Faithless, page 15
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ve just found Veronika Undset’s neighbour has been murdered. And then you drag up this old north Norwegian case. Which end do you want us to start at?’
Rindal grinned. ‘Well, don’t ask me, as the man said when they found his wife’s body in the freezer.’
Rindal sprinted out of the door. Gunnarstranda caught a glimpse of the soles of his shoes and an erect back on his way down the path. It had been a long day. Now he was going home.
28
It was six o’clock in the morning as Frølich parked his car outside the block of flats in Urtegata. It was relatively quiet. A newspaper boy appeared pulling a cart half-full of papers. He stopped. Ran into the entrance. The sound of running feet on the steps carried into the street.
Frølich poured himself a cup of green tea from the Thermos he had in his very full rucksack (coffee would be killing for the stomach after two hours). The rucksack also contained a packed lunch consisting of four slices of bread and two apples, two smaller flasks with cold water and ice cubes, two empty flasks closed with screw tops, binoculars, a camera with a zoom lens, a Maglite, suncream, swimming trunks, towel, sandals, iPod and earplugs, as well as a spare pair of shorts.
The sun rose and the buildings slowly came to life. People were on their way to work. Young men in helmets and cycling gear that Norwegians call condoms unlocked ferocious bikes in the stairwells of apartment blocks, then sped off. Mothers of small children with the wind in their hair and time against them pushed sporty buggies. Cars wriggled their way out of tight parking spots and drove off. Two builders started a compactor plate and began banging sand into a hole in the pavement. A clap of thunder as a lorry unloaded a consignment of paving cobbles.
The din of the compactor rose and fell.
Some small boys started taking turns to kick a ball against a wall. Frølich had done the same when he was their age. They had called it wallie: you had to hit the ball on the rebound and if you missed you were out.
At long last the compactor stopped. It was like regaining peace on earth. He almost expected to hear birdsong. But didn’t.
Frølich was getting stiff and hot. He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. The sun was baking down and would soon have nibbled away at the morning shadow afforded by the high-rises. Before long it was going to be unbearable in the car.
At half-past ten he pushed his door ajar to get some air, got out his iPod and started on the John Mayall recordings he had compiled. Was almost through Blues from Laurel Canyon when Andreas Langeland came out. Wearing black pirate trousers and a scarf again with a white singlet revealing suntanned skin and a colourful tattoo on his shoulder.
Andreas got into a yellow Mini Cooper parked further down the street and set off. Frølich turned the ignition key.
The Mini Cooper headed towards Grønlandsleiret, Tøyenbekken and Schweigaards gate. Frølich set the tripmeter to zero.
They were taking the right road – to the west, onto Drammensveien, past Sandvika and on past Asker.
Up towards Lierskogen the Mini Cooper was keeping a steady 120. It was difficult to tail him with several vehicles in between. Frølich hung back. The yellow car took the turn-off to Tranby and went down the Lier hills. This tallied with Langeland’s phone movements. The guy would probably drive south along Drammen Fjord. Frølich hung back even further. He was almost down on the plain when he spotted a flash of yellow moving south-west between the cabbage fields. Andreas Langeland had turned off for Røyken.
He passed the car without wanting to. The yellow bubble was parked outside a Kiwi supermarket and Frankie caught it in the corner of his eye as he drove past. He did a U-turn and drove back. The problem now was finding a suitable place to wait. He did another U-turn and reversed into the forecourt of a private property; from here he could see the shop entrance. But now there was activity in the house behind him. Shadows in the window. The occupants were wondering what he was doing. Frølich glanced from the shop to his mirror and back again. The front door of the house opened. A spindly old boy tottered down the steps and moved carefully towards the car. Frølich buzzed down his window.
‘Good morning,’ the man said, sticking his head nearly halfway into the car. Grey hair, grey bristles on his chin, the remains of egg on his lower lip.
‘Good morning,’ Frølich said.
The man was about to say something else, but the supermarket door opened and Andreas came out carrying shopping in both hands.
Frølich started the engine with a roar. He showed the old boy his police ID and put a finger to his lips. The Mini Cooper was off. Frølich waved to the old man, who clicked his heels together and saluted like a grenadier guard.
The road was the type that tamed motorists with the use of speed cameras. The car in front kept to fifty, sneaked up to seventy and braked back down before it reached the next grey box. Langeland knew the route.
Despite the hours he had waited undercover, at this moment the job felt like building Lego: the pieces slotted into each other. Frølich had John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers on his iPod – A Hard Road. He hung back again and was content with the day’s progress so far.
Then the Mini Cooper was gone. He drove over the crest of a hill with a view of the road ahead. No yellow car. He pulled in to the verge and stopped.
The Mini Cooper had left the main road, but where? He switched off the music, turned around and drove back to where he had last seen it. He turned again and drove slowly back, too slowly; a lorry with a flatbed and trailer full of blasted rock braked behind him and blared its horn. Frølich wasn’t ruffled. Bend after bend followed. He could positively feel the annoyance of the lorry driver searing the rear window. Keep the nastiness at a distance, that was his motto. He put the music back on and kept a sharp lookout for a turn-off. Finally, a straight. The lorry driver angrily hooted as he overtook.
The turn-off was almost impossible to see. He found it only because he was driving so slowly. He entered the gravel roadway that gently ascended to the ridge of a mountain. The state of the road was poor, with sudden inclines and narrow stretches. If Andreas came back down, he couldn’t fail to see him.
Ah, there he was. A flash of yellow between the trunks of spruce trees. Parked behind a little crag.
Frølich drove past, to where the road culminated in a gravel circle. Grey logs piled in a heap. No shade anywhere for the car. It would have to do. He got out, played alpine tourist and headed for a promontory a few hundred metres higher up. That should give him a good view.
When he arrived he was dripping with sweat. He leaned against a crag. The place was perfect. He glimpsed some yellow behind a clump of trees. Oslo Fjord was a gleam of blue far below. On the mountainside, a few hundred metres north, hovered three felt-covered cabin roofs, like enormous birds with outstretched wings. Very far apart. Frølich took the binoculars from his rucksack and examined the terrain.
It was unbearably hot. He lowered his binoculars and smeared suncream over exposed parts. Raised the binoculars again. A fly had developed an interest in his right eyebrow. He swatted it away for the nth time. Some jackdaws were conversing in the trees, their noise halfway between screeched laughter and the hoarse cries of a crow. A large bumble bee flitted from flower to flower among the wild roses that stretched out thorny branches from tiny cracks in the rock. The sun was remorseless. His back and neck burned. Some small black ants crawled over one foot. He must have been blocking their path. One of them climbed up his calf and bit him. He lowered the binoculars and flicked it off. The mixture of suncream and sweat was making his skin wet and sticky. His brain was boiling over. He took the Thermos of iced water and quenched his thirst before pouring the rest of the water over his head and neck. Wonderful.
Frølich lifted the binoculars to his eyes again. A movement led them to the place. The cabin lay deep in a hollow, well hidden. Through the foliage of the treetops he could vaguely make out the wooden frame of a terrace. Here, perhaps invisible to the naked eye, a sunbather was turning over onto their stomach.
29
People take against certain words. Gunnarstranda had once observed a professor of Norwegian going completely berserk over the misuse of a preposition. The man predicted the downfall of Norwegian culture and language and appeared ready to commit murder in the cause.
Upon reflection, Gunnarstranda found there were words he took against, too. Such as ‘serial killer’.
This morning he dropped by to see Schwenke at the Forensic Institute and met the pathologist in the corridor. Schwenke was easily recognisable, a man notable for his gaunt figure and an unusually large head adorned by a mass of hair and a thick beard.
‘Couldn’t we have done this over the phone?’ Schwenke grunted, but opened the door to his office anyway. Gunnarstranda ensconced himself in the worn leather chair by the window while the pathologist opened and closed the drawers of his desk searching for some papers. His desk overflowed with reference books and documents. Atop a gently sloping volcano of typed sheets sat a black laptop.
‘If I’d rung, you wouldn’t have answered the phone and I would’ve forgotten to ring back.’
‘There it is,’ Schwenke said, lifting a sheaf of papers from the drawer and placing it on top of an already teetering pile.
‘What’s bothering you?’
‘There’s something wrong with the way we’re approaching the case of Veronika Undset. We’re assuming the perpetrator is smart.’
‘Aren’t murderers smart?’
‘Never,’ Gunnarstranda replied.
Schwenke raised his leonine head suspiciously. ‘How stupid is a murderer, actually?’
Gunnarstranda deliberated. ‘Let me give you an example. There was a man who needed money. When the daughter’s student loan was in the bank, their mother was supposed to pick up the money on her behalf. Outside the bank the husband would fake a robbery and hit his wife over the head with a spade. Unfortunately, he hit her so hard she died. He didn’t even earn any money either because the bank only pays one month’s loan at a time.’
‘So?’
‘My point is that this is the mental level of murderers.’
‘In practical terms, why are we assuming Veronika’s murderer is so smart?’
‘Scalding the body with hot water. Why does he do that?’
Schwenke chewed on that one. He sat pensively staring at a point on the ceiling.
‘He beats her up and rapes her and he ends up stabbing her to death,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Afterwards he thinks: DNA, have to get rid of any traces of semen, so he washes her with water so hot he scalds her. Wouldn’t he have scalded himself?’
‘He must have done it in two stages. First he washed her and then he poured scalding hot water over her to be sure.’
‘OK, but for a plan like that to work, aren’t the odds a bit like winning the lottery?’
Schwenke regarded him with watery eyes beneath his bushy brows. ‘Where are you going with this?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘I just want some help. If the perpetrator left biological traces, would he be able to remove them all?’
Schwenke was still crabby. ‘The man won’t be any worse at looking for clues than us.’
‘But he didn’t operate on her. You did.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Is it possible that she wasn’t raped?’
‘You mean the burns caused by the water might have a purpose other than concealing traces of a rape? What would that purpose be?’
Gunnarstranda smiled wanly. ‘In other words, you’re not sure—’
Schwenke interrupted: ‘You’re not listening.’
‘But what do you think?’
Schwenke shook his head and banged both palms on the table. ‘You’re going too far, coming here and babbling on about stupid murderers to make me say something you’d like to hear. No way. I don’t want to put my name to things I don’t know. I stopped having any faith when I took on this job. I leave that to people like you and priests.’
Gunnarstranda was not going to be browbeaten: ‘When you came to the conclusion a rape had taken place, what did you base your decision on?’
‘Why are you nagging away at this?’
‘Purely professional interest.’
‘You’re bluffing. Out you go, come on.’
‘OK.’ Gunnarstranda raised his hands in defence. ‘Rindal’s discovered that one of our witnesses, a psychologist, had a patient in Troms a few years ago. This girl was murdered. Very similar case.’
‘Which case?’
‘Signe Strand, on the island of Senja, 2006.’
‘Hm.’
‘Your analysis of the MO in Veronika’s case is really important,’ Gunnarstranda emphasised. ‘It will have an effect on resources, the press and the way we approach this case.’
‘Let me say what I’ll say when I’m in the witness box,’ Schwenke said, getting to the point. ‘As well as stab wounds, Veronika also received a blow to the head. She had head injuries. It’s not clear which caused her death.’
After a moment’s thought, Gunnarstranda asked: ‘She was hit, stabbed and murdered, yes, but was she raped?’
‘Let me ask you a question: Do you want to solve this case or battle it out with Rindal?’
‘I asked first.’
Schwenke sighed. ‘Try to accept the following: Veronika Undset met the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are hundreds of similar cases all over the world. Victims and abusers fight. He lies on top of her and bangs her head on the ground until she loses consciousness and is unable to resist. Then he carries out the rape. Afterwards he stabs her a few times to silence her. A man who does such things must be pretty disturbed, unstable, crazy, psychotic. Psychiatrists have written shelves of books about such nutcases. But the man you have to find is even more unusual – he scalds the body with boiling water to remove any DNA. He wraps the body in plastic and drives around until he finds a suitable place to dump her. I can’t and I don’t want to speculate. I have to make a global assessment. I haven’t found any traces of semen or other biological evidence on Veronika Undset’s body. The most likely explanation for the state of the body is that she was subjected to grievous assault, raped and then killed. And if we go further and for one tiny moment assume it was the same perpetrator who killed the girl on Senja and Veronika, I would imagine he learned from the first murder. It was well known generally that he left biological traces. Every single newspaper in the country wrote columns and columns about the rape of Signe Strand. After killing Veronika he took care to remove any traces.’
‘So we’re confronted here with two cases that have several similarities and two specific differences,’ Gunnarstranda summed up. ‘Veronika was beaten up—’
Schwenke shook his head and interrupted him: ‘You can be damned sure that Signe Strand was beaten up, too.’
‘But Veronika’s body was washed in scalding hot water. Signe’s wasn’t.’
Gunnarstranda rose to his feet and went to the door.
‘Gunnarstranda,’ the pathologist called after him.
‘Yes?’
‘You’ve got a mouth and a half on you. A bloody big mouth.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Read the Strand files. You need to know about the man’s psyche. There could be useful material in that case.’
Gunnarstranda left without answering.
30
Frank Frølich blinked the sweat out of his eyes, lowered the binoculars and adjusted the distance between the lenses. Raised the binoculars again and focused.
The cabin was a greyish-blue; the terrace woodwork black. The figure was lying on a blanket, without a stitch on. Apart from a pirate’s scarf. It was Andreas.
Was this an anti-climax – had Andreas driven to the cabin to sunbathe?
No. Frølich could feel a fire burning in his stomach. Thoughts piled on top of each other. Suspicions, impatience.
The second hand crawled round. The minute hand hit like a hammer when it did finally move. He was sweating profusely. His clothes were sticking to his body. Close on an hour passed. It was a long hour. His head was whirring.
Then something happened. Someone came out onto the terrace.
Frølich gripped the binoculars harder. This guy was stark naked as well – suntanned and muscular, even his bottom was brown. But who was it?
Frølich pressed the binoculars to his eyes. The figure moved behind the foliage, and reappeared. Crouched down. Two naked men on the terrace. Andreas kept nodding. Frølich could see only the back of the second man. Turn around, for Christ’s sake. Turn!
The suntanned man stood up, lit a cigarette, blew out smoke and took something off his lower lip. At last he turned.
Yes!
It was Andreas’s brother, Mattis.
Frølich could positively hear the pieces in the jigsaw puzzle falling into place.
He couldn’t contain himself any longer and ran back to the car. Grabbed the disposable restraints and handcuffs, breathless.
His heart was beating hard. Throbbing in his ears. He paused. No. This is different. You know nothing.
But all he could hear was his heart. His heart and the insects. He wiped the sweat from his brow. Hyperventilated. Collected himself. Straightened up. Looked around. There are no insects of that kind in this country. But the sound was there. The song of the cicada and the hammering of his heart. He covered his ears. I’m here, on a mountain in Vestfold!
He caught sight of a bumble bee crawling over the car bonnet. Concentrated on listening to it move.
At last the chirping stopped.
Only then did he tear himself loose. Ran back to where he had left his rucksack and binoculars. He raised them to his eyes. Mattis was alone now. He was lying on his back on a lilo and sunbathing. Reading a comic. He held it in the air, keeping the sun out of his eyes.
Frølich was still hyperventilating. Trying to think. Mattis alone. First of all, Andreas had been alone.
