Dreamless (28 page)

“Maybe he loved her,” said Jensen. “Maybe he didn’t want to accept the fact that she was dead.”

“Love, Jensen?” said Brattberg with a wry smile. “Røed doesn’t exactly seem like the ‘husband of the year.’ But maybe they had a codependent relationship. Maybe she took care of him or played an important role in the facade that he presented to the world. Burying her would have drawn too much attention to him.”

“It’s even scarier if we consider the possibility that he didn’t know she was dead,” said Singsaker.

“An indication that he’s a psychopath?” said Brattberg. “But let’s disregard Røed’s state of mind for the moment. Isn’t it strange that his wife could lie there for close to a week, maybe even longer, and yet nobody missed her?”

“Yes, it’s strange,” said Jensen. “But we talked to her doctor, and he told us that she’d taken a two-week sick leave. She works as a home health-care nurse, and she told her colleagues that she was going to take another week off after her sick leave ended. They weren’t expecting her back on the job until after the weekend. Maybe some of her friends or family realized they hadn’t heard from her in a while, but it’s also not uncommon for a week or two to pass without contact, even between good friends. Her doctor also told us that Anna Røed suffered from high blood pressure, which supports Kittelsen’s preliminary theory. It must not have been easy for her to live with her husband. So she may have died from a heart attack or stroke, even though she wasn’t very old, and even though such things are unusual in a woman her age.”

“All right,” said Brattberg, looking from Jensen to Singsaker and then back to Jensen. “So maybe he didn’t kill his wife. But there’s no question he’s a killer. What have we got so far in terms of the motive for the kidnappings and murder?”

“Maybe he’s the one who wants to sleep,” said Jensen. “Maybe he kidnaps girls who can sing so they’ll sing that lullaby to him. But when it doesn’t work, he takes out their larynx. Maybe it’s a form of punishment. Silje Rolfsen was his first attempt, a random victim. He may have acted on impulse. Maybe he heard her singing out on the street.”

“You could be right,” said Singsaker. “It seems like more planning was involved when he kidnapped Julie Edvardsen. He knew her slightly. He’d probably met her at Ringve, when she went out there to practice. Fredrik Alm said that someone kept staring at her during the practice session. I thought it was Høybråten, but it could just as well have been Røed. So he had her in his sights; he saw her as his perfect songbird.”

“It sounds plausible, in a twisted sort of way. But how’s it going with the Gmail lead from Felicia’s Web site?” asked Jensen.

“We’re working on the legalities,” said Brattberg. “Google is reluctant to give out personal information. But hopefully we’ll find out sometime today who set up that e-mail account. Most likely the sign-up info will be bogus, but if we get the IP address, we can trace it back to the list of subscribers from the service providers. They’re probably going to balk at that too. These things take time. But I have no doubt that eventually it will lead us to Røed. But we need to focus on what we can do right now. He’s on the loose, and we’re hoping that Julie Edvardsen is still alive. I’ve just talked to Grongstad, and he says there’s no indication that either of the victims was ever inside the house in Heimdal. There’s no trace of Julie or her dog in any of the material that he’s inspected from there and the place isn’t really suitable for holding someone prisoner. The garage isn’t locked. Only two bedrooms, one of which Røed was using. A bathroom, a kitchen, and an extremely tidy living room. No basement or attic. If we take this information, plus the fact that we found Silje Rolfsen in a different part of town, and that Røed’s wife was alive during the first kidnapping, it must mean that he has another place.”

“According to the neighbor, he leaves for town every day and is gone for long periods of time. The neighbor thought he was at work, but we know that Røed was on sick leave,” said Singsaker.

“That gives us something,” said Brattberg.

“I’ve assigned a team to go through the public records, but so far they haven’t found anything indicating that he owns any other property,” said Jensen.

“What about his family? His parents? Any siblings?” asked Singsaker.

“His father died in the eighties. Suicide. It was a nasty case. He was quite a famous pianist in his day. Weren’t you and I the officers on duty at the time, Singsaker?”

“Oh, right. I remember now. A shotgun in his mouth. No suspicions of any foul play back then. His wife and son were home when he did it. I remember the boy. Wasn’t he the one who had only three fingers on one hand?”

“And you complain about having a bad memory?” remarked Jensen.

“That means if Jonas Røed hasn’t miraculously grown new fingers, his hand is still missing two of them.”

Singsaker closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. All of a sudden he again saw quite clearly something that he’d glimpsed during his meeting with Røed out at Ringve. It was when Røed handed the music box back to him. Singsaker’s eyes had noticed something that his brain hadn’t properly registered. Something about the fingers of his hand. Prosthetics, he thought now. And then he understood what he’d seen in Røed’s eyes: fear that he’d be caught out.

“Where did he live as a child?” Singsaker asked.

“Somewhere in the neighborhood,” said Jensen.

But that was over thirty years ago and they couldn’t quite remember.

“Well, his mother died years ago, so if he kept the house as part of his inheritance, the property would be registered in his name,” said Jensen after some discussion back and forth.

“I still think we ought to look into this more closely,” said Brattberg. “We need to find the deed to the house. If he sold it under his mother’s name or his own sometime during the past few years, it should be relatively easy to find out the address.”

Singsaker nodded, but at the same time he figured that if Røed had sold the house, he couldn’t be using it as a hiding place. He stretched as he sat there next to Jensen. Suddenly he had one of the attacks of vertigo that he’d become accustomed to after the surgery. The doctor had said that he’d just have to learn to live with them. He was lost in his own thoughts as Brattberg began going over what they would say to the press.

Reporters had already gathered outside the cordoned-off area on C. J. Hambros Vei, and Vlado Taneski had written a story for the newpaper’s Web site about the discovery of the body in Heimdal. The article had then been quoted and reprinted in most of the media sites on the Net. Brattberg was making arrangements for a press conference.

But Singsaker couldn’t concentrate any of this. He was thinking about the little boy with two missing fingers—the boy he’d encountered at the very beginning of his career on the police force. He pictured the father’s body, lying in bed, the back of his head blown away. He tried to recall exactly what the bed had looked like.

He got up as soon as Brattberg was finished, and almost lost his balance as he stood. He was dizzy, and his head was aching. As a man who had survived a brain tumor, he hated that feeling. Brattberg gave him a searching glance as he staggered out of her office. She may have noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead, because she looked worried. But the last thing he heard from her office was her voice as she picked up the phone and asked to be connected to police attorney Knutsen.

Singsaker ran downstairs and out to his car.

I can’t keep this up much longer, he thought as he got in. When this case is over, I’m going to take a long break, get the doctor to put me on sick leave. Maybe I’ll take a trip to the States. He noticed how this thought prompted a stabbing sensation in his ribs.

“Come on,” he said out loud. “Try to remember.” His head felt like it was going to explode. He could hear Dr. Nordraak saying, “Your problem is that you’ve got too many thoughts in your head all at once.” Right now his mind was abuzz. He remembered the small conference room at Rosenborg School and the fact that he’d jotted down in his notebook Fredrik Alm’s description of a house. Then he thought about the man with the missing fingers and something that the mother of Jonas Røed had told the police way back then about an accident in the garage. Images from the scene flitted past. Then he caught a glimpse of himself stumbling on the sidewalk on Bernhard Getz’ Gate right near the crime scene. And at that instant, he realized that he’d stumbled over something. His foot had caught on something that was stuck to the gatepost. Wasn’t that right? And suddenly he knew where Jonas Røed had lived as a child, and also where he most likely had been staying lately. Again he thought about what he’d written in his notebook in that small conference room at the school.

We could have caught that bastard two days ago if I’d followed up on the tip from Fredrik Alm, Singsaker thought as he turned the key in the ignition.

*   *   *

Jonas Røed was sitting in the kitchen cutting three thick slices of bread, but instead of eating them, he switched on his PC. He wanted to check the news, so he started with the
Adresseavisen
Web site. He didn’t get past the first story:

“Macabre discovery of a body in Heimdal.”

He laughed and lit a cigarette.

Isn’t it always macabre when a dead body is found? Who the hell is this reporter? he asked himself. Then he studied the photo accompanying the article. In the picture he saw a house that he recognized.

“Good,” he said. “Good. Good. That’s very good.”

Now the fly inside him was wide-awake. It was buzzing around wildly. It did that sometimes. Then it started hammering against one spot in his skull. Hammering and hammering, feverishly pressing against something. He got up and let it guide him across the kitchen floor. Right now all he could do was follow. It was carrying him along. His head was leading his body, until he ended up in the basement. Right outside her door.

Then he began to calm down. His breathing slowed. The buzzing inside his head subsided. He need to think clearly now. He stared at the door, and gradually he realized what he had to do. And it was a damned good idea. But he needed to be careful.

When he reached to open the door, he noticed that he had an erection and that he was still holding the bread knife in his hand.

*   *   *

When he opened the basement door at the top of the stairs, she was standing up. But she fell to her knees when she heard him coming down. And she stayed in that position, her face turned toward the door.

He moved quickly, but there was something off-kilter about his gait, something lurching, as if he wasn’t in full control. For a long time he fumbled with the key, not managing to get it into the lock. Several times he dropped the key on the floor before he finally could insert it properly. When he turned the key she hoped that it had gotten stuck, because it took him a long time. But at last, he opened the door.

The first thing she saw was the knife dangling from his fingers as light from the bare bulb in the hall filled the storage room. He held it loosely, as if he hardly knew it was there. Then he slowly came toward her and crouched down. She felt his breath on her earlobe and caught a glimpse of his red hair out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t want to turn her head.

Then he set the blade of the knife against her throat. She gasped, feeling how the cold blade almost pierced her skin as her throat expanded to let air pass through.

Breathe calmly, she told herself. Breathe calmly. But her chest refused to obey.

“I need to sleep now,” he said.

He removed the knife and held it in front of her eyes. Only now did she dare to look at him. His gaze showed genuine bewilderment.

Then he laughed and tossed the knife out of the room.

“You didn’t think I was going to kill you with a bread knife, did you?” he said, getting up. Then he went back out to the hall and closed the door without locking it.

He’s losing his grip, she thought. He’s slipping away. And that makes him more dangerous. But also more vulnerable.

She stayed where she was, wondering if she should take a chance and get up, open the door, and grab the knife that was lying right outside.

But no, he hadn’t moved far enough away. Judging by what she could hear, he was over by the mattress at the end of the hall. It sounded like he was searching for something. Then the sounds stopped and he came back toward her.

*   *   *

When Singsaker arrived at the big brown house at the intersection of Ludvig Daaes Gate and Bernhard Getz’ Gate, he noticed that the driveway had been meticulously cleared of snow.

He pulled over and parked. Then he got out and looked around.

Snow shoveling, he thought. I could have caught him on that alone. It was the same careful snow removal that they’d seen out in Heimdal and almost the exact same pile of snow behind the garage. The only difference was that a car was parked here, an old red Saab 9000. So at least he’d had that confirmed. Røed had a car, even though he wasn’t sure it was in drivable condition.

Then Singsaker went over to the entrance. Tied to one of the gateposts was a frozen leather strap, almost entirely covered with snow. He took a closer look. It was a dog’s leash, and whoever had taken it off the dog’s collar had simply left it hanging there. That was what Singsaker had stumbled over. On that day the leash had lain under a layer of new snow. But why hadn’t he looked more closely?

He got out his cell phone and called Brattberg, explaining to her what he’d found.

“Strictly speaking, we need to talk to the home owner before we can go inside. A dog’s leash isn’t sufficient probable cause.”

“But everything fits. He’s familiar with the place. It’s his childhood home. Julie Edvardsen walked past here every night when she took a walk, and one evening Fredrik Alm saw her talking to someone who was shoveling snow. There’s a leash tied to the gatepost, and right near here was where we found the body. He could have carried her there over his shoulder. That’s why he didn’t use a car. What more do we need?” asked Singsaker.

“Give me half an hour,” said Brattberg. “Let me make some calls.”