Dreamless (30 page)

She smiled. “You would have been a good father,” she said. “A little old, maybe, but a good dad.”

“And here I thought you were such a good judge of character,” he replied.

“I am.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “The father is a university student majoring in literature in Bergen. He’s coming to see me this weekend. It was stupid of me to tell Felicia that it was my father who was visiting. I should have told both of you the truth. It’s just such a new thing for me.”

Singsaker noticed something in her tone of voice.

“Don’t tell me that you, of all people, have actually fallen in love.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. He plays the guitar, and I’m willing to give the relationship a chance. He’s talking about continuing his studies in Trondheim instead of in Bergen. We’ll see where it goes.”

He smiled, wishing he were young again.

“But what’s important right now is getting in touch with Felicia,” she went on.

“She might be back in the States, for all I know.”

“Have you tried to phone her?”

“Every free moment I’ve had. But without success, just like you.”

“That’s good. You can bet she’s watching her incoming calls. So the more often you try, the better. She really needs to think you’re desperate.”

“That doesn’t sound like very conventional advice. Shouldn’t you be telling me that I need to give her time, or something like that?”

“Bullshit. I know Felicia. She wants you to be calling her every ten minutes. I’m sure of it.”

Singsaker smiled, but he wasn’t as convinced as Siri. Then he realized that he hadn’t gleaned the information that he needed from their conversation. She was a shrewd woman, and she’d already helped him once before with this investigation.

“Jonas Røed,” he said. “I’ve told you what we know about him, and you’ve seen the broadsheet. Does it tell you anything at all about him?”

“Not the print itself. But if I were you, instead I’d be asking myself, What is it that he wants most of all?

Singsaker thought about that for a moment.

“He wants her to sing the lullaby for him. He wants to sleep.”

“Okay, let’s say it’s as simple as that. The next question is, What does he need in order to make that happen?

“Someplace where he can be left in peace, and a place to sleep,” Singsaker replied.

32

“
But where the hell
would that be?”

Brattberg was talking louder than usual on the phone. Singsaker knew how much pressure she was under.

“It could be anywhere,” he sighed as he turned onto Prinsens Gate and headed back to town.

Then she told him about the press conference and the flood of questions that had followed. A lot of them had to do with whether the police thought Jonas Røed was psychologically unstable and whether the police really had any idea how many mentally ill people were roaming the streets. Vlado Taneski, the reporter, seemed especially intent on making a big deal out of the issue.

Brattberg had little new information about the case. They hadn’t managed to dig up any other address where Røed might have gone. He and his wife had lived an isolated life, with few friends and no contact with any family members. They didn’t own a summer house or cabin. So far, no one on the investigative team had been in touch with anyone who knew of other places the couple might have stayed on vacation. Additional officers had been posted along the roads, and all vehicles leaving the city were being checked at several strategic points. But so far without result. Additional officers had also been sent to the Ringve Museum.

“And Grongstad’s team is still up at the house on Bernhard Getz’ Gate. He doesn’t have anything specific to tell us yet. But we do have clear proof, including the dog’s leash and evidence found in the storage rooms, that Julie Edvardsen was there. The blood in the second one is mostly old and probably came from Silje Rolfsen. But there are a few drops that are fresher, and they could have come from Julie or from Røed.”

“Do you think he’s already killed her? I had a strong feeling that she was still alive when I saw her.”

“I’m choosing to believe she’s still alive. He may have beaten her. But they haven’t finished analyzing the blood yet. Her parents looked at the leash and confirmed that it belonged to their dog. Røed’s computer mostly just contains research on music boxes and a bunch of stuff about various sleep techniques and dream analysis. There are also a lot of music files of Swedish ballads. But I don’t think even a forensic psychologist would have guessed that the computer belonged to a dangerous criminal.”

“What about Heimdal?”

“Mona Gran is the only one there at the moment. She’s looking through various documents, hoping to find something. Even though Røed had a computer, he seems to have written out a lot of things by hand. I was thinking you could go out there and help her. But first you should take a break and get something to eat.”

Singsaker looked at his watch. It always made him happy to hear his boss show some concern for him. And she was right. It was almost five o’clock and he hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. But he wasn’t really hungry.

He ended the call.

Without deciding where he was going, he put the key in the ignition. Then he happened to notice a special key on the key ring. Slowly, he started driving. He knew what he had to do. Something told him that somewhere in that poor dug-up brain of his was the answer to the question about where Jonas Røed had gone. What he needed right now was to gather his thoughts. And in order to save time he had to take a detour.

*   *   *

A frosty mist hovered like a haze over the crust of ice. Beyond were the dark depths of the fjord. Singsaker knew that all he had to do was jump and he’d fall right through the fragile layer of ice and disappear down into the darkness.

Today he took his clothes off on the dock, since Jensen wasn’t with him this time. Then he went down the three steps and leaped into the water before he could change his mind. The ice-cold water instantly enveloped his body. He rose up to the icy surface faster than usual. But instead of swimming back to the steps, as he normally did after surfacing, he splashed around, aware of the numbing cold. For some reason he started thinking about shoveling snow. There was something about that damned shoveling that was important, but he couldn’t figure out what it might be.

He lay on his back, trying to float. That was something his ex-wife Anniken had been good at. She could float in the water for a long time, motionless probably for hours if she felt like it. Singsaker had never really mastered the ability to float. Anniken said it was because his body was never still. She was probably right.

It was definitely impossible to keep his body still in this ice-cold water. He felt the heels of his feet grow heavy and begin to sink. He began kicking his legs as he flung his arms out behind him and made his way through the water, swimming slowly back to the dock. He looked up at the dark winter sky. Night had started to descend and the first stars had emerged.

Suddenly he had an idea. He turned over and in two strokes reached the stairs. There he climbed out, dried his hands on the towel, and dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket.

“Hi, Singsaker,” said a gentle voice.

“Hi, Gran,” he replied. “Have you been at the house alone for very long?”

“The tech guys left about an hour ago. So it’s just me now. I’m actually waiting for you to get here so I won’t have to take the train back to town.”

“Have you been inside the whole time?”

“Yes. Why?”

“And you haven’t heard or seen anything out of the ordinary?”

“I’ve seen plenty of things that are out of the ordinary, let me tell you. I’m sitting here looking at a notebook filled with disconnected ramblings. This man is seriously sick. Listen to this: ‘A night without dreams turns the daytime into a nightmare. What you thought was reality disappears and you’re sucked into a long waking dream that you can never escape.’”

“A bit of a poet in him,” said Singsaker.

“It’s from what looks like a diary. But he doesn’t seem to have written in it for a long time, not since long before the murder. It’s too bad he decided to turn other people’s lives into nightmares. His writings just get crazier and crazier.”

“I see. But I also asked whether you’d
heard
anything out of the ordinary.”

“Well, I’ve got
Satyricon
playing. Some people might say that’s out of the ordinary, but that’s their problem. So I haven’t really heard much else.”

“So in other words you haven’t heard anything coming from outside the house?”

“No, not really. Why?”

“I want you to go out and take a look in the garage. But be careful. Don’t go inside if you think anybody’s there. And stay on the line so I can hear what happens.”

“Okay, boss.”

He heard her get up and walk across the room. A few moments later she opened a door, and then another. She was breathing harder when she got outside in the cold. And he could hear the snow creaking under her feet. He assumed that she’d made it halfway up Røed’s driveway when she stopped abruptly.

“Singsaker,” she whispered, “are you there?”

“I’m here,” he said. “What do you see?”

“The garage door is open, like it was when I got here. Except that now there’s a car parked inside.”

“Go back in the house and call for backup. A full backup,” he told her. “I’m on my way.”

He got dressed without bothering to dry off properly. He almost toppled over when his pants got caught around his knees as he quickly tugged them on.

When at last he was fully dressed, he ran to his car without stopping to lock the door to the sea-bathing society, jumped in, and turned on the engine.

33

The ax was pointing
at him. He reached for the handle. How was he going to make her sing now? He wiped the blood on his pants. Some of it he rubbed on his hair. Jonas Røed stood there, pale and red-haired, with blood all over his face. He was thinking. He was thinking the whole time.

Someone would come soon. He knew that. That was why he had to hurry with what he needed to do.

The fly was buzzing angrily now. Slamming against the wall of his skull. Then falling, dazed, back inside his head somewhere, only to start buzzing around again.

*   *   *

Singsaker’s car skidded as he turned, but still he stomped on the gas pedal. It had stopped snowing, and the temperature had dropped. The plows hadn’t yet made it through all the streets in the suburban neighborhood, and the snow was loosely packed under his tires. The car suddenly lost its grip on the road and went into a sharp skid. Desperately he yanked on the steering wheel, but instead of getting the car back on track, he drove it too far in the other direction, and the vehicle slid into a fence two houses away from Røed’s property. The car broke through the fence, sending the planks of wood flying everywhere. Then it slid down a small slope and came to a halt in the snow in the middle of somebody’s yard. The headlights lit up the snow in front of the bumper, and Singsaker could hear the front wheels polishing the snow crystals underneath into shiny lumps of ice.

Feeling dazed, he turned off the engine and climbed out to stagger through the snow. He was heading for the road when someone came out of the house behind him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouted a furious voice.

Singsaker turned to face the man, who had come out in his slippers. He recognized the neighbor that he’d talked to earlier in the day. Standing behind the man was the little terrier, barking excitedly. Apparently the only thing big about the dog was his bark.

Singsaker held up his ID.

“Police,” he said so brusquely that the man stopped. “Of course you’ll be compensated for the damage. Now I suggest that you get back inside your house, lock the door, and stay there.”

The man stared at Singsaker, who was standing out there in the snow with his gray hair sticking out all over, melted snow dripping down his face. He glowered at the man, who turned around and did as he was told.

Taking long strides, Singsaker made his way out of the yard and over toward Røed’s house.

Once there, he jogged over to the garage, where he saw an old red Saab. Røed’s car. It wasn’t locked.

He opened a door. The interior was very neat. A crocheted blanket covered the backseat. Anna Røed’s handiwork, he guessed. Singsaker shuddered at the thought that Julie Edvardsen, her hands and feet bound, might have lain on this blanket that had once been so lovingly created. He thought of the stink of urine in the basement at Bernhard Getz’ Gate.

It’s a strange form of concern this guy shows, Singsaker thought angrily.

Then he jogged over to the house. He looked around, then stopped to listen. No sign that backup was on its way. That was odd. Gran was supposed to have phoned in the alarm. Why hadn’t anyone else arrived?

With a premonition of dread, he opened the door, which still showed the damage it had sustained when the officer had used an ax to open it earlier that day. That was why it no longer closed properly.

Then he went inside.

The distinct smell still hung in the air. He moved cautiously. If Røed was here, Singsaker at least wanted to have the element of surprise on his side.

Slowly, he pushed on the door to the living room. It opened with a creak that he hadn’t expected.

But Røed was not who he found inside. Mona Gran was sitting on a sofa with her back to him. With an ax embedded in the back of her skull.

He took three steps closer.

Over the shoulder of his dead colleague, he could see that she was holding her cell phone in her hand, as if still trying to tap in the number to headquarters.

Singsaker fell to his knees. The whole room felt as if it were spinning, as if it had come loose from the rest of the world, released from the pull of gravity to swirl alone in a universe without mercy.

A jumble of scattered fragments rushed through his mind, bits and pieces of conversations he’d had with Gran at the beginning of this investigation. He remembered her telling him about the doctor’s appointment she’d had, and her attempts to get pregnant with her boyfriend. Only days later, her life and all her dreams had come to an end here, on this sofa.