Medusa

33

Thursday 18 October

NINA JEBSEN WAS at the office by about 7.30. There was a memo she wanted to have ready for the morning briefing, and a couple of witnesses she still had to contact, including the former NRK newscaster who was on the list of people observed on the way to Ullevålseter on the day Hilde Paulsen disappeared.

Once again she had to give up the attempt to get through to the TV celebrity. A secretary in the firm he was working for now claimed he was on holiday in Tanzania. The last time she’d tried, the day before, she’d been given a different explanation for why the man wasn’t there. Not that it surprised her: the person she was trying to get hold of belonged to that exclusive group of people who had acquired the right to be inaccessible, and made use of it.

The trip up to Åsnes in Hedmark the day before hadn’t resulted in much, but Viken might well ask for an account of even insignificant details and give her a hard time if she couldn’t provide it. She’d be able to describe a visit to the mongoloids at the care home. The conversation with the bitter old woman over a cup of even more bitter coffee. Before concluding her memo on the visit to Reinkollen, she opened the STRASAK database of convicted felons, ran a search for Roger Åheim, and came up with a hit. He owned a farm and also ran an Esso station at Åmoen in Åsnes county. In other words, the place where she’d asked for directions to Reinkollen. She recalled with distaste the young lout behind the counter, who’d confirmed every one of her prejudices about backwoods Norway. She checked the notes and discovered that the owner of the petrol station had to be the cousin whom Åse Berit Nytorpet’s husband had been out with.

She bent closer to the monitor, swiped the page and a list of criminal convictions appeared on the screen. Fifteen years previously this same Roger Åheim had served time for inflicting grievous bodily harm. Lower down the list she found two charges of rape. One was dismissed on the grounds of insufficient evidence. In the other, eleven years ago, a nineteen-year-old woman alleged that she had been abducted by the accused. She’d sustained slight injuries to her face and upper body. Roger Åheim claimed that the girl had gone with him of her own free will. It was one person’s word against another and the charge was dropped. Nina scrolled down further and came across a conviction from eight years ago on an environmental charge. Illegal lynx hunting. Roger Åheim insisted he had acted in self-defence, but no one believed he had been attacked by one of these notoriously timid creatures. He had also changed his story several times in the course of the trial.

She heard Viken letting himself into his office. Waited a couple of minutes before knocking and showing him the documents she had printed out from STRASAK. He sat there for a while, his head moving from side to side, the deep furrow prominent over the bridge of his nose. He pulled at his jawline, smoothing out the wrinkles on his cheeks. Presently he said:

– I’ll give the sheriff up there a call. He sounds like an okay sort of bloke.

Five minutes later he popped his head round her door.

– Prepare for another trip out into the bush. We’ll leave straight after the morning briefing.

Heading north along the E6, she wondered what it was that had persuaded Viken to set aside yet another half-day in following up such a vague lead. He could have left it to the local sheriff’s office to take care of. It was becoming more and more obvious to her that Viken was the type who was rarely satisfied with work done by others. A lone wolf who only delegated jobs with reluctance. Not very efficient, she thought, even if the man did have an enormous capacity for work. And why bring her along, and use up a whole day’s man-hours? Not that she minded working with him; she handled it better than most of the other detectives. Some, like Sigge Helgarsson, avoided Viken like the plague. No wonder really: Viken had a go at him every chance he got. It was obvious he preferred having Arve Norbakk along when possible. And Arve knew the countryside up there in Hedmark. But today Viken had chosen Nina, and she didn’t bother trying to work out the possible reasons why.

– What are you expecting to get out of this trip? she took a chance and asked.

Viken was a surprisingly careful driver. He was wearing a pair of pilot sunglasses, which he’d taken from the glove compartment, and was sitting back and taking in the open Romerike landscape.

– Not exactly a breakthrough, he said, and didn’t sound worried. – Even if this Roger Åheim has been involved in some pretty violent stuff. And the environmental crimes.

She didn’t ask why, in that case, they should be spending half a day on it, but he seemed to guess what was on her mind.

– Often you find it’s the detours that lead you to the solutions in difficult cases, he told her.

Nina needed a smoke. She sat there trying to summon up the voice of the psychologist who had led the course on how to give up.

– We’re struggling because we can’t see a motive, she said.

Viken glanced over at her.

– And how often do you find an obvious motive in murder cases?

She thought about it.

– It depends what you mean by motive.

Viken said: – Before I started in Violent Crimes, I worked on white-collar crime. An accountant embezzles money to pay for a holiday home in Spain. An impatient broker doubles his fortune by selling insider information. Clear chain of connection between motive and deed, a calculated risk, possible to work it all out in terms of cost and benefit. But in my twenty years with Violent Crimes, I don’t think I’ve come across a single case of murder where the motive has been easy to understand. And certainly not where it’s premeditated.

Several times over the past few weeks Nina had been struck by how unaffected he appeared to be by the gruesome nature of the case they were investigating. This ability to observe things from a distance was probably what made him a top detective.

– The last murder case in Manchester I was involved in was back in ’98. The Shipman case.

– That doctor who killed huge numbers of his patients?

– It might have been fifteen or two hundred and fifty, or twice that many, we’ll never know. As you’ll remember, he hanged himself in jail. So we’ll never know either what turned him into a mass killer, even if they write a mile of books about him. There were just a couple of cases where there was even a hint of financial gain in it for him. To understand what drives a man like that, you have to look at the psychological profile.

Not many of his colleagues in Violent Crimes had turned up to hear Viken when he lectured on this subject, but Nina had. Now he glanced at her as though trying to see whether she understood what he was talking about.

– He was probably damaged early on in life, she offered, a little reluctantly. – Abuse of some kind, and then later an extreme need to manipulate the facts of life and death. The control of intolerable pain by inducing it in another.

– That’s all very well, he nodded. – Shipman ticked every box. And yet what he did remains incomprehensible. There’s something at the heart of every killing that evades any attempt to explain it. If you get too obsessed by motive, you’ll often find yourself going astray.

Nina sat back in her seat. Covertly she studied the chief inspector’s hands. Not exactly nice, she thought, but fascinating. Narrow and bony, with unusually long fingers.

– So that’s why we’re on our way to the forests of darkest Hedmark, she said, trying to neutralise the irony with a slightly sing-song childish voice.

Viken burst out laughing. He laughed for a long time – she couldn’t remember ever hearing him laugh so long before – and she felt relieved, and perhaps even a touch of pride too, at having been responsible for it.

– I think maybe you do get the point, he said, the laughter stopping abruptly.

Nina thought about it.

– So you’re saying we shouldn’t be looking for motives.

– I’m saying that shouldn’t be what dominates the investigation in a case like this. Something will start to add up after a while. But never everything. Not even after a full confession and sessions with the shrinks. Especially not then.

– All the same, you sound optimistic, she said.

He drove faster, even though they had left the motorway and were now on a road with only two lanes.

– I don’t doubt for a moment that we’re going to solve this case, Jebsen. We’re hunting a killer who has already told us a lot about who he is. The question is, can we get to him before anything else happens?

A few kilometres past Åmoen, they saw a sign for Åheim. They pulled off the main road and headed north through forest.

– Do you think people are influenced by the landscape they grow up in? Nina wondered aloud, peering at the thick lanes of pine.

Viken seemed to have no special view on the matter. They passed a left turn-off, and he glanced at it before driving on. He had just spoken to the sheriff at Åsnes and been given a detailed description of the route. The sheriff had offered to come along with them, but Viken had rejected the idea. As he explained later, he didn’t want local people hanging around while he was working; it would be more of a hindrance than a help.

– I could never live in a place like this, said Nina abruptly. – I’d get claustrophobia after about ten minutes.

Viken ignored her.

– To find the person who’s committed these murders, we have to put ourselves in his shoes, he said. – It’s not enough to proceed analytically. You’ve got to take a leap away from your own common sense and morality. Get in tune with that part of yourself that makes it possible for you to follow a human being who doesn’t think like a human being.

Nina had heard him say this before, but it had never been clear to her how this could be turned into a method.

– Animals aren’t bestial, Viken went on. – An animal can’t act like a monster. Only human beings can do that. Anyone who plans a murder has this inside him. It is deviant, but both you and I can find something inside ourselves that enables us to follow this kind of thinking.

– Are you sure we’re on the right road? Nina asked. – Surely there can’t be a farm this deep in the primeval forest?

– Guess we just have to trust the sheriff, said Viken as he took a right and swung on to an even narrower lane. His lecture continued unabated. – Every murder that has been planned has its own signature. That is the gateway to the sick mind behind it.

– So these bear tracks then, said Nina, increasingly certain that the chief inspector had got the directions wrong.

– And the way the body has been disfigured. As though by a predator. If you combine all the signals from the killer, you can draw a picture of him. It’s not too hard. It’s harder to get to know the primitive instinct in yourself that makes it possible for you to get inside his skin. See the world through his eyes, move like him, think like him. If you can do that, then you’re breathing right down his neck.

Nina glanced again at the dials. They’d driven more than five kilometres now since the last turn-off. It didn’t seem to worry Viken.

– From the moment I stood up there in the trees of the Oslomarka and looked down at that dead woman in the gully, I’ve been working on a profile of him. I can tell you that the man we’re looking for is in his thirties, possibly early forties. He is above average intelligence and not necessarily a loner. If he has a family, then he’s living a double life, probably has a split personality. He may be educated and hold down a good job. He has not killed before but he has, I would think, a history of abusing women in one way or another. The disfiguring of the victims indicates that. The anger he feels towards these women. He’s had a difficult upbringing with a domineering and emotionally cold mother. He feels no regret for what he has done; satisfaction is more likely, and he is capable of killing again.

The forest seemed to be closing ever more tightly around them, and the track became more and more bumpy and rocky. Nina thought briefly of her father, a stubborn old brewery worker who would never ask for directions, and definitely not when he had lost his way. They rounded a sharp bend; beyond it there was a steep rise. There was a barrier at the top of it. Viken sat glaring at it for a few seconds before jumping out and tugging at the padlock.

– Locked, he confirmed, and wiped the mud off his shoes before getting back into the car. – That monkey of a sheriff must have given me the wrong directions.

Nina risked a joke.

– I don’t know what to think of you, taking a woman for a ride down a deserted forest track.

Viken wasn’t in the mood for it; he was busy trying to worm the car back down the slippery narrow hill. Beyond the bend he had to reverse another several hundred metres before finding a place to turn.

So much for the well-refined instinct, thought Nina, but decided against sharing the observation with the chief inspector. It occurred to her that the investigation might have something in common with this futile trip of theirs.

34

AS VIKEN PULLED into the Esso station at Åmoen, he was feeling a little annoyed. He called Sheriff Storaker again but went no further than to say that the route description had not been accurate. It didn’t make his mood any better when Storaker insisted that it had been, nor when Storaker then insisted that he would come along to show them the way in person.

– I’ll be at Åmoen within fifteen minutes, he assured them. In fact it took seventeen and a half minutes, as Viken pointed out irritably when he did finally turn up.

It would be short-selling him to describe Sheriff Kjell Roar Storaker as a big man. He walked around with his head permanently bent even when there was nothing in the vicinity even remotely at head height, as there wasn’t in the car park beside the Esso station. Viken guessed it was doubtless as a result of innumerable encounters with roof beams and door frames. The hand the sheriff offered him was the size of a frying pan.

– Roger Åheim, the man we’re looking for, is the owner of the petrol station, he told them.

Viken nodded abruptly. Nina Jebsen had told him this some time ago.

– That’s no help to us. The guy isn’t here.

Nevertheless the sheriff suggested a cup of coffee and a bun from the counter. Viken couldn’t afford to waste any more time and as politely as he could declined the offer, though it was obvious Jebsen was hoping for something to eat. Do her good to wait, he thought with satisfaction as he sat himself behind the wheel. He offered her a sugar-free salt pastille.

As he started the car, she pointed to a male figure emerging from the door of the petrol station, a lanky guy with a shaven head and wearing red overalls covered with paint stains. He started filling the newspaper stands outside the door.

– If you want somebody that gives you the creeps, just have a word with that specimen there.

Viken glanced at her. – You know him?

She started talking about her previous visit, something about this lout here who worked behind the counter, seemed like a complete maniac and immediately picked a quarrel with her, a total stranger. Viken listened with only half an ear.

As they once again turned off at the sign for Åheim, Viken kept close behind the Volvo driven by the sheriff and one of his men. The weekend was approaching, and they were clearly short handed up here, but Storaker seemed happy enough to add another call-out to the budget. It was probably not every day they got the chance to take part in a murder inquiry.

They turned off at the first left. The sheriff never said anything about that, fumed Viken. That was why they had ended up deep in the forest. Wasted almost an hour through his carelessness. He swore and punched the wheel with his fist. Nina said nothing. Just then his mobile phone rang. He put in his earpiece. The woman at the other end forgot to say who she was, but that broad Australian accent was identification enough. People who didn’t know the pathologist sometimes wondered if Jennifer Plåterud was American, a suspicion she denied strenuously every time she was confronted with it.

– We haven’t found much biological material on Cecilie Davidsen, she told him. – So far everything we’ve got looks as if it comes either from her or from members of her family.

– In other words, a perpetrator who knows what he’s doing, Viken observed.

– However, what we have found is dust and traces of plaster beneath the fingernails, and on the clothes.

She was silent for a moment before continuing.

– Most likely the same type of plaster we found on the first victim, Hilde Paulsen. It turns out to be a mixture not much used over the past sixty or seventy years, a high calcium content with added clay. If it was just one of the victims we might think it was a random find. But not when it turns up on both of them.

– That’s good, Viken exclaimed. – How about those rips and tears?

– We heard back from Edmonton. They compared our pictures with those from their own archives, including people who have been attacked by bears. They say they’re the same.

Viken swerved round a pothole in the road.

– We’re asking ourselves if these wounds might have been made by paws cut from a stuffed bear, he said. – In which case, part of the killer’s signature, or message if you like. Think that’s a possibility?

– Severed bear paws? Well, I’ll take a closer look. She added with a little laugh: – Not because I think a dead bear can scratch. At least not that hard.

Viken told Nina what the pathologist had found.

– It shows we’re right, she said eagerly. – The victims were dumped where we found them. Both women were probably killed in a cellar.

– In a house built before the war, Viken added. – Or a cabin. It has to be somewhere where people can be kept prisoner for days without anyone finding out.

At last they came to a break in the dense forest, and spied a few patches of cultivated ground. They took another turn off the road and then up towards a farm on the brow of the forest. It consisted of a fairly large barn, the farmhouse itself, and an outhouse. All the buildings looked to be freshly painted. There was a white Mercedes parked outside the outhouse, next to a tractor hooked up to a trailer full of huge plastic containers. Another car was parked behind the garage, a second Mercedes, but this one older and lacking registration plates. Smoke drifted from the chimney of the house.

The sheriff and his assistant had jumped out and stood waiting as Viken and Jebsen walked over.

– Tried to call ahead, Storaker told them. – That Roger Åheim is the type that only answers the phone when he feels like it.

– Wouldn’t we all like to be like that, murmured Viken.

The woman who opened the door must have been over eighty. Her white hair was cut short and had recently been permed. It made her look like a sad old poodle, the chief inspector thought. But she was wearing a tracksuit and trainers, and looked in good shape for her age. Sheriff Storaker told her who they were, and she responded that of course she knew who he was. She subjected the others to a close scrutiny.

– The reason we’re here is we want a word with Roger Åheim, Storaker explained. – That would be your son, if I’m not mistaken. Is he around?

– You just wait a moment, the old woman croaked. – I’ll go and see.

She closed the door behind her.

– Funny, said Viken. – When you live somewhere like this, you ought to know who’s home and who isn’t.

He wandered across the yard to the barn, returning just as the woman opened up again.

– What’s it about? she asked, not exactly forthcoming, but the sheriff seemed to be as friendly as he was big, and without raising his voice he said: – Just go and fetch that lad of yours, will you, and then we’ll tell you what it’s about. Maybe we could come inside for a moment.

Grudgingly the old woman let them into the house.

The man who came down the stairs was in his late fifties. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms too. There was no hair left at the front of his head, but the large pores showed clearly where it had once been. The rest was combed back smoothly. He was wearing a T-shirt and looked like he’d been pumping iron. His skin was so golden-brown that Viken wondered if he’d spent most of the autumn in some kind of banana-ripening facility.

– Well I’ll be… exclaimed the man.

Storaker beamed good-naturedly.

– No need for me to introduce myself, Åheim. These are my colleagues from the Oslo police.

– Well, well, that’s posh.

– I’ll get straight to the point, the sheriff continued. – A few years ago you were sentenced for that business of shooting lynx. You were also found guilty of attacking a man with a broken bottle.

Roger Åheim opened his arms. A broad gold chain jangled around his wrist.

– It’s about time you let all that stuff go, Kjell Roar.

– There’s a lot of rumours floating about the village, Storaker went on, clearly not too happy about being on first-name terms with the owner of the farm.

– Rumours, yeah, plenty of them about. Åheim winked at Nina. – More rumours up here than there are mosquitoes at midsummer.

– Some people say you engage in illegal hunting activities, Storaker persisted.

Åheim came down to the foot of the staircase. Even wearing his clogs, he was half a head shorter than Viken.

– You got nothing better to do than run around listening to gossip?

– It’s all part of my job, Storaker said. – But if I suggest to you that people have been hunting bears up here recently, what would you have to say to that?

Åheim shook his head.

– Don’t believe a word of it.

Nina Jebsen interrupted.

– Would you know about it?

He let his gaze wander slowly up and down her before turning back to the sheriff.

– Now I’m going to be damned honest with you, Kjell Roar. I keep away from stuff like that. None of my business how other people wipe their arses.

Showing no hint of what he thought of people who announced that they were going to be completely honest, Viken said: – You were quoted in the local newspaper, Glåmdalen. He pulled out the printout. – You and one of your relatives, Odd Gunnar Nytorpet… Someone should catch a hungry bear and release it in the woods near Oslo, then we’d see what they said, these bureaucrats and politicians who are so bloody set on taking care of all the predators.

– For Chrissakes, Åheim exclaimed. – That must’ve been at least ten years ago. You’re not trying to tell me you think any of us actually meant it.

No one answered.

– This is a free country. People can say what they like.

Nina Jebsen said: – It’s not a bad idea to think before you speak. Especially when what you say is going to end up in a newspaper.

Viken turned as the living-room door opened behind him. A young woman stood there. From southern Asia, somewhere round there, he noted. She was holding a baby in her arms.

– Got a visitor? he asked Åheim.

– Visitor, no, this here is mine.

It wasn’t clear whether he meant the woman or the child. Probably both, Viken decided. Sixty years old and he fathers a nipper, good luck with that. He couldn’t help wondering how the young woman had ended up out here on this farm. Åheim had probably fetched her back home with him after a trip to Thailand.

– What do you use the barn for? he asked.

Åheim jumped. He took the bundle out of the woman’s arms and began to rock it back and forth, though it looked to be already fast asleep.

– The barn? Some hay, pig feed, tools… Why d’you ask?

– Come over with us, let’s take a look.

Åheim hesitated.

– It’s locked.

– I saw that. Monster of a bloody padlock. It’s not inconceivable you have the key.

– I rent out part of the barn. I don’t have that key.

Viken put on his friendliest grin.

– What can we do about that, Storaker?

The sheriff was already on his way out the door.

– I’ve got some bolt-cutters in the car. Absolute bloody man-eaters, they are.

– Shit, muttered Åheim, and handed the bundle back to the woman. – I’ll have a look, see if I don’t have an extra one somewhere.

He disappeared upstairs. The woman flashed them a brilliant smile.

– Bite to eat and a nice cup of coffee, if you feel like it?

Her local accent was so strong that even Viken might have had to change his version of her story.

Roger Åheim let them into the barn through a side door. Storaker had a powerful torch with him. A plough and a small tractor stood in the middle of the vast space. Two hay pens further in.

– I note you’ve got cables leading out here, said Viken. – What do you use the electricity for?

Roger Åheim wrinkled his nose.

– Machinery. High-pressure hoses. Battery chargers.

– Show us the fuse box.

The farmer hesitated.

– What d’you say your name was?

Viken hadn’t introduced himself and wasn’t about to do so now.

– You don’t need to know that to show us a few bloody fuses.

Åheim turned to the sheriff.

– Little awkward this, Kjell Roar, he murmured. – Got some bits and pieces…

He went up to a door, opened it, flipped the light switch. On a table stood an apparatus unmistakably designed for the distilling of alcohol. Four or five white plastic containers. Storaker took the cap off one and sniffed.

– Top quality this, Åheim.

– Personal use only, the farmer assured him.

The sheriff roared with laughter.

– Won’t be much left of your liver if you pour this lot down yourself. There’s got to be more than fifty litres here.

– Now I’m going to be damned honest with you, Kjell Roar, Åheim announced once more. – A couple of the lads do come by now and then to pick up a drop. No money changes hands at all.

Viken left it to the sheriff to worry about the farmer’s health while he tried to open a cupboard in the corner of the room.

– Is there a single door on this farm that isn’t locked? he complained.

Åheim fiddled with his keys.

– Got some stuff in there that has to be kept under lock and key. I’ve always been the cautious type. Especially with all these kids you get running around up here…

– Open it, let’s have a look at this stuff of yours.

The three shelves inside the cupboard were filled with cases of solvent and rat poison and tins of treatment for insects and weeds. There were also two small bottles. To his embarrassment, Viken had to get his spectacles out to read the labels.

– What’s the ethane for? he murmured.

– I used to keep pigs. Now and then I had to make sure they slept.

Viken stared at Åheim over the rim of his glasses.

– Ethane isn’t exactly a sleeping potion.

– Perfectly legal to use it, Åheim responded.

– And what is… Zoletil?

The farmer took the bottle and studied it.

– Is that still there? That’s from the time when I worked in Farming and Fisheries. Now and then we had to tranquillise some of the larger animals. He handed it back. – People reckon I’m the best shot in the area.

At the back of the shelf, Viken found another two small bottles. He peered at one of the labels.

– Damn, he finally exclaimed, and handed it to Jebsen.

– Pentothal-Natrium, she read, – to be injected, contains thiopental natric. Five hundred milligrams…

Viken held the farmer with his eyes and didn’t let go.

– Where did you get this stuff from?

Åheim shrugged his shoulders.

– Something I was looking after for the vet. He used it if we had problems with the ordinary tranquillisers. Years since we last needed it. I must have forgotten to give it back.

As they stood outside waiting while the farmer padlocked the door, Viken said:

– Now I want you to show us any cellars you might have, locked or not.

Nina Jebsen put her hand on his arm.

– There’s a loft space in there, she exclaimed.

Viken frowned.

– Behind his distillery the roof is sloping, but it’s flat at the other end.

– Quite correct, Åheim affirmed as he clicked the lock shut. – Just a lot of junk up there.

– Does that still fit? Viken asked caustically, with a nod at his bunch of keys. – Or does Storaker have to go back to his car and fetch his bolt-cutters?

– How do you get up there? he continued when they were once again standing in the half-darkness.

– I know someone who’s in the Oslo police force, Åheim volunteered.

If this was an attempt to distract matters with a bit of small talk, it failed completely. Viken merely turned his back on him.

– Go and fetch us a ladder, Storaker suggested.

– Bit tricky, that, was Åheim’s response. But then he gave up and disappeared in the direction of the outhouse. By the time he came back, his mood had sunk a few more degrees.

– There’s no need for us to spend the whole bloody day in here.

Storaker positioned the ladder and started climbing up, with the chief inspector holding it.

– Another door up here, he reported after he had reached the platform below the roof.

– That’s the bit I rent out, Åheim yelled up to him. – Don’t have the key for that.

Storaker gestured to his assistant, who disappeared off out to the car.

– What d’you say his name was, the bloke you rent it out to? he called down to Åheim, who didn’t answer.

Within a minute Storaker was finally able to show what his celebrated bolt-cutters were good for. With one tug the padlock was wrenched off, and he shone his torch into the space behind the door.

– Well I’ll be… he muttered, so loudly that they heard him down on the barn floor.

Viken and Jebsen climbed up. Storaker pointed to a loft space with a little peephole directly under the crest of the roof. Two large freezers stood on the floor.

– Bit of a job to get these up here.

Viken bent double and crept into the space. He opened one of the freezers and pulled out a deep-frozen straw sack, cut it open with a penknife.

– The man is right, he exclaimed as a large, cat-like head came into view. – This here is quite definitely a bit tricky.

35

Friday 19 October

ANITA ELVESTRAND HAD put the box of wine back in the fridge; now she had to go and fetch it again. She’d been counting the glasses and stopped at five, but thinking about it she realised that one more wouldn’t do any harm. She had a good head for wine. Drinking wine made her feel good, never whingeing or quarrelsome.

They were talking about slimming on the TV. That professor who always wore the bow tie and the stripy jacket and looked like a circus ringmaster was sitting there raving on about what he called health fascism. That was actually a bloody good expression, Anita nodded to him. One of the few professors worth listening to. Wine was good for the heart, researchers had discovered, and even that idiot of a local doctor she’d ended up with had to agree. A little wine each day, he said, but no more than one glass. Yesterday she hadn’t drunk a drop, so she was still in credit.

She’d been up and rung on Miriam’s bell, wanted to invite her down for a drink, but she wasn’t home. She had been talking about going away for the weekend with some friends, but right up until the last minute Anita had hoped she wouldn’t go. Miriam was the best person she knew, she thought as she emptied the rest of the glass. She must be careful not to disturb her too often. Mustn’t use her up. Even if it wasn’t convenient, Miriam never got annoyed when Anita rang on her doorbell. She’d had a visitor yesterday, and Anita knew straight away that it was a man. Even so Miriam gave her a moment and stood chatting with her out in the corridor. Her skin was so soft when she hugged her, it smelt so good. Later in the evening her suspicions about a gentleman caller were confirmed. The ceiling was thin, and you would have to be deaf as a post not to hear what was going on up there. And not just the once either. Anita thought it was odd. Miriam was going to be a doctor, and she was always trying to help. On Sundays she went to some Catholic church or other with nuns and monks. Now and then Anita actually thought of her as being from another world altogether. And then she let herself be had up there, screaming away like any horny girl. But it didn’t embarrass Anita to sit and listen to it all. On the contrary, she was so happy for Miriam she almost felt like joining in herself.

Miriam had popped in earlier in the day. Anita asked if she had a boyfriend, because she didn’t seem the type for one-night stands. Miriam had been evasive.

– I don’t quite know how it’s going to work out.

– Are you in love? Anita wanted to know.

– More than that.

– Then what’s the problem?

It wasn’t just out of curiosity she asked. Miriam didn’t look happy. Usually she looked so calm and content, but now there were shadows under her eyes, and her gaze was flickering and anxious.

– He’ll never leave his family, she said. – He isn’t like that.

– Is it that doctor from where you were doing your practical? Was it himhere yesterday?

Her suspicions were confirmed.

– Well then, it’s probably not a good idea to get too involved.

Miriam sat staring out of the window for a while before she answered.

– Maybe that’s the reason. That I can never have him.

Anita had given up counting the glasses. It didn’t much matter. She had the whole of Saturday to recover. On Sunday she would fetch Victoria, hair neatly combed and stone-cold sober. But she might well go out on Saturday night. Never drank much when she was out in town. Over and over again her solicitor had told her how important that was. She did have a chance to get Victoria back, but only if she kept her nose really clean.

Someone rang the bell. She jumped. Had Miriam come back after all? She usually knocked.

There was a man standing there she’d never seen before.

– Anita Elvestrand?

She nodded.

– Something’s happened.

She stared at him.

– Victoria, he said. – You’d better come at once.

She felt as if she’d been pushed over. She took hold of the door jamb.

– Who are you?

– I’m a doctor, there’s been an accident.

– Where? What do you mean?

– Come with me, I’ll explain on the way. We tried to call you but you didn’t answer.

She was still feeling dizzy as she grabbed her coat, pushed her feet into her boots. He ran down the stairs ahead of her, led her to the end of the block. Heading up the street, he clicked on a key, there was a beep and the lights on one of the parked cars blinked.

He opened the passenger door. Anita wanted to pee and was almost weeping with anxiety.

– Where is Victoria?

– I’ll take you there, he said and hopped into the driver’s seat.

Abruptly he put an arm around her, pushing her upper body down. She felt him pressing a cloth against her face. It smelt of sharp splinters and opened up a world of memories: corridors and beds, nurses in white coats with masks over their mouths in blinding light.

The smell reached out from the cloth and claimed her.

36

Saturday 20 October

FEET SINKING INTO the mud, he can’t see the bottom through the murky water. There’s no life down there, he tries to say as he wades out. I can’t dive here. Somewhere far away: a telephone. He’s never heard that ringtone before, but he knows it’s for him. Hears Bie’s voice coming from somewhere; he can’t answer the call as long as she’s there. Disappears back down again into sleep.

When he woke up, she was sitting on the side of the bed. Even through the curtains the sunlight was bright. She stroked his forehead.

– I was almost starting to get worried about you, Axel. You went for a lie-down at about six o’clock last night and you’ve been out ever since.

He sat up.

– Has anyone rung?

– For you? No, for once the big wide world out there has left you in peace.

Bie put an arm around his waist and pulled him close to her.

– You work too hard, Axel. Weren’t you going to start saying no to these night shifts?

He grunted a reply.

– I’d like to hang on to you for a while yet, you know. The way you looked when you came home yesterday… You’re not twenty any more.

She leant against him, pressing him backwards, laid a thigh across his bare stomach.

– You’re the most precious thing I have, you know that, don’t you? she murmured, and he couldn’t remember the last time she had said something like that.

– What do you know about Brede? he asked suddenly.

She raised herself up on one elbow.

– Brede, your brother? Why are you asking me that?

– What do you know about him, Bie?

She looked searchingly into his face.

– No more than what you’ve told me. That he destroyed everything he touched. That it was impossible for your parents to have him living at home.

– There’s more. Something I didn’t tell you. We made this pact never to tell on one another.

She got up and opened the curtain, came back to bed again.

– What’s made you think of him now?

He looked up at the ceiling, the throbbing white light mingling with a hint of forget-me-not blue, Bie’s favourite colour.

– I saw him in town one day. He was gone before I could get to him.

– Are you certain? You’ve always been so sure he must be dead.

– He isn’t dead. There’s a lot you don’t know.

– I realise that. She scraped down his chest with her long fingernails. – Don’t you think I’ve noticed how no one in the family has ever talked about him in all the years I’ve known you.

She bent down and kissed his navel.

– Some things you just have to let lie, Axel. If we spent our lives digging up corpses, we wouldn’t have the energy to do anything else.

He twisted round, got to his feet. Found his boxer shorts by the bedside, pulled them on.

– Are you leaving?

From her tone of voice he knew what she had in mind.

– I’ve got a bladder the size of a nine-month womb, he said with a vague smile. – Just before the waters break.

– You’ve not forgotten we’re invited out tonight?

He let out a groan.

– I thought as much, she said tartly.

Mail from Daniel. He used to write every week, but it was a long time now since they’d heard from him. Normally it would have worried Axel, a twenty-two year old on his own in New York, but these day he had no time to think about it. As he opened the letter, a feeling of missing his elder son came sneaking over him. If he wasn’t careful, it might turn into an avalanche.

Daniel had taken his economics exam just the day before and for the past few weeks had been studying round the clock. Again he reassured his parents that New York was one of the safest cities in the world. Not like Oslo. For once there’s something about Norway in the New York Times. A big article about the two murders. Apparently people are afraid a killer bear is on the loose in the centre of the capital. Can’t find anything in the online editions of the Norwegian papers that denies it. What’s going on? According to the NYT article there’s an almost medieval atmosphere. Fears of being attacked by monsters in the dark streets at night. People afraid to go outside (can this be true?), and the journalist writes that it feels like being in a city where the walls were never pulled down. Couldn’t have a better advert. Soon you’ll be drowning in tourists on the lookout for something exotic and primitive in the heart of what is, after all, a modern capital. I keep having to remind my fellow students that yes, we do have electricity in Norway now, we’ve even got TV, and – of particular importance to Americans – we have flushing toilets.

Bie had called the family to lunch. Warm baguettes and boiled eggs.

– What are you doing tonight? Axel asked Tom when his son finally appeared.

– Dunno. Going over to Findus’s.

– Are you going to rehearse?

Tom shrugged.

– Aren’t you going to ask me? Marlen snuffled as she put Cassiopeia down beside her plate. The tortoise’s head and feet disappeared soundlessly inside its shell.

– But of course. What are you doing tonight, Marlen?

She stretched her neck.

– Not telling.

Axel didn’t give up.

– Aw, don’t be like that. At least give me a clue.

– Nothing you need to know about, she pouted as she sneezed across the plate.

The way she said it was so cheeky, Axel thought he might pull her up about it. But then she immediately sneezed again, this time into a serviette Bie managed to stick in front of her nose. Once she’d recovered, she announced:

– Sneezing is the best thing there is. It’s like travelling in a space rocket. It tickles and then it’s like everything disappears. Is it dangerous?

– You should ask the doctor, was Bie’s advice.

– No, not dangerous, Axel reassured her. – Not as long as you come back down to earth again.

37

BIE STAYED DOWN in the hall talking to the birthday boy as the hostess led Axel up the plushly carpeted staircase. As soon as he entered the large room, he caught sight of Ingrid Brodahl and her husband. They were standing alone over by the fireplace, while the other guests were gathered in groups. Ingrid Brodahl, who had clung to his arm, screaming. Images from the night of the accident rose up again. And the feeling of helplessness he didn’t know how to deal with. His first thought when he saw them standing there was to turn and go out again, out to the car, drive off somewhere. After the funeral, he had held his hand out to her in the middle of a stream of people offering their condolences. Her features were drawn and strained, but when she realised it was his hand she was shaking she had broken down and her husband had to lead her away. If he spoke to her at this gathering, it might prove too much for her again. Maybe she would always think of him as someone who arrived in the middle of the night bringing news of death.

He stood beside her. Only now did she recognise him. She didn’t release his hand as they greeted each other. She looked at him with a glazed stare, saying nothing, but she didn’t start to cry. She’s boxed it in, he thought.

Axel stood in the darkness at the end of the terrace. The living-room door behind him was ajar, and from within he heard the sounds of Caribbean rhythms. Usually he didn’t see much of Bie at parties; neither of them minded letting go of the other for a while. But this evening she had stayed close the whole time. Insisted on dancing with him, held him tight, kissed him with such intensity that they must have looked like a couple who had just fallen in love. He’d danced a few dances with her, cheek to cheek, before withdrawing. Is something going on, Axel? she had asked. He had been about to say, Something is going on, Bie, and I don’t know if I can stop it. But he had shaken his head, and she stroked his neck and told him she understood that he was tired. Stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear that as far as she was concerned they could go home early.

He took a deep drink from his cognac glass, let it wash around in his mouth. The terrace wasn’t west-facing like their own, but faced north, and he could see over to the city on the far side of the fjord. The castle, the town hall, a little to the right Carl Berners Place and then Rodeløkka. He didn’t think Miriam was home. She’d said something about going away for the weekend. The relief of knowing she wasn’t there, that she’d gone somewhere he couldn’t get in touch with her. If he never met her again, how long would it take before he stopped seeing her face in his mind’s eye? This was how he must be now: completely passive, not doing anything until she had faded away and it was over.

The sky above him was as clear as dark glass. He found the Twins, then moved slowly on towards the Charioteer and Perseus, holding the head of the Medusa with her evil eye. In the days after her birthday party he’d had to explain repeatedly to Marlen that the star named Algol seemed to pulsate because there were actually two stars that shadowed each other in turn. That had helped. At least she dared to look up into the night sky again. A week ago she’d written a story that she read out to him. About an astronaut who was shot up into space and came close to the terrible double star Algol, the Medusa’s eye. He never returned. He had been turned into stone that swirled and circled around up there, away in the outer darkness. Stories too could circle and shadow each other, Axel thought when she had finished reading.

He emptied what was left of the cognac. Thought of something he had seen in a newspaper. An investigation carried out among Italian men. The unfaithful ones were also those who scored highest on the scale of how good they were as family men. The interpretation of this was that feelings of guilt brought out the best in them as fathers. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile phone. Are you sleeping? he texted.

As he was sending the message, he heard footsteps on the terrace. When he turned, he saw Ingrid Brodahl standing there. At table they had been seated apart from each other, but he had seen her looking at him several times, and he guessed that she would approach at some point in the evening. Now she was standing there, glass in hand and with a small bag dangling from her arm.

– I saw you come out here, she said.

Her dress glinted in the light from the room when she moved.

– I needed some fresh air, he answered. – Are you back at work?

She had a senior post in a government ministry, he recalled. Possibly the Ministry of Culture.

– I start back on Monday. I don’t even have the energy to dread it. Everything seems so remote and distant. Even being here.

She kept her eyes fixed on him.

– I didn’t get the chance to say this earlier, I suppose I was a little taken aback, but… Thank you for coming.

He presumed she meant the funeral, muttered something about well of course, he had to.

– That night, she continued in a dull monotone. – I realise you could have left it to someone else to come to our house. I can’t be grateful for anything. But I do want you to know. It was good that it was you who came.

He looked at her. There had always been something unapproachable about Ingrid Brodahl, he thought. An ironic tone that kept her surroundings at a distance. Now it was as if the world had collapsed on her and torn everything loose with it.

She laid a hand on his arm.

– When you found her. How was she lying?

He took a deep breath, felt the same helplessness as he had done that night.

– Lise… she added, almost inaudibly.

Suddenly he started to talk, describing how he hadn’t found her in the car and had walked back along the roadside ditch to search. At first it looked as if she was asleep. Ingrid Brodahl tightened her grip on his wrist, and for a moment he was afraid she might lose control. She opened her bag, took out a handkerchief, stood there with it pressed against her nose.

His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.

– I’ll come over one day soon, he said. – We’ll talk more about it. If you’d like that.

Without looking up she said: – I’m glad there are people like you. That’s probably the reason everything will carry on again. One day.

In the back of the taxi, Bie snuggled up with her head resting on his chest. He put his arm around her, kissed her on the forehead. Her hair smelt of roses and smoke. He stroked her cheek, traced the outline of her lips with a finger. She took it in her mouth and bit it.

– How tired are you actually, Dr Glenne? she asked, undoing a couple of his shirt buttons, slipping a hand in to his bare chest.

– I’m already asleep.

The hand glided down over his stomach and inside the waistband of his trousers.

– Oops. That doesn’t appear to be the case with every part of you.

– No, he had to admit. – Some parts just get up and lie down whenever it suits them, no matter how firm I try to be with them.

– Disobedience like that must be punished, she purred.

They had the house to themselves. He got undressed and sat by the little table in the corner of the bedroom, a cognac glass in his hand. Picked up the remote control and turned on some piano music she had left in the player. She came in from the bathroom and stood in front of him. Had left the transparent G-string on.

– When did you start shaving yourself? he wanted to know, still controlling himself.

She raised her chin dismissively, and the movement seemed to release something in him. Suddenly he was on his feet, grabbing hold of her and pulling her over to the bed. They had a pair of handcuffs somewhere; it was a while since they’d used them and he wasn’t sure where they were. Instead he snatched up his silk tie and tightened it around her wrists, fastening the other end to the bedpost. As he fiercely pulled her legs apart, she turned and bit him on the shoulder.

– You big rough bastard, she growled.

He fumbles his way along a corridor. It is lit by a strip of small blue lights along the floor. On one of the plates he reads: Viktor. The door opens. An interview room within. The detective chief inspector is sitting there, but his name is not Viktor.

We’ve been waiting for you, Brede.

He opens his mouth to protest. They’ve got to stop calling him Brede. He refuses to put up with it any more. The chief inspector takes him by the arm, drags him into another room, a large room with a screen pulled down in front of the stage.

We managed to film him. Thanks to you we managed to film him, Brede.

Four or five people sitting in the first row; otherwise it’s empty in there. One of them turns, bathed in a greenish light. It’s his mother.

I’m proud of you, Axel. Proud of you.

He feels relieved that she recognises him and is about to ask her to explain this business about Brede. Tell them who I am, he is on the point of saying, but before he can do so, he is pushed down into one of the seats.

Eighth row. This’ll just have to do, it was the best we could get.

Detective Chief Inspector Viktor squeezes in beside him, places a hand on his thigh.

Glenne, you just wait till you see this.

He’s got it now, he’s not calling him Brede any more.

Viktor turns and snaps his fingers three times. There’s an old projector at the back of the room. Rita is there cranking it up. Images appear on the screen. Daybreak. The camera glides between the trees, all the branches bare of needles.

I don’t want to see this.

Viktor puts his arm around him, holds him firmly. He tries to pull away, but there’s someone sitting on the other side of him too now. Smells of rotting meat. He can’t manage to turn his head enough to see who it is.

We’re not going to stop until you’ve seen everything.

The camera approaches a tarn. Someone standing on the bank, a man in a white suit and boots, a bowler hat on his head. He’s holding a stone in his hand. In front of him, black hair dipping in the water’s edge, lies a naked woman. She is bleeding from the head. A tree trunk gets in the way of the camera.

Watch closely, Glenne,Viktor whispers in his ear. Watch closely now, and you’ll see the Medusa’s face.

The camera moves forward again, zooming in. The man by the tarn turns. His face fills the screen. That evil grin, the laughter that can’t be heard.

He mustn’t look at the eyes. Tears himself away, heading out, shrieking like an animal as he tries to drown out Viktor’s voice: Do you recognise yourself, Dr Glenne? Now, at last, do you recognise yourself?

38

Monday 22 October

AGNES FINCKENHAGEN SAT with a steaming mug of coffee in her hand and VG spread out on the table in front of her. The front page was covered with a single headline: POLICE SUSPECT GREEN TERROR. Inside, three pages were devoted to the raid on the barn in Åsnes county in Hedmark, which was presented as the police’s most important lead so far in the so-called bear murders. Finckenhagen had just come from a meeting with the Chief Constable and the Chief Superintendent. They wanted to know why they had to learn of important developments from the press. She couldn’t give a good answer and had to put up with a roasting that lasted for almost an hour. At the end of it she was given the remainder of the morning to deliver a report on the case.

She rang Viken and asked him to call in and see her. Get here at once, she ought to have said. But Viken was the type you made suggestions to, not gave orders. A man everyone had an opinion on, as she had soon discovered when she joined the section. She got on with him extremely well. To begin with she had had her doubts, not least because he had, after all, applied for the job she had been brought in to do. But he had never shown any opposition or rivalry. On the contrary, from the very first day she had found him loyal, supportive even. You had to respect that, she’d thought. A man whose concern for the job overrode any personal ambition he might have.

She had never heard anyone question Viken’s abilities as one of the best detectives in Oslo, and when he spoke, even the most experienced listened. He had led investigations into a number of cases of serial rape, almost all of which had been solved. Influenced by American profilers, he had developed a special understanding of the psychology of people involved in serial criminal activities. He gave lectures on the way technical finds at crime scenes could reveal something about the perpetrator’s inner world. Finckenhagen found it very interesting, but discovered that within the section generally, there was little enthusiasm for what he was doing. But she felt sure that developments in the techniques of investigation would presently show him to be right, and she was more than willing to stand up for him if need be. She had seen for herself the almost cruel efficiency with which Viken used his psychological insight to elicit a confession during questioning. As a leader, however, he would have been a disaster for the section, something the people up on the eighth floor had understood only too well. He was the lone-wolf type, someone who found it difficult to delegate responsibilities. What was worse was that he polarised opinion among those around him. People were either strongly for or strongly against him. His supportersappeared willing to do anything for him, it seemed. But even amongst those he was more feared than loved.

Viken knocked twice on the half-open door and walked in. As usual he was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck to reveal a line of thick grey chest hair.

– Are we going to do this sitting down or standing up? he asked with that enigmatic smile Finckenhagen had long puzzled over but in the end found really quite sympathetic.

– Please, do sit down. Have you read VG?

– Never miss it.

– Well, what do you make of it?

– They’ve got hold of more information than we’d like. He didn’t appear to be worried in the slightest.

– Where did they get it from? she wanted to know.

He scratched beneath his chin, drew his fingers along his jawline, making the skin taut.

– Possibly from the forest deeps of Hedmark. Possibly from us.

– In which case we have a problem.

He leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of him. The polished toecaps of his shoes glinted.

– I’ll take another look at it, Chief. If we find the source, you’ll be the first to know. But even so, it could’ve been worse.

– How d’you mean?

– Journalists are like a wolf pack. If they find a bone, they’re all over it. If they don’t, they’re all over us. That would have done a lot more damage to the investigation.

Finckenhagen wasn’t sure she liked the imagery he used.

– The Chief Superintendent is not quite of the same opinion as you. Nor is the Chief Constable.

Viken grinned a rather wolf-like grin himself.

– Let him growl away a bit. That’s his job. He doesn’t bite.

She had to smile. It was reassuring to have a guy like Viken in the team, someone she could lean on when things got tough.

– Is there anything at all in this story of VG’s?

He shook his head firmly.

– Environmental criminality, yes. Hunting and trapping of protected species, sales to foreign countries. But murder and terror? I don’t think so. Sure, the guy we’ve arrested was in possession of the same tranquillising agent as was used in the murders, but I’m inclined to believe him when he says he used it on animals, not people. And anyway, he has alibis for most of the times that interest us.

He added: – Who really believes that here in Norway we’ve got terrorists who are willing to kill to protest against the government’s wildlife conservation policies? We would have known about a group like that a long time ago. But it’s enough to keep the press going for a day or two. See how much they got out of that fantasy about a killer beast roaming the streets of the city. No one much above the age of five believes that those women were attacked by a bear, but as you know, people love to read that kind of stuff. If the papers had written that we were looking for a troll with nine heads, they would have sold even more copies.

Finckenhagen had to agree with him.

– I was thinking of suggesting to the Chief Superintendent the possibility of bringing in a psychologist who knows something about profiling. It would give you someone to talk things over with. This case is so special, I think he might go along with the idea. What do you think?

Viken mulled it over.

– In that case we would be saying loud and clear that we suspect a serial killer may be on the loose. It would probably cause as much hysteria as rumours about a killer bear.

– The papers are already speculating along those lines anyway, regardless of what we do. Do we have any use for one of these psychologists?

– We’ve got a couple up here in the frozen north who think they know something about psychological profiling. What you get from them is a large pile of platitudes and an even larger pile of bills. We’d need to go abroad if we’re looking for someone good.

– Think about it. I’m open to suggestions.

– Let’s make the most of what we’ve got for the time being, Viken concluded.

39

NINA JEBSEN OPENED the incident book to see if there was anything of possible significance for the two murder cases. Thirty-five calls had been registered over the weekend, and she gave some of them a closer look. She had lost count of the number of people reported missing after the newspapers began writing about the murders. In most cases they were women who turned up again a few hours later.

Of the three missing-persons reports that were still on file, one was considered interesting enough to send a patrol car to take a closer look. An address in Rodeløkka. A thirty-six-year-old woman who hadn’t been seen since Friday afternoon. Former drug addict, Nina saw, noting how this was reflected in the tone of the report. Tempting to suspect the woman had cracked up and gone back to the street; she would probably turn up in a hospital, or at best a hospice, at some point over the next few days. But the neighbour who had reported her missing seemed certain that this wasn’t the case. She had returned home Sunday evening to find the missing woman’s door half open and the television still on. Nina made a note of the name and continued through the rest of the book.

She was almost done when the phone rang. The switchboard had a caller on the line who insisted on talking to Viken, but Viken was in a meeting. Nina reminded the operator that no phone tips were to be passed on to Violent Crimes without filtering. After Viken had been in the newspapers and on the TV a few times, every Tom, Dick and Hilda who called in insisted it was him they had to talk to. What about those who refused to speak to anyone else? the switchboard operator wanted to know. People who claimed to have vital information about the murders? Nina gave up with a sigh and asked him to put the call through to her.

– Viken? a female voice shouted into her ear.

– Viken is in a meeting, Nina informed her. – Who is this?

– You’ve got to do something, the woman continued. Already Nina was regretting her indulgence.

– We’re always doing something, she said soothingly. – Don’t worry about that.

– You’re not doing your job, the woman insisted, and Nina glanced at her watch. She’d give this woman thirty seconds before hanging up.

– It’s going to happen again. And you’re not doing anything.

Suddenly the voice changed. It became deeper and slower:

– You can’t do anything. It’s going to happen anyway.

– Perhaps you’d explain yourself, Nina suggested.

– I will. Don’t you worry about that. He who has eyes to see, let him see. As far as I’m concerned, you can go to hell, the lot of you. That’s where you’re headed. You can’t save him.

– Who can’t we save?

– There is just one righteous man in this city, and almost no one knows who he really is. And his name shall be blessed for ever. Make a note of that, sweetie, a clearing in the forest, a glen in the wilderness. But he’s the one they’re after, the killers and the rapists and rope-makers, because if they get him then Sodom and Gomorrah and Jerusalem will fall, and if you understood anything at all inside your heads, you would protect him night and day and twenty-four-seven. The chosen ones will follow him. I’ve followed him before, all the way to the terminus, the last stop, and God knows I will go on following him. Glen in the forest. But his time will soon be up, that’s what you don’t understand.

The woman hung up. Nina Jebsen remained sitting there looking at the screen for a few moments before opening a document and entering a few lines about the conversation. She asked herself why it was that every lunatic in the world felt drawn towards unsolved murder cases. Like moths to the light.

40

AXEL HURRIED UP the twisting stairway. The yellowy-brown felt carpet was worn down the middle, and the way the stairs sloped to one side gave him a strange sensation of falling. She had sent him a text. Must talk to you. He had to talk to her too, one last time.

She opened the door and let him in. Stayed standing in the dimly lit hallway and looked up into his eyes.

– Thank you for coming, she said.

He had brought two bottles of wine with him. They chinked together as he put the plastic bag down.

– I’m afraid, Axel.

He pulled her close, doubting whether he could bring himself to say what he had come to say.

– I wish so much you could stay. Never leave here again.

– What is it you’re afraid of? he murmured in her ear.

– Anita’s gone missing.

– Anita?

– The woman who lives underneath.

– The one with the daughter who was taken into care?

Miriam nodded.

– When I came home yesterday, her door was wide open. The TV and all the lights were on. I knew straight away something was wrong. I called the police. They’ve been here.

She took him by the hand, led him into the living room.

– She was supposed to fetch Victoria yesterday afternoon, but she never turned up at the foster parents’ home.

– Might she not just have gone off somewhere?

– Without saying anything? When she was finally going to be allowed to have Victoria stay overnight with her? She was looking forward to it like mad.

Axel didn’t say what he was thinking. Former drug addict, suddenly disappears.

– I know something’s happened to her. All this that’s been going on…

Miriam sat on the sofa, wrapped a blanket around herself.

– You’re thinking of the two women who were murdered, said Axel. – All that stuff in the papers, warnings about not going out alone.

She bit her lip.

– It’s as if it’s got something to do with me.

– We always think that way when we’re afraid, he reassured her. – There’s not a single person in the whole city who isn’t affected.

– It’s something else…

She reached her hand out to him. He leaned over her.

– I want you to lie down beside me, she whispered. – I want you to hold me. As tight as you can.

Lying there on her sofa, in the tiny flat. The feeling of not having to say anything. I like the person she makes me into, he thought. I like the person I am when I’m with her, better than all the other versions of Axel Glenne. And I’m to let him go? Really?

He sent a text message saying he wouldn’t be home. No explanation. He couldn’t face the thought of making up another lie.

It was 7.30. One of the bottles of red wine was almost empty. Bie had tried to call; he’d put the phone on mute. She’d sent a text: What is going on, Axel? The question brought a sense of relief. Now there was no way round it; he would have to talk to her. Will explain tomorrow, he wrote back.

– Your father was a war hero, Miriam said suddenly.

Axel shared the last of the wine between them. It didn’t surprise him that she had found this out.

– Genuine Norwegian war hero, he confirmed. – There’s a phrase for it in Norwegian, gutta på skauen, the lads in the forest. For one whole winter he had to stay hidden away in a cabin, completely alone, miles from anyone.

– I’ve heard a lot about the war in Norway, she said. – Since I came here I’ve met a lot of people who said it was the brave Norwegians who defeated the Germans. I’ve even been inside one of those cabins you’re talking about, deep in the forest. They had the operations centre in a secret room in the cellar. The grandfather of the person who owns the cabin was a… what did he call it… was it a border guide?

– That’s right.

– He helped refugees over into Sweden. In the end he was caught and sent to a concentration camp.

Axel opened the second bottle.

– It was a very dangerous job, he nodded. – When we were kids, my father plotted in the whole network of cabins and flight routes for us on a map. We imagined walking them with him. I’ve lost track of how many times he told us about the moment he was just seconds away from being captured by the Gestapo. And every time we were just as scared. Even Brede sat there listening in silence… What did you say his name was, this man who was a border guide?

– I don’t remember. I can’t go around remembering everything. Some things should be forgotten.

It occurred to him that in a subtle way she was trying to involve him. She wanted him to ask more about these things that should be forgotten, tell him stories about her past. Lead him into them as though into a labyrinth. In the end it would be impossible to let her go.

He said: – Are you good at forgetting?

Her eyebrows flew up and quivered a few times. She didn’t answer.

– If I asked you to, could you forget what we’ve shared together?

She hugged him tighter.

– You say that as though it was already in the past.

He knew he was getting close to what he was supposed to be saying to her, but then he ducked away. Changed the subject, said something unimportant.

– You left an envelope behind in the office you were using at the clinic.

He didn’t mention how close he’d come to opening it, to peering into her life and the things he wanted to know as little about as possible.

– Bring it with you next time you come, she said. – If you come.

Again she gave him the chance to say what he had come to say.

Somewhere in the distance a phone is ringing. It’s for him, but he can’t work out where the sound is coming from. He’s lying on a stone floor, he’s cold. Brede is walking down a staircase towards him. It isn’t Brede. It’s Tom, coming down step by step. Never reaching him.

Axel opened his eyes in the dark, sat bolt upright. He heard Miriam’s slow breathing. Could just make out the hair that flowed across the pillow by the bedhead. The shapes of the books on the shelf above it became clearer, and the photograph of the officer in naval uniform. The only picture he’d seen at her flat. It had to be her father. He had avoided asking. Suddenly he remembered the last thing he’d said to her before she fell asleep: one day I’ll tell you about my twin brother. One day? she murmured, half asleep. Next time I come, he said. You will be the first to hear the story. About what happened that summer he was sent away.

It was two minutes to five. He dressed quietly. Out in the hallway he picked up his shoes. There was a smell of something rotting, and it struck him that it was himself he was smelling. He opened the front door slightly and the smell grew stronger. He opened it further. Something was obstructing it. He pushed and managed to get it half open. Suddenly realised what the smell reminded him of: the pathology lab, the smell of an autopsy. He switched on the light. It cast a yellowish cone on to the landing. A hand was lying there, an arm. Ripped and bloody. He hurled himself against the door and stumbled out in his stockinged feet, stepping in something wet and sticky. The body that lay there blocking the doorway was naked. It was a woman. Both legs were missing. The hair was a cake of coagulated blood, the face had been torn open. He couldn’t see the eyes. He stepped back inside, into the hallway. The door swung closed.

From the alcove he heard Miriam’s voice. She called his name. He staggered in to her.

– Where have you been? What’s that smell? Axel, say something.

He cleared his throat.

– It’s… it’s happened again.

She jumped out of the alcove.

– What has happened?

His body felt as though it was collapsing; he held on tight to the back of the chair.

– Outside your door.

She was on her way out; he grabbed hold of her.

– Someone’s lying there. A woman.

– No!

– She’s… You mustn’t go out there.

– Anita, she whispered.

He let go of her. Tried to keep hold of his thoughts. Managed to hang on to one.

– Wait five minutes, until I’m gone. Then call the police. Lock the door and wait here until they come, don’t open up for anyone else.

She looked at him in disbelief.

– Are you going?

– I must talk to Bie. She has to hear this from me… that I was here last night. You do understand, Miriam, you must tell the police you were alone. That you couldn’t get the door open. That you saw a bloodied arm and didn’t dare go out until they arrived.

She was still staring at him, as though she didn’t understand what he was talking about.

– Miriam. He took hold of her hair, drew her head away so that he could see her eyes. They looked frozen. – Remember now? Remember to ring?

He held her tight and kissed her on the cheek. Her arms hung slack.

– Don’t leave now, Axel, she whispered.

He squeezed out through the door, avoided breathing in the stench. Didn’t look down at what was lying there. Staggered down the uneven staircase and out into the back yard. As he put his hand on the gate, someone opened it from the outside. He jumped back a step, stood poised in the half-dark. A man with a cap pulled down over his forehead came in through the opening, pulling a newspaper trolley behind him. For an instant Axel met his gaze.

– Good morning, the man said in heavily accented Norwegian.

Axel dashed past him.

A diffuse band of silver light hung in the eastern sky. He looked at his watch: 5.10. He hurried in the direction of Carl Berners Place before realising he was going in the wrong direction. He turned back. No taxi, he thought. Mustn’t let anyone see me. Don’t even know where I’m going.

Half an hour later, he rang on a doorbell in Tåsenveien.

41

Tuesday 23 October

VIKEN STOOD ON the top step, breathing unevenly. Not because he was in such bad shape that he was out of breath from climbing a few stairs, but because what he saw was what he had expected to see, and yet so much worse that it left him gasping for air, and the stench from the dead body was almost unendurable.

Nina Jebsen had stopped on the step below him. He had picked her up on the way. An impulse shot through him: shield her from the sight of this. The dead woman – what was left of her – lay with her head twisted to one side, staring towards the stairs they had just ascended, though the eyes were almost caked over with dried blood. Deep rifts, what looked like claw marks, ran from the lower part of the face and down across the shoulder and back. One corner of the mouth had been ripped open, and the tongue lolled through the opening in the cheek.

Viken looked at the constable standing beside the door.

– Is this the neighbour who contacted the switchboard?

The name Miriam Gaizauskaite was written on a sign under the doorbell.

– Yes, she called the emergency number about, – the constable glanced at his watch, – fifty-five minutes ago.

– Technical?

– Not here yet.

Something had struck Viken on the way up. He turned and went downstairs to the floor below.

– Jebsen, he called up to her.

Nina came down the twisting staircase. She was pale and held on to the banister as though afraid the timbers would collapse beneath her at any moment.

Viken pointed to the sign on the door: Anita and Victoria Elvestrand live here.

– The missing woman, she confirmed.

Viken hurried back up again, over the first reaction now. He borrowed the constable’s torch and peered at the floor around the mutilated body. Not much blood; obviously the killing hadn’t been done here. The small amount there was came from the severed legs. He could see the clear imprint of a foot in it.

People were talking as they made their way up the stairs. Viken recognised one of the voices, a crime-scene technician. At the same instant he noticed something on the door and the door jamb. He squatted down and shone his torch. A broad marking across the woodwork, five deep downward scratches.

– What’s the first thing that hits you when you see this, Jebsen?

She squatted down beside him.

– Claws, she said at once. – Marks made by a large paw with claws.

Miriam Gaizauskaite sat on the sofa with her legs curled under her. She was wearing jogging pants and a thick sweater. She sat rocking from side to side and staring in front of her.

– So you didn’t hear anything until you tried to open the door? Viken asked again.

She shook her head.

– Listen, Miriam, Viken began, and noticed that Nina Jebsen was watching him. She was probably not used to hearing him address a witness using their first name. – You called the switchboard at seventeen minutes past five. Can you tell us why you were up and about so early?

She glanced at him, then over at Nina. Her pupils were wide open. Is she on something, or is it just the shock? Viken wondered.

– I… woke up early. Couldn’t sleep. Then I heard someone open the gate, thought it was the paper boy. I got up and went to fetch the paper.

– And you neither saw nor heard anything unusual from the time you went to bed at about twelve until you heard the gate open.

Miriam looked down at the floor.

– I didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything.

Half an hour later, Viken made a sign to Nina Jebsen: time to wrap it up.

– We don’t know yet who it is lying out there, said Nina, – but we can’t exclude the possibility that it’s your neighbour.

Miriam began to tremble.

– It is her, she said in a low voice.

– Do you think so?

– Something’s very wrong. I’ve had a feeling about it the whole time.

Viken said: – You know her quite well, I gather. I want to ask something of you. It won’t be easy. It isn’t easy for us either, if that’s any comfort. And you can say no if you don’t want to do it.

Miriam released the hold she had around her knees and let her feet drop to the floor. Her phone rang; it was on the coffee table. She picked it up, looked at the display, turned it off.

– It’s all right, she said. Her voice was clearer now. – I’ll identify the body for you.

The two women went out while Viken had a look round inside the flat. When they came back in again, Nina had an arm around Miriam.

– You’re quite certain?

Miriam leaned towards her.

– I recognise the tattoo, she muttered. – On the shoulder. The picture of a naked man.

– Did you have a visitor here yesterday? asked Viken.

Miriam didn’t answer.

– There are two wine glasses out in the kitchen. And one empty and a half-full bottle.

– I didn’t have visitors. I drank it myself over the last couple of days.

– In other words, you like your wine, said Viken. – Did you drink much yesterday evening?

She closed her eyes.

– A bit too much. I must have fallen asleep.

Before leaving the room, Viken went into the sleeping alcove and lifted the duvet and the two blankets that lay on the bed.

42

AT ONE O’CLOCK on Tuesday afternoon, the investigating team gathered in the meeting room. Four new tactical investigators had joined the group. Agnes Finckenhagen was also present, as was Jarle Frøen, the police prosecutor who was the nominal though far from actual leader of the investigation. The room was divided by sliding doors and there were no windows in the part they were sitting in. Already the air was starting to get heavy and close.

Detective Chief Inspector Viken summed up recent developments.

– We won’t get the DNA results today. But there is no doubt that the victim is Anita Elvestrand, the thirty-six year old who was reported missing from her home on Sunday afternoon by her neighbour on the floor above. The same neighbour gave a positive ID of the body.

– What about next of kin? asked Finckenhagen.

Viken nodded to Arve Norbakk.

– Parents dead, the sergeant informed them. – She has a sister living in Spain and a brother who is an oil worker out on the Gullfaks rig. They have been contacted, but neither of them has any imminent plans to come over.

Viken resumed.

– The neighbour’s name is Miriam Gaizauskaite, a Lithuanian citizen. She is studying medicine here in Oslo. We’ll come back to her. I’ve had pictures sent over from the pathology lab; let’s take a look at those first.

He clicked his way to the file on the computer.

– Jebsen and I were there and saw this abomination. Strong stuff, I warn you… One great advantage in your favour: the pictures don’t smell.

Sigge Helgarsson seemed to be about to make a comment, but instead tipped back on his chair and said nothing.

Viken pulled down the screen.

– As you will note immediately, the victim exhibits distinctive injuries to the face, neck and down the back.

He clicked through a series of pictures of the ravaged body.

– As you will also note, these wounds are similar to those we have seen on the other recent murder victims. Here, however, is what is left of the lower body. Both legs have been severed, directly below the hip joint.

– For fuck’s sake, Helgarsson exclaimed.

– Precisely, Sigge, Viken observed. – I couldn’t have put it better myself.

He showed an enlarged image of one of the stumps.

– Does this look like a leg that has been bitten off by an animal?

– It’s been sawn off, Norbakk said.

– Dr Plåterud’s conclusion precisely. So we are dealing with a perpetrator who goes further each time in the mutilation of his victims. This is a well-known feature of this type of crime.

Viken clicked on, stopped at a picture of an arm, zoomed in. A tattoo of a muscular naked male body appeared.

– I would ask female members of the gathering to avert their eyes, he suggested, after debating with himself how far it was permissible to joke about such things under the circumstances. – It was, by the way, the tattoo that the neighbour recognised.

He zoomed in further still.

– What is this? he asked, pointing to four small dots under the shoulder.

He magnified the image to show a slight swelling under each of them.

– Needle marks, Norbakk volunteered.

– No doubt about it. What do we make of that?

– She takes drugs, suggested one of the new members of the team, a young man with cheeks pitted with acne scars. He was on loan from Majorstua and was hardly likely to contribute anything to the investigation. When Viken had requested more resources, he had been thinking of quality, not making up the numbers. Now he stood swaying back and forth on the soles of his feet, like a teacher savouring the pleasures of correcting a boy who should have known better.

– Apparently gave it up years ago, he informed him. – And this is on the outside of the arm, nowhere near the larger arteries. In addition, no trace of the usual narcotics in the blood. And as you will remember… He showed a new picture. – Cecilie Davidsen’s upper right arm: three similar pinpricks, five on the thigh. And here, Paulsen: four pricks in the upper left arm, four in each thigh.

– Tranquillisers, the new man from Majorstua corrected himself.

– Precisely, said Viken in an amiable tone. He had no objection to greenhorns, provided they weren’t too green. – Dr Plåterud found traces of the same narcotic as was used on the other victims.

– I’m guessing she was subjected to similar treatment, Norbakk ventured. – Tranquillised a few times before being given the fatal overdose.

– Exactly.

Viken clicked up a new picture.

– Someone has left us a footprint in this mess on the floor. The party concerned was wearing a black sock, one hundred per cent cotton, shoe size 47. We’ve got people examining the fibres to see if there’s anything unusual about them.

– How many black socks are there in this town? was Sigge Helgarsson’s comment.

– That’s for you to find out, Viken grinned. – It’ll keep you busy for a while. We also found plenty of skin cells under the victim’s fingernails. Let’s just hope it wasn’t herself she was scratching.

He clicked on and continued.

– Here is the door jamb she was found propped up against.

He magnified the image and pointed.

– Five deeply scored marks across the woodwork, running downwards almost to the threshold.

The recruit from Majorstua exclaimed: – Like scratch marks from a claw.

– What do you think, Arve? Could this have been made by a bear’s paw?

– Looks like it. Pretty sick stuff…

– I quite agree, Viken said quietly. – Sicker than anything any of us have ever come across before.

He switched off the computer.

– I’ll bet a fiver that the neighbour, Miriam Gaizauskaite, had a visitor last night, even though she says not. She doesn’t sit up of an evening drinking out of two wine glasses, one with and one without lipstick. I want to find out everything we can about her background.

– Sounds like a lot of spadework for me, said Arve Norbakk. – Just so long as I don’t have to go to… where was it, Lithuania? he added with a big grin.

Jarle Frøen spoke.

– What about the actual investigation so far?

– Relax, Mr Prosecutor, Viken said patiently. – We’re about to get on to that right now. Jebsen, you can start.

Nina looked down at her notes.

– I spoke to the newspaper delivery man. Mehmed Faruq, fifty-three years old, originally from Kurdistan. His papers all appear to be in order. Speaks passable Norwegian. I’ve got a list of things he noticed in the course of his morning route, from Carl Berners Place and on down. Three, possibly four cars in Helgesens gate. A couple entering a block. A person getting out of a taxi at Sofienberg Park, right next to the scene of the crime. I traced the taxi driver and he confirms the time. He drove past the same place an hour earlier and on that occasion noticed a cyclist with a child-trailer. We’ll take a closer look at all these, but the most important thing is this: the delivery man encountered a male as he was passing through the gate at the address where the victim lived.

– Not bad, Nina. Description?

– The person in question is thirty to forty years old, well above medium height, powerfully built, wearing dark clothes, a coat or long jacket, dark hair. This was about ten past five. There was a light in the entrance, so the delivery man got a good look.

– The timing agrees with what the neighbour told us, that she heard someone opening the gate at around five. Have a good look at the delivery man, including his alibis for the other times that are of interest to us.

– Apparently he’s just returned from a fortnight in Germany seeing his relatives. Gardermoen airport records confirm that.

– Excellent.

– Some of you may have noted, continued Nina, – an obvious connection with what we have here and witness observations relating to the Paulsen case.

The child-trailer, Norbakk suggested. – You mentioned that a cyclist pulling one of those was seen earlier this morning too.

Nina winked at him.

– No flies on you. It took me a while longer to notice it. We’ve been assuming that Paulsen was transported from the woods to the place where the body was found. A car on a private forest road would have attracted attention. A child-trailer, on the other hand…

Viken noticed that she didn’t seem to mind at all that Arve Norbakk was following her with his droopy eyes.

– But that’s for transporting small children in, he interrupted.

– In the bigger models there’s room for two large children, Nina explained. – And note that this bicycle with the child-trailer was observed right next to the scene of the crime at quarter to four in the morning. Who cycles around with children in the middle of the night?

Sigge Helgarsson woke up.

– Not everyone detaches the trailer every time they go out. Mine is always on, whether the kids are with me or not.

Norbakk offered his support to Nina.

– Hilde Paulsen was 157 centimetres tall and anything but overweight. She was found with her legs doubled up under her. And Anita Elvestrand’s body was partially mutilated.

– My trailer’s down in the garage, said Sigge. – We can check it for size.

Nina smiled brightly.

– I saw it not long ago and took the liberty of trying it out myself. There would definitely be room for a small, lightly built woman inside it.

Viken had a witty comment on the tip of his tongue but at the last moment decided against sharing it.

– You’ve certainly not been wasting your time, Jebsen, he said instead, and almost patted her on the head. – A description of the man at the gate will be released to the media if he has not reported himself to us within, – he glanced at his watch, – precisely five hours from now.

43

AXEL HEARS A phone. He recognises the ringtone but it isn’t his. He searches around the room. The sound is getting closer, but he can’t find where it’s coming from.

He woke with a start and looked around the strange room. It took a few moments for him to realise he was in Rita’s apartment in Tåsen. A few moments more before the memory of what had happened fell over him like an avalanche. He sat upright on the leather sofa. The clock on the wall showed 1.45.

His feet felt cold. He’d thrown his socks away in a rubbish bin in Sofienberg Park. He picked up the phone, turned on the sound. A long list of unanswered calls. Four from Bie, three from Miriam. He called her.

– Where are you, Axel? Why aren’t you answering your phone?

– I needed to sleep for a few hours. Are the police there?

– They’ve been here asking all sorts of questions. After that they rang me twice. Some of them are still out there on the landing. They’ve been in here too, looking all over the place, looking for something. And there’s a man standing guard down in the back yard. I just wish I could wake up soon and all this was only a nightmare.

– The woman lying there, was it your neighbour?

He could hear she was crying. Couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort her.

– What did you tell them?

She didn’t reply at once.

– You didn’t tell them I’d been there?

– No, Axel, please… but they rang just now and asked if I’d seen a man who went out the gate early this morning. The description fitted you.

– The delivery man. He saw me.

– You’ve got to go and talk to them, Axel. Straight away.

He called Bie.

– Axel, she cried. – Are you trying to kill me? Have you any idea how many times I’ve called you? Rita says you’re not well but she has no idea where you are. I was just about to start ringing round the hospitals.

– The hospitals? Pull yourself together, Bie.

– You’re the one who needs to pull himself together, she screamed. – Don’t you know how worried I’ve been?

He tried to breathe calmly.

– Listen to me, Bie. Don’t interrupt. Something’s happened. I can’t tell you everything yet. I’ll talk to you when I get home. I’m not sick, do you hear me, I am not sick. There’s something I have to sort out first.

– But where are you?

– With friends. They’re helping me.

– Can’t you come now? she pleaded, her voice suddenly small and frail.

– Brede, he said suddenly. – I must find Brede.

– Brede? Does this have something to do with him? She sounded almost relieved.

– I have to find him. Then I’ll come home.

After ending the call, he sat thinking for a while. This idea about Brede was something that had just occurred to him. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. He slumped down into the sofa again.

As he had closed Miriam’s door behind him and tottered down that crooked staircase, it had struck him. This is about me. First the physiotherapist up there in the woods. Then Cecilie Davidsen, his patient, whom he’d visited at home. And now the remains of that body lying outside the door. Not until a few minutes later, as he was staggering through Sofienberg Park, did the memory surface, of Brede raging at him: One day I’ll destroy you, just the same way you destroyed me. Now, after a few hours’ sleep, this was the thought he clung to: This is about me. And Brede. I betrayed him. No one else could hate me this much.

Rita returned at about 4.30.

– Are you still here, Axel? she exclaimed, sounding pleased and shocked in equal measure.

– It’s up to you whether you believe your own eyes or not, he answered.

She took off her coat, pushed her feet into a pair of red slippers with plush trimming and took three plastic bags of shopping into the kitchen. She came back in and sat in the easy chair at the end of the table.

– No problem cancelling the appointments?

– In a manner of speaking. They realise that even you can be ill. But now tell me what’s going on.

He leaned back in the sofa, let his eyes trace the line of the joints between the ceiling tiles.

– How long have we been working together, Rita?

She thought about it.

– Soon be twelve years.

– Do you think you know me?

– Yes, I would say so.

– Do you trust me?

– Give over, Axel. There aren’t that many people I’d let sit by my death bed. But you’re one of them.

He gave a quick smile up at the ceiling.

– I hope you feel the same way once you’ve heard what I’m about to tell you.

Rita had heated up some leftover fish soup.

– You surely can’t believe that, Axel, she exclaimed as she placed the steaming pan on the table. – No one would go so far as to kill three defenceless women just to get at you.

– So you think it’s coincidental that all the victims have a connection to me?

She ladled out a portion of soup for him.

– It’s not up to me to think anything about anything. That’s a job for the police.

– You’re right. I’ll talk to them. But not until tomorrow.

– Are you out of your mind?

He didn’t answer immediately. Slurped down some soup; he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. When he was finished he said:

– I’ll talk to them first thing tomorrow. But there’s something I have to do first. This evening.

Rita gave a long, demonstrative shake of the head.

– Don’t think I haven’t noticed how she’s been throwing herself at you from the very first day. That student.

– This is not about her.

Rita didn’t buy it.

– I get so angry about things like that.

Axel pushed his plate away.

– Three people have been killed, Rita. In some way or other I’m involved. Let’s keep Miriam out of this. Do you have a pair of socks I could borrow? And a torch?

44

VIKEN CLICKED HIS way briskly through the net editions of the newspapers. The police hadn’t announced that they suspected the same person was responsible for the murders, but the media had no doubt about it. VG quickly dubbed him ‘the Beast’, having suddenly stopped telling its readers that a killer bear was loose in the city. A memo from Finckenhagen dated that same morning had gone out to everyone with instructions in bold type that from now on, all communications with the media were to go via her to the Chief Superintendent. That was fine by Viken, because it would keep her busy for a while and out of the way of the investigation. On the other hand, she had no real overview of what was going on. Viken had seen enough leaders lose their heads when things began to get hectic. As for himself, the more adrenalin that was pumping round the corridors, the calmer he seemed to be. Perhaps the most important quality of all for a leader in our business, he thought as he opened Jebsen’s notes to take a closer look at the interview with the newspaper delivery man.

The phone rang. He answered with a grunt and recognised the voice of the girl down in reception whom he thought of as ‘the Bimbo’. No, he didn’t see people who just turned up on the doorstep, not even if they had something important to tell him. No, not even if they refused to talk to anyone else but him. She should get in touch with central office in the usual way. He didn’t have time to keep repeating this every bloody day.

He was harsher than he meant to be, seeing in his mind’s eye the Bimbo sitting behind the counter in her bulging blue uniform shirt. Then he heard another female voice in the background. Picked up a name being mentioned.

– What was that somebody just said to you? he asked the Bimbo.

– Oh, are you still there? I thought you’d hung up.

– I asked you what the woman said.

– She said… What did you just say?… Something you should know before it’s too late; it’s about someone named Glenne, her doctor.

Viken greeted the visitor as she emerged from the lift. She was above medium height, with reddish hair and a lot of feminine curves. She was dressed in an expensive-looking black outfit with faint grey stripes. The skirt reached to her knees and she wore high-heeled leather boots. She extended a gloved hand towards him as though expecting him to kiss it. Instead he gave it a quick squeeze and introduced himself.

– Solveig Lundwall, the woman responded in a voice he would unhesitatingly have described as mellifluous.

He took her to his office.

– You wanted to speak to me personally, he began.

She removed her gloves and smoothed them out on her knees.

– I’ve seen in the newspapers that you have been speaking out about these dreadful… events. And I have also seen you on the television news. You are a person who instantly inspires confidence.

– Well, said Viken as he leaned back in his office chair. – Our duty is to make the public feel safe. He had always had a weakness for red-haired women. – You wanted to tell me something about a doctor…

– Dr Glenne, she said, interrupting. – I delayed as long as I could, but I can no longer keep this to myself.

Viken took a tape recorder out of the bottom drawer. It hadn’t been used for several years.

– Do you have any objection to my recording our conversation?

– Absolutely not, Detective Chief Inspector. On the contrary, I would like as many people as possible to know about this.

He puzzled about what she might mean, but let it go.

– Are we talking about a doctor named Axel Glenne, who runs a clinic in Bogstadveien?

– Yes.

– Are you a patient of his?

She confirmed this too.

– What is it you think we should know about him?

She thought for a moment, then said:

– I am not an informer. I don’t want anyone to think that.

He pushed the microphone over towards her.

– People who come to us are not informers, they are witnesses. We are completely dependent on people like you to do our job.

She closed her eyes. Emphasising every word, she said:

– Dr Glenne is a good doctor. Very good. But he is not the man people think he is.

She stopped.

– In what way?

– He has taken all the sins of the world upon his shoulders.

Viken moved his head from side to side but said nothing.

– He has saved many. He saved my husband from certain death.

– Your husband is ill?

She muttered something he didn’t catch; it sounded like ‘milky hell’, but he didn’t ask, afraid that she might follow up with the medical history of her entire family.

– I’m probably a little slow on the uptake, Mrs Lundwall, he said instead, – but I’m still not clear what it is you’ve come here to report.

Still she sat with her eyes closed. He saw that her jaw muscles were clenched.

– Dr Glenne has taken it upon himself to save the world from what is to come. I wanted to follow him, but I no longer believe that he is capable of it. I think he is just a human being, the same as you and me.

Viken started scratching his throat.

– He is a seducer, she said, opening her eyes again. She looked straight at him, an almost angry expression in her gaze.

– Does this mean, Viken asked, – does this mean that he has transgressed certain boundaries in his relationships with his patients?

She shook her head.

– Not his patients. But the people with whom he consorts are ruffians. And harlots.

Viken found the word quaint.

– You mean prostitutes?

– Call her what you will.

– Her? Are you talking about a particular woman?

Abruptly Solveig Lundwall rose to her feet.

– Now it is said. If you are looking for him, I know where he is to be found.

Viken stood up too, unsure whether to ask her to sit down again.

– Well we’re not looking for this Glenne. But there are still a couple of things in your statement…

– I have said what there is to say. The money is of no interest to me whatsoever. You may keep it.

Viken was astounded.

– The money?

Solveig Lundwall offered him her hand, and when he reluctantly took it, she bent suddenly towards him and kissed him on the cheek.

– The thirty pieces of silver, Caiaphas, she whispered in his ear.

Viken pulled back,blinking in confusion as he struggled to work out whether she had been mistaking him for someone else the whole time. She smiled, a strange flash in the eyes, and before he could recover himself, she had turned on her heels and was gone from the room.

He remained standing where he was, rubbing his cheek. Not until a couple of minutes later did he turn off the tape and sink down into his chair, still so nonplussed that he wasn’t even able to feel annoyed at having allowed a woman who was so obviously stark raving mad to slip through the filters and get all the way up to his office.

45

AXEL FOLLOWED A track at the upper end of Sognsvann. He kept off the marked paths. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want anyone to see him. He had just sent two text messages, one to Miriam, one to Bie. Now he turned off his phone.

It had been raining down in town. As he climbed higher through the forest, he saw that it had been falling as snow up there. The footpaths around Blankvann were covered in a thin white carpet that twinkled in the pale light. He picked up the indefinable scent of winter, though small, shrivelled clusters of blueberries still hung in among the heather. He came across a set of fresh tracks; they looked like elk. He’d spotted elk many times. Somewhere not far from here he had undressed Bie, and while he was taking her from behind against an upended pine trunk, a female elk came charging down the slope. It stopped two metres away, stood there swaying and staring, and for a moment looked as though it might attack. Then it turned away and disappeared, two calves following behind. Next day he told Ola what had happened. They’d been sitting in his office having a cup of coffee before the first patient arrived. Remember what I said in my best man’s speech? Ola had responded, with the most innocent smile in the world. There’s not an animal in the world that will attack you when you’re offering your devotions to Pan. Ola was the best friend he’d ever had. But he had never told even him the story of what had happened with Brede.

He came to a halt by the tarn. A mere two weeks ago he and Miriam had swum here. He could see her in his mind’s eye as she emerged from the water. The naked white body coming towards him. Half jokingly she had said she wanted to take him to the place she came from. To a house by the sea, far from the nearest town, which was called Kaunas.

He climbed over the top of the rise and down the other side. Approached the pine-branch shelter from below. Stood a while and studied it. No one there. He switched on the torch and peered in. An empty beer bottle on the rolled-up blanket, an opened packet of frankfurters, a newspaper. He opened it out. Dagbladet, two days old. Down at the bottom a picture of the detective chief inspector who had interviewed him: No new leads in the bear murders case.

Some distance away, on the far side of the hollow, he sat down in the damp moss, his back against a pine trunk. He sat without moving as the darkness wrapped itself around him. It was wildly unlikely that Brede would show up here, but Axel was absolutely certain that he would. He listened to the autumn evening. The rustling of the treetops. A plane on its way to Gardermoen. Silence afterwards. If anyone approached the shelter, he would hear them coming a long way off.

Half an hour past midnight. A wind had got up in the hollow behind him. The temperature was probably below zero. A half-moon slipped in and out of the clouds. He pulled his jacket tight around him, but it didn’t help. A few minutes later he got up and padded down to the shelter. Lay down inside with the mouldy-smelling woollen blanket wrapped around him. Through the rip in the plastic he looked up at a bare patch of black sky. Brede has been given enough chances to do the right thing, Axel. It doesn’t help him at all if you try to excuse what he’s done. Don’t send him away, please. He didn’t mean it. His father’s voice when he answers is controlled, but Axel can hear that there’s something smouldering in there, something that will explode if he makes a wrong move, and blow him to smithereens. He daren’t say any more. And then his father lays a hand on his shoulder. I appreciate your wanting to defend him, Axel. You’re a fine boy. You’ll always do the right thing. But you must understand, some things cannot be forgiven.

Brede, he thought as he lay there, it wasn’t me that wanted it to work out this way. And now as I lie here looking out into the dark, I sense the sheerness of that membrane that divides your life from mine. One more breath could turn me into you with no way back again.

He’d heard nothing; perhaps he’d fallen asleep. Suddenly something covered the gash in the plastic. A face. He jumped up and crawled out backwards. As he straightened up, he heard footsteps moving across the forest floor. Saw a shadow disappearing between the trees.

– Wait! he shouted, running. Stopped by the rise and listened. Heard footsteps some way ahead, in the direction of the tarn. He sprinted as hard as he could, stumbled in the undergrowth, got to his feet again. The figure appeared in front of him, over by the boat that lay upside down, hobbled past it and on up the bank. Axel was gaining on him, caught up with him at last, grabbed him by the shoulder. The person tried to pull himself free. Axel seized him round the waist and threw him to the ground, planted a knee in his chest, pulled the torch from his pocket and switched it on.

– Brede! he screamed into the face below him.

The man pinched his eyes shut against the bright light. He had long grey hair and a beard, and sunken eyes. He looked to be over sixty. He stank of urine.

– What do you want? he whimpered.

Axel bit his lip and swore. Time to pull yourself together, Axel Glenne. Surely you didn’t really think it was Brede.

– Are you the person who lives in that shelter?

The old man tried to nod.

– No one else lives there?

Now he shook his head. He had managed to work one arm free and held it up in front of himself like a shield.

– Are you going to kill me now? he murmured.

I AM WAITING for you. Sitting in the car, leafing through the newspapers. According to some professor or other, they shouldn’t be writing about me. Because that is what I want. That the need for attention might make me kill again. If the idiot only knew just how wide of the mark he is. I don’t want attention. Don’t give a shit what the papers say. This is about you and me. Nobody else.

Finally you show up. I follow you with my eyes as you head down the pavement on the other side of the road. You don’t know it yet. But you suspect it. That it’s your turn next. Unless chance comes along to save you. The only god that can interfere. I could have planned it in more detail. Tried to control the god of chance. But unpredictability is my nature. I am willing to risk everything. You aren’t like that. You always stop in time. Yet we are twin souls. And in that case the bear should be not just my inner animal but yours too.

By the time you hear this, you’ll be lying there unable to move. Unable to do anything but listen to my voice. Now you understand what you’ve done. You feel regret. It doesn’t help. Only chance can save you now. As I make this recording, there is still a chance you might escape. Many things can go wrong. You will be given a final warning. Maybe you’ll inform on me then and save your own skin. If not, it will be your turn. Three times now I have gone to women and taken them with me. The fourth time things will be different. You will come to me. Your guilty conscience will bring you here. And that is why you are lying in the dark, listening to my voice.

The god of chance is weak now, too weak to interfere. He almost stopped me that day I came for the third woman. When she smelled the cloth and passed out, she vomited and her head banged against the window. A couple with a dog came by but I got her down on to the floor of the car, and it was so dark they couldn’t see anything. She was three nights with me. I untied her hands when I was lying beside her. She wanted me. Even though I said I had to kill her, she wanted me. But I didn’t exploit her. I’m not like that. Lay next to her the whole of that last night. Let her hold me and caress me as much as she wanted. It calmed her down and was good for her. We both fell asleep. In the morning I showed her how it would happen. Then I had to tape her up again. I’ll show you too. I’ll follow every twitch of your face once you realise what’s going to happen to you down there in the cellar. Can hardly wait, just thinking about it. To see your eyes then will be the most blissful moment of my life. Afterwards you will be gone, and I will be somewhere there are no other people. What I have done can never be atoned for. They hate me for it. Despise me. There is no way back. That is what it means to be perfectly alone. It never ends. That is what I want.