Killing Moon

31 Sunday

Large mammals

It was just gone eleven in the morning. The sun warmed but as soon as it slid behind one of the clouds, Katrine shuddered. She was standing by a grove of trees looking out over a beach with tall yellow marram grass and, beyond that, the glittering sea where sailing boats crossed back and forth. She turned. The stretcher with the body of the woman was on its way to the ambulance up at the road from where Sung-min was walking towards her.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘She was lying in the tall grass just by the beach.’ Katrine sighed heavily. ‘Pretty bad shape, worse than the other two. Out here it’s mostly families with small children who are up walking early, so of course one of them had to find her.’

‘Oh dear.’ Sung-min shook his head. ‘Any idea about the identity?’

‘She was naked, and her head was cut off. No one reported missing. As yet. But I’m guessing she was young and beautiful, so...’

She didn’t finish the sentence. That it wouldn’t be long. That from experience it was the young and beautiful who were reported missing earliest.

‘No tracks, I presume.’

‘No, the perpetrator was lucky, it rained last night.’

Sung-min shivered as a sudden cold gust of wind hit. ‘I don’t think it’s luck, Bratt.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Will we do something proactive to get an ID on the body?’

‘Yeah. I was thinking of calling Mona Daa at VG. Give her this as an exclusive in return for them running hard with it and in the way we want. Not too much, not too little. Then the rest of them can quote from her piece and complain about preferential treatment afterwards.’

‘Not a bad idea. Daa will go for it just to have something Våge doesn’t.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

They watched the crime scene technicians in silence, as they continued photographing and fine-combing the cordoned-off search area for evidence.

Sung-min rocked on his heels. ‘She was brought here in a car, just like Bertine, don’t you think?’

Katrine nodded. ‘There’re no buses out here, and the taxi firms we checked had no fares to the area last night, so yeah, in all likelihood.’

‘You know if there’re any gravel or dirt roads around?’

Katrine looked at him closely. ‘Tyre tracks, that what you’re thinking? I’ve only seen tarmac roads round here. But any tyre marks have probably been washed away by the rain now.’

‘Of course, I just...’

‘You just?’

‘Nothing,’ Sung-min said.

‘Then I’ll make that call to VG,’ Katrine said.

It was a quarter to twelve. Prim slowly unfolded the greaseproof paper in front of him.

A fresh wave of anger washed over him. They had come at irregular intervals ever since he had seen the two of them together. Like two lovebirds. Her, the Woman he loved, and that guy. When a man and a woman take a walk in the park like that, there’s little doubt about what’s going on. He was after her. A policeman as well! He hadn’t yet had time to come up with a plan to get this unexpected rival out of the way, but he would soon enough.

The greaseproof paper lay unfolded in front of him, and in the centre of it: an eye.

Prim felt his mouth get dry.

But he must.

He held the eye between two fingers, felt nausea rising. He couldn’t throw it up again, that would be a waste. He placed the eye back on the paper and tried to breathe deeply and calmly. Checked the online newspapers on his phone again. There it was, finally! In VG. It was at the top, with a large picture of the wetlands. Beneath Mona Daa’s byline, he read that the body of an as yet unidentified woman had been found by Lilløyplassen on Snarøya. The body was without a head again, and VG urged the public to get in touch with the police if they had any information about who the murdered woman might be. As well as those who had been in the area the previous evening, irrespective of whether they had seen anything or not. Mona Daa wrote that the police were refusing to comment for the time being on whether this murder was connected to the murders of Susanne Andersen and Bertine Bertilsen, but that that would clearly turn out to be the case.

Prim gazed at the article. It was placed above several items about the politician who had cheated on her taxes, that day’s decisive clash between Bodø/Glimt and Molde, and the war in the East.

He felt the odd intoxication at being there, centre stage, in the main role. Was this how Mummy had felt in front of a spellbound, breathless theatre audience as she brandished the magic wand of the narrator? Was this her genes and passion finally awakening within him?

He took out the other phone, the burner, which he had bought on eBay with a SIM card from Latvia registered under a fictive name. Tapped in the number for VG’s tip-off line. Said it concerned the dead woman by Lilløyplassen and asked to be put through to Mona Daa.

It sounded like an order when she came on the line.

‘Daa.’

Prim affected a deeper tone to his own voice, which from experience he knew no one was able to identify as his. ‘Who I am is of no importance, but I’m very worried. I was supposed to meet Helene Røed in Frogner Park today. She never showed up, she’s not answering her phone, and she’s not at home either.’

‘Who—’

Prim hung up. Looked down at the greaseproof paper. Lifted the eye and studied it. Put it in his mouth. And chewed.

Just after half past twelve Johan Krohn rang Harry Hole’s number.

He had come in from the veranda, where his wife was still sitting with a cup of coffee and her face turned to the sun. She said she didn’t trust the weather report which forecast there was more warm weather in store. He buttoned his coat while waiting for an answer. Finally, he heard Harry’s breathless voice.

‘Sorry, am I disturbing a workout?’

‘No, I’m playing.’

‘Playing?’

‘I’m a dragon attacking a castle.’

‘I see,’ Johan Krohn said. ‘I’m ringing because I just received a call from Markus. His assistant just informed him that the Forensic Medical Institute have been in touch. They want him to come and identify a body.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘They think it might be Helene.’

‘Mm.’

Johan Krohn couldn’t tell whether Hole sounded shocked or not.

‘I thought you might want to accompany him. Then you can see the body. Whether it’s Helene or not, the killer is probably the same.’

‘Good,’ Hole said. ‘Can you come over here and look after a three-year-old for a few minutes?’

‘A three-year-old?’

‘He likes it if you pretend to be an animal. A large mammal, preferably.’

Johan Krohn pressed the call button that said Forensic Medical Institute for a second time.

‘It’s Sunday — you sure there’s anyone at work?’

‘They said I was to come asap and ring at this door,’ Markus Røed said, glancing up at the building’s facade.

Eventually they saw someone wearing green scrubs on the inside trotting towards the glass door, which he opened. ‘Apologies, my colleague has left for the day,’ he said from behind the surgical mask. ‘I’m Helge, post-mortem technician.’

‘Johan Krohn.’ The lawyer instinctively put his hand out, but the technician shook his head as he held up his gloved hands.

‘Can the dead be infected?’ Røed asked sarcastically from behind.

‘No, but they can infect the living,’ the post-mortem technician said.

They followed him through an empty corridor to a room with a window facing into what Krohn assumed was the autopsy room.

‘Which of you will be making the identification?’

‘Him,’ Krohn said, nodding towards Markus Røed.

The man handed Røed a face mask, scrubs and a scrub cap like he himself was wearing.

‘Can I ask what your relationship is to the individual who may be the deceased?’

Røed looked at a loss for a moment. ‘Husband,’ he said. The sarcastic tone was gone, as though the possibility of Helene really lying there was beginning to sink in.

‘Before putting on your face mask, I’d like you to have a drink of water,’ the post-mortem technician said.

‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ Røed said.

‘Experience suggests it can be a good idea to have fluid in the body when we’re dealing with a case such as this.’ The post-mortem technician poured water from a carafe into a glass. ‘Believe me, you’ll understand when we enter.’

Røed looked at him, nodded briefly and drained the glass.

The post-mortem technician held the door open, and he and Røed went inside.

Krohn went over to the window. They stood on either side of a trolley where the outline of a female form lay in profile underneath a white sheet. Apart from the head. Evidently there were microphones inside, and he could hear their voices over a loudspeaker above the window.

‘Are you ready?’

Røed nodded, and the post-mortem technician removed the sheet.

Krohn backed away from the window. He had seen corpses in his professional life but nothing like this. The post-mortem technician’s voice sounded dry and matter-of-fact over the loudspeaker.

‘I’m sorry, but it does appear as though the perpetrator has subjected her to extreme violence. One thing is what you see here, stab wounds over the entire body and the slashed stomach. But the worst is probably the area here around the anus, where we can see that the perpetrator must have used something other than a knife or his hands to cause so much damage. The entire rectum has been torn open and the mutilation continues upward, so he must have used a pipe, a thick branch or similar. I apologise if this is more information than you wish, but it’s necessary to explain the level of violence inflicted so that you understand she is no longer the woman you knew or were used to seeing. So, take your time and try to look beyond the injuries.’

Due to the face mask, Krohn couldn’t see Røed’s facial expression, but he did see the trembling of his body.

‘Di-did he do this while... while she was alive?’

‘I wish I could say that we knew for certain that she was dead, but I can’t.’

‘Then she suffered?’ Røed’s voice sounded thin and tear-filled.

‘Like I said, we don’t know. We can determine that some of the injuries were inflicted after the heart had stopped beating, but not all. I am sorry.’

A single whimper escaped from Røed. Johan Krohn had never at any point in their relationship felt sorry for Markus Røed. Not for one second — his client was too much of a bastard for it. But just now he felt compassion, perhaps because he had inevitably for a moment put his own wife on the trolley and himself in Røed’s shoes.

‘I know it’s painful,’ the post-mortem technician said, ‘but I have to ask you to take your time. Look at her and do your best to confirm whether or not this is Helene Røed.’

Krohn assumed it was the sound of her name in connection with the mutilated body that made Røed break down in convulsive sobbing.

Krohn heard the door behind him open.

It was Harry Hole accompanied by a dark-haired woman.

Hole gave a brief nod. ‘This is Alexandra Sturdza. She works here. We picked her up on the way.’

‘Johan Krohn, Røed’s lawyer.’

‘I know,’ Alexandra said, as she walked to the sink and began washing her hands. ‘I was here earlier today, but I’ve obviously missed out on all the action. Has she been identified?’

‘They’re doing it now,’ Krohn said. ‘It’s not an entirely... eh, straightforward task.’

Hole had come to the window beside Krohn and was now looking in. ‘Rage,’ he said simply.

‘Pardon?’

‘What he’s done to her. It’s not the same as he did to the other two. This is rage and hatred.’

Krohn tried to moisten his dry mouth. ‘You mean it’s someone who hates Helene Røed?’

‘Could be. Or he hates what she represents. Or he hates himself. Or he hates someone who loves her.’

As a lawyer, Krohn had heard these statements before. They were the court psychologist’s more or less customary description in cases involving violence and sexually motivated murder, except for the last one, about hating someone who loved the victim.

‘It’s her.’ Røed’s whispered voice over the loudspeaker caused the three of them outside the autopsy room to go quiet.

The dark-haired woman turned off the tap and turned to the viewing window.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m required to ask you if you are certain,’ the post-mortem technician said.

A new, shuddering sob escaped Røed. He nodded. Pointed to one shoulder.

‘That scar. She got it when we were in Chennai in India and she was riding on the beach. I’d hired a racehorse; it was to run in a race the following day. They were so beautiful together. But the horse wasn’t used to running on sand and didn’t see the sinkhole left by the tide. They were so beautiful as they...’ His voice didn’t carry any longer and he hid his face in his hands.

‘Must have been a bloody nice horse for him to take it so hard,’ the dark-haired woman said. Krohn turned to her in disbelief, met her cold gaze and swallowed the reprimand on the tip of his tongue. He turned to Harry in exasperation instead.

‘She’s analysed DNA material from Røed,’ Harry said. ‘It matches the saliva found on Susanne Andersen’s breast.’

Harry studied Johan Krohn’s face as he spoke the words. He thought he saw pure surprise, as though the lawyer had truly believed in his client’s innocence. But what lawyers and policemen believed didn’t really matter, research showed that there was little or no difference in people’s ability, irrespective of their occupations, to tell when someone was lying, or put another way: that we are all about as poor at it as John Larson’s lie detector. All the same, Harry found it hard to believe that Krohn’s surprise or Røed’s tears were an act. Of course, a man could grieve over a woman he had killed, either by his own hand or by paying someone else. Harry had seen enough guilty husbands who had wept, probably out of a mixture of guilt, lost love, that same jealous frustration that had led to the murder and the sudden violence in the moment of realisation. Christ, hadn’t he himself believed for a time that he, in the midst of an alcohol fog, had killed Rakel? But Markus Røed did not look like a man who had murdered the woman lying in front of him, though Harry was at a loss to explain quite why or how. The tears were too pure somehow. Harry closed his eyes. Tears too pure? He sighed. Screw this esoteric bollocks; the evidence was there, and it told its own story. The miracle that would save both him and Lucille was about to take place, so why not welcome it with open arms?

A buzz sounded in the room.

‘Someone at the main door,’ Alexandra said.

‘Probably the police,’ Harry said.

Alexandra left to open it.

Johan Krohn looked at him. ‘Was it you who called them?’

Harry nodded.

Røed entered the room and removed the coat, face mask and scrub cap. ‘When can we move her to a funeral home?’ he asked, addressing Krohn, and taking no notice of Harry. ‘I hate seeing her this way.’ His voice was hoarse, and his eyes moist and red. ‘And the head. We need to make a head for her. We’ve tons of pictures. A sculptor. The best, Johan. It has to be the best.’ He began to cry again. Harry had withdrawn to a corner of the room where he observed Røed closely.

Observed the puzzled shock as the door opened, three policemen and one policewoman entered, two of them seizing Røed by each arm, the third placing handcuffs on him and the fourth explaining why he was under arrest.

On his way out the door, Røed turned his head as though to get one last glimpse of the body of the woman lying through the window behind him, but only managed to turn it enough to notice Harry.

The look he gave him reminded Harry of the summer he had worked at a foundry, when the molten metal was poured into a mould and turned in seconds from hot, red and runny to cold, grey and hard.

Then they were gone.

The post-mortem technician entered and removed his face mask. ‘Hi, Harry.’

‘Hi, Helge. Let me ask you something.’

‘Yeah?’ He hung up his scrubs.

‘Have you seen someone who was guilty cry like that?’

Helge puffed out his cheeks pensively and slowly let the air out. ‘The problem with empiricism is that we don’t always get the answer about who is guilty and who isn’t, do we?’

‘Mm. Good point. May I...?’ He nodded in the direction of the autopsy room.

He saw Helge hesitate.

‘Thirty seconds,’ Harry said. ‘And I won’t tell a soul. At least, not anyone who can get you into trouble.’

Helge smiled. ‘All right. Hurry up then, before anyone comes. And don’t touch anything.’

Harry went in. Looked down at what was left of the vivacious person he had spoken to only two days ago. He had liked her. And she had liked him, he wasn’t wrong on the few occasions he noticed that sort of thing. In another life he might have asked her out for a coffee. He studied the wounds and the cut where decapitation had occurred. He breathed in a faint, barely discernible odour that reminded him of something. Since his parosmia rendered him unable to perceive the smell of a corpse, it wasn’t that. Of course — it was the smell of musk, and it reminded him of Los Angeles. Harry straightened up. Time — for him and Helene Røed — was up.

Harry and Helge walked out together and just caught sight of the police cruiser driving away. Alexandra was leaning against the front of the building smoking a cigarette. ‘That’s what I call two cute boys,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said.

‘Not you two, those two.’ She nodded in the direction of the car park where there was an old Mercedes with a taxi sign and a Keith Richards clone standing in front of it with a three-year-old on his shoulders. The clone was holding up an arm as an extension of his nose while he made what Harry assumed were supposed to be elephant noises and staggered in a way Harry hoped was intentional.

‘Yeah,’ he said, while trying to sort through the chaos of his thoughts, suspicions and impressions. ‘Cute.’

‘Øystein asked if I was going to join him and you at the Jealousy Bar tomorrow to celebrate solving the case,’ she said, handing the cigarette to Harry. ‘Will I?’

Harry took a long drag. ‘Will you?’

‘Yes, I will,’ she said, snatching the cigarette back again.