Where Monsters Dwell (13 page)

“I know him, don’t I?” he said.

“I think they must have dug out more than a tumor from your head,” said Jensen, as brutally honest as only a real friend can be.

“Sometimes I’m afraid of that, Thorvald,” he said.

“Don’t take it so hard. Things like this take time. We had Jon Vatten in for an interview about five years ago. Many lengthy interviews. You and I handled it together. He was suspected of killing his wife and young son. But we never found the bodies, and Vatten had a solid alibi. The case is still open, but only as a missing persons case. To this day we still don’t know whether or not a crime was actually committed. But we’ve had our suspicions. Damn, you’re lucky that you can forget such things. By the way, Vatten was a very promising academic before this happened. Afterward he had sort of a breakdown. He was committed in the
Ø
stmarka psychiatric hospital for a while before he started as security officer at the library. I thought of him as soon as I heard about this case today.”

“In other words, he’s a guy who’s not easy to forget.”

“You could say that.”

“I wonder if he has something to do with this murder?”

“You tell me. You’re the one who’s there.”

“All I can say is that whoever is behind this could definitely use a trip to a more secure psychiatric hospital than
Ø
stmarka.”

“I see. We should get over there then,” said Jensen.

“ASAP,” said Singsaker and hung up.

*   *   *

He found Mona Gran on the sidewalk outside the main entrance.

“I didn’t think it would be that horrible,” she said. She looked pale but didn’t look like she’d thrown up.

“No, no one expected that,” he replied. He took out a pack of Fisherman’s Friend lozenges that he happened to have in his pocket and offered her one. She had barely popped it in her mouth when his phone rang again. A name he remembered with a vague sense of dread appeared on the display. Vlado Taneski. A reporter at
Adresseavisen
. Who the hell had tipped off the press? Singsaker wondered. He remembered that he and Thorvald had both had suspicions about leaks, but he could no longer recall any names. He refused the call by pressing the button so hard that it left a mark on the tip of his thumb.

Then he and Gran just stood there, sucking on their lozenges in silence.

*   *   *

In 1864, Broder Lysholm Knudtzon died at the age of seventy-six in Trondheim. He was a merchant’s son who hated business and dedicated his life to science, art, and literature, although he himself produced nothing of consequence. It’s uncertain whether he had any literary talent. He burned his papers, including most of his personal letters and notes before he died. The bonfire of documents included a number of letters Knudtzon had received from around Norway and abroad. Among them were several from Lord Byron, a dear friend of Knudtzon’s. But fortunately the childless bookworm did not burn his books. Instead, he left his entire library, including two bas-reliefs and three busts by the great Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen to the Royal Norwegian Scientific Society. A condition of the will was that a special room be established for preservation of the books and artworks “in which, however, with a View to the Preservation of the Items, the Smoking of Tobacco must not be permitted.” This was probably the first smoking ban ever issued in Norway.

In the Knudtzon Hall, inside what is now the Gunnerus Library, the books are arranged on mahogany shelves with carved palmettes. The bas-reliefs
Night
and
Day
by Thorvaldsen, as well as Jacob Munch’s oil painting of the young Knudtzon, hang on the walls. From the ceiling hangs a crystal chandelier. The book collection does not impress with its number of titles, which is around two thousand, but by its quality. The library left by Knudtzon contains a number of first editions of classic works in French, English (especially by Lord Byron), German, Italian, and Danish, as well as travel accounts. Some of the books are great rarities printed on parchment, calfskin, or bound in Moroccan leather. After Knudtzon’s death, many large, whole skins were found that he had purchased to use for bookbindings.

*   *   *

When he entered Knudtzon Hall to speak with the staff, Chief Inspector Singsaker could barely remember the last time he had been inside, or how he had acquired all that useless knowledge about Knudtzon. But that was how things were lately. He could remember the most trivial details he had read long ago, while big, important events from his life were gone. But he knew that he had been in the Knudtzon Hall several times before with his wife, attending various lectures back when they enjoyed sharing cultural experiences together. He also had a vague recollection that this made them feel more connected.

The entire library staff was seated around a long table on art nouveau chairs when the chief inspector came in. On the floor were hand-knotted Persian rugs. The walls behind the bookshelves were painted with green enamel, and the ceiling was high and white. He had an odd feeling of entering a fictional world and remembered Mona Gran’s comment about Agatha Christie.
The Body in the Library
might be a suitable title, he thought. And here we have all the suspects gathered in the Knudtzon Hall as the detective steps into the room. He clasped his arms behind his back and moved slowly along the table as he introduced himself. Then his phone rang. Again. It was Brattberg. Singsaker excused himself and went back out into the corridor. His boss had a simple, clear message.

“Bring Jon Vatten to the station when Jensen shows up.”

“Okay,” he said, and glanced up. “As a matter of fact, Jensen is here now.” He ended the call. Thorvald Jensen had a round face with friendly but sharp eyes. He had just walked into the corridor, along with three crime scene techs dressed in white.

“The whole bunch is sitting inside,” said Singsaker to Jensen, pointing at the door to the Knudtzon Hall. “They’re all yours. It would probably be easiest to call them for interviews one at a time in another room and then send them home. Wait on Vatten. I’ll come and get him after I show the boys in white where they have to work.” He gestured toward the techs and discovered too late that two of them were women. They gave him a resigned stare, pegging him for the old fool he was. The third tech was Grongstad. A proper old bloodhound. He smiled wryly.

“Long time no see,” he said in English.

“Good to see you again,” replied Singsaker, and he meant it. Grongstad was a Trondheimer in the best sense of the word—jovial, laid-back, exacting, and the best in his field in all of Norway.

“So the boss wants Vatten downtown?” Jensen asked. “He’s certainly been there before.”

“Not a bad idea to refresh his memory. Mine too,” said Singsaker.

*   *   *

After getting the evidence team started in the book vault and greeting the medical examiner, who had come straight from a lecture at the university hospital, Singsaker went back to Knudtzon Hall. The employees were still sitting nervously on either side of the long table. Only Hornemann was standing when Singsaker came back in. Singsaker asked whether Jensen had begun taking people away for interviews, and learned that he had. Then he assured everyone that this wouldn’t take all day. The police just wanted to get a general idea of what had happened in the library over the weekend and during the morning hours. Then they could all go home. He knew that this was very stressful for them, but if the police were going to find out who was responsible for this murder, it was important that everyone cooperate. His brief speech was met with muttered agreement from the group, and he realized that Jensen had already told them much the same thing. Then he turned to Jon Vatten, who was sitting in the chair closest to the door.

“Do you have time to accompany me to the station? We’d like to speak with you in more detail.”

As soon as he said this, he realized that he should have been more discreet. Everyone in the room looked at Vatten. Naturally they all knew about his past. Most of them might have pushed it aside in their daily work or archived it somewhere in the back of their memory. In the years since then, Vatten had slowly but surely become a reserved but reliable security man, with nothing but a tragic story in his background. The suspicions that had clung to him back then had apparently been laid to rest through hours of peaceful cooperation at work. Even so, a small, nagging doubt had survived. And now this. Most of the people in the room probably knew that Vatten might have been the last person to see Gunn Brita Dahle alive. There were not many people who could have unlocked the book vault and gone inside with her. Suddenly the group around the table resembled a jury that had just agreed on a guilty verdict. All except for a young woman with blond hair and a faint sprinkling of freckles over her nose. She sat at the far end of the table and looked at Vatten with something that seemed to be a mixture of affection and concern.

She’ll be the next one I’ll talk to, Singsaker thought, putting a hand on Vatten’s shoulder and walking out of the room with him. The memory of their previous meeting gradually began to return.

14

Trondheim, September 2010

Vatten was thinking about
the video surveillance system. From experience he knew that the police would examine everything in minute detail. It wouldn’t be long before they found out he’d changed the DVD on Saturday. Then he thought about that afternoon and his vague recollections that he had had some sort of intimate contact with Gunn Brita. The conclusion to be drawn from all this, he thought, was unequivocal. If Gunn Brita had actually been killed that Saturday after he got drunk and his brain switched off, then he was going to have a lot of explaining to do. He had gone along voluntarily to the police station, but right now he felt like a prisoner, just as he’d felt the last time he was questioned there.

The interview back then had taken place in the old police headquarters on Kalvskinnet, not far from where he now worked, and the rooms had seemed closer and clammier. Still, memories were stirred up as he sat on a hard chair in an equally sterile room.

Trondheim, May 2005

Severin Blom was a professor at the Department of History and Classical Studies at NTNU in Dragvoll. He was one of very few, if there were indeed any others, professors in the department who had read almost all of the books in his office. It was a spacious and bright corner office, with a view of the athletics building, and it was close to the library. He was also one of the few, if not the only, lecturer who still dared to have a clandestine cigarette in his office. He might even offer one to people he knew well. Always with the windows wide open, of course, because of the smoke alarm.

The young, up-and-coming Jon Vatten thus took it as a compliment when the professor opened a pack of Marlboros and offered him a cigarette. They had smoked together outside the main doors, as everyone else did by then, but never inside the office in conspiratorial peace and quiet. Vatten took this as a good sign, said thank you, and offered to open the windows to the mild spring air outside. Then he told an anecdote he’d heard about two Japanese researchers who had visited the university some years before. When asked what they thought of the facilities, they had replied that they thought everything was fine, except for all the prostitutes hanging around out front.

Severin Blom, who had apparently heard this old story before, laughed loudly, and said that it was much better to take his cigarette break here in his office. Then he lit his cigarette, inhaled like a walrus before it dives, and gave Vatten a friendly look.

“Nothing is decided yet. But I wouldn’t bet against you.”

Vatten knew at once what he was talking about: it was the first associate professor position he had applied for. He also knew that what Professor Blom had said meant he’d gotten the job. The pretext for this meeting with Blom had been to discuss a linguistic detail in Plato, which he was working on at the moment, but his actual intention was to try to finagle some news about the open position. Now he was relieved that the professor had read him just as fast as he read books, and that he was so forthcoming. It made everything easier, also with regard to the future.

“This means that we’ll be working even more closely with each other, and we’ll have time to discuss Plato’s linguistic caprices another time. I propose instead that we have a glass of whisky.”

The professor opened the door of a cabinet under his desk and took out a bottle of an excellent old single malt and two glasses.

Vatten stared at the glasses and his temples began to sweat. Could he handle a little glass?

*   *   *

During the questioning that followed in the days after what was supposed to have been an innocent glass of whiskey shared by two colleagues, Jon Vatten was unable to explain what he had done in the hours after he put the whisky glass down on Professor Blom’s desk. Feeling dizzy, he had thanked him for the talk but had only one thought in his mind: to get home before he passed out. He didn’t recall falling asleep on the Number 36 bus and riding the entire route three times between the city and Dragvoll before the driver’s shift ended and he noticed Vatten. He had left Dragvoll around 3:00
P.M.
, and he was thrown off the bus on Munkegata downtown sometime after 7:00
P.M.
This four-hour-long bus trip would later serve as his alibi.

*   *   *

On the way home he had sobered up. So he was disappointed at first that Hedda and Edvard weren’t home. He wanted to tell them about his bright prospects for the future.

He and Hedda had been arguing lately, nothing serious, just a little more sarcasm in their everyday bickering, a little longer interval between caresses. He assumed that this was normal. He was convinced that a piece of good news, such as this job, was just what they needed. He was fond of Hedda, but he was also well aware that she was the type of woman who occasionally needed to admire her man. It didn’t have to be a big deal, but few things turned her on as much as a published article or a pay raise.