Killing Moon

33 Monday

Editor-in-chief Ole Solstad scratched his cheek with one tip of his reading glasses. Looked across his desk, piled with coffee-stained stacks of paper, at Terry Våge. Våge was slouched in the visitor’s chair, his wool coat and porkpie hat still on, as though he expected the meeting to take only a few moments. And hopefully it would. Because Solstad was dreading it. He should have listened to his colleague at the newspaper Våge had worked at before, who had quoted from the movie Fargo when he said, ‘I don’t vouch for him.’

Solstad and Våge had exchanged a few general words about Røed’s arrest. Våge had grinned and said they had the wrong man. Solstad detected no lack of self-confidence, but that was likely the way with all con men, they were almost as adept at fooling themselves.

‘So, we have decided not to commission any more content from you,’ Solstad said, aware he had to be careful not to use words like ‘let you go’, ‘terminate’ or ‘sack’, either verbally or in writing. Although Våge was only on a freelancer contract, a good lawyer could use a de facto dismissal against them at an employment tribunal. The way Solstad had now phrased it only meant they would not be printing what Våge wrote, while at the same time he was not ruling out Våge being assigned other tasks covered by the contract, such as research for other journalists. But labour law was thorny, as Dagbladet’s lawyer had made clear to him.

‘Why not?’ Våge said.

‘Because the events of the past few days have cast doubt on the veracity of your latest articles.’ And added, since someone had recently told him that a reprimand was always more effective if it included the name of the target, ‘Våge.’

As soon as he had spoken, it struck Solstad that admonishment was hardly the appropriate tactic, given that the goal here wasn’t for Våge to promise to mend his ways but to be rid of the guy with the least possible fuss. On the other hand, Våge needed to understand why they were taking such a drastic step, that it was about Dagbladet’s credibility.

‘Can you prove that?’ Våge said, without batting an eyelid, yes, even going so far as stifling a yawn. Demonstrative and puerile, but provocative nonetheless.

‘The real question is if you can prove what you wrote. It looks like, smells like and sounds like fiction. Unless you can give me your source—’

‘Christ, Solstad, as the editor of this rag you must know I have to protect—’

‘I’m not saying you go public with it, just give it to me. Your editor-in-chief. The man responsible for what you write and we publish. Understand? If you tell me the source, then I’m obligated to protect it, same as you. As far, that is, as the law allows confidentiality of sources. Do you understand?’

Terry Våge let out a lengthy groan. ‘Do you understand, Solstad? Do you understand that then I’ll go to another paper, let’s say VG or Aftenposten, and do for them what I’ve been doing for Dagbladet? As in, turn them into the market leaders on crime reporting.’

Ole Solstad and the other editors had of course taken that into consideration when they’d agreed on this decision. Våge had more readers than any of their other journalists — his click rates were simply enormous. And Solstad would hate to see those numbers transferred to a competitor. But, like someone on the editorial staff had said, if they gave the discreet outward impression of having got rid of Terry Våge for similar reasons as the last time he was fired, Våge would be about as attractive to Dagbladet’s rivals as Lance Armstrong had been for US Postal’s competitors after the doping scandal. It was a scorched earth policy, and it was Terry Våge they were burning, but in an era when respect for the truth was on the wane, old bastions like Dagbladet had to lead the way by example. They could always apologise if it turned out that Våge — against all odds — was in the clear.

Solstad adjusted his glasses. ‘I wish you all the best at our competitors, Våge. Either you’re a man of exceptional integrity, or you’re the very opposite, and we can’t take a chance on the latter. I hope you understand.’ Solstad got to his feet behind the desk. ‘Along with payment for your last article, the editorial team wanted to give you a small bonus for your overall contribution.’

Våge had also stood up, and Solstad tried to read the other man’s body language to deduce whether he faced rejection if he proffered his hand. Våge flashed a white grin. ‘You can wipe your arse with your bonus, Solstad. And then you can wipe your glasses. Because everyone apart from you knows they’re so caked in shit it’s no wonder you see fuck all.’

Ole Solstad remained standing for a few seconds staring at the door Våge had slammed behind him. Then he removed his glasses and studied them carefully. Shit?

Harry was standing in the room next to the small interview room staring at Markus Røed, who was sitting on the other side of the glass wall. Three other people were in there with him, the lead interviewer, his assistant and Johan Krohn.

It had been a busy morning. Harry had met up at Krohn’s office in Rosenkrantz’ gate at eight o’clock where they had called the three police lawyers, who in turn had declared it ‘highly likely’ that Røed would be found guilty in court, with the proviso that other significant factors did not come into play. Krohn hadn’t said a lot but had behaved in a professional manner. Without objection, he had immediately contacted the bank and, acting on the prior issued power of representation, had instructed them to transfer the contractual amount to the bank account in the Cayman Islands. According to the bank the recipient would see the money in their account the same day. They were saved. That is to say, he and Lucille were saved. So why was he standing here? Why wasn’t he already at a bar getting on with what he had begun at Creatures? Well. Why do people finish books they’ve realised they don’t like? Why do single people make up their beds? When he awoke that morning, he had realised it was the first night in weeks he hadn’t dreamt about his mother, about her standing in the doorway of the classroom. He had made peace. Or had he? Instead, he had dreamt that he was still running, but that everything his feet landed on turned into treadmills, and that he wasn’t able to flee from... from what?

‘Responsibility.’ It was his grandfather’s voice, the kind, alcoholic man who vomited in the dawn light before shoving the rowing boat out of the boatshed, lifting Harry aboard while Harry asked why they were going to pull in the nets now when Grandad was sick. But Harry didn’t have any bloody responsibilities left to run from. Or did he? Apparently, he thought he did. He was standing here in any case. Harry felt a headache coming on and pushed the thoughts away. He did so by concentrating on simple, concrete things he understood. Like trying to interpret Røed’s facial expressions and body language as he sat answering questions. Harry tried, without listening to the answers, to decide if he thought Markus Røed was guilty or not. Sometimes it felt as though all the experience Harry had gathered throughout his life as a detective was useless, that his ability to read other people was mere illusion. While other times this — this gut feeling — was the only certainty, the only thing he could always count on. How many times had he been without physical proof or circumstantial evidence, but known, and been right in the end? Or was that just cognitive bias, confirmation bias? Had he thought he’d known just as often but been wrong and consigned it to oblivion? Why was he so sure Markus Røed hadn’t killed the women — and was still so sure he wasn’t innocent? Had he ordered the murders, ensured he had an alibi and been so confident his innocence would be proved that he had paid Harry and the others to do it? If that was the case, why not provide yourself with a better alibi than being at home alone with your wife when the first two murders were committed? And now he didn’t even have an alibi, Markus Røed claimed he had been home on his own the night Helene was killed. Her — the witness who could save him if there was a trial. It didn’t add up. And yet...

‘Is he saying anything?’ a voice whispered next to Harry. It was Katrine, who had entered the semi-darkness of the room and stood between Harry and Sung-min.

‘Yes,’ Sung-min whispered. ‘Don’t know. Can’t remember. No.’

‘Right. Picking up any vibes?’

‘I’m trying,’ Harry said.

Sung-min didn’t answer.

‘Sung?’ Katrine said.

‘I might be wrong,’ Sung-min said, ‘but I think Markus Røed is a closet gay. With the emphasis on closet.’

The other two looked at him.

‘What makes you think that?’ Katrine asked.

Sung-min gave a crooked smile. ‘That would be a long lecture, but let’s just say it’s the sum of a long series of subliminal details which I notice, and you don’t. But I could be wrong of course.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Harry said.

Now the two others looked at him.

He cleared his throat. ‘Remember I asked if you’d heard of Villa Dante?’

Katrine nodded.

‘It’s actually a club called Tuesdays, just reopened under a different name.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ she said.

‘Exclusive gay club a few years back,’ Sung-min said. ‘It was shut down when an underage boy was raped there. Then it was referred to as Studio 54, after the gay bar in New York, you know. Because it was open exactly as long, thirty-three months.’

‘Now I remember,’ Katrine said. ‘We called it the Butterfly case because the boy said the rapist was wearing a butterfly mask. But wasn’t the reason they had to close because they had waiters under eighteen serving spirits?’

‘Technically, yes,’ Sung-min said. ‘The court wasn’t willing to accept the club’s activities fell under private function, and consequently ruled they’d broken licensing laws.’

‘I’ve reason to believe that Markus Røed frequented Villa Dante,’ Harry said. ‘I found a membership card and a cat mask in the pockets of this suit. Which is his.’

Sung-min raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re... eh, wearing his suit?’

‘What are you getting at, Harry?’ Katrine’s voice was sharp, her stare hard.

Harry took a deep breath. He could still let it lie.

‘It seems Villa Dante has continued to hold the club nights on Tuesdays. If Røed is as anxious to stay in the closet as you believe, he may have an alibi for the nights Susanne and Bertine were killed, just not the alibi he’s given us.’

‘What you’re saying,’ Katrine said slowly, while Harry felt as though her eyes were drilling into his head, ‘is that we have arrested a man with a better alibi than that he was with his wife. That he was at a gay club. But doesn’t want anybody to know that?’

‘I’m just saying it’s a possibility.’

‘You’re saying it’s possible Røed would rather risk prison than have his sexual orientation revealed?’ Her voice was monotone but quivered with something Harry could guess at. Sheer unadulterated anger.

Harry looked at Sung-min, who nodded.

‘I’ve met men who would sooner be dead than be outed,’ Sung-min said. ‘We might believe things have moved forward for all in that regard, but unfortunately that’s not the case. The shame, self-loathing, condemnation, it’s not a thing of the past. Especially for those of Røed’s generation.’

‘And with his family background,’ Harry added. ‘I’ve seen pictures of his forefathers. They didn’t look like men who would hand over the reins of the business to someone who has sex with men.’

Katrine still hadn’t taken her eyes off Harry. ‘So tell me, what would you do?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. There’s a reason you’re telling us this, right?’

‘Well.’ He reached into his pocket and handed her a note. ‘I’d take the opportunity of this interview to ask him these two questions.’

He watched Katrine read the note as they listened to Krohn’s voice coming over the loudspeaker. ‘...over an hour, and my client has answered all your questions, most of them two or three times. Either we can stop here or I’d like my objection put on the record.’

The main interviewer and her colleague looked at each other.

‘OK,’ the lead interviewer said, looked up at the clock on the wall and became aware of Katrine who had opened the door of the interview room. She went over to her, took the note and listened. Harry could see Krohn’s questioning look. Then the lead interviewer sat down and cleared her throat.

‘Two final questions. Were you at the Villa Dante club at the times it’s believed that Susanne and Bertine were killed?’

Røed exchanged a glance with Krohn before answering. ‘I’ve never heard of that club, and I will simply repeat that I was with my wife.’

‘Thank you. The other question is for you, Krohn.’

‘For me?’

‘Yes. Were you aware that Helene Røed was seeking a divorce and that if her demands in the related settlement were not met, she was planning to retract the alibi she’d given her husband for the nights of the murders?’

Harry saw Krohn’s face turn red. ‘I... I see no reason to answer that.’

‘Not even a simple no?’

‘This is highly irregular, and I think we’ll consider this interview over.’ Krohn got to his feet.

‘That spoke volumes,’ Sung-min said, rocking on his heels.

Harry made to go but Katrine held him back.

‘Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know all this before we arrested Røed,’ she whispered angrily. ‘OK?’

‘He just lost his stated alibi,’ Harry said. ‘That was the only one he had. So let’s just hope no one at Villa Dante can attest to his being there.’

‘And what exactly are you hoping for, Harry?’

‘The same as always.’

‘Which is?’

‘That the guiltiest get caught.’

Harry had to take long strides to catch up with Johan Krohn on the hill down from Police HQ towards Grønlandsleiret.

‘Was it you who gave them the idea of asking me that last question?’ Krohn said, scowling.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because I know exactly what Helene Røed told the police, which wasn’t much. And when I arranged for you to have your conversation with Helene, I was foolish enough to tell her she could trust you.’

‘Did you know she’d use the alibi to blackmail Markus?’

‘No.’

‘But you did receive the letter from her lawyer where she demanded half of everything despite the prenup and managed to put two and two together.’

‘She may have had other leverage which bore no relation to this case.’

‘Like outing him?’

‘It would seem we’ve nothing more to discuss, Harry.’ Krohn made an unsuccessful attempt to hail a passing taxi, but from across the street a parked taxi made a U-turn and glided up to the pavement beside them. The window on the driver’s side was lowered and a face with a brown grin appeared.

‘Can we offer you a lift?’ Harry asked.

‘No thank you,’ Krohn said and strode down Grønlandsleiret.

Øystein watched the lawyer stalk off. ‘Bit pissed off?’

It was six o’clock and beneath the low, dense cloud cover the lights in the houses were already coming on.

Harry stared at the ceiling. He was lying on his back on the floor next to Ståle Aune’s bed. On the other side of the bed, Øystein was lying in a similar position.

‘So, your gut is telling you that Markus Røed is both guilty and innocent,’ Aune said.

‘Yeah,’ Harry said.

‘How, for example?’

‘Well, he orders both murders, but doesn’t commit them. Or the first two murders are carried out by a sex attacker, and Røed spots his chance to kill his wife by copying the serial killer, so no one thinks he’s guilty.’

‘Especially if he has an alibi for the first two murders,’ Øystein said.

‘Do either of you believe in that theory?’ Aune asked.

‘No,’ Harry and Øystein said in unison.

‘It’s baffling,’ Harry said. ‘On the one hand Røed had motive to kill his wife if she was blackmailing him. On the other hand, his alibi is severely weakened now that she can’t confirm her statement to the police under oath in a trial.’

‘Well, maybe Våge’s right then,’ Øystein said, as the door opened. ‘Even though he’s been given the boot. There’s a cannibal and serial killer on the loose, full stop.’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘The type of serial killer Våge is describing doesn’t murder three people from the same party.’

‘Våge is making stuff up,’ Truls said, putting three large pizza boxes on the table and tearing off the lids. ‘VG have it up on their website now. They have sources saying Våge was fired from Dagbladet because he was concocting stories. I could’ve told them that.’

‘Could you?’ Aune looked at him in surprise.

Truls just grinned.

‘Ah, smells like pepperoni and human flesh,’ Øystein said, getting to his feet.

‘Jibran, you have to help us eat this,’ Aune called over to the neighbouring bed where the vet lay with his headphones on.

While the other four crowded around the table, Harry sat on the floor with his back against the wall reading VG’s webpage. And thinking.

‘By the way, Harry,’ Øystein said, his mouth full of pizza, ‘I told that girl at the Forensic Medical Institute we’d meet in the Jealousy at nine tonight, all right?’

‘OK. Sung-min Larsen from Kripos is coming as well.’

‘What about you, Truls?’

‘What about me?’

‘Come to the Jealousy. It’s 1977 today.’

‘Huh?’

‘1977. Only the best tunes from 1977.’

Truls chewed while he scowled distrustfully at Øystein. As though he was unable to decide whether he was being made fun of or if somebody was actually inviting him to hang out.

‘All right,’ he said finally.

‘Excellent, we’ll be the dream team. This pizza’s going fast here, Harry. What are we doing anyway?’

‘Pulling in the net,’ Harry said without looking up.

‘Eh?’

‘I’m wondering if I’m going to try getting Markus Røed that alibi he doesn’t want.’

Aune approached him. ‘You seem relieved, Harry.’

‘Relieved?’

‘I won’t ask but I’m guessing it has something to do with what you didn’t want to talk about.’

Harry looked up. Smiled. Nodded.

‘Good,’ Aune said. ‘Good, then I’m a little relieved too.’ He shuffled towards the bed.

At seven o’clock Ingrid Aune arrived. Øystein and Truls were in the cafeteria, and when Ståle went to the bathroom, Ingrid and Harry were left sitting alone in the room.

‘We’re heading off now, so the two of you can get some peace,’ Harry said.

Ingrid, a small, stocky woman with steel-grey hair, a steady gaze and the residue of a Nordland accent, straightened up in the chair and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve just come from the senior consultant’s office. He’s received a report expressing concern from the head nurse. About three men who tire Ståle Aune out with their numerous and lengthy visits. As the patients tend to find it difficult to say it themselves, he was wondering if I could urge you to curtail the visits from now on as Ståle is entering the final phase.’

Harry nodded. ‘I understand. Is that what you want?’

‘Absolutely not. I told the consultant that you need him. And...’ She smiled. ‘That he needs you. We need something to live for, I said to him. And sometimes something to die for. The consultant said they were wise words, and I told him they weren’t mine, but Ståle’s.’

Harry smiled back. ‘Did the senior consultant say anything else?’

She nodded. Turned her gaze to the window.

‘Remember that time you saved Ståle’s life, Harry?’

‘No.’

She gave a brief laugh. ‘Ståle has asked me to save his life. That’s how he put it, the nitwit. He’s asked me to get hold of a syringe. He suggested morphine.’

In the ensuing silence, Jibran’s steady breathing as he slept was the only sound in the room.

‘Are you going to?’

‘I am,’ she said. Her eyes filled with tears and her voice grew thick. ‘But I don’t think I can manage it, Harry.’

Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. Felt it tremble weakly. Her voice was only a whisper.

‘And I know that’s what I’m going to feel guilty about for the rest of my life.’