Faithless, page 17
Gunnarstranda inclined his head, interested.
‘After the session – she was the last client I had that day – after the session I gave her a lift home. I suspect—’
‘That was very generous of you,’ Gunnarstranda interjected.
Valeur gave a smile of embarrassment. ‘Pure courtesy, nothing else. I suspect this man was spying on her and saw me drop her off. Perhaps he wondered who I was, did a bit of sleuthing and found out.’
‘Do you usually drive your patients home?’
Valeur shook his head. ‘This was a gesture. She was the last of the day and didn’t have a car. When I got in to drive off I saw her waiting in the bus queue. It was nothing more than a gesture of politeness.’
‘So what did you say to her?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What did you say to her when you saw her waiting for the bus?’
‘I don’t remember my exact words … I offered her a lift.’
‘But you live here, in Bærums Verk, and she lived in Simensbråten. You were going the opposite way, several kilometres off your route, and yet you offered this patient a lift home, someone you barely knew.’
Valeur fell silent. He took a leisurely final puff of the cigarette and gently stubbed it out in the ashtray. He said; ‘The way you’re twisting this conversation it seems as if you, the police, think I have something to do with the case.’
‘Signe Strand was raped and stabbed. Veronika Undset was—’
Valeur raised his arms and interrupted him: ‘Now just take it easy, will you.’
There. The same glint was back in his eyes.
But as though Valeur had sensed what was in the policeman’s mind, the steel blade in his eyes slid back out of sight. As though he were playing hide-and-seek, Gunnarstranda thought, and said: ‘I’m very much at my ease.’ He rose to his feet. ‘So that you can be a little more at your ease, I need to know where you were when these two people were killed. And I’d like you to write down the names of anyone who can confirm your whereabouts…’
Erik Valeur grabbed a pen from between the two catalogues. ‘Of course. What dates and what times are we talking about?’
32
In the doorway to Police HQ Gunnarstranda narrowly avoided colliding with a woman. It was Leyla Rindal on her way out. She had warm, dark eyes and the world’s biggest and whitest smile. Gunnarstranda paid tribute to this divinely endowed woman by holding open the door and taking a deep bow, like an ice dancer. She waved to him and pointed to her watch to tell him she was in a hurry.
Gunnarstranda stood watching Leyla as she scuttled towards Grønlandsleiret. She was dressed in jeans and a white blouse, but hid her hair in a blue and white hijab.
At the meeting Rindal appeared, surprisingly, in uniform. He introduced Stephan Borge, who was the spitting image of Buddy Holly – the thick black glasses, the shape of his head, the hair and, not least, the narrow mouth led to thoughts of the uncrowned king of rockabilly.
Borge, Rindal explained, was an acclaimed profiler from Sweden who had examined two case files – those of Veronika Undset and Signe Strand.
Borge spoke in Swedish. He didn’t want to prejudge their investigation, but nor could he refute the evidence suggesting that the Oslo Police were dealing with a serial killer. He began to underpin this thesis by stating how similar the victims were in appearance. Both had red hair and strikingly similar hairstyles. They were approximately the same height: Strand was 1.61; Undset 1.64. There was a disparity in age. Strand was nineteen years old; Undset thirty-five. Both were remarkably attractive women who, according to reports, exhibited their sexuality in the way they dressed. Strand had been stabbed thirty-four times in the breast region. Undset twenty-two times, also around her breasts. Both had been subjected to violent behaviour. Signe had probably been more co-operative than Veronika and didn’t have such widespread injuries from punches and kicks to the body. Veronika had been hit so hard her skull was broken. The murders were committed in a state of emotional frenzy at some place other than where they were found. Neither crime scene was identified. Both victims were transported to the place where they were found after their death, a refuse site on Senja and a skip for building rubble in Kalbakken in Oslo respectively. Signe Strand was found au naturel. Veronika Undset’s body had been wrapped in plastic.
On Signe’s body investigators had discovered biological traces of rape.
Veronika Undset’s body bore signs of scalding and burning in the genital area. There was no DNA on her from the unknown perpetrator and therefore no opportunity to compare DNA to establish whether it was the same man. But if the two women had been killed by one and the same person, Borge presumed the man had learned from experience with Strand and accordingly washed away any tell-tale signs on Veronika.
Other differences between the murders included the geographical area. Signe Strand was a student at Finnbotn School in the county of Troms, which is 1,500 kilometres from the capital of Norway. And as regards the murder weapon there were differences too. Signe was killed with a long, pointed weapon. Based on the depth of the wounds, the hypothesis was that the attacker had used a long Sami knife. The blade of the weapon that killed Veronika Undset couldn’t have been longer than seven centimetres and the profile of the cuts suggested it was very probably the type of knife used for wallpapering and DIY – a Stanley knife with replaceable blades.
‘Yes?’ said Stephan Borge, nodding to Gunnarstranda, who had raised his hand.
‘The geographical distance and the time difference – to what extent do they weaken the theory that we’re dealing with a serial killer?’
‘In my opinion,’ the Swede started, taking off his horn-rimmed glasses, cleaning them and putting them back on his nose – he wanted to appeal to the experience of the murder investigators present – ‘killers who have got away with remaining undetected once are very likely to murder again.’
The police around the table nodded in approval.
As regards geographical distance, that didn’t necessarily militate against the hypothesis, if, for example, you were dealing with a perpetrator who had lived in two places or had a peripatetic job – such as a lorry driver or salesman – or the murderer had a job that meant working in two different places. The combination of the time difference and geographical distance could, in fact, reinforce the theory of serial killings.
Rindal spoke up: ‘The reason we connected these two cases was that a witness in the Veronika case – Erik Valeur, who now lives in Bærum – was in contact with Signe Strand when he worked at the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services in Troms. It’s highly likely we’re about to crack that case.’
Gunnarstranda raised his hand again.
Borge nodded to him.
‘One of our witnesses worked in 2006 for the Norwegian Water Resources and Energy Directorate, inspecting streams and waterfalls re: licences for power plants on farms and suchlike. He travelled a lot in the spring of 2006. Including to the Harstad region. That’s a fair way from Senja, but…’
‘That’s interesting, very interesting…’ Borge said.
‘Who was it?’ Rindal butted in.
Gunnarstranda smiled.
Rindal eyed him sternly.
Gunnarstranda whispered something to Yttergjerde and there was an awkward silence, which Borge ended by continuing his talk.
‘So to my profile,’ the Swede said and explained that the perpetrator was a man with a very patronising view of women. He was a victim of his own drives, but hated himself for them and projected this self-hatred onto women in the form of a fury that manifested itself in two ways: first, he dominated them by abusing them sexually. Borge compared the perpetrator’s actions with conquering soldiers’ behaviour towards women. Soldiers are rewarded by being allowed to rape women; penetrating becomes a physical symbol of conquest, and so every soldier becomes his own tsar as he injects women with his seed – in other words, fertilising the conquered ground.
Unseen by Borge, some officers exchanged glances.
Borge continued: the perpetrator’s contempt for his victims was further manifest in the murders themselves, then the treatment of them as refuse. Borge suggested the person concerned had a narcissistic personality disorder. Someone with a very high opinion of himself. Subject to a strong emotional conflict, despising and yet desiring his victims – a conflict resulting in a violent clash between two personalities. Two hurricanes meet head-on and the consequence is murder. What muddies the picture is that the murderer, after killing Veronika Undset, was so cold-blooded and calm that he took the time to remove any biological traces, which was a very demanding clean-up job, and – one must conclude – thoroughly unpleasant as well.
Gunnarstranda raised his hand again.
The Swede nodded to him.
‘We have another murder and a proven relationship with Undset. The victim is a man aged forty-three. A neighbour of hers, most likely a stalker—’
Rindal interrupted and waved a dismissive hand.
Gunnarstranda ignored him and continued: modus operandi – cut throat, so no panic or emotion, no suppressed guilty sexuality, no symbolic need to conquer or self-hatred involved. Does this murder weaken or strengthen the contention that the murder of Veronika Undset is one in a series of killings?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ the Swede said. ‘My analysis is based on two quite specific cases.’
*
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ asked Mustafa Rindal when the meeting was over. He followed Gunnarstranda down the corridor and was so annoyed that he couldn’t open his pack of chewing gum.
‘Do you think he looks like Buddy Holly as well?’ Gunnarstranda asked, stopping by the Coke machine and inserting money. A bottle rumbled down.
‘Do you know how much it cost to bring Stephan Borge from Stockholm to Oslo? And you have to argue with the man and pin him down. Who the hell do you think you are? Columbo?’
Gunnarstranda gulped down the Coke and patted his chest to expel air.
‘Who was it who reported on power plants in northern Norway? Was that the fiancé, Fransgård?’
Gunnarstranda nodded.
Rindal held his forefinger in the air and wagged it. ‘Now you listen to me. You screwed up with Fransgård. You didn’t even have the composure to do a DNA test.’
‘A DNA test wasn’t relevant.’
‘I told you to listen,’ Rindal repeated. ‘You screwed up, Gunnarstranda. Take that on board. No one will be able to make Karl Anders Fransgård do a test voluntarily now. Cause you forgot to do it while you had the chance. So listen to me. Neither Fransgård nor Almeli should have been mentioned at the meeting. We brought in real expertise. And you’ve done enough damage!’
‘The Almeli issue was extremely relevant. He was sitting on seven hundred photos of the murder victim!’
‘So what? He might have had seven hundred thousand photos of seven hundred other divas! What do you know? His computer was gone. Almeli could have been killed by any cuckold. But the cases of Signe Strand and Veronika Undset have similarities and you have to take that into consideration.’
Rindal strode on. After ten steps he turned, still fidgeting with his chewing-gum packet. ‘If not, there’ll be trouble. Shit!’ The packet split and all the sticks flew out. He knelt down and picked them up.
At that very moment Yttergjerde emerged from the R&R room. ‘God is great,’ he said, with an innocent wink. ‘What next? Praying mats and a hijab as part of the uniform?’
Rindal jumped up and went to grab him, but Yttergjerde was already racing down the corridor.
Gunnarstranda went back to his office.
He sat down and opened the top drawer. Took out some darts and threw them at the pictures of Valeur, but missed.
Yttergjerde came in. He was playing air guitar and imitating Buddy Holly: ‘P-p-p-pe-eggy Sue.’
‘Must be the glasses,’ Gunnarstranda winked. ‘Didn’t think it was possible to get hold of a pair nowadays. Perhaps he’s a pal of Elton John. Could you bring me the darts?’
Yttergjerde loosened the darts. ‘Just to be sure, I checked Erik Valeur out on the national register,’ he said. ‘He’s been married, but his ex-wife is alive and well. She’s a nurse in Tromsø. Do you need someone to travel north? If so, it’s my turn.’
‘What would you do in Tromsø?’
‘Do? Have you heard about the Beer Hall?’
Gunnarstranda threw a dart at Valeur and hit him. ‘No budget for it,’ he said. ‘Tromsø’s full of cops already. They can talk to his ex-wife.’ He lifted the receiver.
33
It was approaching midnight by the time Frølich had looked through the film material that Andreas Langeland hadn’t managed to take with him as he fled. He stood up, stiff-legged and scarred by what he had seen. He had no idea how long it was since he had slept.
There were officers all over HQ. Someone was always on duty, some were waiting to be called out, drinking coffee to stay awake, reading, watching TV, playing Minesweeper or Patience on the computer to kill time, but he didn’t have the energy to meet any of them now.
He didn’t want to go home either. Couldn’t bear the thought of staring at the walls, reflecting on the sight of the beer can, closing his eyes and being haunted by the poor woman’s sufferings.
He sank his first beer at Teddy’s and then headed west, Justisen, Stopp Pressen, Herr Nilsen, another pub, another attempt to drown sorrows. In the end he found an unoccupied table outside Steamen. The Pilsner went down nicely, and he began to take stock.
A party of youngsters at the next table was short of chairs. One of the girls asked him if the chair at his table was free. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It isn’t free.’ Miffed, she and her gallant looked. He wanted to protest, but she restrained him. ‘We’ll find a chair somewhere else.’
Frølich thought to himself: she can see. She knows I’m on the edge.
He got up, left a fifty-krone note as a tip and stumbled away. He knew he was drunk, but it didn’t feel like that.
His legs found the way without involving his head.
There was a tractor wheel on its side in Sofies gate. He sat down on the tyre and peered up at the dark windows in the block opposite. Wondering which window could be hers. Wondering if there was any point ringing the bell. As she had approached him unbidden surely he could do the same.
Time passed. Thoughts crowded in, stopped and went off on separate paths, as though they weren’t thoughts but long, unconnected ropes tangled up in an unruly backlash.
A car stopped and parked a few metres down the street. Saab cabriolet with the top up. The engine died, the lights went out. Two doors slammed. He didn’t move.
He recognised her blonde hair. Iselin Grav together with a man wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. They walked towards the block of flats on the other side of the street. As she fumbled in her bag for keys she sent a glance in his direction, presumably because he moved. She reacted. Said something to the man in shorts. Hurried across the street.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘I have to talk to you,’ Frølich said, looking up. No glasses today. Perhaps she has contact lenses, he thought, as though that were important.
She glanced from him to the man in shorts and back again. ‘What is it?’ said the man, coming towards them.
‘Rune,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s a bit inconvenient now. I’ll call you.’
The two of them eyed each other. The guy seemed reluctant to go. They walked away whispering. Frølich looked up at the sky. Far above him flashed a green light slowly gliding east.
The whispering increased in volume. At length the guy swore and headed up the street at a furious pace. The white calves and black sandals slowly became one with the darkness.
Iselin Grav waited at the entrance. He got up. Neither of them said anything as they went up the stairs.
‘You were right,’ Frølich said as she was unlocking the door.
She stiffened. Held the key in a firm grip, thinking. Eventually she pushed the door in.
She didn’t switch on the light. Hung her shoulder bag on a hook on the wall and turned to him. The darkness softened her contours. The silence persisted. At last she said: ‘How is she?’
‘Fine, in the circumstances,’ he answered. ‘She’ll survive. Physically, anyway.’
There was a bean bag by a low white table brightened with a bunch of roses in a vase. He slumped down into the bean bag.
She smiled at the sight.
‘Did you know?’ he asked. ‘Did he tell you?’
The smile died. ‘No, but I knew there was something very wrong. That was probably what I was actually trying to tell you.’
‘They recorded everything on video.’
‘They?’
‘He and his brother, Mattis.’
‘And now they’re in prison?’
‘Mattis is.’
She spun on her heel.
A little later she returned from the kitchen with two tall glasses full of ice cubes. On the shelf was a bottle of Glenlivet. She poured. A hefty dram. He thought: she’s generous – I like that. She passed him a glass.
He finished the whisky in one go and passed back the glass.
She refilled it and asked warily: ‘And Andreas?’
‘He ran off.’
She went into the hall and rummaged in her bag for her phone. Came back. Flipped it open. ‘He hasn’t called me.’
The clock on the opposite wall showed eleven minutes to three. Frølich closed his eyes. ‘You forgot your glasses,’ he said.
When he opened his eyes she was crouching down in front of him wearing only her underwear. She undid his jacket.
The clock showed it was five minutes to five.
‘You can’t sleep like that,’ she whispered.
‘We’d been drinking for four or five days non-stop,’ he said.
‘Did you have a dream?’ She was still whispering.
