Killing Moon

2 Friday

Value

The press conference took place as usual in the Parole Hall at Police HQ. The clock on the wall showed three minutes to ten, and while Mona Daa, VG’s crime reporter, and the others waited for the police representatives to take to the podium, Mona could conclude that the attendance was good. Over twenty journalists, and on a Friday evening. She’d had a brief discussion with her photographer on why double murders sold twice as well as single ones, or if it was a case of diminishing returns. The photographer believed that quality was more important than quantity, that as the victim was a young, ethnic Norwegian, of above-average attractiveness, she would generate more clicks than — for example — a drug-addicted couple in their forties with previous convictions. Or two — yes, even three — immigrant boys from a gang.

Mona Daa didn’t disagree. So far only one of the missing girls was confirmed killed, but realistically it was only a matter of time before it turned out the other had suffered the same fate, and both were young, ethnic Norwegians and pretty. It didn’t get any better. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. If it was an expression of extra concern for the young, innocent and defenceless individual. Or if other factors played a part, factors pertaining to the usual things that got clicks: sex, money and a life the readers wished they themselves had.

Speaking of wanting what others had. She looked at the guy in his thirties in the row in front. He was wearing the flannel shirt all the hipsters were supposed to be wearing this year and a porkpie hat à la Gene Hackman in The French Connection. It was Terry Våge from Dagbladet, and she wished she had his sources. Ever since the story broke, he’d had his nose in front of the others. It was Våge, for instance, who had first written about Susanne Andersen and Bertine Bertilsen having been at the same party. And Våge who had quoted a source as saying both girls had had Røed as a sugar daddy. It was annoying, and for more reasons than simply that he was competition. His very presence here was annoying. As though he had heard her thoughts, he turned and looked right at her. Smiling broadly, he touched a finger to the brim of his idiotic hat.

‘He likes you,’ the photographer said.

‘I know,’ she said.

Våge’s interest in Mona had begun when he made his improbable comeback to newspaper journalism as a crime reporter, and she had made the mistake of being relatively friendly towards him at a seminar on — of all things — press ethics. Since the other journalists avoided him like the plague, her attitude must have come across as inviting. He subsequently got in touch with Mona for ‘tips and advice’, as he termed it. As if she had any interest in acting as a mentor for a competitor — indeed, had any desire to have anything to do with someone like Terry Våge; after all, everybody knew there had to be something in the rumours doing the rounds on him. But the more stand-offish she was, the more intense he became. On the phone, social media channels, even popping up in bars and cafes, as though from nowhere. It had, as usual, taken a little time before she understood it was her he was interested in. Mona had never been the boys’ first pick, stocky and broad-faced as she was, with what her mother had called ‘sad hair’ and a congenital hip defect which gave her a crablike gait. God knows if it was an attempt to compensate, but she had begun training with weights, grown even more stocky, but had taken one hundred and twenty kilos in the deadlift and a third place in the national bodybuilding championships. And because she’d had to learn that a person — or at least she — didn’t get anything for free, she had developed a pushy charm, a sense of humour, and a toughness which the Barbie dolls of this world could just forget about, and which had won her the unofficial throne of crime queen — and Anders. Out of the two, she valued Anders higher. Well, just about. No matter: even though the type of attention from other men which Våge displayed was unfamiliar and flattering, it was out of the question for Mona to explore it any further. And she was of the opinion that she — if not in so many words, then in tone and body language — must have made this clear to Våge. But it was as though he saw and heard what he wanted. Sometimes when she looked into those wide-open, staring eyes of his, she wondered whether he was on something or if he was all there. One night he had shown up at a bar, and when Anders went to use the men’s room, he had said something to her, in a voice so low it couldn’t be heard above the music, but still not quite low enough. ‘You’re mine.’ She had pretended not to hear, but he just stood there, calm and confident, wearing a sly smile, as if it were now a secret they shared. Fuck him. She couldn’t stand drama, so she hadn’t mentioned it to Anders. Not that Anders wouldn’t have handled it just fine, she knew he would, but still she hadn’t said anything. What was it Våge imagined? That her interest in him, the new alpha male in their little pond, would grow in proportion with his position as a crime reporter who was always one step ahead of the others? Because he was, that wasn’t open to discussion any longer. So yes, if she wanted something someone else had, it was to be leading the race again, not downgraded to one of the pack chasing behind Terry Våge.

‘Where does he get it from, do you think?’ she whispered to the photographer.

He shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s making it up again.’

Mona shook her head. ‘No, there’re good grounds to believe what he’s writing now.’

Markus Røed and Johan Krohn, his lawyer, had not even attempted to refute any of what Våge had written, and that was confirmation enough.

But Våge had not always been the king of crime. The story lingered about him, always would. The girl’s stage name was Genie, a retro glam act à la Suzi Quatro, for those who remembered her. The matter had occurred about five or six years prior, and the worst part of it was not that Våge had manufactured pure lies about Genie and had them put in print, but the rumour he had dropped Rohypnol into her drink at an after-party in order to have sex with the teenager. At the time, he had been a music journalist for a free newspaper and had obviously become infatuated with her, but had — in spite of his eulogising her in review after review — been turned down repeatedly. Nevertheless he had continued showing up at gigs and after-parties. Right up to the night when — if the rumours were to be believed — he had spiked her drink and carried her off to his room, which he had booked at the same hotel as the band were staying at. When the boys in the band realised what was happening, they barged into the hotel room where Genie lay unconscious and in a state of half-undress on Terry Våge’s bed. They had given Terry such a beating that he suffered a skull fracture and was hospitalised for a couple of months. Genie and the band must have figured Våge had had punishment enough, or may not have wanted to risk prosecution themselves; in any case, the matter was not reported to the police by any of the parties involved. But it was the end of the glowing reviews. In addition to panning her every new release, Terry Våge wrote about Genie’s infidelity, drug abuse, plagiarism, underpayment of band members, and false information on applications for grants for tour support. When a dozen or so stories were referred to the Press Complaints Commission, and it turned out that Våge had simply made half of them up, he was sacked and became persona non grata in the Norwegian media for the next five years. How he had managed to make it back in was a mystery. Or maybe not. He had realised he was finished as a music journalist, but had been behind a crime blog that gathered more and more readers, and eventually Dagbladet said that one could not exclude a young journalist from their field just because he had made some mistakes early in his career, and had taken him on as a freelancer — a freelancer who currently got more column inches than any of the newspaper’s permanent reporters.

Våge finally turned away from Mona when the police made their entrance and took their places on the podium. Two from Oslo Police, Katrine Bratt — the inspector from Crime Squad — and Head of Information Kedzierski, a man with a Dylanesque mane of curly hair; and two from Kripos, the terrier-like Ole Winter and the always well-dressed Sung-min Larsen, sporting a fresh haircut. So Mona assumed they had already decided that the investigation would be a joint effort on behalf of the Crime Squad, in this case the Volvo, and Kripos, the Ferrari.

Most of the journalists held their mobiles up in the air to record sound and pictures, but Mona Daa took notes by hand and left the photographs to her colleague.

As expected, they didn’t learn much other than a body had been found in Østmarka, in the hiking area around Skullerud, and that the deceased had been identified as the missing woman Susanne Andersen. The case would be treated as a possible murder, but they had, as yet, no details to make public about the cause of death, sequence of events, suspects and so on.

The usual dance ensued, with the journalists peppering those on the podium with questions while they, Katrine Bratt in the main, repeated ‘no comment’ and ‘we can’t answer that’.

Mona Daa yawned. She and Anders were supposed to have a late dinner as a pleasant start to the weekend, but that wasn’t going to happen. She noted down what was said, but had the distinct feeling of writing a summary she had written before. Maybe Terry Våge felt the same. He was neither taking notes nor recording anything. Just sitting back in his chair, observing it all with a slight, almost triumphant, smile. Not asking any questions, as though he already had the answers he was interested in. It seemed the others had also run dry, and when Head of Information Kedzierski looked like he was drawing breath to bring things to a close, Mona raised her biro in the air.

‘Yes, VG?’ The head of Information had an expression that said this better be short, it’s the weekend.

‘Do you feel that you have the requisite competence should this turn out to be the type of person who kills again, that is to say if he’s—’

Katrine Bratt leaned forward in her chair and interrupted her: ‘As we said, we don’t have any sound basis to allow us to state that there’s any connection between this death and any other possible criminal acts. With regard to the combined expertise of the Crime Squad and Kripos, I dare say it’s adequate given what we know about the case so far.’

Mona noted the inspector’s caveat of what we know. And that Sung-min Larsen seated in the chair next to her had neither nodded at what Bratt said nor given any indication of his view on this expertise.

The press conference drew to a close, and Mona and the others made their way out into a mild autumn night.

‘What do you think?’ the photographer asked.

‘I think they’re happy they have a body,’ Mona said.

‘Did you say happy?’

‘Yeah. Susanne Andersen and Bertine Bertilsen have both been dead for weeks, the police know that, but they haven’t had a single lead to go on apart from that party at Røed’s. So, yeah, I think they’re happy they’re starting the weekend with at least one corpse that might give them something.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re a cold fish, Daa.’

Mona looked up at him in surprise. Considered it for a moment.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

It was a quarter past eleven by the time Johan Krohn had finally found a parking spot for his Lexus UX 300e in Thomas Heftyes gate, then located the number of the building where his client Markus Røed had asked him to come. The fifty-year-old defence lawyer was regarded among colleagues as one of the top three or four best defence lawyers in Oslo. Due to his high media profile, the man in the street regarded Krohn as unquestionably the best. Since he was, with a few exceptions, a bigger star than his clients, he did not make house visits, the client came to him, preferably to the offices of the law firm of Krohn and Simonsen in Rosenkrantz’ gate during normal working hours. Still, there were house calls and there were house calls. This address was not Røed’s primary residence; he officially resided at a 260-square-metre penthouse on the top of one of the new buildings in Oslobukta.

As he had been instructed on the phone half an hour ago, Krohn pressed the call button bearing the name of Røed’s company, Barbell Properties.

‘Johan?’ Markus Røed’s out-of-breath voice sounded. ‘Fifth floor.’

There was a buzz from the top of the door, and Krohn pushed it open.

The lift looked sufficiently suspect for Krohn to take the stairs. Wide oak steps and cast-iron banisters with a form more reminiscent of Gaudí than a venerable, exclusive Norwegian town house. The door on the fifth floor was ajar. It sounded like a war was taking place within, which he understood to be the case when he stepped inside, saw bluish light coming from the living room and peered in. In front of a large TV screen — it had to be at least a hundred inches — three men were standing with their backs to him. The biggest of them, the man in the middle, was wearing VR goggles and had a game controller in each hand. The other two, young men in perhaps their twenties, were apparently spectators, using the TV as a monitor to look at what the man in the VR goggles was seeing. The war scene on the TV was from a trench, in the First World War, if Krohn was to judge by the helmets on the German soldiers rushing towards them, and whom the large man with the game controllers was blasting away at.

‘Yeah!’ one of the younger men shouted, as the head of the last German exploded inside his helmet and he fell to the ground.

The larger man removed the VR goggles and turned to Krohn.

‘That’s that taken care of, at least,’ he said with a grin of satisfaction. Markus Røed was a handsome man, his age taken into consideration. He had a broad face, a playful look, his permanently tanned complexion was smooth, and his swept-back, shiny black hair as thick as a twenty-year-old’s. Granted, some weight had spread to his waist, but he was tall, so tall that the stomach could pass as dignified. But it was the intense liveliness in his eyes that first caught your attention, a liveliness indicating the energy which meant most people were initially charmed, then flattened, and eventually exhausted by Markus Røed. Within that time he had probably got what he wanted, and you were left to your own devices. But Røed’s energy levels could fluctuate, as could his mood. Krohn assumed both had something to do with the white powder he now saw traces of under one of Røed’s nostrils. Johan Krohn was aware of all this, but he put up with it. Not just because Røed had insisted on paying half of Krohn’s hourly rate up front to — as he had put it — guarantee Krohn’s undivided attention, loyalty and desire to achieve a result. But mostly because Røed was Krohn’s dream client: a man with a high profile, a millionaire with such an odious image that Krohn, paradoxically, appeared as more courageous and principled than opportunistic by taking him on as a client. So he would — as long as the case went on — just have to accept being summoned on a Friday night.

The two younger men left the room at a signal from Røed.

‘Have you seen War Remains, Johan? No? Fucking great VR game, but you can’t shoot anyone in it. This here is a sort of copy the developer wants me to invest in...’ Røed nodded in the direction of the TV screen while he lifted a carafe and poured whiskey into two crystal rocks glasses. ‘They’re trying to retain the magic of War Remains, but make it so you can — what would you say? — influence the course of history. After all, that’s what we want, right?’

‘I’m driving,’ Krohn said, raising a palm to the glass Røed was holding out to him.

Røed looked at Krohn for a moment as if he didn’t understand the objection. Then he sneezed powerfully, sank down onto a leather Barcelona chair, and placed both glasses on the table in front of him.

‘Whose apartment is this?’ Krohn asked, as he settled into one of the other chairs. And immediately regretted the question. As a lawyer it was often safest not knowing more than you needed to.

‘Mine,’ Røed replied. ‘I use it as... you know, a retreat.’

Markus Røed’s shrug and scampish smile told Krohn the rest. He’d had other clients with similar apartments. And during an extramarital liaison, which had fortunately come to an end when he realised what he was in danger of losing, he had himself considered buying what a colleague called a bachelor pad for non-bachelors.

‘So what happens now?’ Røed asked.

‘Now Susanne has been identified, and murder has been established as the cause, the investigation will enter a new phase. You need to be prepared to be called in for fresh interviews.’

‘In other words, there’ll be even more focus on me.’

‘Unless the police find something at the crime scene that rules you out. We can always hope for that.’

‘I thought you might say something like that. But I can’t just sit here hoping any longer, Johan. You do know Barbell Properties has lost three big contracts in the last fortnight? They offered some flimsy excuses, about waiting for higher bids and so on — no one dares say right out that it’s down to these articles in Dagbladet about me and the girls, that they don’t want to be associated with a possible murder, or are afraid I’ll be put away and Barbell Properties will go under. If I sit idly by hoping that a gang of public-sector, underpaid knucklehead cops will get the job done, then Barbell Properties might go bust long before they’ve turned up something that gets me off the hook. We need to be proactive, Johan. We need to show the public that I’m innocent. Or at least that I believe it serves my interest for the truth to come out.’

‘So?’

‘We need to hire our own investigators. First-rate ones. In the best-case scenario they find the killer. But failing that, it still shows the public that I’m actually trying to uncover the truth.’

Johan Krohn nodded. ‘Let me play devil’s advocate here, no pun intended.’

‘Go on,’ Røed said, and sneezed.

‘Firstly, the best detectives are already working for Kripos, as they pay better than the Crime Squad. And even if they were to say yes to quitting a secure career to take on a short-term assignment like this, they’d still have to give three months’ notice, plus they’d have an obligation of confidentiality covering what they know about these missing persons cases. Which in effect renders them useless to us. Secondly, the optics would be pretty bad. An investigation being bankrolled by a millionaire? You’d be doing yourself a disservice. Should your investigators uncover so-called facts that clear you, this information would automatically be questioned, something which would not have happened if the police had uncovered the same facts.’

‘Ah.’ Røed smiled, wiping his nose with a tissue. ‘I love value for money. You’re good, you’ve pointed out the problems. And now you’re going to show me that you’re the best and tell me how we solve those problems.’

Johan Krohn straightened up in his chair. ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence, but there’s the rub.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You mentioned finding the best, and there is one person who is perhaps the best. His previous results certainly point to it.’

‘But?’

‘But he’s no longer on the force.’

‘From what you’ve told me that ought to be an advantage.’

‘What I mean is that he’s no longer in the police for the wrong reasons.’

‘Which are?’

‘Where do I begin? Disloyalty. Gross negligence in the line of duty. Intoxicated on the job, clearly an alcoholic. Several cases of violence. Substance abuse. He’s responsible, although not convicted, for the death of at least one colleague. In short, he’s probably got more crimes on his conscience than most of the criminals he’s hauled in. Plus, he’s supposed to be a nightmare to work with.’

‘That’s a lot. So why are you bringing him up if he’s so impossible?’

‘Because he’s the best. And because he could be useful with regard to the second part of what you were saying, about showing the public you’re trying to unearth the truth.’

‘OK...?’

‘The cases he’s solved have made him one of the few detectives with a public profile of sorts. And an image as uncompromising, someone with don’t-give-a-damn integrity. Overblown, of course, but people like those kind of myths. And for our purposes that image could allay suspicions of his investigation being bought and paid for.’

‘You’re worth every penny, Johan Krohn.’ Røed grinned. ‘He’s the man we want!’

‘The problem—’

‘No! Just up the offer until he says yes.’

‘—is that no one seems to know exactly where he is.’

Røed raised his whiskey glass without drinking, just frowned down at it. ‘What do you mean by “exactly”?’

‘Sometimes in an official capacity I run into Katrine Bratt, the head of Crime Squad where he worked, and when I asked, she said the last time he gave a sign of life was from a big city, but she didn’t know where he was in that city or what he was doing there. She didn’t sound too optimistic on his behalf, let’s put it that way.’

‘Hey! Don’t back out now that you’ve sold me on the guy, Johan! It’s him we want, I can feel it. So find him.’

Krohn sighed. Again regretted opening his mouth. Being the show-off he was he had of course walked right into the classic prove-you’re-the-best trap that Markus Røed probably used every single day. But with his leg stuck in the trap it was too late to turn. Some calls would need to be made. He worked out the time difference. OK, he may as well get right on it.