Medusa (34 page)

Once she’d eaten as much of the spaghetti as she thought she could allow herself, it was time to turn the conversation to matters outside the investigation.

– How did you end up in the police, Arve?

He laughed slightly and poured more beer into his glass. He was a guy who could fix car engines, mend things, cut down trees. His hands were broad and thick, with marks and scars he must have got working with machines and tools. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to be touched by them, held tight by them.

– Probably because I figured it was somewhere I could actually
do
something, he said. – Started studying law, but I always had to get a pal to wake me up during the lectures. Dropped out and spent a couple of years at folk high school, mountain climbing and rafting and camping out in cracks in glaciers. That was probably when it dawned on me that I needed a more active life than just swotting up on points of law. Something more unpredictable. I’ve always been someone who likes doing something. How about you?

She pushed the plate of half-eaten spaghetti to one side. She hadn’t the slightest objection to telling him the story of her life. What it was like to grow up in a high-rise in Fyllingsdalen. The friends who got pregnant as soon as they were done with high school, then moved out of the family apartment and into the block opposite. She’d always known she had to get out of there. Arve carried on eating and listening, didn’t say anything.

– What was that other thing, by the way? he suddenly asked.

– Other thing?

– You said yesterday you’d found one mistake and one omission in my notes about the medical student. You gave me the mistake straight away, I was supposed to get the omission for dessert.

Nina wiped thoroughly around her mouth. Registered that the serviette was still showing signs of tomato sauce.

– You dashed that report off pretty quickly, she said, and risked a teasing smile.

– You’re right, I had to prioritise. Aren’t you going to tell me?

Nina leant back in her chair. She’d managed to change into a light silk blouse she’d bought earlier in the day. It clung tightly across her breasts.

– According to Miriam herself, she doesn’t have a large circle of friends. She’s got two or three close ones, and she has some contact with the Catholic church in Majorstua.

– Well I got all that, didn’t I? Arve protested.

– Yes, but not that she’s been engaged.

His eyebrows shot up.

– Really? Here in Norway?

She gave a triumphant laugh.

– For two years.

– Well, you got me there all right, Nina.

She liked the way he said her name, putting equal stress on both syllables.

– Honestly, he continued, – I’m glad it was you who noticed. There are enough people who like to exploit others’ mistakes. Did she say who to?

– I didn’t ask; that wasn’t the most important thing right then. She said she broke up with him some years ago. I still don’t know whether it’s of any importance at all …

Arve scratched the tip of his chin with two fingers. He sat for a while staring thoughtfully into the air, straight past her.

– It might well be important, Nina, he said at last. – I guess Viken’s not the only one who’s been suffering from tunnel vision these last few days.

A
XEL STUMBLED THROUGH
the park outside the police station where he’d spent most of the last twenty-four hours. He stopped under one of the huge hazels. It was still raining, but not as much as the day before, and the wind had subsided.

He had a large swelling above one eye, and his lower lip was still swollen. He had hardly slept for the past few days, nor washed nor even run a comb through his hair. The bristles on his chin itched, and he could smell the body odour seeping up from his armpits. The physical degeneration felt like a temptation to sink further down into it.

It was dark by the time he slanted across the street to a café on the other side. In a stand outside the door a few last copies of the morning’s papers were still on display. The entire front page of
VG
carried a picture of a man being restrained by two police officers. The features of the face had been disguised, but anyone who knew him would have been in no doubt about who it was. The caption read:
Doctor arrested – suspected of murders
.

He needed something to drink. Most of all he needed to empty his bladder. The man behind the bar stopped him as he was on his way to the toilet.

– Are you going to buy something? The toilet is for customers only.

– A cognac.

– Can you pay?

The man gave him a lingering scrutiny. That’s the way it is now, thought Axel. This is the reception you’ll be getting from now on.

– You’ll just have to wait and see, he muttered as he walked into the strong smell of filthy urinal.

Afterwards he took a table in an inner recess of the darkened room. The first glass disappeared in one. It wasn’t cognac, but the colour wasn’t unlike. He signalled to the barman and had a second. For a brief moment waving a credit card had changed his status. He took his time over the third glass. He couldn’t quite come to terms with the thought that at some point or other he would have to get up and leave the place.

His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there staring down at the table. It struck him that if he didn’t answer the phone now, he would never answer it again. A distant sense of relief when he saw that it was Rita. She was the only person he could face talking to right now.

– Axel, I don’t believe you. What a pickle you’ve got yourself into now.

He tried to make a joke about pickle but it didn’t work out. Instead she got him to tell her about the last twenty-four hours. Afterwards she said: – What are you going to do now?

He drained his glass.

– Didn’t you say you started working for me twelve years ago, Rita? Not many people know me better than you do.

He fell silent. She said: – I don’t believe for one moment that you … Not for one moment, Axel, do you hear me? But you were incredibly stupid to let yourself get mixed up with that …

Axel interrupted before she could use a word he didn’t want to hear.

– It isn’t her fault. Save the criticism for me.

– She rang yesterday, by the way.

– Miriam?

– Isn’t that who we’re talking about?

– What did she want?

– Apparently she left an envelope behind in the desk drawer in Ola’s office. She said she’d come in and fetch it, but I never saw her.

Axel could feel himself waking up.

– When was this?

– Yesterday afternoon. And then she said something very odd.

– What did she say?

– That if she didn’t turn up, I was to deliver it to you as soon as possible. She said it was important. Seemed really upset.

He checked his unanswered calls. Over thirty of them. Lots from Bie. One from Tom. And directly below it on the list: Miriam. Yesterday evening, 6.55. He called his voicemail. Twenty-three messages. The first was from Bie. Then a journalist from
VG
. Then several others he didn’t know. He clicked his way through them. On the sixth he heard an indistinct sound, a car engine probably, above it a pop song he’d heard a few times, and someone whistling in the background. He was about to click forward to the next one. Then he heard her voice:
Where are we going?
Miriam: the name shot through him. An indistinct male voice answered her. Axel couldn’t stay seated; he had to get to his feet. He clamped the phone to one ear, pressed a finger in the other. Miriam’s voice:
The cabin? Are you mad?
Suddenly the man’s voice was more prominent.
What the hell have you got there? Give it to me!
Some rustling sounds. Then her scream. Rising and ending in a shout:
Axel.
Then silence.

Axel stumbled to the toilet. Played the message over again. There was something familiar about the man’s voice. He couldn’t place it. It was drowned out by Miriam’s scream. She was calling for him. She was frightened.

He ran to the door.

– Hey there! yelled the bartender and raced after him. – You’re a helluva cheeky bastard.

Axel raised both hands submissively.

– Sorry, got a message, I have to leave. Of course I’ll pay.

The bartender glowered at him. Not even a big tip sweetened his mood.

Outside the café he ran into a woman in a black coat.

– The very person I’m looking for, she said as he hurried on.

He turned round.

– Kaja Fredvold,
VG
, the woman informed him. – We’ve met before. I’d like to interview you.

A swarm of thoughts buzzed through Axel’s head. Miriam. She had been afraid when he called her the previous afternoon. Afraid when he visited her that last time. He hadn’t understood what it was. Hadn’t wanted to understand.

– I don’t have time for people like you, he said as calmly as he could.

The journalist grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket. When she smiled, her jaw jutted forward, making her underbite even more prominent.

– We’re going to run a story on you anyway, Glenne. You’ll find it pays to play along.

A man emerged from a car parked half up on the pavement. He was fat and grunted like a sumo wrestler. He was holding a camera.

– This is Villy, he works with me. We’ll drive you home and we can talk on the way.

Axel turned and was about to walk on. The journalist still had hold of him.

– Or we can just do it in here in the café, she suggested. – Looks like you’ve been enjoying yourself there.

Axel pulled himself free and pushed her. She staggered back a few paces and somehow or other managed to trip over a kerbstone. As Axel rounded the corner, he heard her shouting something to the photographer.

He asked the taxi driver to stop at the bus bay in Helgesens gate and continued on foot. The gate was half open; he slipped through and let it swing shut behind him.

On the landing outside her doorway, there was no sign of the mangled corpse that had been lying there when he’d left the flat two days earlier. A bouquet of flowers hung from the door handle. He’d sent them himself, before his arrest. He rang the bell, tried the handle at the same time. The door wasn’t locked.

Her smell in the hallway. Her perfume. Faint smell of damp from the bathroom. All the lights in the living room were on. The bed was made. He lifted the blanket; a T-shirt on the pillow. Surgical textbook on the shelf above. And the photo of the man in naval uniform. The coffee machine in the kitchen was on, the glass jug half full. On the table, a dish with a packet of lasagne, ready for heating, and a piece of crispbread with a bite taken out. Next to it was a white A5 envelope. He picked it up. There were photos inside. Four of them. The first showed the terrified face of Hilde Paulsen, the physiotherapist. She was lying on the floor, up against a stone wall. On the back of the photo the number 1 had been written with a black marker pen. The second picture showed the face of a dead person, with bloody scratches running from the jaw down over the neck. He recognised Cecilie Davidsen. She lay propped up against what had to be the same stone wall. On the reverse the number 2, again written with a black marker pen. The third photograph: the head of a woman with fair hair. He was in no doubt that this must be Anita Elvestrand. The eyes stared at him – he could tell that she was still alive – but the mouth had been ripped open at one side and the tongue protruded from the gash. On the back, the number 3.

The fourth picture was of Miriam. She was smiling and looked happy. Bright sunlight caused her to peer into the camera, and her hair was shorter than it was now. The photo was taken standing against a creosoted wall. Half of it had been cut off. Someone was standing next to her; a bit of the hand holding her shoulder was still visible. On the back, in the same felt-tip writing:
And the fourth will be …

He dropped the pictures on to the table and stumbled out into the corridor and down the twisted staircase without closing the door behind him.

A
XEL WAS RUNNING
through Sofienberg Park. Suddenly he stopped and pulled out his phone, punched in the police station number. He couldn’t face the thought of talking to Viken so instead asked for the young sergeant, whose name, he now recalled, was Norbakk.

– I’ll put you through to the operational leader, the woman at the other end told him.

– I want to talk to Sergeant Norbakk, Glenne insisted. – Nobody else. Call him and tell him that Axel Glenne is trying to get in touch with him.

Within half a minute his call was returned.

– Glenne? Where are you calling from?

Axel recognised Norbakk’s voice.

– It’s about Miriam Gaizauskaite. You know who that is? He carried on walking through the park.

– What about her?

– I think she’s been abducted. She left a message on my voicemail.

– Message?

– She was screaming, calling for help. Someone attacked her. It must have been last night. In her flat there’s an envelope with photographs of the dead women. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?

– I understand. We’ll send a car up there. Can you come to the station and make a statement?

– I’ve got nothing else to say.

He terminated the call, switched off his mobile.

Rita stood in the doorway and stared at him, her eyes wide.

– What do you look like? Has someone beaten you up?

He tried to smile through his swollen lip.

– You’d make a pretty convincing tramp.

– The envelope, he said.

Rita pulled her dressing gown tight around her.

– What is it, Axel? Aren’t you well?

He was neither well nor ill. Fear had made him alert, cleared his head. He explained the situation in a few words.