Authors: Jorgen Brekke
“Don’t tell me something happened to the girl.”
“No, it’s her dog. The perp beat the dog to death and then left him on the doorstep of the Edvardsen home. It was basically just an icy lump of flesh and fur by the time they discovered it this morning.”
“Shit. What kind of psychopath is this guy?”
“I know, Odd,” said Brattberg, who always knew when to use his first name. “But you have to leave your personal feelings at home. Get over to Markvegen ASAP.”
“Okay, boss.”
Singsaker ended the call and went into the kitchen. This morning he needed three shots from the bottle of Red Aalborg to get his brain functioning. The pickled herring he ate tasted of sadness. Felicia had made it herself. She’d spent an entire morning studying recipes in Norwegian cookbooks as she prepared the herring filets and onions, with tears in her eyes, all for him. She couldn’t stand herring. Right now, he couldn’t wrap his mind around the whole situation. He could think only of her, and he tried to figure out a way to present himself as innocent, but couldn’t. Her reaction was completely justified. She had every reason to feel hurt and upset. But even though she was in the right, it wouldn’t necessarily stop her from doing something stupid. Several weeks ago, she had told him about being raped in her youth, and about her subsequent drinking problems.
“I don’t know whether I’m really an alcoholic. I think it was more an attempt at suicide rather than a real abuse of alcohol,” she’d told him. “But I’ve never really considered examining the issue.”
And now is not the time, he thought as he went out the door.
“Damn it, Felicia,” he muttered to himself. “Come home!”
Felicia Stone was naked.
Someone had smeared Tiger Balm in her eyes and repeatedly hurled an anvil at her pale forehead. That, or she was horribly hungover.
She peered through the bottle that stood on the room service menu on the nightstand, catching a glimpse of the label on the other side. A few colors shone through the label, but she couldn’t make out the brand.
She’d heard once that alcoholics have one type of booze that they prefer over others, and that they get drunk on other kinds only if they can’t find their favorite. When she thought about it, she realized she must have read that in some sleazy detective novel. In reality, most alcoholics weren’t that snobbish; they drank whatever was at hand. So what about her? What was her favorite poison? She turned the bottle around and saw that it was Smirnoff vodka that was flowing like barbed wire through her bloodstream. She propped herself in the double bed and saw, to her relief, that she was alone. She couldn’t remember
how
she’d ended up here in this hotel room with only an empty liquor bottle for company, but she did remember
why
.
She’d fallen in love. Which had led her to make a whole bunch of irrational decisions and overlook some obvious pitfalls, such as the fact that the man was old enough to be her father. Or that for practical reasons she’d had to move in with him before they’d really gotten to know each other and share confidences, like how he’d slept with the best friend she’d made in Norway.
But inevitably things had fallen apart. Reality had caught up with her, and now here she was in a hotel room in a foreign country. She had believed that she had friends here; she had started feeling at home. That might be the worst part about what she’d lost. Right now, she just felt empty.
She went into the bathroom, where she found her clothes. Before she got dressed, she took a shower. The cold water helped her start to think more clearly. Fully dressed, she went and read the hotel information on the desk, which told her that she was in the Rica Hell Hotel.
She used to joke with Odd about Hell, a small, densely populated area near the Trondheim airport. She was always amused by the road signs on the way here. In the lobby of the local hotel, where they’d stopped for brunch one Sunday when they were taking a drive, they’d seen a poster that said in English
WELCOME TO HELL.
They’d had a good laugh about that one.
So now Felicia found herself in the Hell Hotel. And true to its name, it was no place to linger. But fortunately there was also one thing that set the hotel apart from the purgatorial Hell. It had its own airport with a departure hall.
She hadn’t brought any luggage, but she wouldn’t need any where she was going. She did have her wallet and her passport. So she checked out of the hotel and walked the short distance over to the airport at Værnes.
A little while later she had a plane ticket in hand. She wondered if she’d be able to buy herself a beer after going through security.
This is the test, she thought. This is when I find out. She thought about a time, long ago, in the basement of her parents’ home in Richmond. There was a table covered with empty liquor and pill bottles, a ratty-looking sofa, the smell of mold, and childish pictures on the walls. She had almost killed herself with booze and drugs in that secret club room of her childhood. But nobody got addicted in such a short time, did they? She’d wanted to die back then, not just numb herself. This time was different. She didn’t want to escape life permanently. Just drink so she could stop thinking, so she wouldn’t have to answer all those damned questions that kept scraping at her brain. What was she doing here? Did she really love him? Was she ever going to figure him out?
A strange thought kept nagging at her; it was probably what bothered her most. What if he had simply forgotten that he’d slept with Siri? Was that why he hadn’t said anything? Maybe he’d only recalled the incident when he found out that Siri was pregnant. Someone who had been through such an extensive brain operation as Odd had endured, who had lost parts of his memory, must have also lost some of himself. And if he didn’t know who he was, how could he be sure that she was the one he wanted?
Singsaker trudged through
the snowstorm. He was on his way to the station, his head filled with gloomy thoughts. He tried to send Felicia a text message. It was the same one he’d already sent several times that morning: “Where are you? Do you want to talk?” She had every right to react the way she had, but why did she have to disappear the very moment that a homicidal maniac was roaming the streets? Again and again he reminded himself that Felicia was a tough cookie, with police training to boot. She knew how to take care of herself. Plus, the killer had no reason to go after her in particular. Still, that didn’t make him feel any better. The perp had been on her Web site, after all.
He’d gone over to the Edvardsen home and watched Grongstad pack up the frozen body of the Saint Bernard in plastic. Grongstad acted as though the dead dog was good news, because it would undoubtedly provide a treasure trove of evidence. Singsaker, on the other hand, regarded the discovery as yet another failure, and he thought that the next good lead in the case might be finding Julie’s dead body. This time, he had no idea what to say to her parents, so he left the task to Jensen. His colleague had made just as bad a job of it as Singsaker would have. All in all, it was a miserable way to start the day. For the very first time since he’d started ice bathing, he’d actually looked forward to the freezing dip. An icy swim would suit him just fine.
Singsaker couldn’t stop himself from brooding. No matter how hard he tried not to think about Felicia, he couldn’t push it aside. He had only himself to blame for what had happened between them.
Maybe it was the black belt that Siri had worn around her waist as they engaged in that easy, sweaty fuck in the midst of that frenzied investigation late last summer. Ever since he had fallen asleep in her messy bedcovers after making love, he had feared the consequences. He had pictured getting in trouble at his job, since Siri had been a key witness in the case. If it had ever come to Brattberg’s attention that he’d had sex with a witness, he wouldn’t have been able to defend himself. But strangely enough, the prospect of being suspended from the force hadn’t worried him much. After the brain surgery, his job hadn’t seemed as important as before. No matter what happened, his wounded head always came along with him. And sometimes working felt like more drudgery than it was worth. That was definitely the way it felt today. But his error in judgment with Siri Holm hadn’t had any effect on his job. Bad decisions weren’t really bad if they didn’t have repercussions that truly stung. After he met Felicia, he quickly realized that there were worse things than losing his job. What had happened now was a disaster that had been waiting to happen. He just hadn’t seen the signs in time.
* * *
When Singsaker reached the station, Gran had some surprising news for him.
“Høybråten is back,” she said.
“Did you find anything on him?” asked Singsaker, wondering whether this would give him any sense of satisfaction, but he wasn’t sure.
“Not regarding the music box case, I’m afraid. But Nadia Torp mustered her courage and decided to report him. She says that he touched a lot of the girls in the choir inappropriately, and that one night after practice he asked her to stay, and then forced her onto a table. She managed to get away before he could rape her. We have more than enough to charge him. This morning, after we brought him in, he confessed to Brattberg. He totally fell apart. He’s been sobbing like a little kid. Actually, he asked to speak to you personally.”
* * *
Singsaker entered the interview room. The professor was seated next to his attorney.
Singsaker sat down across from them.
“I don’t expect anything in return,” said Høybråten. “And my attorney has already told me that the Norwegian police don’t grant lighter sentences in return for information, the way they do in American movies.”
“Is there something you want to tell me?” asked Singsaker, noticing that a sudden tension had replaced the listless feeling he’d had all morning.
“He had something on me, and I had something on him,” said Høybråten. “That’s why I didn’t say anything about this before. I was afraid he’d talk—about the stuff with the girls.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I know who stole the letter that was found at the Ringve estate,” replied Høybråten. “It has to do with Jon Blund, and was supposed to be turned over to the Gunnerus Library.”
“Tell me more,” said Singsaker.
And Høybråten began to talk.
He’d walked alone
through the storm and had the city all to himself. The dog was inside a plastic bag. It was night. The streets were deserted. It was just him and the dog, whose body was still warm, and the snowflakes melting on his face. As he walked, he realized that from now on, there was only one path to take.
After unpacking the dog and placing him on their doorstep, he went home. Not to his childhood home that he was renting, not back to her, but home to his wife. There he had fallen asleep, and he had finally dreamed again.
* * *
The dream took him right back to the doorstep of the Edvardsen house. The dog lay at his feet. A police car was parked in the driveway, but no one had noticed him. He was looking up at the sky. There he saw the man with the hood again. This time he thought he caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes, and in one of them shone a star brighter than any other in the sky. Then he realized who the man was and understood.
Then the man with the violin appeared.
And then the procession with the coffin, but this time he was absolutely sure that it was his father inside.
He stood there bewitched as the murky giants trudged across the sky. The world around him felt like it was falling apart, as if there was nothing more to hold on to or believe in. He was looking at himself from the outside as he watched the procession, and he saw things that he couldn’t explain or describe. New figures were following the coffin. He didn’t know who they were or whom they were mourning. But it didn’t matter. One of them was a dog. All of them were up there in the sky. At the end of the line, behind all the others, were two girls he recognized. One of them was hesitating. She took a step and then paused, as if she’d forgotten what she was doing, and then she moved forward a bit. Blood was running out of her mouth. The other girl, the very last in the line, looked as if she wanted to sing. She opened her mouth. Then she stopped. She stopped under the moon and looked at him. Looked at him and opened her mouth.
* * *
Now he was in the bathroom at home, staring at the bottles of sleeping pills. Full bottles. Empty promises.
A thought occurred to him. He’d slept well for two nights recently. Both times after he’d killed. Silje Rolfsen first, now the dog. Did he really need that song? The only time he ever felt calm was after taking a life.
No, he thought. It’s the fly inside my head planting these ideas. It tickled the inside of his skull. There it was, flitting around inside. He was scared that soon it would start buzzing again, and he knew that it wasn’t the dreams he was waiting for. They couldn’t save him from the waking nightmare of the daytime. The lullaby and the young girl’s voice, he thought. Then he would finally have what he longed for.
He went into the living room and looked at the lullaby. It was years ago now that he’d first taken an interest in ballads. It was during that period when his slumber became more sporadic, but he was still able to sleep and to dream. Then he’d discovered the ballad called “The Golden Peace,” tucked away in a box in the Gunnerus Library, and he’d read the promise contained on its title page. When he read the text, he realized that he believed in the promise it made. But a long time passed before he stole it and brought it home to understand how it could be used. That was after sleep had deserted him completely, and he realized what he would have to do, that he couldn’t ask just anyone to sing the tune for him—not Anna, not anyone. He begged for it, just as he’d begged for sleep at night. Nothing comes to the one who begs.
Now the original text sat on the table in front of him. In secret he’d made a number of copies at work, long ago. For a while he’d been obsessed with finding out more about the ballad’s history. But he didn’t dare ask any questions after the first murder, so he’d contacted a genealogy specialist who had advertised her services online. He pretended to be an American searching for an ancestor. In reality he just wanted the genealogist to make inquiries about matters that he couldn’t risk researching himself. But when she replied with a lot of intrusive follow-up questions, he’d finally understood what his dream about the man in the sky was trying to tell him. Stop searching. It didn’t matter who Jon Blund was. The history of the ballad was of no consequence. The ballad meant sleep. It had to be sung properly, as if it were a matter of life and death, as if it were all that existed, as if it had no past. Good Lord! How he longed for sleep!
To sleep, perchance to dream.
Because when the song made him fall asleep, he could escape from this mortal sphere, and the dreams that came to him would finally give him peace.