Killing Moon

28 Saturday

The final act

The only source of light was the lamps in the bottom of the swimming pool, and in the semi-darkness of the room, the light flickered across the walls and ceiling. Harry’s brain eventually stopped dwelling on details in the reports when he saw her. Alexandra’s one-piece swimsuit seemed to show more of her body than if she had been stark naked. He rested on his elbows on the edge of the pool as she stepped down into the water, which according to the receptionist at the Thief Spa was heated to exactly thirty-five degrees. Alexandra observed him observing her while she smiled that enigmatic smile women display when they know — and like — that men like what they see.

She swam over to him. Apart from a couple sitting half submerged at the far end, they had the pool to themselves. Harry lifted the champagne bottle out of the cooler by the pool, poured a glass and handed it to her.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Thanks as in we’re even?’ he said, watching as she drank.

‘Far from it,’ she said. ‘After what was in VG, it would be very unfortunate if it came out that I’m running secret DNA analyses for you. So I want you to tell me something secret.’

‘Mm. Like what?’

‘That’s up to you.’ She slipped close to him. ‘But it has to be something from the darkest depths.’

Harry looked at her. She had a look in her eyes not unlike Gert’s when he demanded the ‘Blueman’ lullaby. Alexandra was aware that Harry was Gert’s father, and now he was struck by a crazy thought. That he would tell her the rest. He looked at the champagne bottle. Had already realised when he ordered it — albeit with one glass — that it was a bad idea. Just as it would be a bad idea to tell her what only he and Johan Krohn knew. He cleared his throat.

‘I crushed a guy’s throat in Los Angeles,’ Harry said. ‘I felt it against my knuckles, felt it give. And I liked it.’

Alexandra stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Were you fighting?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

Harry shrugged. ‘A bar brawl. Over a woman. I was drunk.’

‘What about you? Were you OK?’

‘I was fine. I only hit him once, then it was over.’

‘You hit him in the throat?’

‘Yeah. Chisel fist.’ He held up his hand to demonstrate. ‘A specialist in close combat who trained FSK in Afghanistan taught me. The point is to hit your opponent on a specific area of the throat, then all opposition will cease immediately because our brain can only think of one thing, and that’s getting air.’

‘Like this?’ she asked, squeezing the middle joints and the tips of her fingers together.

‘And like this,’ Harry said, straightening her thumb and pushing it in towards her forefinger. ‘And then you aim here, at the larynx.’ He tapped her forefinger against his own throat.

‘Hey!’ he shouted as without any warning she jabbed him.

‘Stand still!’ she laughed, hitting him again.

Harry jinked away. ‘I don’t think you understand. You risk killing someone if you hit them right. Let’s say this is the larynx.’ He pointed to one of his nipples. ‘And then you need to utilise these...’ He took hold of her hips under the water and showed her how to rotate in order to generate power in the punch. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

After four attempts she had landed two punches hard enough to make Harry groan.

The couple at the other end of the pool had gone quiet and were watching them with anxious expressions.

‘How do you know you didn’t kill him?’ Alexandra said, as she got in position to strike again.

‘I don’t know for sure. But if he had died, I don’t think his friends would have let me live afterwards.’

‘Have you also considered that if you had killed him it would put you in the same boat as those you’ve hunted down throughout your entire career?’

Harry wrinkled his nose. ‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe? Arguing over a woman — you think that’s a more noble motive?’

‘Let’s call it self-defence.’

‘There’re a lot of things that can be classed as self-defence, Harry. Honour killings are self-defence. Crimes of passion are self-defence. People kill to defend their self-respect and their dignity. You yourself have experience of people killing in order to save themselves from humiliation, don’t you?’

Harry nodded. Looked at her. Had she understood? Had she realised that it wasn’t just his own life that Bjørn had taken? No, her gaze was inward, this was about her own experience. Harry was about to say something when her hand shot out. He didn’t move. Just stood there as a triumphant smile spread across her face. Her hand — clenched to a chisel — was barely touching the skin on his throat.

‘Could have killed you that time,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’

‘You didn’t have time to react?’

‘No.’

‘Or were you banking on me not crushing your larynx?’

He smiled a little, didn’t answer.

‘Or...’ She frowned. ‘Don’t you give a shit?’

Harry’s smile widened. He gripped the bottle behind him, filled up her glass. Eyed the bottle, pictured bringing the end of it to his mouth, putting his head back and hearing the low gurgling sound as the alcohol filled him, lowering the bottle, now empty, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand while she stared wide-eyed at him. Instead, he placed the almost full bottle back in the cooler. Cleared his throat.

‘What do you say we go into the sauna?’

Instead of Shakespeare’s five acts, the National Theatre’s production of Romeo and Juliet consisted of two long acts with a fifteen-minute interval at around the hour mark.

When the house lights came up for the interval, the audience swarmed out, filling the foyers and the saloon, where light refreshments were available. Helene joined the queue at the bar, while listening with half an ear to the conversations around her. Oddly enough none of them were about the play, as though that would be pretentious or vulgar. She became aware of something, a fragrance that made her think of Markus, and she half turned. A man was standing behind her, and he just managed to give her a smile before she quickly faced forward again. His smile had been... yes, what had it been? Her heart was beating faster in any case. She almost had to laugh; it must be the play, psychological priming that guaranteed it was not only her who suddenly thought they saw their Romeo in every other man’s face. Because the man behind her was by no means attractive. Not downright ugly, perhaps — his smile had revealed he had nice teeth at least — but uninteresting. Still, her heart continued to beat, and she felt a desire — a desire she couldn’t remember having felt in years — to turn around again. Look at him. See what it was that made her want to turn.

She managed to restrain herself, ordered a plastic glass of white wine and took it to one of the small round tables along the walls of the saloon. Watched the man, who was now trying to pay cash for a bottle of water while the woman behind the counter was pointing at a sign which read CARD ONLY. To her surprise she found herself considering going up and paying for him. But he had given up his attempted purchase and turned towards Helene. Their eyes met and he smiled again. Then he began walking in the direction of her table. Her heart pounded. What was this? It wasn’t as if it were her first time experiencing a man being so direct. ‘May I?’ he asked, placing a hand on the empty chair by the table.

She shot him a brief and — she assumed — dismissive smile, as her brain commanded her mouth to say, ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘By all means.’

‘Thank you.’ He sat down and leaned across the table as though they were in the middle of a long conversation.

‘I don’t mean to spoil it,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘But she’s drunk poison and is going to die.’

His face was so close she could smell his cologne. No, it was quite different from the one Markus had used, more raw. ‘As far as I’m aware she doesn’t drink the poison before the last act,’ Helene said.

‘That’s what everyone thinks, but she’s already poisoned. Believe me.’ He smiled. White teeth. Predator-like. She was tempted to offer herself, feel them bite through her skin as she buried her nails in his back. Jesus, what was this? Part of her wanted to run, another part to throw herself on him. She recrossed her legs the other way, noticing — was it possible? — that she was wet.

‘Imagine I wasn’t familiar with the play,’ she said. ‘Then why would you want to ruin the ending for me?’

‘Because I want you to be prepared. It’s an unpleasant thing, death.’

‘Yes, it is,’ she said, her eyes not leaving his. ‘But isn’t the sum of that unpleasantness only greater when you have to prepare for death in addition?’

‘Not necessarily.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘Not if the joy of living is increased by the knowledge of its not lasting forever.’

There was something vaguely familiar about him. Had he been at the party on the roof terrace? Or at Danielle’s?

‘Memento mori,’ she said.

‘Yes. But now I must have some water.’

‘So I noticed.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Helene. And yours?’

‘Call me Prim. Helene?’

‘Yes, Prim?’ She smiled.

‘Would you like to accompany me to somewhere they serve water?’

She laughed. Sipped at the glass of wine. Was going to say they had water here, that she could pay. Or even better, that he could borrow her glass and get some from the tap in the toilet, that Oslo tap water was better than anything you got in a bottle, and more environmentally friendly to boot.

‘Where did you have in mind?’ she asked.

‘Does it matter?’

‘No.’ She couldn’t believe her own ears.

‘Good.’ He pressed his palms together. ‘Then let’s go.’

‘Now? I thought you meant after the final act.’

‘We already know how it ends.’

Terse Acto was located in Vika, was obviously newly opened and served tapas at the upper end of upmarket prices.

‘Good?’ Alexandra asked.

‘Very,’ Harry said, patting his mouth with the napkin while trying not to look at her wine glass.

‘I like to think I know Oslo, but I hadn’t heard of this place. It was Helge who recommended we book a table here. Gay men always know best.’

‘Gay? I didn’t pick up those kinds of vibes.’

‘That’s because you’ve lost your mojo.’

‘You mean at one stage I had it?’

‘You? Big time. Didn’t work on everyone, of course. Not that many, truth be told.’ She tilted her head to the side, thoughtfully. ‘Now that I think about it, probably only worked on a few of us.’ She laughed, lifted her wine and clinked his glass of water.

‘So, you think Terry Våge has lost his source, grown desperate and begun making things up?’

Harry nodded. ‘The only way he could know what he professes to know is if he’s in direct contact with the killer. And I don’t see that.’

‘What if he’s his own source?’

‘Mm. That Våge is the killer, you mean?’

‘I read about a Chinese author who murdered four people, wrote about it in several books and was convicted more than twenty years later.’

‘Liu Yongbiao,’ Harry said. ‘And then you’ve got Richard Klinkhamer. His wife disappeared, and shortly afterwards he writes a novel about a man killing his wife and burying her in the garden. And that was where they found her. Both those guys didn’t kill in order to write about it, which I presume is what you’re suggesting here?’

‘Yes, but Våge could have done it. Heads of state start wars in order to be re-elected or go down in history. Why shouldn’t a journalist do the same so he can be king of the hill? You ought to check if he has an alibi.’

‘OK. Speaking of checking things out. You said you know Oslo. Heard of a place called Villa Dante?’

Alexandra began to laugh. ‘Yeah, sure. You want to head over there to see if you’ve still got it? Although I doubt they’d let you in. Even with those suits you wear these days.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s a... how shall I put it... a very exclusive gay club.’

‘You’ve been?’

‘No, are you mad, but I have a gay friend, Peter. He’s actually one of Røed’s neighbours, and invited me to the terrace party.’

‘You were invited to that?’

‘Not formally, it was more the type of party people just come along to. I was planning on taking Helge to fix him up with Peter, but I had to work that night. I have gone with Peter to SLM a few times, though.’

‘SLM?’

‘You’re so not with it, Harry. Scandinavian Leather Man. A gay club for the masses. You need to conform to a dress code there too, and there are dark rooms and whatnot in the basement. A little vulgar for the clientele who are members of Villa Dante, I imagine. Peter told me he’d tried to obtain membership there, but that it was impossible. You had to belong to the inner of the inner circle, a sort of gay Opus Dei. It’s stylish there apparently. Think Eyes Wide Shut. Open just one night a week, a masquerade ball for gay men in expensive suits. Everyone walks around in animal masks and has accompanying monikers, total anonymity all round. All kinds of escapades and waiters who are... let’s call them young men.’

‘Above legal age?’

‘Now they probably are. That was why the club had to shut down back when it was called Tuesdays. A fourteen-year-old who was working there accused one of the guests of rape. We got a sperm sample, but no match on the database, of course.’

‘Of course?’

‘The clientele of Tuesdays weren’t the kind to have previous convictions. Anyway, now it’s reopened as Villa Dante.’

‘Which no one seems to have heard of.’

‘They operate under the radar, they don’t need the publicity. That’s the reason people like Peter are so obsessed with gaining admittance.’

‘You said it used to be called Tuesdays.’

‘Yeah, they had the club night on a Tuesday.’

‘And they still do?’

‘I can ask Peter, if you like.’

‘Mm. What would it take for me to gain access, you think?’

She laughed. ‘A court order, a search warrant, probably. Which, incidentally, I hereby grant you with regard to myself tonight.’

It took Harry a moment before he understood what she meant. He raised an eyebrow.

‘Yep,’ she said, lifting her glass. ‘As in order.’

‘Do you live out here?’ Helene asked.

‘No,’ said the man, who’d called himself Prim. He steered the car between new, modern commercial buildings dotting the flat, open landscape on both sides of the road towards the tip of Snarøya. ‘I live in the city centre, but I used to walk my dog here in the evenings after the airport closed. There was no one here then, and I could let my dog run free. Out there.’ He pointed towards the sea in the west and ate some more from the packet of crisps or whatever it was; he hadn’t offered any to her at any rate.

‘But that’s the marshlands preserve,’ Helene said. ‘You weren’t afraid the dog would attack birds nesting there?’

‘Sure, and it happened a couple of times. I tried to find comfort by telling myself it was the natural order of things and that we can’t stand in the way of that. But of course, that’s not true.’

‘It’s not?’

‘No. Mankind is also a product of nature, and we aren’t the only organism doing our utmost to destroy the planet as we know it. But just as Mother Nature has granted us the intelligence to commit collective suicide, she has also gifted us self-reflection. Perhaps that can save us. I hope so. In any case, I stood in the way of nature and began to use this.’

He pointed towards the grab handle above her door, and Helene became aware of a retractable dog lead with a clasp collar dangling from the end.

‘He was a good dog,’ he said. ‘I could sit in the car reading with the courtesy light on and the window open while he ran free, fifty metres in every direction. Dogs — and people — don’t need more. Many people don’t want more.’

Helene nodded. ‘All the same, some day they might want more and want to get away. What does the dog owner do then?’

‘I’ve no idea. My dog never wanted more.’ He had swung off the main road and onto a forest track. ‘What would you have done?’

‘Set it free,’ Helene said.

‘Even if you knew it wouldn’t survive alone out there?’

‘None of us survive.’

‘True,’ he said.

He slowed down. The road had ended. He switched off the engine and the headlights, and it turned pitch-black around them. She could hear the wind rustling through reeds, and between the trees they could see the sea and lights from the islands and headland further out.

‘Where are we?’

‘Just by the marshlands,’ he said. ‘That foreland there is Høvikodden, and the two islands are Borøya and Ostøya. Since they built houses out here this has become a popular place to walk. In the daytime it’s swarming with families. But at the moment, you and I have it completely to ourselves, Helene.’

He released his seat belt and turned to her.

Helene took a deep breath, closed her eyes and waited. ‘This is crazy,’ she said.

‘Crazy?’

‘I’m a married woman. This... is extremely bad timing.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m in the process of leaving my husband.’

‘Sounds to me like excellent timing.’

‘No.’ She shook her head without opening her eyes. ‘No, you don’t understand. If Markus found out about this before we discuss terms...’

‘Then you’ll get a few million less from him.’

‘Yes. What I’m doing now is plain stupid.’

‘So why are you doing it, do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’ She pressed her palms to her temples. ‘It’s like someone or something has taken over my mind.’ Just then she was struck by another thought. ‘What makes you think he has millions?’ She opened her eyes and looked at him. Yes, there was something familiar about him. Something in his eyes. ‘Were you at the party? Do you know him?’

He didn’t answer. Just smiled a little as he turned up the music. A theatrical vibrato singing something about scary monsters; she’d heard the song before but wasn’t able to place it.

‘The martini,’ she said with sudden certainty. ‘You were at Danielle’s. It was you who sent over that drink, wasn’t it?’

‘And what makes you think that?’

‘Standing behind me in the queue, coming over and sitting down, that’s not something you do during the interval at a play. That wasn’t by chance.’

He ran a hand through his hair and glanced in the mirror.

‘I confess,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching you for a while. I’ve wanted to be alone with you. And now I am. So, what will we do?’

She drew a deep breath and unbuckled her own seat belt. ‘We’ll fuck,’ she said.

‘Unfair, isn’t it?’ Alexandra said. They had finished their meal and withdrawn to the restaurant bar. ‘I’ve always wanted a child but never had one. While you, who never wanted one...’ She snapped her fingers over her White Russian cocktail.

Harry took a sip of his water. ‘Life is rarely fair.’

‘And so random,’ she added. ‘Bjørn Holm sent in DNA to check if he was the father of... what’s the name of the boy again?’

‘Gert.’

Alexandra could see by Harry’s face this was not something he wanted to talk about. Nevertheless — perhaps because she had drunk a little more than she should have — she continued.

‘Turns out he isn’t. And right afterwards I run a DNA analysis of something which turns out to be your blood, check it by mistake against the entire database of paternity tests, and it emerges that you’re Gert’s father. If it hadn’t been for me—’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘What isn’t my fault?’

‘Nothing. Forget it.’

‘That Bjørn Holm killed himself?’

‘That he...’ Harry stopped.

Alexandra saw him grimace as though he were in pain somewhere. What was it he wasn’t telling her? What was it he couldn’t tell her?

‘Harry?’

‘Yeah?’ His eyes seemed to be fixed on the row of bottles on the shelf behind the barman.

‘It was that sex offender who killed your wife, right? Finne.’

‘Ask him.’

‘Finne is dead. If it wasn’t him, then...’

‘Then?’

‘You were a suspect.’

Harry nodded. ‘We always suspect the partner. And are usually right.’

Alexandra took a gulp of her drink. ‘Was it you, Harry? Did you kill your wife?’

‘A double of that there,’ Harry said, and it took a moment for Alexandra to realise he wasn’t talking to her.

‘This?’ the barman asked, pointing to a square bottle hanging inverted in a bracket.

‘Yes, please.’

Harry remained silent until the glass with the golden-brown liquid was in front of him.

‘Yes,’ he said, lifting the glass. Held it for a moment as though dreading it. ‘I killed her.’ Then he emptied the contents in a single go and had ordered a refill before the glass was back on the counter.

Helene got her breath back but remained sitting on top of him.

She had manoeuvred him over to the passenger side, reclined the seat while he turned on the dome light and put on a condom. Then had rode him like one of her horses, although without the same feeling of control. He had come without making a sound, but she had felt how his muscles had jerked and relaxed.

She had also come. Not because he had been an adept lover, but because she had been so horny before taking off her trousers and knickers that anything would have sufficed.

She could feel him going soft inside her now.

‘So why have you been stalking me?’ she asked, looking down at him lying flat on the recumbent seat, as naked as she was.

‘Why do you think?’ he asked, putting his hands behind his head.

‘You’ve fallen in love with me.’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m not in love with you, Helene.’

‘No?’

‘I am in love, but with someone else.’

Helene could feel herself getting annoyed. ‘Are you playing games?’

‘No, I’m just telling you how it is.’

‘Then what are you doing here, with me?’

‘I’m giving you what you want. Or rather, what your body and mind want. Which is me.’

‘You?’ She snorted. ‘What makes you so sure that it couldn’t have been any man?’

‘Because I’m the one who’s planted that desire in you. And now it’s crawling and creeping inside your body and mind.’

‘The desire for you specifically?’

‘Yes, for me. Or, to be more precise, what’s creeping inside you desires to enter my intestinal tract.’

‘So sweet. You mean I want to take you with a strap-on? My husband once wanted me to do that when we started going out.’

The man who called himself Prim shook his head. ‘I mean the small intestines and the large intestines. Bacterial flora. So they can multiply. As for your husband, it’s news to me he wants to be penetrated from behind. When I was a little boy, he was the one who did the penetrating.’

Helene stared down at him. In bewilderment, but she knew she hadn’t misheard.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Didn’t you know your husband fucks boys?’

‘Boys?’

‘Little boys.’

She swallowed. It had of course crossed her mind that he liked men but she had never confronted him about it. Markus being bisexual or — more likely — a closet gay wasn’t perverse. What was sick was that Markus Røed — one of the richest, most powerful men in the city, a man the press had accused of greed, tax evasion, bad taste and worse — didn’t dare admit to the world the one human characteristic which could have helped him breathe more freely. Instead he had become a textbook case of a homosexual homophobe, a self-loathing narcissist and walking paradox. But little boys? Children. No. At the same time, now that the idea was presented to her and she reflected, it was all too logical. She shuddered. Another thought made its way into her mind: that this might come in useful as regards the divorce settlement.

‘How do you know this?’ she asked, without moving while she looked around for her knickers.

‘He was my stepfather. He abused me from the time I was six years old. I say six because the earliest time I can recall him doing it was the same day he gave me a bicycle. Three times a week. Three times a week he screwed that little arse of mine. Year in. Year out.’

Helene was breathing through her mouth. The air inside the car was thick with the smell of sex and that unusual musk scent. She swallowed. ‘Your mother, did she know about...?’

‘It was the usual. She suspected, I suppose, but did nothing to confirm it. She was an unemployed alcoholic who was afraid of losing him. Yet that’s what happened.’

‘It’s always the ones who are afraid that end up being left behind.’

‘Aren’t you afraid?’

‘Me? Why would I be?’

‘Now that you understand the reason you and I are here.’

Was she mistaken or was he growing hard inside her again?

‘Susanne Andersen?’ she asked at length. ‘Was it you?’

He nodded.

‘And Bertine?’

He nodded again.

Maybe he was bluffing, maybe not. Either way Helene knew she ought to be afraid. So why wasn’t she? Why instead did she begin moving her hips back and forth? Slowly at first, then more intensely.

‘Don’t...’ he said, his face suddenly pale.

But she rode him again. It was as if her body had a will of its own, and she raised herself up on his cock and back down again with full vigour. Felt his stomach tighten, heard a muffled groan, thought he was about to come again. Then she saw a cascade of yellow-green vomit spew from his mouth. It went onto his chest, spilling onto the seat and down to his stomach, towards her. The smell was so acrid she felt her own stomach begin to turn, and she pinched her nose with her thumb and forefinger as she held her breath.

‘No, no, no,’ he groaned, without moving while groping about on the floor beneath them. Found his shirt and began wiping himself with it. ‘It’s that shit there,’ he said, pointing at the crisp packet in the centre console. Helene could see it said Hillman Pets on it.

‘I need to eat it to regulate the population of parasites,’ he said, rubbing the shirt across his stomach. ‘But it’s hard to find the balance. If I eat too much my stomach can’t handle it. I hope you understand. Or can sympathise.’

Helene neither understood nor sympathised, she just concentrated on not breathing while she held her nose. And felt a strange change come over her. It was as though the desire and longing were gradually subsiding and being replaced by another emotion: fear.

Susanne. Then Bertine. And now it was her turn.

She needed to get out, get away, now!

He regarded her as if he sensed her fear. She made a concerted effort to smile. Her left hand was free, she could open the door with it, get out and run. Towards the terraced houses they had passed where the forest track began, it couldn’t be more than three or four hundred metres there. Good, four hundred metres had been her best event, and she ran faster barefoot than in shoes. Furthermore, she guessed he would hesitate to follow her since they were both naked, enough to give her the head start she needed. He wouldn’t have time to turn the car around and catch up with her either, and if he tried, she could just cut into the woods. He just needed to be distracted a little while her left hand located the door handle. She was about to let go of her nose to place her right hand over his eyes in a pretence of affection when another thought entered her mind. That the change had occurred when she wasn’t breathing and wasn’t smelling. That there was a connection there.

‘I understand,’ she whispered ingratiatingly. ‘These things happen. You’re clean now. Let’s have it a little dark again.’ She tried not to inhale the air and hoped he couldn’t hear the quaver in her voice. ‘Where’s the dome light?’

‘Thanks,’ he said with a wan smile and pointed to the roof.

She found the switch and put out the light. In the darkness she clawed at the inside of the passenger door with her left hand. Found the door handle, eased it open and shoved the door wide. Felt the cold night air against her skin. Kicked off to get out. But he was too quick. His hands were around her throat, tightening their grip. She beat him on the chest with both hands, but the grip around her throat grew even tighter. She raised herself up on one knee in the seat and drove her other knee forward in the hope of striking his crotch. She had no sense of connecting, but he let go, and she got out, felt the gravel against her bare feet, fell over, but got back up and began to run. It was difficult to breathe, like he still had her in a stranglehold, but she had to ignore it, had to get away. And now she got a little air. She could see the lights down by the main road. Had to be less than four hundred metres away, surely? Yes, not even three hundred. This was going to be OK. She increased her pace, she really took off. There was no way he’d be able to catch up wi—

It was as if someone had appeared in the darkness in front of her and hit her so hard in the throat that she was knocked to the ground. She landed on her back, hitting her head on the gravel.

She must have been out for a few seconds, because on opening her eyes again she could hear footsteps approaching on the gravel.

She tried to scream but the stranglehold tightened again.

She brought her fingers to her throat and felt what it was.

The collar.

He had fastened the dog collar on her and allowed her to run, letting the retractable lead be drawn from the housing, waiting calmly until she had reached her fifty metres of freedom.

She no longer heard the footsteps as her fingers located the clasp. She squeezed it together and was free. From the collar. She didn’t have time to scramble to her feet before she was pushed back down onto the gravel.

His naked body seemed shimmering white as he stood over her in the darkness with one foot on her chest. She stared at what he was holding in his right hand. What little light there was reflected on the shiny steel. It was a knife. A large knife. Still, she wasn’t scared. At least not as scared as when she had held her breath in the car. It wasn’t that she was unafraid to die, but it was as though her lust was stronger. She simply couldn’t explain it any other way.

He crouched down, put the blade to her throat, leaned forward and whispered in her ear: ‘If you scream, I’ll cut right away. Nod if you understand.’

She nodded mutely. He leaned back, still on his haunches. And she could still feel the cold steel against her neck.

‘I’m sorry, Helene.’ His voice sounded tearful. ‘It’s not fair that you have to die. You haven’t done anything, you’re not the target. You just have the terrible misfortune to be a necessary means.’

She coughed. ‘Ne... necessary for what?’

‘To humiliate and destroy Markus Røed.’

‘Because he...’

‘Yes, because he fucked me. And when he wasn’t doing that, I had to suck on that ugly fucking cock of his for supper and breakfast and sometimes for lunch. Can you relate, Helene? The difference is that in my case there were no fringe benefits. Apart from the bike that one time. And that he stayed with my mother, of course. Sick, isn’t it? That I was afraid that he would leave us. I don’t know if it was me or my mother who grew too old for him, but he left us for a younger woman with a younger son. All this was long before your time, so I don’t imagine you’ve heard about it.’

Helene shook her head. She could see herself from outside, lying naked and freezing on a gravel track with a knife to her throat. She could feel the stones digging into her skin; she saw no way out, maybe this was where life ended. And yet she wanted to be here, yet she wanted him. Had she gone mad?

‘My mother disappeared into a depression,’ he said in a tremulous voice, and she could see that he too was freezing cold now. ‘It was only when she was emerging from it again that she had the energy to do what she’d promised me so many times when she was drunk. She took her own life and tried to take mine. The fire brigade classed it as an accident, smoking in bed. Neither I nor her brother, Uncle Fredric, saw any reason to inform them or the insurance company that she didn’t smoke, that the packet they found had been Markus Røed’s.’

He fell silent. Something warm hit her breast. A tear.

‘Are you going to kill me now?’ she asked.

He drew a shaky breath. ‘As I’ve said, I’m sorry, but the life cycle of the parasites needs to be completed. So that they can reproduce, you see. I need new, fresh parasites when a new individual is to be infected. You understand?’

She shook her head. She wanted to stroke his cheek, it felt like she had taken ecstasy, the love was all-encompassing. But it wasn’t love, it was lust, she was just so fucking horny.

‘And, of course, there’s the advantage that the dead tell no tales,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ she said. She was breathing harder. As though she knew these were her final breaths.

‘But tell me, Helene, while we had sex, did you feel loved for a little while?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, smiling tiredly. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Good,’ he said, taking one of her hands in his free one. Squeezing it. ‘I wanted to give you that as a gift before you died. Because that’s the only thing that matters, isn’t it? To feel loved?’

‘Maybe,’ she whispered, closing her eyes.

‘Keep that in mind now, Helene. Say it to yourself: I am loved.’

Prim looked down at her. Saw her lips moving. Forming the words. I am loved. Then he lifted the knife, pointed the tip towards her carotid artery, leaned forward, placing all his weight over it as he let the blade sink in. The warm spurt of blood on his ice-cold skin made him shudder with elation and horror.

He held on tightly to the knife handle. The vibrations letting him know that life was leaving her. After the blood spurted for a third time it began to flow. A few seconds later the knife told him Helene Røed was dead.

He pulled out the knife and sat down on the ground next to her. Wiped his tears. He shivered with cold, fear and the release of tension. It didn’t get any easier, it got worse. But these were the innocent ones. The guilty one remained. That would be something entirely different. Taking the life of Markus Røed would be a joy. But first the bastard would suffer so much that death would come as a deliverance.

Prim felt something on his skin. Light rain. He looked up. Black. More rain was forecast tonight. It would wash away most of the traces, but he still had work to do. He looked at his watch, which was the only thing he hadn’t taken off. Half past nine. If he was efficient, he could be back in the city centre by half past ten.