Authors: Jorgen Brekke
She gave him the address.
Then she put down the phone.
Two minutes later she clicked on the e-mail that he’d sent. A picture popped up on her screen. It showed a smiling young woman wearing a little too much makeup.
“Jabba the Hutt,” Gran muttered to herself. “It’s her.”
When the entire investigative team
gathered at two-thirty that afternoon, everyone had the feeling that a lot had happened since they’d last met. The victim had now been identified—her name was Silje Rolfsen. She was twenty-three years old and had been living in Oslo, where she worked in a clothing store. In early January she’d come to Trondheim to visit her ex-boyfriend Jonny Olin, and after that no one had heard from her except for the one phone call she’d made from the train station. Her friends in Oslo and her family had all assumed that she was staying with this Olin guy during the three weeks she’d been gone.
“The first thing we need to determine is whether she was, in fact, staying with him,” said Brattberg between bites of a jelly doughnut.
Singsaker had never understood how Brattberg could have such bad eating habits. Not that his were much better, since the aquavit and herring that he had for breakfast were often the most nutritious part of what he ate over the course of a day. But that suited the sort of person he was, while Brattberg was an entirely different type. He didn’t know anyone more disciplined than she was. Siri Holm, a librarian and one of his friends, had once told him that all good detectives had to have a weakness, something that held them back. This was a theory that Holm had derived from the crime novels she was always reading, but he thought there might be some truth to the idea. If Brattberg was a champion at solving crimes, then pastries had to be her Achilles’ heel.
Jensen was the first to respond. “I’ll bet she was staying with him the whole time. The first week everything was probably hunky-dory, but the next week things went south. He started yelling about trivial things, maybe slapping her around. The third week all hell broke loose, and he completely lost control.”
“And cut her larynx out and left her in the woods with a music box on her chest?” asked Gran, interrupting him.
Singsaker glanced at her, impressed. He was the only one who knew Jensen well enough to know that young women made him terribly self-conscious. Not that he’d ever admit to it. But this was only something that Singsaker had noticed after years of working with him, conducting interrogations and interviews, and carrying out investigations. Jensen was a nature lover, hunter, and ice bather with a solid marriage, but young women just made him nervous. And even though Jensen could laugh and joke with Gran, Singsaker was convinced that she also made him uneasy. The sort of comment she had just made would have a strong effect on his friend. Yet she was absolutely right. There was something about this case that went beyond a simple crime of passion.
“And it isn’t just any ordinary old music box,” said Singsaker. “It’s rare, and old, and in its original condition it could have been worth a lot of money, if the owner hadn’t made alterations. Someone replaced the cylinder so that it now plays a tune, probably a lullaby, that even a professor of music history couldn’t identify.”
“Do you think the killer composed the tune himself?” asked Gran.
“Well, that’s a possibility we do need to consider. If he did, then we’re dealing with a very talented person, because according to both the curator at Ringve and Professor Høybråten, the melody is extremely appealing. Another possibility, which is equally likely, is that we’re dealing with a lullaby from the olden days that has been forgotten until now.”
“But why a lullaby?” Brattberg interjected. “Something tells me that the type of tune is significant. Was he trying to soothe the victim to death?”
“If it’s really a lullaby, that’s one potential theory,” said Singsaker. “Potential and odd.”
“I think we’re making a mistake if we discount the boyfriend,” said Jensen. “We don’t know what he’s thinking. But you’re right; this is no ordinary murder. And after trying to get through all morning, I finally spoke to Kittelsen.”
“Not a bad day’s work,” said Singsaker caustically. Everyone knew that the jibe was aimed at Kittelsen, not Jensen.
“He took a look at the larynx,” Jensen went on. “And what he told me, in brief, is that the vocal cords were removed. They’re gone.”
“So you think the killer took the victim’s vocal cords with him?” asked Singsaker, clearing his throat as he attempted to feel his own.
“It appears so.”
“Has anyone noticed the strange symmetry here?” asked Gran. Her voice had a calming effect on the uneasy mood in the room. “He took what we as human beings use to produce sound. At the same time, he leaves behind an instrument with the body. And it’s ironic that the sound from the music box was the reason the body was discovered.”
“Do any of you think the killer did this deliberately?” asked Brattberg.
“It’s not likely,” said Jensen. “The murder was committed in the middle of the night, the wooded area was a good hiding place, and if the snow had done its job, the body would have remained undiscovered for a long time. Everything points to careful planning.”
“In that case, we’re dealing with a killer who made a mistake. Or maybe it was so important for him to play that particular tune that he didn’t care if he ended up getting caught.”
No one had any counterarguments to Brattberg’s theory.
“But I think we need to put some of these speculations aside for a while,” she went on. “Let’s start with the facts. We know that Silje Rolfsen came to Trondheim a little less than three weeks ago to visit her boyfriend, Jonny Olin. So we need to start with him.”
Once again Brattberg had cut right through to the heart of the matter, as only she could do. Music boxes and missing vocal cords are unusual factors in a homicide case, thought Singsaker, but violent ex-boyfriends are not.
* * *
Singsaker would have liked to go along to pay a visit to Jonny Olin, but he had an appointment that he couldn’t change. So the task was assigned to Jensen and Gran, while he got in his car right after the meeting and sped over to St. Olav Hospital. He arrived ten minutes late for his scheduled appointment with Dr. Nordraak.
The memory test went well. Dr. Nordraak usually worked with alcohol-related psychoses. Conducting these memory tests was another of his fields of expertise. Today he hadn’t been any more arrogant or conceited than normal, and he’d only made a few brief comments about how Singsaker had been late, as usual.
Now they were going to go over the results.
“You’re definitely on the mend,” said Nordraak, leaning back in what looked like an IKEA desk chair in his cramped office. His designer tie was visible under his white coat. He looked as if he felt he was too important for such spartan surroundings. Singsaker had never visited Nordraak at his office in the Østmarka Hospital, but he’d heard rumors of antelope-head trophies on the walls.
“And what exactly do you mean by ‘on the mend’?”
“That you’re still going to forget certain details, that you’ll have brief periods when you lose focus and your thoughts seem to float, as you describe it. But it will be within normal parameters.”
“I’m just starting a major investigation.”
“Then you should be glad that you don’t have to do all the work by yourself. You’ll be able to contribute. As you know, the symptoms that we’re talking about are not uncommon for someone your age, even without having brain surgery. They won’t prevent you from doing your job. You should just concentrate on doing whatever you’re good at.”
And what am I good at? thought Singsaker as he stood up. The answer he came up with was vague. I’m good at thinking, he decided. With or without a perfect memory.
“Are you aware that many of the symptoms you’re experiencing are common among creative people? Artists and scientists? The problem is that you have too many things in your head at the same time. Your brain has trouble sorting them out.”
“So if I brood less, my memory will improve? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Perhaps. But it’s not that simple. I don’t think you can stop brooding just like that. That’s an integral part of your injury. But, as I said, you should focus on what you’re good at.”
Singsaker thanked the doctor, thinking that this was the first time he’d seen Nordraak’s human side. He’d always thought the doctor was all form and no content. But now he actually felt reassured by what he’d heard. Furthermore, he thought that if a status-conscious careerist like Dr. Nordraak could put him in a good mood, there might be hope for the human race after all.
* * *
Back at the department, Brattberg gave Singsaker a brief rundown.
Jonny Olin had been cooperative and had agreed to come to the station for an interview with Jensen and Gran. He was now sitting in one of the interview rooms along with the two officers. He claimed he had talked to Silje Rolfsen only a couple of times on the phone in the past few months. Singsaker rolled his eyes and went to get himself a cup of coffee.
* * *
The man stood in the front hall, sniffing the air. For some reason this was something he always did. He didn’t know what he was trying to smell. Could it be his mother? That penetrating odor of tobacco and old textiles that had left this house long ago?
The new owner had painted the entryway, and installed a new wardrobe with a sliding door. He noticed only a faint scent of acrylic paint before he went inside the house, which hadn’t changed much since he and his mother had lived there years ago. He was now renting the house, after having sold it immediately after his mother’s death. No one knew that he had leased it, not even his wife Anna. Here he could go about his business in peace.
He went into the kitchen and sat down, immediately thinking about the dream he’d had the previous night, about the man and the funeral procession in the sky. He thought about his father, long dead. With his shotgun in his mouth, drenching the wall behind the marital bed with blood. He knew his father’s suicide had had something to do with him, with the fact that he’d chopped off his fingers so that he could never play for his father again. His mother had put him in a suit and taken him to the funeral. The whole ceremony had seemed empty and absurd. A meaningless event, a shadow of something real. The words were hollow, and he hadn’t cried. Now he knew that his dream was about the real funeral. There was true sorrow in every step the giants had taken across the sky, and they had carried the coffin with the weight of the world on their shoulders. When he woke up, he’d hoped that this was the dream he’d been seeking for so long and that from now on he’d be able to sleep peacefully. But he feared his hope would be in vain, that he’d been given only one night of peace, and that once again he was going to be hurled back into sleeplessness. Gradually, these dreamless nights would transform into nightmares. The killing had not been enough. It was the wrong woman, the wrong voice. He needed someone younger, purer, compliant. He knew whom he needed.
Fortunately he had another music box. It was heart-shaped, covered with blue velvet, and on the lid was a singer wearing a white cutaway, vest, and silk scarf. It was the second of his mother’s two music boxes. Now he carefully took it apart.
On the cylinder was the thin copper plate with the pins that plucked the teeth on the comb to produce the music. Again he replaced the plate and pins with one that he’d made himself. He spent a long time on the task. When he was done, he cleared away all the tools, the pincers, soldering iron, magnifying glass, and rubber mallet. He stowed them away in a kitchen drawer. Then he sat down in front of the music box, which was on the table.
He stretched contentedly and then lit a cigarette.
* * *
An hour after Singsaker had come back to the station, he was sitting in his office when Jensen pounded on the door. It was a sound he always recognized and never turned away.
“Come in!”
Jensen looked worn-out.
“So, did you get him to talk?” said Singsaker as his colleague sank onto a chair in front of his desk.
“I’m starting to feel like he doesn’t have much more to say. His story may be unusual, but I actually think he’s telling the truth.”
“Which is what?”
“He’s gay.”
“What?”
“Jonny Olin is gay. He says that he’s kept it a secret for a long time and tried to have female lovers but that it just frustrated him. That’s his explanation for the violent episodes.”
“So he does admit to them?”
“Partially, but he tried to downplay it. He says that with Silje Rolfsen, he tried to break off the relationship many times but that she refused to accept it. He claims that she kept seeking him out and pestering him for a long time afterward. That was what finally pushed him so over the edge that he threatened her with a knife.”
“And you believe his story?” Singsaker asked.
“I’m not sure. But we may be able to confirm that after coming to Trondheim, he took a male lover for the first time, and that the two of them spent last night at his lover’s apartment. Gran is on the phone trying to verify his story.”
“In other words, he’s not our man.”
“Not unless he’s able to be in two places at once,” said Jensen. “And we still need to find out from his neighbors whether Silje Rolfsen was seen near his residence during the past three weeks.
“Maybe Olin could tell us something about Silje other than the fact that he didn’t kill her. After all, he did live with her, so he ought to be able to tell us what sort of woman she was.”
“I asked him, but he didn’t have much to say. Just a bunch of meaningless things that you could say about any young woman her age. She liked clothes and books and had apparently always been a gentle sort. I got the impression that he’d really been very fond of her, which fits with his explanation. There was one small item of interest. He said that she liked to sing. Evidently she’d been in a choir during her childhood, and she was always singing—in the shower, when she cooked, and when she walked along the street. I got the feeling her singing annoyed him.”