Killing Moon

34 Monday

Trans-Europe Express

Prim read the article on VG’s website once more.

It didn’t directly say that Våge had falsified his stories but that was the subtext. Nevertheless, if they weren’t saying it directly that had to mean they had no proof. Only he, Prim, could prove it, tell them what actually happened. Once again, this instilled in him that warm, intoxicating sense of control which he hadn’t anticipated, but was a pure bonus.

He had been thinking over and over ever since this morning, when he saw the small notice in Dagbladet about Terry Våge being taken off their crime cases. Prim had understood why right away. Not only why Våge had been removed, but why Dagbladet had drawn attention to it instead of just letting it happen quietly. They knew they had to actively distance themselves from Våge before the other newspapers confronted them with the lies they had published about cannibalism and resewn tattoos.

What was interesting was that Våge could now be used to solve the problem that had arisen. The problem of Markus Røed sitting safely in prison and beyond his reach indefinitely. This was time he didn’t have, because biology runs its course, the natural cycle has its rhythm. But it was a major decision to take, a big deviation from the original plan, and past improvisation had already proved there was a price to pay. So he would have to think carefully. He went through the details yet again.

He looked down at the burner phone and at the note with Terry Våge’s number, which he had found in directory enquiries. Felt the nervousness a chess player running out of time must feel when he decides on a move, in the knowledge it will either win or lose him the game, but has yet to move the piece. Prim thought through the scenarios one more time, what could go wrong. And what must not go wrong. Reminded himself that he could retreat at any time without any trails leading back to him. If he did everything right.

Then he tapped in the number. He had a feeling of free fall, a wonderful shiver of excitement.

It was answered on the third ring.

‘Terry.’

Prim tried to hear if there was anything in Våge’s voice to reveal the desperation he must be feeling. A man at rock bottom. A man nobody wanted. A man without alternatives. A man who had managed to make a comeback once before and was willing to do whatever it took to do so again, to win back his throne. To show them. Prim took a breath and put his voice in a deeper register.

‘Susanne Andersen liked being slapped in the face when she had sex, I’d imagine you can get her ex-boyfriends to confirm that. Bertine Bertilsen smelled of sweat, like a man. Helene Røed had a scar on her shoulder.’

Prim could hear Våge breathing in the pause that followed.

‘Who is this?’

‘This is the only person at large who could have this combined knowledge.’

Another pause.

‘What do you want?’

‘To save an innocent person.’

‘Who’s innocent?’

‘Markus Røed, of course.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I’m the one who killed the girls.’

Terry Våge knew he should have tapped Reject when unknown caller came up on the display, but as usual he couldn’t help himself, it was that bloody curiosity of his. The belief that suddenly something good might occur, that one day the woman of his dreams might just ring him up, for instance. Why didn’t he learn? The calls today had been from journalists looking for a comment on Dagbladet giving him the sack, and from a couple of die-hard fans letting him know how unfair they thought it was, among them a girl who sounded fit on the phone, but he had found her Facebook page and discovered she was much older than she sounded and pig ugly. And now this call, yet another nutter. Why couldn’t normal people ring? Friends, for instance? Was it due to him no longer having any perhaps? His mother and sister got in touch, but his brother and father didn’t. That’s to say, his father had called once — he probably thought the success at Dagbladet compensated somewhat for the scandal that had brought shame to the family name. In the past year a couple of girls had contacted Terry. They always popped up when he attracted attention; it had been the same when he was a music journalist. Obviously the band members got more pussy, but he got more than the guys on the mixing desk. The best strategy was sticking close to the band — a couple of positive reviews were always rewarded with a backstage pass — and hope for trickle-down benefits. The next best was the opposite: slate the band and reap the cred. As a crime journalist he no longer had the gigs as a hunting ground, but he compensated with the gonzo style he had cultivated as a music journalist; he was in the story, he was the war correspondent of the streets. And with a byline and a photo there was always the occasional woman who’d call. It was for that very reason he had kept his number listed — not for people to call him up at all hours of the day with all manner of idiotic tips and stories.

Taking this anonymous call was one thing, not hanging up was something else entirely. Why hadn’t he? Perhaps it wasn’t what the man said, about him being the one who had killed the girls. It was the way he had said it. Without fanfare, just stated it calmly.

Terry Våge cleared his throat. ‘If you really killed those girls, shouldn’t you be happy the police suspect someone else?’

‘True, I’ve no desire to be caught, but it gives me no pleasure that an innocent man should atone for my sins.’

‘Sins?’

‘Granted, choice of word’s a tad biblical. The reason I’m calling is that I think we can help one another, Våge.’

‘Can we?’

‘I want the police to realise they have the wrong man so that Røed is released immediately. You want to reclaim your place at the top after your attempts to fake your way there.’

‘What would you know about that?’

‘You wanting to get back to the top is just guesswork on my part, but as for your last article, I know it’s made up.’

Våge thought for a moment while his eyes wandered around what with a measure of goodwill could be termed a bachelor pad, but without had to be termed a hole. In a year, with the level of income he was receiving from Dagbladet, he had imagined he could get someplace bigger, with more air and light. Less dirt. Dagnija, his Latvian girlfriend — she thought she was at any rate — was coming to stay at the weekend, she could give the place a clean then.

‘I will of course have to check what you claimed to know about the girls at the outset,’ Våge said. ‘Assuming that’s correct, what’s your suggestion?’

‘I’d prefer to call it an ultimatum, since it either happens in exactly the detail I want or not at all.’

‘Go on.’

‘Meet me on the south side of the roof of the Opera House tomorrow night. I’ll provide you with proof that I was the one who killed the girls. Nine on the dot. You’re not to tell a soul we’re meeting and naturally you’ve to come alone. Understood?’

‘Understood. Can you tell me a little about—’

Våge stared at the phone. The man had hung up.

What the fuck was that? It was too crazy to be the real thing. And he didn’t have any number to find out who’d called either.

He checked the time. Five to eight. He felt like heading out for a beer. Not to Stopp Pressen! or anywhere like that, but someplace he wouldn’t risk running into colleagues. He thought wistfully about the times he could go to release concerts where the record companies handed out beer bongs to the journalists in the hope of a favourable review, and it wasn’t unheard of for a young female artist to seek his sympathy with the same aim in mind.

He looked at the phone again. Too crazy. Or was it?

It was half nine, and Bob Marley and the Wailers’ ‘Jamming’ was streaming out of the loudspeakers at a packed Jealousy Bar. It looked like the entire population of middle-aged hipsters in Grünerløkka had turned out to drink beer and offer their opinions on the playlist. They alternated between cheers and boos each time a new song came on.

‘I’m just saying that Harry’s wrong!’ Øystein shouted to Truls and Sung-min. ‘“Stayin’ Alive” isn’t better than “Trans-Europe Express”, and it’s as simple as that!’

‘The Bee Gees versus Kraftwerk,’ Harry translated for Alexandra as the five of them worked their way through four half-litres of beer and a mineral water. They were sitting in a booth they’d secured, where the sound level was lower.

‘Nice to be on the same team as you all,’ Sung-min declared, holding up his glass for a toast. ‘And congratulations on the arrest yesterday.’

‘Which Harry’s going to try and get reversed tomorrow,’ Øystein said, clinking his glass against the others’.

‘Pardon?’

‘He said he’s going to get Røed the alibi he doesn’t want.’

Sung-min looked across the table at Harry, who shrugged.

‘I was going to try to get into Villa Dante and find witnesses who can confirm that Røed was there on the Tuesday nights Susanne and Bertine were killed. If I find them, they’ll be worth a lot more than the statement of a dead wife.’

‘Why are you going there?’ Alexandra asked. ‘Why can’t the police just raid the place and make inquiries?’

‘Because,’ Sung-min said, ‘for one thing, we’d need a court order, and we’re not going to get that as there’s no reason to suspect anything criminal is going on at the club. For another, we’d never get anyone there to come forward as a witness given that the whole point of Villa Dante is complete anonymity. What I’m wondering is how you’re going to gain entry and get someone to talk, Harry.’

‘Well. Number one, I’m not a cop any more and I don’t need to concern myself about court orders. Number two, I have these.’ Harry had reached inside his jacket pocket and was holding up a cat mask and a Villa Dante membership card. ‘Plus, I have Røed’s suit, we’re both the same height, same mask...’

Alexandra laughed. ‘Harry Hole intends to go to a gay sex club and pose as...’ She snatched the card and read, ‘Catman? In that case you might need a few pointers first.’

‘I was actually wondering if you might consider coming along,’ Harry asked.

Alexandra shook her head. ‘You can’t take a woman with you to a gay club, that’s a deal breaker, no one will chat you up. The only way would be if I could pretend I was in drag.’

‘Not a chance, dear,’ Sung-min interjected.

‘Listen, this is what’s going to happen,’ Alexandra said, and her wicked grin made the others lean in closer to hear. While she elaborated, they alternated between gasping and laughing in disbelief. When Alexandra was finished, she looked at Sung-min for confirmation.

‘I don’t frequent those sorts of clubs, dear. What I’m wondering is how you know so much.’

‘You’re allowed to bring women to Scandinavian Leather Man one night a year,’ she said.

‘Still keen on going?’ Øystein asked, poking Harry in the ribs. Truls grunted his laugh.

‘More performance anxiety than penetration anxiety,’ Harry said. ‘I doubt I’ll be raped.’

‘No one’s going to get raped, certainly not a daddy nearly two metres tall,’ Alexandra said. ‘But there’ll probably be twinks there who’ll hit on you.’

‘Twinks?’

‘Cute, skinny boys who want to be towered over. But like I said, watch out for bears, and take care in the dark rooms.’

‘Another round?’ Øystein said. He counted three fingers being held up.

‘I’ll help you carry them,’ Harry said.

They squeezed their way to the bar and were standing in the queue when the guitar riff of David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’ sounded to rousing cheers all round.

‘Mick Ronson is God,’ Øystein said.

‘Yeah, but that there is Robert Fripp,’ Harry said.

‘Correct, Harry,’ a voice behind them said. They turned. The man had a flat cap, several days of stubble and warm, slightly sad eyes. ‘Everyone thinks Fripp used an EBow but it’s just feedback from the studio monitors.’ He held out his hand. ‘Arne, Katrine’s boyfriend.’ He had a nice smile. Like an old friend, Harry thought. Except that this guy had to be at least ten years younger than them.

‘Aha,’ Harry said, and shook his hand.

‘Big fan,’ Arne said.

‘Us too,’ Øystein said as he tried in vain to attract the attention of the busy bartenders.

‘I didn’t mean of Bowie, but of you.’

‘Of me?’ Harry said.

‘Of him?’ Øystein said.

Arne laughed. ‘Don’t look so shocked. I was thinking of the incredible things you’ve done for the city as a policeman.’

‘Mm. Is it Katrine who’s been telling you tales?’

‘No, no, listen, I knew about Harry Hole long before I met her. I must have been in my late teens when I was reading about you in the papers. You know, I even applied to Police College because of you.’ Arne’s laughter was happy, breezy.

‘Mm. But you didn’t get in?’

‘I was called in to take the entrance exams. But in the meantime I’d been accepted on a course at university that I thought I could use to become an investigator later.’

‘I see. Is Katrine with you?’

‘Is she here?’

‘I don’t know, she sent me a text saying she might pop in, but it’s so crowded in here and she might have bumped into some other people she knows. How did you find her, by the way?’

‘Has she said it was me who found her?’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘Is that a guess?’

‘Educated guess.’

Arne looked at Harry in mock seriousness for a moment. Then his face broke into a boyish smile. ‘You’re right, of course. The first time I saw her was on TV, but don’t tell her, please. And not long after that she happened to come by where I work. So, I approached her, said I’d seen her on TV, and that she seemed like a hell of a woman.’

‘So, kind of like you’re doing now.’

More breezy laughter. ‘I can see how you’d think I was a fanboy, Harry.’

‘Aren’t you?’

Arne seemed to think it over. ‘Yeah, you’re right again, I suppose I am. Although you and Katrine aren’t my biggest idols.’

‘Comforting to hear. Who is your biggest idol then?’

‘You wouldn’t be interested, I’m afraid.’

‘Maybe not but try me.’

‘All right. Salmonella typhimurium.’ Arne pronounced it slowly and reverently with clear diction.

‘Mm. Salmonella as in bacteria?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because typhimurium is outstanding. It can survive anything and anywhere, even out in space.’

‘And why are you interested in it?’

‘It’s part of my job.’

‘Which is?’

‘I search for particles.’

‘The kind within us or out there?’

‘It’s the same, Harry. The stuff life is made of. And death.’

‘OK?’

‘If I were to gather up all the microbes, bacteria and parasites within you, guess how much it would weigh?’

‘Mm.’

‘Two kilos.’ Øystein handed two half-litres to Harry. ‘Read it in Science Illustrated. Scary stuff.’

‘Yeah, but it’d be even scarier if they weren’t present,’ Arne said. ‘Then we wouldn’t be alive.’

‘Mm. And they survive in space?’

‘Some microbes don’t even need to be in proximity to a star or have access to oxygen. Quite the opposite, in fact. They’ve carried out research on it aboard the space stations and discovered that typhimurium is even more dangerous and more effective in those surroundings than on the earth’s surface.’

‘Seeing as you sound like you know a lot about that kind of stuff...’ Øystein sucked the froth off one of the half-litres he was holding. ‘Is it true that thunder can only occur when it rains?’

Arne looked slightly disorientated. ‘Eh... no.’

‘Exactly,’ Øystein said. ‘Listen.’

They listened. Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Dreams’ had reached its chorus, where Stevie Nicks sings about thunder only happening when it rains.

The three of them laughed.

‘Lindsey Buckingham’s fault,’ Øystein said.

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘It was actually Stevie Nicks who wrote that song.’

‘Well, it’s the best two-chord song ever at any rate,’ Arne said.

‘No, Nirvana have that,’ Øystein said quickly. ‘“Something in the Way”.’

They looked at Harry. He shrugged. ‘Jane’s Addiction. “Jane Says”.’

‘You’re improving,’ Øystein said, smacking his lips. ‘And the worst two-chord song of all time?’

They looked at Arne. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘“Born in the U.S.A.” might not be the worst, but it’s definitely the most overrated.’

Øystein and Harry nodded in acknowledgement.

‘You coming over to our table?’ Øystein asked.

‘Thanks, but I have a pal over there I need to keep company. Another time.’

With their hands full of beer glasses they exchanged careful knuckle bumps as they took their leave of one another, before Arne disappeared into the crowd and Harry and Øystein started on their way back to the booth.

‘Nice guy,’ Øystein said. ‘I think Bratt might be onto a good thing there.’

Harry nodded. His brain was searching for something, which it had registered, but had not paid attention to. They arrived at the table with four half-litres, and since the others were drinking so slowly, Harry took a sip of one. And then another.

When the Sex Pistols’ ‘God Save the Queen’ finally came on, they got to their feet in the booth and pogoed up and down along with the rest of the rabble.

By midnight the Jealousy Bar was still jam-packed and Harry was drunk.

‘You’re happy,’ Alexandra whispered in his ear.

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, I haven’t seen you like this since you got home. And you smell good.’

‘Mm. Guess it’s true then.’

‘What’s true.’

‘That you smell better when you’re not in debt.’

‘I don’t get it. But speaking of home, are you going to walk me?’

‘Walk you home or come home with you?’

‘We can figure that out along the way.’

Harry realised how drunk he was when he hugged the others goodbye. Sung-min smelled of a distinctive fragrance, lavender, or something similar, and wished him luck at Villa Dante, but added that he would pretend not to have heard about Harry’s improper plans.

Maybe it was the talk of the smell of debt and Sung-min’s lavender that did it, but on the way out the door Harry realised what detail had eluded him. The smell. He had breathed it in at some point in the evening, here, in this bar. He shuddered, turned and let his gaze sweep over the crowd. A scent of musk. The same scent he had caught when he was in the autopsy room with Helene Røed.

‘Harry?’

‘I’m coming.’

Prim traversed the streets of Oslo. The wheels of his mind were going round and round, as though trying to grind the painful thoughts into pieces.

He, the policeman, had been at the Jealousy Bar, and that had made his blood boil. He should have left straight away, avoided the policeman, but it was as though he had been drawn to him, as though he were the mouse and the policeman the cat. He had looked for Her too, and maybe she had been there, maybe not, it had been so packed that most people were standing, making it difficult to get an overview. He was meeting her tomorrow. Should he ask if she was there? No, she could bring it up if she wanted. He had too many things to think about at the moment, he needed to push this to the back of his mind, he needed to have a clear head for tomorrow. He continued walking. Nordahl Bruns gate. Thor Olsens gate. Fredensborgveien. His heels struck the tarmac in a rhythmic beat as he hummed the tune of ‘Heroes’ by David Bowie.