The Final Murder (31 page)

He pulled an exaggerated face as he clutched his belly dramatically.

‘You

ordered mild food,’ Adam growled, and helped himself to

more raita. ‘If you can’t eat this, you can’t eat sausage and mash.

Bon appetit.’

Sigmund put a tiny bit on his fork. Hesitated. Cautiously put it in his mouth. Chewed.

‘I just can’t get it to tally,’ Adam said. ‘It’s somehow so … unNorwegian.

Un-European. That anyone would think of using

some poor sod as a pawn in a killing game.’

‘Now it’s you that should cut it out,’ retorted Sigmund. He

swallowed and took some more. ‘Nothing is unNorwegian any

more. In terms of crime, I mean. The situation is no better here than anywhere else. And it hasn’t been for years. It’s all these …’

He stopped himself, thought about it and continued:

‘. .. Russians,’ he ventured. ‘And those bloody bandits from the Balkans. Those boys know no shame, you know. You can see the evil in their eyes.’

The expression on Adam’s face made him raise a hand.

‘Describing reality is not racism,’ he protested fervently. ‘Those people are just like us! Same race and all that. But you know yourself how—’

‘Stop. There are no foreigners in this case. The victims are pure Norwegian. All of them fair, in fact. And the same is true of the poor sod we’ve arrested on one count. Forget the Russians. Forget the Balkans. Forget…’

He gave a sudden jerk and put his hand to his cheek.

‘Sorry, bit my cheek,’ he mumbled. ‘Hurts.’

Sigmund pulled his chair in to the table. Put his napkin on his knee and picked up his knife and fork, as if he wanted to start the meal all over again.

‘Have to admit, that lecture of Johanne’s is pretty freaky,’

Sigmund said, unscathed by Adam’s reprimand. ‘A bit X-files. Time warps and the like. What d’you reckon?’

‘Not much,’ Adam admitted.

‘So what, then?’

‘It could just be a coincidence, of course.’

‘Coincidence,’ Sigmund snorted. ‘Right. Your wife sits over

there on the other side of the world thirteen years ago and listens to a lecture about highly symbolic murders, and then the same method, exactly the same symbols, appear in Norway in 2004! Three times! Sod coincidence, I say. No way.’

‘Well, then maybe you’ve got an explanation! I mean, you

watch The X-files,.’

‘They’ve stopped making it. It got a bit too absurd towards the end.’

Adam helped himself to some more from the small iron pot.

The rice stuck to the serving spoon. He shook it lightly. The white sticky mass fell into the sauce with a splash. Red spots appeared on his shirt.

‘I think there’s an evil bastard out there,’ Sigmund said in a calm voice. ‘An evil bastard who’s heard the same lecture. And enjoyed it. And toyed with the idea of playing with us.’

Adam felt a chill down his spine.

‘Right,’ he said slowly and stopped eating. ‘Anything else?’

‘The symbolism’s too clear. In the original cases, the killers were a bit simple, at least from what you’ve said. Idiots choose obvious symbols. But our man’s certainly not an idiot. Our

man’s …’ Sigmund’s smile was almost childish now, he saw a new and unfamiliar acknowledgement in Adam’s narrowed eyes and

slight nod of the head. ‘If we take it as given,’ Sigmund continued, ‘that Johanne is right, and that there’s someone out there

pulling the strings, getting other people to do the killing …’

A furrow appeared between his heavy eyebrows.

‘.. . and gets them to do it in a very particular way, then we’re definitely not talking about someone of limited capacity. Quite the opposite.’

There wasn’t a sound. They were the only guests now. The

waiter had disappeared into a back room. All that could be heard was the gentle oriental music coming from the speakers on the other side of the room. The loudspeakers vibrated on the higher notes.

‘Hmm,’ Adam said eventually, lifting his mineral water in

appreciation. ‘That’s not bad. But if this Mr X has heard the same lecture, it must be someone who… someone who Johanne knows from …’

‘No,’ Sigmund interjected, and tried another piece of bread.

‘It’s been a while now since I went to police college, but I do remember one thing. The lectures were the same, year after year.

The teachers just turned over the pile. I borrowed some notes from a friend who was in the year above me. A blueprint. This bread is actually quite nice.’

‘Try the tandoori,’ Adam suggested. ‘But you’re forgetting that we’re not talking about any old teacher. Warren Scifford is a legend. He would hardly …’

‘As if good teachers are any better than bad ones when it comes to that,’ Sigmund exclaimed, looking at his fork before cautiously putting the meat in his mouth. ‘The opposite, I’d say. If a series of lectures is successful, all the less reason to change it. Students come and go. Teachers stay. Have we managed to get hold of the guy?’

‘Warren?’

‘Yes.’

‘No. If you don’t want your food, I’ll…’

‘Help yourself.’

Sigmund pushed his plate across the table.

‘The FBI’s mandate was changed, to put it mildly, after Nine Eleven,’ Adam said. ‘Now it’s all anti-terrorism and hush-hush.

Finding Warren has proved to be harder than anticipated. Before, I could just pick up the phone and have him on the other end of the line within thirty seconds. But now …’ He shrugged. ‘My guess is Iraq,’ he said lightly.

‘Iraq? But the FBI has limited jurisdiction! Aren’t they supposed to stick to their own territory? To the USA?’

‘In principle, yes. In reality, well…’

Another slight shrug of the shoulders.

‘I should think they could do with Warren’s expertise down

there in that hell hole.’

‘What does he actually do?’

Adam guffawed and wiped his mouth with the starched napkin.

‘Easier to say what he doesn’t do. First he got a Ph.D. in sociology, then he trained as a lawyer. But most importantly, he’s been connected to what’s clearly the world’s best police organization for more than thirty years. Star.’

‘And now he’s in Iraq.’

‘I don’t know that he’s in Iraq,’ Adam corrected. ‘But looking at how the Americans are getting on down there, I wouldn’t be surprised if they needed their best men there. Whether that’s FBI

folk or anyone else. But I haven’t given up trying to find him yet.’

The waiter came back. He politely overlooked the fact that

Adam had two plates in front of him.

‘Would you like anything else to drink?’

‘Water,’ Sigmund said gruffly, and put his elbows on the table.

‘Yes, please,’ Adam smiled and praised the food. ‘A sparkling mineral water, please.’

He poked the wound in his cheek with his tongue.

‘Hurts,’ he mumbled.

‘Do you believe in my theory?’ Sigmund asked. ‘In Johanne’s

theory?’

Adam took his time.

‘I can’t quite … quite imagine how it’s possible to manipulate people in that way. On the other hand …’

The waiter poured the water into their glasses, smiled and

withdrew again.

‘It may be because I don’t dare,’ Adam admitted, and took a

drink. ‘If you’re right, it means that the investigations will be …

even harder. Because among other things, it means that the real mastermind doesn’t necessarily have any obvious connection with the victims. But the murderers do. And so far, we’ve only found one of them.’

‘A raving loony in a nuthouse,’ sighed Sigmund.

Adam’s raised fork obliged him to quickly add:

‘I mean, someone with mental health issues who’s in an institution.

What d’you think we should do? Should we pursue the …

theory?’

‘We should at least bear it in mind,’ Adam said. ‘As we have to carry on looking for connections between the three victims, it won’t make much extra work if Mats Bohus is included in the picture.’

‘Hmm? I don’t understand. He hasn’t been killed, he …’

‘If you and Johanne really are on to something, he’s the only one we’ve got. So while we carry on looking for links between Fiona Helle, Vibeke Heinerback and Vegard Krogh, we can also look to see if there are any hidden connections between Mats Bohus and the other two. Long shot, but why not. The problem is that we can’t talk to Mats Bohus any more. Completely lost it.

The hearing last Saturday was obviously too much. Dr Bonheur was right. And now we have to pay the price - put it like this, the man’s in a closed ward, so it won’t be easy to find out who he’s had contact with.’

He snatched up the last piece of bread and popped it in his

mouth.

‘Full,’ he mumbled. ‘Shall we go?’

‘What about coffee?’ Sigmund suggested.

‘I’d advise against that. The coffee here isn’t exactly …’

His mobile started ringing. Adam got out his phone and signalled to the waiter that they’d like the bill.

‘Stubo,’ he said curtly.

When he rang off about a minute and a half later, without

having said more than yes and no, he looked very concerned. His eyes were narrower than ever and his mouth was pursed with

tiredness and worry.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Sigmund.

Adam paid and got up.

‘What the hell is it?’ Sigmund repeated impatiently as they

came out on to Arendalsgate. A bus thundered past.

‘Trond Arnesen was lying,’ Adam replied, and started to walk towards Myrens Engineering Workshop, where the car was parked outside the old factory.

‘What?’ Sigmund bellowed, jogging along beside him.

A trailer was waiting at the red lights and the noise was deafening.

‘Trond

Arnesen is not as innocent as I thought,’ Adam yelled

back. ‘He was having an affair on the side.’

The lights turned to green and the trailer accelerated and disappeared up to Torshov.

‘What?’

‘With a man,’ Adam said and ran over the road. ‘A young lad.’

‘Isn’t that what I’ve always said?’ Sigmund said, speeding up to keep pace with his partner. ‘You can’t trust a faggot.’

Adam couldn’t be bothered to react.

He had been absolutely convinced of Trond Arnesen’s innocence.

Johanne

was woken by someone coming up the stairs. Fear froze

her limbs. Ragnhild was lying between her left arm and her body.

She was fast asleep. It was still light outside. It must still be daytime.

Sometime in the afternoon. How long had she been asleep?

Someone came closer.

‘Were you sleeping? That’s good.’

Her mother smiled and came over to the sofa.

‘Mother,’ Johanne stammered. ‘You gave me a fright! You can’t just…’

‘Yes, I can,’ her mother replied firmly. Johanne suddenly realized that she hadn’t even taken off her coat. ‘I used the spare key you left with us. To be honest, I was afraid that you wouldn’t open the door if I rang the bell and you looked out and saw it was me.’

‘Of course I would’ve …’

Johanne struggled to sit up in the sofa without waking Ragnhild.

No, dear. I don’t think you would have opened the door. How

long have you been asleep?’

Johanne looked at her watch.

‘Twelve minutes,’ she yawned. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Just relax,’ her mother said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

She could hear drawers and cupboards being opened. The

fridge door opened and closed. Johanne heard the clinking of bottles and the reluctant sucking noise of the freezer being opening.

She managed to get up on her feet.

‘What are you doing?’ she muttered in irritation.

‘I’m packing,’ her mother replied.

‘Packing …’

‘Good thing you’ve got so much of your milk in the freezer.

There…’

With a practised hand, she wrapped each of the frozen bottles in newspaper.

‘What are you doing, Mother?’

‘Can’t you just be a good girl and get out some clothes? Her pyjamas. Some nappies. No, actually, your father has already bought some. Libero, that’s what you use, isn’t it? Just put a little bag together. And please remember to pack some extra dummies.’

Johanne tried to move the baby over to her other arm; her eyes opened and she started to whimper.

‘You’re not taking Ragnhild, Mother.’

‘Yes, I most definitely am.’

Her mother was already putting the well-insulated bottles into a soft thermal bag with a Coca-Cola logo on it.

‘No way.’

‘Now listen to me, Johanne.’

With an angry movement, her mother zipped the bag shut and

put it on the island unit. Then she ran her fingers through her grey hair, before catching her daughter’s eye and saying:

‘I will decide that.’

‘You can’t

‘Be quiet.’

Her voice was sharp, but level. Ragnhild didn’t react.

‘I am fully aware that you think I’m generally pretty hopeless, Johanne. And that we haven’t always been the best of friends. But I am your mother and I’m not as stupid as you think. Not only could I see that you were absolutely exhausted during dinner on Sunday, but I also detected something that I can only interpret as … fear.’

Johanne opened her mouth to protest.

‘Don’t say a word,’ her mother scolded. ‘I have no intention of asking you what it is you’re frightened of. You never tell me anything anyway. But I can help with the tiredness. So now I’m going

to take my grandchild home with me and you are going to go to bed. The time is…’ She looked over at the wall clock. ‘.. . half past two. I’ve asked Isak to pick Kristiane up from school. Adam said he’d be working late tonight. He’ll stay over at ours, so you’re not disturbed. You …’

Her finger was shaking when she pointed it at Johanne.

‘. .. go to bed and get some sleep. You’re no fool and you know perfectly well that Ragnhild is in the best hands. With me, with us. You can sleep for as long as you need. Or you can read books all night if that makes you any happier. But I think … oh, darling.’

Johanne hid her face in the baby’s blanket. It smelt of clean clothes and she started to cry. Her mother stroked her hair and then gently loosened Ragnhild from her daughter’s arms.