Killing Moon

37 Wednesday

Reflex

Toppåsveien didn’t quite live up to the name. The road wound its way between villas a fair way up to higher ground, but the top of Kolsås was still a good distance away when the road ended. Terry Våge parked by the side of the road. There was forest above him. In the darkness he could make out something lighter further up, which he knew were rock faces popular with climbers and other boneheads.

He fiddled with the sheath of the knife he had taken with him, looked over at the torch and the Nikon camera on the passenger seat. The seconds passed. The minutes passed. He peered down towards the lights in the darkness below. Rosenvilde High School was down there somewhere. He knew that because Genie had been a pupil there when he had discovered her. Because it was he, Terry Våge, who had done it, who had used his influence as a music critic to lift her and that talentless band of hers up from the underground into the light, into the mainstream, the marketplace. She had been eighteen, attending school there, and he had driven over a couple of times because he was curious to see her in a school setting. Was there something wrong with that? He had just hung around outside the schoolyard to catch a glimpse of the star he had created, hadn’t even taken any pictures, which he easily could have. The telephoto lens he had taken with him would have rendered razor-sharp pictures of a different Genie from the performer playing a role as a dangerous seductress. It would have shown the innocence, the little girl. But hanging around a schoolyard like that could easily have been misunderstood if he’d been discovered, so he had left it at those two times and sought her out at the concerts instead.

He was about to check the time when the phone rang.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re in position, I see.’

Våge looked around. His car was the only one parked on the road, and he would have seen anyone in the street light. Was the guy watching him from somewhere in the woods? Våge’s hand squeezed the handle of the knife.

‘Take your torch and camera, walk along the forest trail past the barrier, keep an eye on the left-hand side. After about one hundred metres you’ll see reflective paint on a tree trunk. Leave the trail and follow the reflective paint further. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ Våge said.

‘You’ll know when you’ve reached the spot. Once you do, you have two minutes to take pictures. Then you walk back, get into your car and drive straight home. If you haven’t left after those one hundred and twenty seconds, I will come for you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it’s time to reap your reward, Våge. Hurry up.’

The connection was broken. Terry Våge drew a deep breath, and a thought struck him. He could still turn the key in the ignition and get the hell out of there. He could go and have a beer at Stopp Pressen! Tell anyone who would listen that he had spoken to the serial killer on the phone and they had arranged a rendezvous, but that Terry had chickened out at the last minute.

Våge heard his own barking laughter, grabbed the camera and the torch and stepped out of the car.

Perhaps this was the lee side of the hill, because strangely enough the wind wasn’t as strong up here as it had been lower down or in the city centre. He spotted the forest trail a few metres in from the road. He walked past the barrier, turning towards the street light one last time before switching on the torch and continuing on into the darkness. The wind soughed in the treetops and the gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he counted the steps and alternated between shining the torch on the ground and at the tree trunks on the left side. He had made it to one hundred and five when he caught sight of the first patch of reflective paint shining in the beam. He saw the second patch further into the forest.

He touched the sheath of the knife in his jacket pocket again before swinging the strap of the camera over his shoulder, hopping over the ditch and making his way in among the trees. It was pine forest, and the space between the trees meant he could move through without great effort and be afforded some visibility. The paint had been applied at eye level at ten- to fifteen-metre intervals on selected tree trunks. The terrain grew gradually steeper. At one spot he paused to catch his breath and ran a finger over the blotch on the tree. Looked at his finger. Fresh paint. He was standing on a carpet of pine needles in a cluster of mighty pines. The rustle from the treetops was distant, but that only served to make the cracking and creaking from the almost imperceptible swaying of the trunks all the more present. The sounds were coming from all around, as though a conversation were taking place, as though they were discussing among themselves what to do with their nocturnal guest.

Våge continued.

The forest grew more dense, visibility poorer and the distance between the smudges of paint less, and now the ground was so rugged and steep that there was no point in counting steps any longer.

Then — suddenly — he made it to a plateau and the forest opened up. The beam from his torch shone into a small clearing and had to search before it found more paint. This time it wasn’t just a patch, it was a T-shape. He went closer. No, it was a cross. In the centre of the clearing he raised the torch. He couldn’t see any more reflective patches beyond the cross. He was at journey’s end. He held his breath. A sound could be heard, like when you hit two wooden sticks against one another, but he couldn’t see anything.

Then, as if to help him, the moon appeared between the scudding clouds, bathing the clearing in a soft, yellow light. And he saw them.

He shuddered. The first thing he thought of was an old number Billie Holiday sang, ‘Strange Fruit’. Because that was what they looked like, the two human heads hanging from the branch of the birch tree. The long hair on both heads swaying in the wind, and when they knocked against each other, they made a hollow sound.

It struck him at once that it must be Bertine Bertilsen and Helene Røed. Not because he recognised the stiff, mask-like faces, but because one was dark and the other blonde.

His pulse was racing as he swung the camera off his back and began to count again. Not steps this time but seconds. He pressed the shutter release again and again, the flash went off and continued going off as the moon disappeared back behind the clouds. He had counted to fifty, moved closer, refocused and continued taking pictures. More excited than terror-struck, he no longer thought of the two heads as people who had been alive not too long ago, but as proof. Proof that Markus Røed was innocent. Proof that he — Terry Våge — wasn’t a fraud, but had spoken to the killer. Proof that he was Norway’s best crime journalist, a person demanding of everyone’s respect, his family’s, Solstad’s, Genie’s and that crappy band of hers. And — most important of all — the respect and admiration of Mona Daa. He had pushed the thought from his mind after being fired, how he must have fallen in her esteem. But now that would be turned on its head, everybody loves a comeback kid. He couldn’t wait for them to meet again. No, he literally couldn’t wait, so he would have to ensure that they did meet, and he promised himself it would happen as soon as Dagnija left for Latvia.

Ninety. He had thirty seconds left.

Then I’ll come for you.

Like a troll in a folk tale.

Våge lowered the camera and filmed with his phone. Turned the camera towards himself so he had proof he was the one who had been there and taken pictures.

Time to reap your reward, the guy had said. Was that why Våge had picked up on the association with the Billie Holiday song when he saw the heads in the trees? That was about the lynching of black Americans in the South, not about... this. By reap, had he meant he could take the heads with him? Våge took a step closer to the birch tree. Stopped. Had he lost his mind? These were the killer’s trophies. And time was up. Våge slung the camera behind his back and held his hands up in the air to show any watching eyes in the forest that he had finished and was leaving.

The return journey was more difficult, given that he didn’t have any reflective paint to navigate by, and even though he hurried, it took nearly twenty minutes before he found the forest trail again. When he was back in the car and had started the engine, a thought occurred to him.

Even though he hadn’t taken the heads, he should have taken something. A strand of hair. As it was, he had photos of two heads that even he — who had seen countless pictures of Bertine Bertilsen and also some of Helene Røed — couldn’t say for certain was them. Or if they were real human heads. Fuck! If it hadn’t been for him having to engage in a little artifice after Truls Berntsen had let him down and he had been found out, they would have believed in solid pictorial proof like this without question. Now he risked it being viewed as fresh deception and then he really was finished. Should he call the police right away? Would they get here before the murderer made off?

He was steering the car down Toppåsveien when he remembered what the guy had said. Get into your car and drive straight home.

The guy had been worried about Våge waiting for him. Why? Maybe this was the only road down from the forest.

He slowed down and tapped his phone. Kept an eye on the road while he brought up the window with the map he had used on the way there. After consulting it, he concluded that if the guy had come by car there were only two roads he could have parked on. Våge drove all the way down Toppåsveien and up the alternative road that ended where the forest trail began. No cars parked on either road. OK, then maybe he had walked all the way up from the main road. Walked beneath the street lamps through a quiet neighbourhood with the residents’ eyes on him as he carried a couple of heads and a tin of paint in his backpack. Maybe. Maybe not.

Våge studied the map a little more. Getting to the top of the mountain and to the main road around the back looked like a steep and arduous hike, and he couldn’t see any trails shown on the map. But the climbing wall was shown, with a path along the base. And there, towards the west, a path led down to a residential area and a football pitch. From there, you could drive down past Kolsås Shopping Centre to the main road without going close to Toppåsveien.

Våge thought for a moment.

If the guy was up in the forest, and if he were in his shoes, Våge had no doubt which retreat route he would have chosen.

Harry woke with a start. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Was it a sound that woke him? Something blown over by a gust of wind in the courtyard perhaps? Or a dream, a nightmare he had struggled his way out of? He turned, and in the semi-darkness he made out the head lying turned away from him, the black hair cascading over the white pillow. Rakel. She stirred. Maybe the same sound had woken her, maybe she sensed he had woken, she usually did.

‘Harry,’ she mumbled drowsily.

‘Mm.’

She turned to him.

He stroked her hair.

She reached towards the bedside light.

‘Leave it,’ he whispered.

‘OK. Shall I—’

‘Shush. Just... shush for a moment. A few seconds.’

They lay silent in the darkness, and he ran a hand over her neck, shoulder and hair.

‘You’re pretending I’m Rakel,’ she said.

He didn’t answer.

‘You know what?’ she said, caressing his cheek. ‘It’s fine.’

He smiled. Kissed her on the forehead. ‘Thank you. Thanks, Alexandra. But I’m done with all that. Cigarette?’

She reached across to the bedside table. She usually smoked another brand but had bought a pack of Camel today because they were what he used to smoke and she didn’t have any strong preference. Something lit up on the bedside table. She handed him the phone and he looked at the display.

‘Sorry. I need to take this.’

She smiled wearily and flicked the lighter into a flame. ‘You never get calls you don’t need to take, Harry. You should try it now and then, it’s pretty nice.’

‘Krohn?’

‘Um... good evening, Harry. It’s about Røed. He wants to revise his statement.’

‘OK?’

‘He now claims to have met Susanne Andersen in secret earlier in the day at his other apartment, the one in Thomas Heftyes gate. And that they had sex and he kissed her breast. He says he didn’t want to say anything before, first and foremost because he was afraid it would tie him to the murder, but also so as to keep it hidden from his wife. He says that seeing how he had given a false statement and been found out, he was worried it would only seem even more suspicious were he to change it. Furthermore, he had neither witnesses nor other supportive evidence to confirm he had a visit from Susanne. He foolishly maintained, therefore, that he had not met her in anticipation of you or the police finding the guilty party or other evidence which would clear his name. He says.’

‘Mm. Was it stewing in the slammer that softened him up?’

‘If you ask me I’d say it was you. I think being grabbed by the throat was a wake-up call. He realises there’s such a thing as punishment. And he can see there’s no headway being made on the case and that he can’t endure four weeks in custody.’

‘Four weeks without cocaine, you mean?’

Krohn didn’t answer.

‘What’s he say about Villa Dante?’

‘He’s still denying that.’

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘The police aren’t going to let him go. He has no witnesses, and he’s right about changing his story only making him look like a worm trying to wriggle off the hook.’

‘I agree,’ Krohn said. ‘I just wanted to keep you informed.’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘Is that important?’

‘Me neither. But he’s a pretty good liar. Thanks for keeping me up to speed.’

They hung up. Harry lay with the phone in his hand, staring into the darkness, trying to make the pieces fit. Because they fitted, they always did. So the problem was with him, not the pieces.

‘What are you doing?’ Alexandra asked, taking a drag of the cigarette.

‘I’m trying to see but it’s so bloody dark.’

‘You can’t see anything?’

‘Yeah, something, but I can’t make out what it is.’

‘The trick in darkness is not to look directly at an object but a little to the side. Then you actually see the object more clearly.’

‘Yes, and that’s what I’m doing. But it’s as though that’s where the object is situated.’

‘To the side?’

‘Yeah. It’s like the person we’re looking for is in our field of vision. Like we’ve seen him, but without knowing he’s the one we’ve seen.’

‘How do you explain it?’

‘That—’ he sighed — ‘is something I have no insight into and will not attempt to explain.’

‘Some things we just know?’

‘There’s no mystery to it, there is just some stuff the brain figures out by putting together the information available, but neglects to tell us the detail, merely offers us the conclusion.’

‘Yeah,’ she said softly, taking another drag of the cigarette and passing it to him. ‘Like me knowing that Bjørn Holm murdered Rakel.’

Harry dropped the cigarette on the duvet. He got hold of it again and put it between his lips.

‘You know?’ he asked, inhaling.

‘Yes. And no. It’s like you said. Information the brain adds up without you consciously trying or even wanting it to. And then you have the answer, but not the calculation, and you have to do the sums backwards to see what your brain was thinking while you were thinking of something else.’

‘And what was your brain thinking?’

‘That when Bjørn discovered you were the father of the child he believed was his, he needed to seek revenge. He murdered Rakel and let the evidence point to you. You told me it was you who killed Rakel. Because you feel it’s your fault.’

‘It was my fault. It is my fault.’

‘Bjørn Holm wanted you to feel the same pain as him, didn’t he? Lose the person you love the most. And feel guilt. I sometimes think about how lonely you both must have been. Two friends without any friends. Separated by... things that happen. And now neither of you has the woman you loved.’

‘Mm.’

‘How much did it hurt?’

‘It hurt.’ Harry sucked desperately at the cigarette. ‘I was going to do the same as him.’

‘Take your own life?’

‘I’d sooner call it ending my own life. There wasn’t much life left to take.’

Alexandra accepted the cigarette. It was almost down to the filter and she put it out in the ashtray and snuggled up to him. ‘I can be Rakel for a little longer if you like.’

Terry Våge tried to block out the annoying sound of the halyard continuously slapping against the flagpole in the wind. He had parked in the car park in front of the unassuming Kolsås Shopping Centre. The shops were closed so there were not many cars there, but a sufficient number for his own vehicle not to be noticed by the few cars coming down the road from the residential area. He had been sitting there for half an hour now, and had only counted forty passing cars. Without using the flash, he took a photo of each car as they drove into the light from the street lamp just forty or fifty metres from where he was sitting. The pictures were more than sharp enough for him to read the licence plates.

It had now gone nearly ten minutes without a single vehicle. It was late, and people were probably staying home in this weather if they could. Våge listened to the sound of the halyard and decided he had waited long enough. Besides, he needed to publish the pictures.

He’d had a little time to think about how to do that. Using his own platform and blog would of course breathe life back into it. But if he wanted to get the blog up and running and not just back on its feet, then he needed the help of a bigger medium.

He smiled at the thought of Solstad choking on his morning coffee.

Then he turned the key in the ignition, opened the glove compartment and pulled out an old, scratched CD he hadn’t played in a long, long time and pushed it into the aged player. Turned up the sound of Genie’s lovely, nasal voice and put his foot on the accelerator.

Mona Daa did not believe her ears. Not the story nor the man who told it to her. But she did believe her eyes. Which was why she was now reconsidering her opinion about Terry Våge’s story. When he had called she had almost inadvertently answered the phone to spare herself yet another of Isabel May’s pretentious monologues in the TV series 1883, left Anders on the sofa and gone into the bedroom. Her irritation at May’s words of wisdom was not lessened by her suspicions that Anders had a crush on the actress.

But she had forgotten about all that now.

She stared at the pictures Våge had sent to back up his story and his suggestion. He had used a flash, so even though it had been dark and the heads were moving in the wind, the photos were pin-sharp.

‘I sent the video as well, so you can see I was the one there,’ Våge said.

She opened the video and was no longer in any doubt. Even Terry Våge wasn’t crazy enough to stage such an outrageous lie.

‘You need to call the police,’ she said.

‘I have done,’ Våge said. ‘They’re on their way, and they’ll find the reflective markings, I doubt he’s had time to remove them. For all I know he’s left the heads hanging there too. Whatever they do find, they’ll make public, which means you and the paper don’t have much time to decide if you want this.’

‘And the price?’

‘I’ll take that up with your editor. Like I said, you can only use the one photo I’ve tagged that’s a little out of focus, and the reference to my blog has to be in the opening sentence after the lead-in. It also has to clearly state that there are more pictures and a video on the blog. Does that sound all right? Oh yeah, one more thing. The byline is yours and yours alone, Mona. I’m an outsider here.’

She looked at the pictures again and shuddered. Not because of what she saw but because of the way he had articulated her first name. Half of her felt like yelling no and hanging up. But that was the half which wasn’t at work. She couldn’t not do something. And ultimately, she wasn’t the one who had to make the decision, that fell under editorial responsibility, thank God.

‘All right.’

‘Good. Ask the editor to ring me within the next five minutes, OK?’

Mona ended the call and brought up Julia’s name. While waiting for Julia to answer the phone she felt her heart beating. And heard eight words echoing in her head. The byline is yours and yours alone, Mona.