and should learn, we still tend to employ the same poor solutions when problems arise. It’s not unlikely that Våge has found the attention he’s received of late so intoxicating that he’s unwilling to let go of it and is resorting to something that has worked in the past. Or worked for a while, at least. Although I’m not discounting the possibility Våge may be right about the cannibalism. But given the circumstances, it’s obvious he’s making things up and has been familiarising himself with the literature on serial killers.’

‘Isn’t he implying...’ Øystein began, as his eyes scanned down through Våge’s article on the screen of his phone again.

The others looked at him.

‘Isn’t he actually implying that the killer himself is the source?’

‘That’s a bold but interesting interpretation,’ Aune said. ‘But our work for the day is done and the weekend awaits, gentlemen. My wife and daughter will be here soon.’

‘What will we do over the weekend, boss?’ Øystein asked.

‘I don’t have any particular work for you,’ Harry said. ‘But I’ve borrowed Truls’s laptop and I’m going to go through police reports.’

‘Thought you’d already read them.’

‘Skimmed them. Now I’m going to study them. Come on, let’s go.’

Aune asked Harry to wait and he remained standing by the bed while the others went out.

‘Those reports,’ he said. ‘They’re the work of how many people? Forty, fifty? Who have all been on the case for over three weeks. How many pages? A thousand? Are you going to read all those pages because you think the solution is to be found in there?’

Harry shrugged. ‘It’s got to be found somewhere.’

‘The mind also needs rest, Harry. I’ve noticed from the get-go that you’re more stressed. You seem... can I use the word desperate?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Is there something you’re not saying?’

Harry lowered his head and rubbed his hand back and forth across the nape of his neck. ‘Yeah.’

‘You want to tell me what it is?’

‘Yeah.’ He lifted his head straight. ‘But I can’t.’

Aune and Harry held each other’s gaze. Then Aune closed his eyes and nodded.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said. ‘We’ll talk on Monday.’

Aune moistened his lips, and Harry could tell by the tired cheeriness in his eyes that he was about to formulate a witty response. But that he changed his mind and merely nodded.

Harry was on his way out of the Radium Hospital when he realised what Aune had considered replying. If I’m alive on Monday.

Øystein drove in the bus lane towards the city centre with Harry in the passenger seat.

‘Pretty cool in rush-hour traffic on a Friday, eh?’ Øystein grinned in the mirror.

Truls grunted from the back seat.

Harry’s phone rang. It was Katrine.

‘Yeah?’

‘Hi, Harry, just a long shot here. Arne and I have a date tonight at that restaurant that he finally managed to get a table at. But my mother-in-law is sick and...’

‘Babysitting?’

‘Just say the word if it’s inconvenient, then I can drop going out, I am a little tired. But at least then I can tell him I tried to get someone.’

‘But I can. And I want to. When?’

‘Fuck you, Harry. Seven o’clock.’

‘OK. Make sure there’s a Grandiosa frozen pizza in the oven.’

Harry hung up, but the phone rang immediately afterwards.

‘Doesn’t have to be a Grandiosa,’ Harry said.

‘It’s Mona Daa from VG.’

‘Oops...’

Harry understood by the full presentation that it wasn’t Mona, Anders’ girlfriend, calling, but the journalist. Which meant everything he said could and would be used against him.

‘We’re working on a piece about...’ she began. This was the introduction used to signal that the wheels were already in motion, could not be stopped, and the plural first-person pronoun slightly diminished the responsibility this single journalist had for the unpleasant questions she was about to ask. Harry looked out at the traffic, grasped that it was about Weng, and about Harry posing as a policeman. That they would be quoting Chief Superintendent Bodil Melling when she said there was up to a six-month sentence for impersonating an officer of the law, and that she hoped the Minister of Justice in the wake of this case could put a stop to dubious and unauthorised private investigations and how, furthermore, it was of the utmost importance that this be done with immediate effect in regard to this murder inquiry.

Mona was calling to offer him the opportunity to respond, in line with the code of press ethics. Mona Daa was pushy and tough but had always been fair in that regard.

‘No comment,’ Harry said.

‘No? Does that mean you don’t dispute the facts of the story as presented?’

‘I’m pretty sure it means that I’m not commenting on it, doesn’t it?’

‘All right, Harry, but then we need to print “no comment”.’ He heard the tap of rapid keystrokes in the background.

‘Do you all still say print?’

‘It’s the kind of thing that lingers.’

‘True. Which is why I call what I’m about to do hanging up. OK?’

He heard Mona Daa sigh. ‘OK. Have a nice weekend, Harry.’

‘Likewise. And—’

‘Yes, I’ll say hi to Anders.’

Harry put the phone in the inside pocket of Røed’s slightly too baggy suit jacket.

‘Trouble?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said.

A new grunt from the back seat, louder and angrier this time.

Harry half turned, saw the light of the phone display and realised Mona had been sitting with her finger on the publish trigger. ‘What did they write?’

‘That you’re deceitful.’

‘Fair enough, it is true after all, and I don’t have a reputation to protect.’ Harry shook his head. ‘What’s worse is that they’ll close us down.’

‘No,’ Truls said.

‘No?’

‘What’s worse is that they’ll arrest you.’

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘For helping them locate a body they’d been trying to find for over three weeks?’

‘It’s not about that,’ Truls said. ‘You don’t know Melling. Battleaxe wants to get ahead. And you’re in the way, aren’t you?’

‘Me?’

‘If we solve this case first it’ll make her look like an amateur, won’t it?’

‘Mm. OK. But arresting me sounds a bit drastic.’

‘That’s the way they play their power games, that’s why those scheming bastards are where they are. That’s how you become... well, Minister of Justice, for example.’

Harry glanced once more at Truls. His forehead was as red as the traffic light they had stopped for.

‘I’m getting out here,’ Harry said. ‘Get some rest over the weekend, but don’t switch off your phones, and don’t leave town.’

At seven o’clock, Katrine opened the front door for Harry.

‘Yes, I’ve read VG,’ she said, walking back to the dresser in the hallway to put on a pair of earrings.

‘Mm. How do you think Melling would like it if she found out the enemy was babysitting for the lead detective?’

‘Oh, you probably won’t be much of a threat any more come Monday.’

‘You seem awfully sure of that?’

‘Melling hasn’t given the Minister of Justice much of a choice with her comments about dubious private investigations.’

‘No, maybe not.’

‘Shame, we could’ve used you. Everybody knew you’d cut some corners, but screwing up over something so unnecessary.’

‘Got overeager and made a bad judgement call.’

‘It’s like you’re so predictably unpredictable. What have you got there?’ She pointed at the plastic bag he had placed on top of the shoes he had removed.

‘Laptop. I need to do a bit of work after he falls asleep. Is he...?’

‘Yeah.’

Harry went into the living room.

‘Mummy smell na-ice,’ said Gert, sitting on the floor with two cuddly toys.

‘Perfume,’ Harry said.

‘Na-ice,’ said Gert.

‘Look what I’ve got.’ Harry carefully took a chocolate bar out of his pocket.

‘Shoco-ha.’

‘Sugar high?’ Harry smiled. ‘We’ll keep it a secret then.’

‘Mummy! Uncle Hawny has shoco-ha!’

After Katrine had gone, Harry entered a virtual world where he did his best to keep pace with a three-year-old’s imaginative transitions in thought and contribute with some of his own in between.

‘You aw good at pwaying,’ Gert commended him. ‘Whew is de dwagon?’

‘In the cave, of course,’ Harry said, pointing underneath the sofa.

‘Uhhoo,’ Gert said.

‘Double-uhhoo,’ Harry said.

‘Shoco-ha?’

‘OK,’ Harry said, and put his hand in the pocket of the jacket he had draped over the chair.

‘What is dat?’ Gert asked, pointing at the mask Harry was holding.

‘A cat,’ Harry said, placing the half-mask over his face.

Gert’s face contorted and his voice was suddenly tear-choked.

‘No, Uncle Hawny! Scawey!’

Harry quickly removed the mask. ‘OK, no cat. Just dragons. All right?’

But the tears had already begun to flow, and Gert sobbed. Harry cursed himself, another bad judgement call. Scary cats. No Mummy. A little past bedtime. What wasn’t there to cry about?

Gert stretched his arms out towards Harry, and before he’d had time to think had pulled the boy close. Patting him on the head while he felt Gert’s chin against his shoulder and his warm tears through his shirt.

‘A little shoco-ha, brush our teeth and a lullaby?’

‘Yeah-eh!’ Gert sobbed.

Following a toothbrushing session Harry suspected Katrine would not have given her full approval, he got Gert into his pyjamas and under the duvet.

‘Bueman,’ Gert commanded.

‘I don’t know it,’ Harry said. His phone vibrated and he saw he’d received an MMS from Alexandra.

Gert regarded him with ill-concealed disapproval.

‘But I know some other good songs.’

‘Sing,’ Gert said.

Harry understood it would have to be something slow and swaying and tried the Rolling Stones’s ‘Wild Horses’. He was stopped after one verse.

‘A diffwant song.’

Hank Williams’s ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’ got the thumbs down after two verses.

Harry thought for a long time.

‘OK. Close your eyes.’

He began to sing. If it could be called singing. It was more a low, slow chanting in a rough voice that now and then hit the notes of an old blues song about the perils of cocaine. When he had finished, Gert’s breathing had become deeper and more regular.

Harry opened the MMS, which was accompanied by some text. The picture had been taken in the hall mirror in her apartment. Alexandra was posing in a creamy-yellow dress which managed the feat expensive clothes often did; display the body in such a good light that you don’t for a moment think it has anything to do with the dress. At the same time he could see that Alexandra hadn’t needed the dress. And that she knew it.

This cost half a month’s salary. Looking forward to tomorrow!

Harry closed the message and looked up. Into Gert’s wide-open eyes.

‘Mow.’

‘More... of the last one?’

‘Yeah-eh.’