Killing Moon

36 Wednesday

‘And what’s he doing here?’ Markus Røed sputtered, pointing at Harry. ‘A guy I’ve paid a million dollars to send me to jail when I’m innocent to boot!’

‘Like I told you,’ Krohn said, ‘he’s here because he doesn’t actually think you’re guilty, he thinks you were—’

‘I heard what he thinks! But I haven’t been to any bloody... gay club.’

He spat the last two words out. Harry felt a drop hit the back of his hand, shrugged and looked at Johan Krohn. The room the three of them had been allocated for their meeting was actually a visiting room for the inmates’ families. It had a window where the morning sun shone in behind rose-patterned curtains and iron bars, a table with an embroidered tablecloth, four chairs and a sofa. Harry had avoided the sofa and noticed Krohn did the same. He probably knew it was marinated in the juices from desperate and fast sex.

‘Could you explain?’ Harry said.

‘Yes,’ Krohn said. ‘Filip Kessler is saying that on the two Tuesdays Susanne and Bertine were murdered, he was with a person wearing the mask you see here.’

Krohn pointed at the cat mask lying on the table next to the membership card.

‘This person had the nickname Catman. Both items were in your suit, Markus. And the rest of the physical description matches you as well.’

‘Really? Which distinguishing features did he tell you about, then? Tattoos or scars? Birthmarks? Any peculiar abnormalities?’ Røed looked from one to the other.

Harry shook his head.

‘What?’ Røed laughed angrily. ‘Nothing?’

‘He doesn’t remember anything like that,’ Harry said. ‘But he’s pretty sure he’d recognise you if he was to touch you.’

‘Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,’ Røed said, looking like he was going to retch.

‘Markus,’ Krohn said, ‘this is an alibi. An alibi we can use to get you released immediately, and that we can enter as evidence to have you acquitted should they still decide to prosecute. I understand that you’re worried what this alibi would mean to people’s image of you, but—’

‘You understand?’ Røed roared. ‘Understand? No, you don’t fucking understand what it’s like to sit here suspected of killing your own wife. And then be accused of this filth on top of it. I haven’t seen that mask before. You want to know what I think? I think Helene got that mask and the membership card from some queer who looks like me and gave it to you so she could use it against me in the divorce. As for this Filip guy, he’s got nothing on me, he just sees the opportunity to make a quick buck. So find out how much he wants, pay him and make sure he keeps his mouth shut. That isn’t a suggestion, Johan, it’s an order.’ Røed sneezed hard before continuing. ‘And the two of you are contractually bound by confidentiality clauses. If either of you say a single word about this to anybody, I’ll sue the shit out of you.’

Harry cleared his throat. ‘This isn’t about you, Røed.’

‘What was that?’

‘There’s a killer out there who can and will, in all likelihood, strike again. That will be made all the easier for him as long as the police are convinced they already have the guilty party, as in you, in custody. If we withhold information about you being at Villa Dante, it makes us complicit when he kills his next victim.’

‘We? You can’t honestly believe you still work for me, Hole?’

‘I intend to honour the contract and I don’t regard the case as solved.’

‘Really? Then give me back my money!’

‘Not as long as three police lawyers are of the opinion you face conviction. What’s important now is to get the police to refocus their attention, and that means we have to give them this alibi.’

‘I wasn’t at that place, I’m telling you! It’s not my fucking responsibility if the police aren’t able to do their job. I’m innocent, and they’ll find that out in a straightforward fashion, not with these... gay lies. There’s no reason for panic or rash actions here.’

‘You idiot,’ Harry said with a sigh, as though it were a sad fact he was merely stating. ‘There’s every reason to panic.’ He got to his feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Krohn asked.

‘To inform the police,’ Harry said.

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Røed snarled. ‘You do that and I’ll make sure you and everyone you care about rot in hell. Don’t think I’m not capable of it. And another thing. You might be under the impression I can’t reverse a wire transfer to the Cayman Islands two days after I’ve instructed my bank to pay it. Wrong.’

Something snapped in Harry, a familiar feeling of free fall. He took a step towards Røed’s chair, and before he knew it, his hand was round the property mogul’s throat and he was squeezing. Røed jerked back in his chair, gripped Harry’s forearm with both hands and tried to pull it away as his face turned red from lack of blood flow.

‘You do that, and I’ll kill you,’ Harry whispered. ‘Kill. You.’

‘Harry!’ Krohn had also risen to his feet.

‘Sit down, I’ll let go,’ Harry hissed, staring into the bulging, imploring eyes of Markus Røed.

‘Now, Harry!’

Røed gurgled and kicked, but Harry held him down in the chair. He squeezed even harder and felt the power, the thrill, that he could squeeze the juice out of this anti-human. Yes, thrill, and that same feeling of free fall as when he lifted the glass of his first drink after months of sobriety. But he could already feel the thrill subside, the power in his grip ebb. Because there was no reward for this free fall either, other than it was free for the briefest of moments, and only led one way. Down.

Harry let go, and Røed drew in air in a drawn-out wheeze before leaning forward in a fit of coughing.

Harry turned to Krohn. ‘I’m guessing that now I am fired?’

Krohn nodded. Harry smoothed his tie and left.

Mikael Bellman stood by the window gazing longingly down towards the city centre, where he could make out the high-rise in the government quarter. Closer, down by Gullhaug Bridge, he could see the treetops waving. The wind speed was supposed to increase even further; there had been talk of strong gales overnight. Something else had been forecast too, something about a lunar eclipse on Friday; apparently the events weren’t connected. He raised his arm and looked at his classic Omega Seamaster watch. One minute to two. He had spent much of the day discussing in his own mind the dilemma the Chief of Police had presented to him. In principle, an individual case like this had of course no business being on the desk of the Minster of Justice, but Bellman had made it his business by getting involved earlier, and now he couldn’t just drop it. He cursed.

Vivian tapped gently on the door and opened it. When he hired her as his personal assistant, it wasn’t just because she had a master’s in political science, spoke French after two years as a model in Paris and was willing to do everything from making coffee to greeting visitors and transcribing his speeches. She was pretty. There was much to be said about the function of physical appearance in today’s world, and much was said. So much that one thing was certain: it was as important as it had always been. He himself was a handsome man and was under no illusions as to it having played a part in his career advancement. Despite the modelling career, Vivian was not taller than him, and was therefore someone he could take into meetings and to dinners. She had a live-in boyfriend, but he saw that as more of a challenge than a drawback. Actually, it was an advantage. A visit to a couple of South American countries was planned for winter; the main issue on the agenda was human rights, a pure pleasure trip, in other words. And like he told himself, there’re a lot less flashbulbs and shepherding of a Minister of Justice than a Prime Minister.

‘It’s the Chief of Police,’ Vivian said softly.

‘Send him in.’

‘On Zoom,’ she said.

‘Oh? I thought he was coming—’

‘Yes, but he just called and said it was too far to get up to Nydalen because he has another meeting downtown afterwards. He sent a link — shall I...?’

She went over to the desk and the PC. Quick fingers, so much quicker than his own, ran across the keyboard. ‘There.’ She smiled. And added, as though to ease his irritation, ‘He’s sitting waiting for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Bellman remained standing by the window until Vivian left the room. And then waited some more. Until he tired of his own childishness, walked over and sat down in front of the PC. The Chief of Police looked tanned, probably a recent autumn break abroad somewhere. But it didn’t help much when the camera angle was so unfortunate that his double chin dominated. He had obviously placed the laptop on the desk that had been there when Bellman himself was Chief of Police, instead of on top of a stack of books.

‘Compared to down where you are, there’s hardly any traffic up here,’ Bellman said. ‘I get home to Høyenhall in twenty minutes. You should try it.’

‘Apologies, Mikael, I was called into an emergency meeting about the state visit next week.’

‘OK, let’s get straight to business. Are you alone, by the way?’

‘Completely alone, go for it.’

Mikael felt the irritation rise again. Lax use of first names and invitations like ‘go for it’ ought to be the prerogative of the Minister of Justice. Especially as the six-year term of the Chief of Police was soon up and it was no longer the National Police Commissioner but the King in Council — in effect, the Minister of Justice — who decided who would continue and who would not, and Bellman had little to lose politically by giving the keys to Bodil Melling. Firstly because she was a woman, and secondly because she understood politics, understood who was in charge.

Bellman took a deep breath. ‘Just so we understand each other. What you’re seeking my advice on is whether you should release Markus Røed from custody or not. And you also feel sure that both options are open to you.’

‘Yes,’ the Chief of Police said. ‘Hole has a witness who says he was with Røed the nights the first two girls were killed.’

‘A credible witness?’

‘Credible in that, as opposed to Helene Røed, the person concerned has no obvious motive in providing Røed with an alibi. Less credible because according to the Drug Squad, the person in question is on their list of people selling cocaine in Oslo.’

‘But not convicted?’

‘A small-time dealer, one who would be replaced overnight.’

Bellman nodded. They let those they had control over continue their activities. Better the devil you know.

‘But?’ Bellman said, glancing at his Omega watch. It was impractical and bulky but sent the right signals. At the moment, the signal was for the Chief of Police to hurry up, he wasn’t the only one with a busy day.

‘On the other hand, Susanne Andersen had saliva from Markus Røed on her breast.’

‘That’s a pretty overwhelming argument for continuing to keep him in custody, I should imagine.’

‘Yes. It is of course a possibility he and Susanne met earlier that day and had sex — it hasn’t been possible to retrace all her movements. But if they did, it’s odd Røed made no mention of it in interviews. Instead he denies ever having been intimate with her and claims he never saw her after the party.’

‘In other words, he’s lying.’

‘Yes.’

Bellman drummed his fingers on the desk. Prime ministers were only re-elected if the harvest has been good, figuratively speaking. His advisers emphasised repeatedly that as Minister of Justice, he would always share some measure of blame or credit for what happened further down the system, no matter if the mistake or good decision was made by people who were in the same job under the previous government. If the voters felt that a wealthy, privileged slimeball like Røed was let off the hook easily it would indirectly affect Bellman no matter what. He made up his mind.

‘We have more than enough to keep him in custody with the semen.’

‘Saliva.’

‘Yeah. And I’m sure you agree that it wouldn’t look good if Harry Hole got to decide when Røed is to be arrested and when he’s to be released.’

‘I don’t disagree, no.’

‘Good. Then I think you have my advice...’ Bellman waited for the name of the Chief of Police to come to him, but when for some reason it did not, and the intonation of the sentence he had begun required an ending, he inserted a ‘...don’t you?’

‘Yeah, sure do. Thanks very much, Mikael.’

‘Thank you, Chief of Police,’ Bellman said, fumbling for a moment with the mouse before he managed to disconnect the link, leaned back in his chair and whispered: ‘Outgoing Chief of Police.’

Prim looked at Fredric Steiner sitting on the bed. His eyes were childlike in their clarity, but his stare was vacant, as though a curtain were drawn within.

‘Uncle,’ Prim said, ‘can you hear me?’

No response.

He could say anything to him, it wouldn’t go in. Ergo nothing would come out either. Not in a way anyone would believe, at any rate.

Prim closed the door to the corridor and sat down by the bed again. ‘You’re going to die very soon,’ he said, relishing the sound of the words. His uncle’s expression didn’t change, he was gazing at something only he could see that seemed a long way off.

‘You’re going to die, and I suppose in a sense I should be sad. I mean, after all, I am your—’ he glanced at the door just in case — ‘biological son.’

The only sound to be heard was the low whistle of the wind in one of the gutters of the nursing home.

‘But I’m not sad. Because I hate you. Not in the way I hate him. The man who took over your problems, who took over Mum and me. I hate you because you knew what my stepfather was up to, what he was doing to me. I know you confronted him about it, I heard you that night. Heard you threaten to expose him. And how he threatened to then expose you. The two of you left it at that. You sacrificed me to save yourself. Save yourself, Mum and the family name. What was left of it — you didn’t even use it yourself any longer, after all.’

Prim reached into the bag, took out a biscuit and let it crunch between his teeth.

‘And now you’re going to die, nameless and alone. You’ll be forgotten and disappear. While I, the spawn of your loins, the sinful fruit of your lust, will see my name shine in the heavens. You hear me, Uncle Fredric? Doesn’t it sound poetic? I’ve written all that down in my diary, it’s important to give the biographers some material to work with, isn’t it?’

He stood up.

‘I doubt I’ll be back. So this is farewell, Uncle.’ He walked to the door, turned. ‘I don’t mean fare well, of course. I hope your journey to hell is anything but.’

Prim shut the door behind him, smiled at a nurse walking towards him and left the nursing home.

The nurse entered the old professor’s room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with a blank expression, but tears were running down his cheeks. That was how it was with the elderly, they lost control of their emotions. Especially the senile. She sniffed. Had he soiled himself? No, it was just that the air in here was stale and smelled of bodily odours and... musk?

She opened a window to air the room.

It was eight in the evening. Terry Våge listened to the metallic whining from the inner courtyard, where the rising wind was making the communal rotary clothes line turn. He had resumed the crime blog. There was so much to write about. Even so, he had been sat staring at the empty white page on the PC screen.

The phone rang.

Maybe it was Dagnija, they’d had a row last night, and she said she wasn’t coming at the weekend. Now she probably regretted it, as usual. He could feel how he hoped it was her.

He looked at the mobile. Unknown number. If it was that phoney from yesterday, he shouldn’t take it, nutcases you had responded to once or twice could be impossible to get rid of. Once — after he had written the truth about The War on Drugs being the most boring band in the world both live and on record — he had been stupid enough to answer a pissed-off fan one time, and had ended up with a pest who phoned, emailed and even collared him at gigs, and whom it took two years of ignoring to shake off.

It continued ringing.

Terry Våge cast another glance at the empty screen. Then he answered the phone.

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks for coming alone yesterday and waiting on the roof until twenty to ten.’

‘You... were there?’

‘I was watching. I hope you understand that I had to be sure you wouldn’t try and trick me.’

Våge hesitated. ‘Yeah, yeah, OK. But I don’t have time for any more hide-and-seek.’

‘Oh yes you do.’ He heard a small chuckle. ‘But we’ll drop it, Våge. In fact, you’re going to drop everything... right now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re going to go to the end of a road called Toppåsveien in Kolsås as quickly as possible. I’ll call again, I’m not telling you when, it could be in two minutes. If I get an engaged tone, this will be the last time you and I have contact. Understood?’

Våge swallowed. ‘Yes,’ he answered. Because he understood. Understood it was to prevent him from contacting someone, like the police. Understood that this wasn’t a mindless nutjob. Crazy, yes, but not a nutjob.

‘Bring a torch and a camera, Våge. And a weapon if it makes you feel safe. You’re going to find tangible, irrefutable evidence that you’ve been talking to the killer, and you’re free to write about it afterwards. That includes this conversation. Because we want people to believe you this time, don’t we?’

‘What will—’

But the man had hung up.

Harry was lying in Alexandra’s bed, his bare feet sticking out just over the end.

Alexandra was also naked, lying crosswise, with her head on his stomach.

They had made love the night they had been at the Jealousy Bar, and now they had made love again. Now had been better.

He was thinking about Markus Røed. About the fear and hatred in his eyes while he fought for air. The fear had been greater. But had it remained so after he was able to breathe again? In that case — if Røed hadn’t reversed the money transfer — they must have released Lucille by now. As he had been instructed not to try to find her or contact her before the debt was paid, he had decided to wait a couple of days before calling her number. She didn’t have his number or details, so it wasn’t strange he hadn’t heard anything. He had looked up Lucille Owens online and the only hits had been old articles in the Los Angeles Times about the Romeo and Juliet film. Nothing about her being missing or kidnapped. And he had realised what it was they shared, what connected them. It wasn’t the outward danger after what happened in the parking lot. Nor was it that he saw his own mother in Lucille, that she was the woman in the doorway of the classroom or the woman in the hospital bed whom he had a fresh opportunity to save. It was the loneliness. That they were two people who could vanish from the face of the earth without anyone noticing.

Alexandra passed him the cigarette they were sharing, and Harry inhaled and looked at the smoke curling up towards the ceiling while ‘Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye’ came from a little Geneva speaker on the bedside table.

‘Sounds like that’s about us,’ she said.

‘Mm. Lovers who break up?’

‘Yeah. And what Cohen says about not talking of love or chains.’

Harry didn’t respond. Held the cigarette and gazed at the smoke, but was aware of her still lying with her face turned to him.

‘It’s in the wrong order,’ he said.

‘Wrong because Rakel was already in your life when we met?’

‘I was just thinking of something a woman said to me. How we’re fooled when the writer changes the order of the sentences around.’ He took a fresh drag of the cigarette. ‘But, yeah, probably that about Rakel too.’

After a while he felt the warmth of her tears on his stomach. He wanted to cry himself.

The window creaked, as though what was out there wanted to get in to them.