Killing Moon

43 Friday

The alibi

Sung-min was coming from the shower when he saw the phone that lay charging beside the bed was ringing.

‘Yes?’

‘Good afternoon, Larsen. This is Mona Daa from VG.’

‘Good evening, Daa.’

‘Oh, it’s late you mean? Sorry if your working day is done, I just wanted a couple of quotes from the people involved in the investigation. About how it’s been and how it feels to have finally solved the case. I mean, it must be a great relief and a triumph for you and Kripos, who were involved from the start, when Susanne Andersen went missing on the thirtieth of August.’

‘I think you’re a good crime reporter, Daa, so I’m going to give you some short answers to your questions.’

‘Thanks so much! My first question concerns—’

‘I meant the ones you’ve already asked. Yes, it is evening and my workday is done. No, I have no comments to make, you’ll need to call Katrine Bratt who was in charge of the investigation or my boss Ole Winter. And no, Kripos was not involved from the start, when Susanne Andersen was reported missing on the... eh...’

‘Thirtieth of August,’ Mona Daa repeated.

‘Thanks. We hadn’t been brought in at that stage. That didn’t happen until two people went missing and it became clear that it was a murder case.’

‘Sorry, again, Larsen. I’m aware I’m being pushy now, but it is my job. Could I get a quote, whatever, just something general, and use a picture of you?’

Sung-min sighed. He had an idea of what she was after. Diversity. A picture of a police officer who was not a fifty-year-old, ethnically Norwegian, heterosexual man. He ticked those boxes anyway. Not that he had anything against diversity in the media, but he knew that once he opened that door it wouldn’t take long before he was sitting on a sofa in a TV studio answering questions from a certain TV presenter about what it was like to be gay in the police. Not that he had anything against it, someone should do it. Just not him.

He declined, and Mona Daa said she understood and apologised again. Good woman.

After they had broken the connection, he stood staring into space. He froze. He was naked but that was not why. It was the alarm clock in his head, the same one that had rung when he was at the Custody Unit. It had begun to ring again. It wasn’t what Groth had said about Beckstrøm seeming different when he left that had made the alarm go off. It was something else. Something altogether — and distinctly — different.

Terry Våge stared at the PC screen. Checked the names again.

It might of course be a coincidence — Oslo was a small town, when it came down to it. He had spent the last few hours deciding what to do. Go to the police or carry out the original plan. He had even considered calling Mona Daa to bring her in on his scheme and — if it was whom he suspected and they hit the jackpot — get the story published in the country’s leading newspaper. The two of them on an adventure together, wouldn’t that be something? But no, she was too proper, she would insist on notifying the police, he was sure of it. He stared at the phone, on which he had already tapped in the number, all he had to do was press Call. He was done debating with himself now, and the winning argument had been this: it might be a coincidence. He had no absolute proof to present to the police, so surely that meant it had to be all right to continue digging on his own. So what was he waiting for? Was he scared? Terry Våge chuckled. Bloody right he was scared. He pressed his forefinger firmly on the Call icon.

He could hear his own ragged breathing against the phone while it rang. For a brief moment he hoped no one would take it. Or if they did, that it wasn’t him.

‘Yes?’

Disappointment and relief. But mostly disappointment. It wasn’t him; this wasn’t the voice he had heard on the phone the other two times. Terry Våge took a deep breath. He had decided beforehand that he would go through with the whole plan no matter what so as not to be left in any doubt afterwards.

‘It’s Terry Våge,’ he said, managing to control the quaver in his voice. ‘We have spoken previously. But before you hang up, you should know I haven’t contacted the police. Not yet. And I won’t either, not if you talk to me.’

There was silence on the line. What did that mean? Was the person on the other end trying to decide whether it was a crazy person or a pal playing a prank? Then, quietly and slowly, a different voice sounded.

‘How did you find out, Våge?’

It was him. It was that deep, rasping voice he had used when he had called Våge from the hidden number, probably on an unregistered phone.

Våge shuddered, without knowing how much it was down to delight and how much it was down to pure dread. He swallowed.

‘I saw you driving past Kolsås Shopping Centre two nights ago. You went by twenty-six minutes after I’d left the place where you’d hung up the heads. I have all the timestamps on the photos I took.’

There was a long pause.

‘What do you want, Våge?’

Terry Våge took a deep breath. ‘I want your story. The whole story, not just about these killings. A true picture of the person behind them. So many people have been affected by what’s happened, not only those who knew the victims. And they need to understand, the entire country needs to understand. I hope you realise I have no interest in portraying you as a monster.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because monsters don’t exist.’

‘Don’t they?’

Våge swallowed again. ‘You have of course my word that you will remain anonymous.’

A brief snort of laughter. ‘Why would I take your word for it?’

‘Because,’ Våge said, stopped to get his voice under control. ‘Because I’m an outcast in journalism. Because I’m stuck on a desert island and you’re my only salvation. Because I have nothing to lose.’

Another pause.

‘And if I don’t grant you an interview?’

‘Then my next call is to the police.’

Våge waited.

‘All right. Let’s meet at Weiss behind the Munch Museum.’

‘I know where it is.’

‘Six o’clock sharp.’

‘Today?’ Våge checked the time. ‘That’s in three-quarters of an hour.’

‘If you come too early or too late, I’m leaving.’

‘Fine, fine. See you at six.’

Våge put the phone down. Took three shaky breaths. Then laughter took hold, and he lay his head on the keyboard as he slammed his palm on the desk. Fuck you! Fuck the lot of you!

Harry and Øystein were sitting on either side of the bed when the door opened gently and Truls stole into the room.

‘How’s he doing?’ Truls whispered, found a seat and looked at Ståle Aune lying there pale with eyes shut.

‘You can ask me,’ Aune said sharply, opening his eyes. ‘I’m fair to middling. I asked Harry to come but don’t the two of you have something better to do on a Friday night?’

Truls and Øystein looked at one another.

‘Nope,’ Øystein said.

Aune shook his head. ‘Where were you, Eikeland?’

‘Yeah,’ Øystein said. ‘So, I had a fare from Oslo to Trondheim, five hundred kilometres, and this guy was playing a cassette with a panpipe version of “Careless Whisper”, and in the middle of the Dovrefjell mountain range I snapped, ejected the tape, rolled down the window...’

Harry’s phone rang. He presumed it was Alexandra wondering if he was going to make it over for the lunar eclipse at 10.35 p.m., but he saw it was Sung-min. He hurriedly stepped out into the corridor.

‘Yeah, Sung-min?’

‘No. Say talk to me.’

‘Talk to me.’

‘I will. Because it doesn’t add up.’

‘What doesn’t add up?’

‘Kevin Selmer. He had an alibi.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was at the Custody Unit and it was right in front of me. Selmer’s ticket to Romeo and Juliet. If my brain was a little more efficient I’d have realised it there and then. That is to say, my brain tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen. Not until Mona Daa spelled it out for me on the phone.’

Sung-min paused.

‘On the date Susanne Andersen was reported missing, Kevin Selmer was at Romeo and Juliet at the National Theatre. I’ve traced the ticket, it was one of several sponsor tickets that were sent to Markus Røed, the same type as Helene used.’

‘Yeah. She told me she handed out a few of them at the party. Probably where Selmer got his. And I assumed that was where he found out when Helene would be going to the theatre too — her ticket was stuck to the fridge door.’

‘But it wasn’t him. Not if it was the same man who killed Susanne Andersen. Because the ticket office at the theatre contacted the people next to Selmer that night and they confirmed the man in the seat beside them fitted his description, they remembered because he sat there in his parka. And he didn’t disappear at the interval.’

Harry was surprised. Mostly by the fact he wasn’t more surprised.

‘We’re back where we started,’ Harry said. ‘It’s the other guy, the Greenhorn.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The killer, it’s the amateur with the green coke. It’s him after all. Fuck, fuck!’

‘You sound... eh, sure.’

‘I am sure, but if I were you, I wouldn’t trust someone who’s been wrong as many times as me. I need to call Katrine. And Krohn.’

They hung up.

Katrine was in the process of putting Gert to bed when she took the call, so Harry quickly informed her of the development in the case. After that he called Krohn and explained the indications were that the case wasn’t solved after all. ‘Put Røed back under house arrest. I don’t know what this guy’s planning, but he’s had us fooled the whole way, so we’ll take every precaution.’

‘I’ll call the Guardian company,’ Krohn said. ‘Thanks.’