The Final Murder (42 page)

he loved it, of course. Didn’t want to know about it, but… loved it.’

‘So that means that…’

‘That means that Wencke Bencke knows Warren, in some way

or another. She has either met him, heard him or spoken to someone who knows him.’

‘Which in turn means …’

‘That she wants us to see her,’ Johanne said.

‘What?’

‘She’s giving us an invitation. She’s challenging us. She pops up on TV, after being silent for twelve years. She lets herself be photographed.

She talks. She kills her neighbour and phones the

police. She doesn’t want to hide any more. She’s been hiding for years and found it unbearable. She wants to be in the limelight, not out of it. And she’s wearing that pin in the hope that she’ll be recognized. By us. In the hope that we’ll understand. She’s playing with us.’

‘Us? The two of us?’

Johanne didn’t answer. She pulled a face at the increasingly pungent smell and disappeared into the bathroom. He followed.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked in a subdued voice.

She still didn’t want to answer. She turned on the water and bent down to pick up a cloth, keeping one hand on Ragnhild’s stomach where she lay on the changing table. Her poo was green and runny and Adam held his nose.

‘Wasn’t there a book that disappeared?’ she asked.

‘A book?’

‘Don’t hold your nose, Adam, it’s your daughter.’

She let the water run over Ragnhild’s bottom and continued:

‘Yes, Trond Arnesen. He said a book was missing. And a watch.

The watch was found, but was the book found? Pass me the

cream.’

He rummaged around in the basket by the sink.

‘There was a book,’ he said slowly and stopped. He had a tube of zinc cream in one hand and a clean nappy in the other. ‘That’s right. I was quite preoccupied with the watch for a while. I’d forgotten the book. Completely. Especially once Trond found his

damned watch. The book seemed pointless. It was a crime novel, I think, a book that Trond claimed had been lying on his bedside table, but…’

‘Wencke Bencke,’ she said. ‘Wencke Bencke’s latest novel.’

Her hands were unusually swift, almost impatient, as she slid the nappy in under the baby and then taped it on.

‘It was her first murder,’ she said, just as fast. ‘She was careful.

Vibeke Heinerback’s house was isolated and she was on her own that night. Anyone who visited her website knew that. Not a dangerous murder. Almost risk free, if you knew what you were

‘.- doing. Wencke Bencke knows what she’s doing. So she took the book. It was a clever signature, but no one read it. No one under.’

stood what it meant. And the next time …’

^, The baby resisted. Johanne couldn’t get her right arm into the sleeve and Ragnhild started to cry.

‘Here, let me do it,’ Adam murmured and took over.

,); Johanne sat down on the toilet seat with her elbows on her knees and her chin cupped in her hands.

‘The next time she pushed it a bit more. Went further.’

Johanne seemed to be afraid of her own reasoning. Her voice

was low and was speaking more slowly. She sat up straight and chewed her thumb. Adam dressed Ragnhild in clean pyjamas. She made contented noises when he laid her on her stomach over his lower arm and held her to his body.

‘The second time,’ Johanne continued, without making any

sign of getting up. ‘The second time she chose Vegard Krogh.

Who she hated. Presumably she was mad at him. He had mocked

her for years. Ridiculed everything she stood for. Wencke Bencke knew that Vegard Krogh’s…’

She hit her forehead with her hand.

‘… ridiculous campaign,’ she groaned, ‘would give a tiny nudge in her direction. Not too obvious. Definitely not. He had lots of enemies. But still…’

Finally she got up. A fleeting smile crossed her face as she kissed the baby’s head.

‘Then she went the whole way. Killed her neighbour, rang the police. Was pulled into the investigation. She’s in the spotlight, Adam. She is standing there, floodlit. In the centre of attention.

And she’s loving it. She’s thumbing her nose at us and she knows she’s won.’

‘Won? She hasn’t won yet! Now that we know what…’

She put her finger to her mouth and hushed him. Then she

gently stroked Ragnhild’s neck.

‘She’s asleep,’ she whispered. ‘Can you put her down?’

She went back into the sitting room. She took a bottle of wine out from the corner cupboard and opened it. Took the most beautiful glass she owned, a crystal glass from her grandparents’

summer house. She’d had four of them originally, big glasses with fine chased-metal rings and thin gold leaf around the rims. Three had been broken. And this one was never used. She took it out a couple of times a month. Dusted it, looked at the pattern in the light from the lamp. It reminded her of long summers and salt water, of her grandfather on the terrace with a glass of white wine, his nose red from sun and happiness, with cake crumbs in his beard. He used to let her have a taste. She wet her tongue and pulled a face, then spat it out. He always laughed and gave her some Fanta instead, even if it wasn’t Saturday.

She poured out the wine and watched it swirl around the

glass.

‘What do you mean, she’s won?’ Adam asked.

‘Is she asleep?’

He nodded, and looked surprised when he saw which glass she

had chosen. He went out into the kitchen to get another glass and helped himself.

‘What d’you mean?’ he repeated. ‘Now we know it’s her. Now

we know where to look. In a way …’

‘You won’t manage it,’ she said and took a drink.

‘What d’you mean?’

His glass stood untouched on the dining table. Johanne turned to face the window. The garden looked sad, with some patches of snow left on the yellow, sodden lawn. The street lamps in

Haugesvei had finally got new bulbs. A man in a yellow raincoat was out walking his dog. It wasn’t on a leash and rushed from side to side of the road, sniffing the ground. It stopped by Johanne’s old Golf and cocked its leg. It stood there for a long time, before following its master, tail wagging.

‘She was in France,’ she said, ‘when Vibeke Heinerback was

killed. And when Vegard Krogh was murdered in the woodland in Asker. You seem to have forgotten that.’

‘Of course I haven’t,’ he said, a touch irritated. ‘But both you and I know that she can’t have been there. Unless she has an accomplice, a …’

‘Wencke Bencke hasn’t got an accomplice. She’s a loner. She

kills in order to feel alive, to prove her strength. To… grow. To show how clever … how superior she is.’

‘Make up your mind,’ he said. ‘If she was in France, she can’t have killed them. What do you actually mean?’

‘Of course she wasn’t there. Not all the time, at least. She must have travelled up and down in some way or another. We can speculate about how she succeeded. We can make up theories and

reconstructions. But the only thing that is certain is that we will never find out.’

‘I don’t know how you can say that,’ he said, and put his arm round her. ‘What makes you so sure? How can you…’

‘Adam,’ she interrupted, and looked up into his face.

His eyes were so clear. His eyebrows were growing long and

looked like an old man’s pointy optimistic brows. His skin was clear and smooth. His broad mouth was half open and she could feel his breath on hers; wine and a taint of garlic. She put her finger on the deep cleft in his chin.

‘I’ve never said this before,’ she whispered. ‘And I hope I will never have reason to say it again. I am a profiler. Warren used to say that I was profiler by nature. That it was something I could never run away from.’

She laughed quietly and stroked her finger over his lips.

‘For years I’ve tried to forget it. Do you remember how reluctant I was, that spring four years ago? When all those children

were abducted and you wanted…’

She wasn’t whispering any more. He bit her fingertip gently.

‘I was working on my research. Digging deeper. I had more

than enough with Kristiane and… then you came along. Our life here and Ragnhild. I don’t want anything else. Why do you think that I’ve sat here night after night, working on a murder case that, strictly speaking, has nothing to do with me?’

‘Because you’re compelled to,’ he said, his eyes not leaving hers.

‘Because I’m compelled to,’ she nodded. ‘And I’m telling you this because I have to: Wencke Bencke has won. In all these

weeks, you haven’t found one, not one piece of evidence that is linked to her. Nothing. She doesn’t want to be caught. She wants to be seen, but not caught.’

‘But I still have to try,’ Adam said. It sounded more like a question, as if he needed her blessing.

‘Yes, you still have to try,’ she confirmed. ‘And the only hope you have is to find a way of proving that she was at the scene of the crime. Prove that she wasn’t in France.’

‘But you will never manage it,’ she thought to herself again, but didn’t repeat it out loud. Instead she drank the rest of her wine and said:

‘The children can’t stay here. Wencke Bencke still has one case left. We have to move the children.’

And with that, she went to phone her mother, even though it

was nearly midnight.

‘So what you’re saying,’ the head of the NCIS said, and scratched his ear with his pinkie, ‘is that the whole investigation should be reorganized on the basis of a missing crime novel and a brooch? A bloody brooch?’

‘A pin,’ corrected Adam. ‘It’s a pin.’

The head of the NCIS was seriously overweight. His stomach

bulged over his belt like a sack of potatoes. His shirt was stretched over his navel. He had stayed silent while Lars Kirkeland and Adam Stubo gave their reports. Even when the rest of the small gathering had discussed the case for more than half an hour, the boss had not said a word. Only his small, plump fingers had given him away, as they rapped impatiently on the table whenever

anyone spoke for more than twenty seconds.

His double chins were quivering in anger. He got up with great difficulty. Went to the flipchart, where the name Wencke Bencke was written in red letters under a timeline with three dates. He stopped and snorted three times. Adam was unsure whether it was with scorn or whether he had breathing difficulties. He smoothed down his comb-over with his right hand, before tearing off the sheet and scrunching it up.

‘Let me put it this way,’ he said, and turned his small, beady eyes on Adam. ‘You are one of my most valued colleagues. That is why I’ve sat here for more than an hour listening to this …’ He pulled at his moustache, which curled cheerfully at the corners of his mouth and normally made him look like a fat, friendly uncle.

‘… rubbish,’ he concluded. ‘With all due respect.’

No one said anything. Adam looked at his colleagues. Six of the

most experienced investigators in Norway sat around the table and did not look up. Playing with a cup. Fiddling with their glasses. Lars Kirkeland appeared to be deeply engrossed in his doodles. Only Sigmund Berli looked up. His face was red and distressed and he looked as if he was about to stand up. Instead, he

put up his hand, as if he was asking permission to speak.

‘Is it not worth a try? I mean, we’re in deadlock as it is! If you ask me, this is…’

‘No one is asking you,’ the boss said. ‘Enough has been said.

Lars has given a detailed report of the investigation so far.

Everyone here knows that there is no… hocus-pocus in police work. Meticulousness, people. Patience. No one knows better

than we do that hard work and the systematic processing of all new evidence is the only way to go. We are a modern organization, but not so modern that we would throw weeks of intensive, good police work out the window because some woman feels and

thinks and believes that maybe she knows.’

‘That’s my wife you’re talking about,’ Adam said in a level

voice. ‘And I will not allow you to call her some woman.’

‘Johanne is just some other woman,’ the boss said, equally

calm. ‘In this context, that is what she is. I apologize if my choice of words offends you. I have the greatest respect for your wife and I am fully aware of how useful she was in that kidnapping case a few years ago. And that is one of the reasons why I have…’

He passed his hand over his scalp again. The thin strands of hair looked like they’d been drawn on his head.

‘.. . been tolerant,’ he said, ‘of your somewhat dubious handling of case documents. But the case is very different now.’

‘Different!’ Sigmund spluttered. ‘We know nothing. Not a

bloody thing! What Lars just presented was actually an endless string of technical findings that lead absolutely nowhere and tactical analyses that basically mean only one thing: we have no idea where to look! Jesus, we…’

He stopped himself.

‘Sorry,’ he said feebly. ‘But listen …’

The boss raised his hand.

‘No,’ he said. ‘The last thing we need now is more criticism in the press. If we go after this Wencke Bencke

He peered into the wastepaper basket as if the crime writer was in there, together with her name written in red felt-tip.

‘If we even look in her direction, all hell will break loose. She’s becoming extremely popular, as far as I can see. I saw her on TV

twice yesterday, and according to NRK’s previews she’s the main guest on First and Last tonight.’

He sucked in through his teeth. The sound was annoying.

Then he smacked his tongue and twirled his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.

‘And if, God forbid, there is any truth in this hypothesis of yours,’ he added, and looked at Adam, ‘in this absurd spaced-out theory based on old lectures and boredom, then the woman’s a hard nut to crack.’

‘Therefore it’s better not to try,’ Adam said, and looked straight at him.

‘Spare me your sarcasm.’

‘But you’d rather have three unsolved murders than a fuss in the press,’ Adam said, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fine by me.’