Killing Moon

45 Friday

Collection

Prim glanced towards the office gang celebrating Friday while slowly turning his own glass.

‘I also had a small shred of skin preserved. Skin from Kevin Selmer’s forearm. He wasn’t the only person I had a tissue sample of; they were something I collected and sometimes had use for in my project to cultivate the perfect parasite. With a toothpick, I lodged a flake of skin between two of the teeth in Bertine’s skull. And then you ensured the evidence landed in the hands of the police. But I expected that sooner or later it would be discovered that the bodies had a variant of the gondii parasite. And if someone understood the connection, they would begin to hunt for the primary host. Could I make Kevin appear to be both the killer and the primary host? Apologies if I sound a little smug, but the solution was as ingenious as it was simple. I prepared a mixture of green cocaine and gondii, a dose guaranteed to be lethal, put it into Bertine’s snuff bullet and went down to Kevin at Jernbanetorget to make the trade I had agreed to at the party. He was thrilled, especially when I gave him the snuff bullet into the bargain. I can only imagine the pains he must have had in his stomach before he died, I don’t doubt I would have butted my head against a wall to render myself unconscious as well.’

Prim drained the rest of his beer glass.

‘That was a long monologue, so enough about me, Terry. How are you doing?’ Prim leaned across the table. ‘Like, really. Are you feeling... paralysed? Because it happens very quickly when you drink a beer containing such a strong concentration of gondii. Even stronger than Kevin got. After a few minutes you’re simply unable to lift a finger. Not make a sound either. But I can see you’re still breathing. Heart and respiratory failure are actually the last things to occur. Well, the brain ceases to function too, of course. So I know you can hear this. I’m going to take your house keys and collect your PC. Throw it and your phone in the fjord.’

Prim looked outside. The daylight was beginning to dwindle.

‘Look, there’s a light on in my stepfather’s apartment. He’ll be on his own now. Do you think he’d fancy a visitor?’

The time was a little past half six when Markus Røed heard a ring at the door.

‘You expecting anyone?’ asked the older of the two bodyguards.

Røed shook his head. The bodyguard walked from the living room towards the hallway and the intercom.

Once he had left the room, Røed made use of the opportunity.

‘And what do you want to do after you finish working as a bodyguard?’

The young man looked at him. He had long eyelashes and soft brown eyes. The unnecessarily large muscles were compensated by the naive, childish mien. If you added some goodwill and imagination, he could pass for five or six years younger than he was.

‘Dunno,’ he said, letting his gaze sweep around the living room. Probably something they were taught on the courses: no unnecessary conversation with the client and constantly check the surroundings, even when sitting behind locked doors in the cosy cocoon of a home.

‘You could come and work for me, you know?’

The young man eyed Røed briefly, and Røed saw something resembling contempt, disgust. Then, without responding, the young man began to scan the room again. Røed cursed to himself. Fucking pup, didn’t he understand what he was being offered?

‘It’s a guy who says he knows you,’ the guard called from the hallway.

‘Krohn?’ Røed called back.

‘No.’

Røed frowned. He couldn’t think of anyone who would just call at his place unannounced.

He went out to the hall, where the bodyguard had assumed a wide stance and was pointing at the video screen. There was a young man staring up at the camera above the entrance door down on the street. Røed shook his head.

‘I’ll ask him to leave,’ the bodyguard said.

Røed peered at the screen. Hadn’t he seen the guy before, just a while back? And hadn’t he recognised something then as well, from long ago, but dismissed it as just another face that brought back memories? But now when he was standing out there, might it...

‘Wait,’ Røed said and held out his hand.

The bodyguard gave him the handset.

‘Go back inside,’ Røed said.

The bodyguard hesitated for a moment before doing as he was instructed.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’ Røed said into the intercom. It sounded more negative than he’d intended.

‘Hi, Dad. It’s your stepson. And I just wanted to talk to you.’

Røed gasped for breath. There was no doubt. The boy from so many dreams, the fear from so many nightmares about being found out. No, it wasn’t the boy, but it was him. After all these years. Talk? That didn’t bode well.

‘I’m a bit busy,’ Røed said. ‘You should have called ahead.’

‘I know,’ the man said into the camera. ‘I wasn’t planning on getting in touch, I just decided today. You see, I’m going away tomorrow on an extended trip, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. I didn’t want to leave with matters unresolved, Dad. It’s time for forgiveness. I had to see you one last time, face-to-face, to get it off my chest. I think it’ll be good for both of us. It doesn’t need to take more than a few minutes, and we’ll both regret it if we don’t, I’m sure of that.’

Røed listened. He hadn’t heard that deep voice before, not back then or recently. From what he could remember of those last days in the house in Gaustad, the boy’s voice had just begun to break. Of course, the thought had crossed his mind that he may show up one day and cause trouble for him. It would be one person’s word against another’s and the only person who could confirm that any so-called sexual abuse had occurred had perished in a fire. But even an allegation would damage his reputation if it came out. Stain the facade, as the people in this country so contemptuously put it. Because Norway was a country where concepts like family honour had been eroded by social bloody democracy, because the state was the family for most people now, and the small individuals had nobody to answer to but their equals, social democracy’s grey mass, so lacking in tradition. It was different if your name was Røed, but that was something the average citizen would never understand. Understand the expectation to sooner take your own life than drag the family name through the mud. So, what should he do? He had to decide. His stepson had resurfaced. Røed wiped his forehead with his free hand. And was astonished to find he was not afraid. It was like when the tram nearly ran him over. Now that what he had been so terrified of was finally happening, why didn’t it scare him more? What if they did talk together? If his stepson had bad intentions, then talking wasn’t going to make the situation any worse. And at best it was just a matter of forgiveness. All forgotten, thank you and goodbye, maybe he would even sleep better at night. The only thing he had to be careful about was not to say anything, confess directly or indirectly to something that could be used against him.

‘I can give you ten minutes,’ Røed said, and pressed the button that opened the street door. ‘Take the lift to the top floor.’

He replaced the handset. Could the boy be planning on making a recording? He returned to the living room. ‘Do you frisk visitors?’ he asked the bodyguards.

‘Always,’ the older one said.

‘Good. Check if he has any microphones taped to him and keep his phone until he leaves.’

Prim was sitting in a soft armchair in the TV room looking at Markus Røed. The bodyguards were standing just outside with the door ajar.

It had come as a surprise to find he had bodyguards, but it didn’t really matter much. The important thing was that he had him on his own.

The whole thing could of course have been made easier. Had he wanted to kill Markus Røed or cause him physical harm, it would not have been very difficult; after all, only now did he have bodyguards, and in a city like Oslo the inhabitants are so naively trusting that no one thinks the guy they meet on the street might have a weapon under his jacket. It just doesn’t happen. And that wasn’t what was going to happen to Markus Røed either. That wouldn’t be enough. Yes, it would be easier to shoot him, but if the vengeance he had planned for his stepfather gave him just a fraction of the delight it had given him in his imagination, it would be worth all the work. Because the revenge Prim had composed was akin to a symphony, and the climactic crescendo was building.

‘I’m sorry about what happened to your mother,’ Markus said. Loud enough for Prim to hear him clearly, low enough for the bodyguards in the hallway not to catch it.

Prim could see the big man was uncomfortable sitting there in the chair. His fingers picking at the material on the armrests, his nostrils flaring. A sure sign he had caught the odour of the intestinal juices. The dilated pupils told Prim that the scent signals had already reached the brain, where the parasites, eager to breed, had been in place for several days. The result of a little work of art, if he might say so himself. When the original plan to infect his stepfather at the party had gone awry, Prim had been forced to improvise and come up with a fresh plan. And he had carried it out, he had infected Markus Røed right in front of all of them, the lawyers, the police, even Harry Hole.

Markus Røed looked at his watch and sneezed. ‘Not to rush you, but as I said I’m pressed for time, so we need to be brief. What country is it you’re trav—’

‘I want you,’ Prim said.

His stepfather gave such a start in the chair that his jowls quivered.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘I’ve fantasised about you all these years. There’s no doubt it was abuse, but I... well, I guess I learned to like it. And want to try it again.’

Prim looked straight into Markus Røed’s eyes. Saw the parasite-infested brain working behind them and drawing the wrong conclusions: I knew it! The boy liked it, he was only pretending to cry. I didn’t do anything wrong — on the contrary, I merely taught someone to like what I like!

‘And I think we should make it as similar as possible to how it was before.’

‘Similar?’ Markus Røed said. His throat was already tight with excitement. That was the paradox of toxoplasmosis, how the sexual drive — which is essentially the desire to reproduce — suffocates the fear of death, ignores dangers, giving the infected being that delightful, hopeless tunnel vision, a tunnel leading right into the cat’s maw.

‘The house,’ Prim said. ‘It’s still there. But you have to come alone, you have to give your bodyguards the slip.’

‘You mean...’ Markus swallowed. ‘...now?’

‘Of course. I can see you...’ Prim leaned forward and placed a hand on the other man’s crotch. ‘...want to?’

Røed’s jaw was moving up and down uncontrollably.

Prim got to his feet. ‘You remember where it is?’

Markus Røed just nodded.

‘And you’ll come alone?’

Another nod.

Prim knew he didn’t need to tell Markus Røed not to let anyone know where he was going or who he was planning to meet. Toxoplasmosis renders the infected person horny and fearless, but not stupid. That is to say, not stupid in the sense that they would do something that might potentially prevent them from getting the only thing on their minds.

‘I’ll give you thirty minutes,’ Prim said.

The older bodyguard, Benny, had been in the business for fifteen years.

When he opened the door, he saw the visitor had put on a face mask. Benny watched on as the younger bodyguard patted him down. Apart from a set of keys, the visitor had nothing on him that could be used as a weapon. Neither did he have a wallet nor any form of ID. He gave his name as Karl Arnesen, and even though it sounded like something he had made up on the spot, Røed had confirmed it with a curt nod. The visitor was relieved of his mobile phone as Røed had requested, and Benny insisted on the door to the TV room remaining slightly open.

It took just five minutes — at least that was the length of time Benny would give in his statement to the police later — for this young ‘Arnesen’ to emerge from the TV room, get his mobile phone and leave the apartment. Røed called out from the TV room that he wanted to be alone and closed the door. It took another five minutes before Benny knocked to say that Johan Krohn wanted to speak to him. But Benny got no answer, and when he opened the door, the room was empty and the window out to the terrace was open. His eyes fell on the door of the fire escape leading down to the street. It was hardly any great mystery; the client had hinted three times within the last hour that he would pay exceptionally well if Benny or his colleague would head over to Torggata or Jernbanetorget and procure some cocaine.