The Final Murder (7 page)

43

‘Do you think she can understand any of this?’

‘She’s only three weeks old.’

‘Yes, but the brain’s like a sponge, you know. Maybe she’s subconsciously taking it all in and storing it. And it will affect her,

later I mean.’

‘Idiot.’ She stretched her hand over the table and stroked his cheek. ‘You’re scared that the press is right, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘Have you seen the special editions?’

He shook his head. She cupped his jaw with her hand.

‘They’re having a field day. It must be annoying for them that the murder wasn’t discovered until this morning and only

announced later on in the day. The special editions are botch jobs.

Full of inaccuracies, incredible speculation, incorrect facts, from what I can see. They’ve dubbed him the celebrity killer.’

‘Or her,’ said Adam and grabbed her hand.

He lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

‘Or her. OK. Don’t be such a pedant. Fortunately they were

more reserved on the news, but there’s still speculation that there’s a madman on the loose who’s got it in for beautiful, successful women. We even managed to get a well-known

psychologist to outline a profile of a sexually frustrated woman hater with a disability who was rejected by his mother.’ She laughed quietly and took a sip from her glass. ‘You know, it’s only now that I realize how good this actually is. Having not tasted wine for ten months, that is.’

‘You are…’

‘Lovely,’ she concluded for him and her smile broadened.

‘What do you think?’

‘About you?’

‘About there being a link. You must have given it some

thought. You and Sigmund and several others are working on both cases. Both murders …’

‘Took place in L0renskog, both victims are women, both are

well known, both are high-profile celebrities, both …’

‘… Are good-looking. Were, at least.’ She swivelled the glass in her hand and continued: ‘And in both cases, the killer left a message, a highly symbolic abuse of the body.’

She was talking more slowly now, and her voice was not so loud, as if she was alarmed by her own reasoning.

‘The press don’t know about the book yet,’ he said. ‘About the Koran. It was actually taped between her legs. It would appear that the intention was to stuff it up her cunt, but…’

‘Don’t use that word!’

‘Sorry, vagina. The book was taped to her thighs, right up by the vagina.’

‘Or anus.’

‘Or anus,’ he repeated, somewhat surprised. ‘Hmm, that’s probably what he meant. Up yours, or something like that.’

‘Maybe. You want some more?’

He nodded and she poured the rest of the bottle into his glass.

She had only taken a sip from her own.

‘If you were to look for similarities, apart from the obvious ones, which could be pure coincidence, I think the power of the symbolism is one of the most striking features,’ she said. ‘Cutting out someone’s tongue and splitting it in two is such an unambiguous statement, such obvious symbolism, that you could almost imagine that the killer read too many Red Indian books as a boy. The Muslim bible up your bum is hardly a divine message.’

‘I don’t think our new compatriots would appreciate you calling the Koran a bible,’ said Adam, massaging his neck. ‘Would you mind?’

With an exasperated smile she got up and stood behind him.

She leant back against the island unit and took a firm grip of Adam’s neck muscles.

He was so broad. So big. She could feel his muscles were knotted under the surprisingly soft skin. It was his size that had first attracted her, she was captivated by a man who must have

weighed 115 kilos without actually appearing to be fat. Just after they moved in together, she had tried to put him on a diet. ‘Just thinking of your health,’ she said, and gave up after three weeks.

Adam didn’t get irritable when he ate less, he got desperate. She had stopped her project one afternoon when he wiped away something that could have been tears when faced with a plate of boiled cod, not a trace of fat, one potato and a spoonful of steamed carrots.

Then he disappeared into the bathroom and stayed there for

the rest of the meal. He had butter with everything, sauces and gravy with most things, and believed that a proper meal should always be rounded off with a dessert.

‘Obviously, it’s too early to say,’ Johanne said, and pressed her thumbs into the muscles between his shoulder blades and spine.

‘But I would advise against assuming it’s the same killer.’

‘Of course we’re not assuming anything,’ he groaned. ‘More. A bit further up. But the truth is, just the thought is enough to frighten the life out of me. I mean … Ow! There, right there.’

‘You mean if there really is only one murderer, you can expect more,’ Johanne said. ‘Victims, that is. More murders.’

His muscles stiffened under her fingers. Adam straightened his back, pushed her gently away and rearranged his shirt. Ragnhild’s light breathing and snuffles could be heard from the sitting room.

A cat was obviously courting outside somewhere. The yowling cut through the evening quiet and Johanne was convinced she could smell cat spray all the way up to the first floor.

‘I hate those semi-feral beasts,’ she said and sat down.

‘Can you help me?’ Adam asked in an urgent voice, almost

insistent. ‘Can you get anything at all out of the papers?’

‘There’s too little. You know that. I need to look through … I need to have …’ She laughed feebly and shrugged her shoulders.

‘Good God, of course I can’t help you. I’ve got a new-born baby to look after! I’m on maternity leave! Obviously we can talk about it…’

‘There’s no one as good as you in the country. There are no real profilers here and we…’

‘I am not a profiler,’ she said, agitated. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m fed up with…’

‘OK,’ he interrupted and held up his hands in a gesture of

peace. ‘But you bloody well know enough about profiling to be one. And I don’t know anyone other than you who has been

taught by the FBI’s best…’

‘Adam!’

The evening before they got married, he had promised, with

his hand on his heart, never to ask about Johanne’s time with the FBI. They had argued, harsh and unfamiliar; she had used words he never imagined she could use and he was positively furious that such an important period of her life was to be a closed book to him.

But she would not share it. Never, not with anyone. As a naive young psychology student in Boston, she had been given the

opportunity to participate in one of the FBI’s profiler courses. The head of the course was Warren Scifford, already a legend in his fifties, as much for his knowledge as his relentless bedding of promising young female students. They called him the Chief, and Johanne had trusted the man who was nearly thirty years her

senior. In the end she started to believe that she was something special. That she had been chosen, by him and the FBI, and that of course he would divorce his wife as soon as the children were old enough.

It all went wrong and nearly cost her her life. She got on the first possible flight back to Oslo, started to study law three weeks later and graduated from university in record time. Warren

Scifford was a name she had tried to forget for the past thirteen years. Her time in the FBI, the months together with Warren, the catastrophic event that resulted in the Chief having to work in an office behind a desk for half a year as punishment until it all blew over and he was one of the big boys again, was a chapter in her life that occasionally came to mind, but she only thought about it reluctantly. It made her feel sick and she never, no matter what, wanted to talk about it again.

The problem was that Adam knew Warren Scifford. In fact,

they had met up again only last summer, when Adam went to an international police conference in New Orleans. When he came home and mentioned Warren’s name in passing over supper,

Johanne smashed two plates in a sudden outburst of anger. Then she ran into the guest room, locked the door and cried herself to sleep. For three days, he only managed to get monosyllabic replies out of her.

And now he was dangerously close to breaking his promise

again.

‘Adam,’ she repeated harshly. ‘Don’t even go there.’

‘Take it easy. If you don’t want to help, you don’t want to help.’

He leant back in the chair with an indifferent smile. ‘After all, it’s not your problem, all this.’

‘Don’t be like that,’ she said, dejected.

‘Like what? I’m only stating the obvious. It’s not your problem that a couple of famous women have been killed and mutilated just outside Oslo.’

He emptied his glass and put it down, a bit too hard.

‘I’ve got children,’ Johanne said with feeling. ‘I’ve got a

demanding nine-year-old and a two-week-old baby and more than enough to keep me busy without taking on a major role in a difficult murder investigation!’

‘OK, OK, I said it was all right.’ He stood up suddenly and got two dessert bowls out of the cupboard. ‘Fruit salad,’ he said. ‘Do you want some?’

‘Adam, honestly. Sit down. We can … I am perfectly willing to discuss the cases. Like now, in the evening, when the girls have gone to bed. But both you and I know that profiling work is

extremely demanding, and so far-reaching that—’

‘D’you know what,’ he interrupted, and banged a bowl of

whipped cream down so hard on the table that the cream jumped.

‘Fiona Helle’s death is one thing. A tragedy. She was a mother and a wife and far too young to die. Vibeke Heinerback didn’t have any children, but I still think that twenty-six is too young to die.

But all that aside, people die. People get killed.’ He stroked his nose, his straight, beautifully shaped nose with nostrils that quivered when he, on rare occasions, got really angry. ‘For God’s sake, people are killed every second day in this country. But what upsets me, what really frightens me …’

Alarmed by his own choice of words, he hesitated before

repeating himself.

‘Frightened. I’m frightened, Johanne. I don’t understand these cases. There are so many similarities between them, that I can’t help wondering …’

‘When the next victim will be killed,’ Johanne helped him, as he still couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Exactly. And that’s why I’m asking for your help. I know that it’s a lot to ask. I know that you’ve got more than enough on your plate with Kristiane and Ragnhild and your mother and the house and …’

‘OK.’

‘What?’

‘Fine. I’ll see how much I can manage.’

‘Do you mean that?’

‘Yes. But then I need all the facts. About both cases. And I want it to be clear from the start, that I can pull out at any point.’

‘Whenever,’ he nodded in confirmation. ‘Shall I… I can catch a cab down to the office and …’

‘It’s nearly half past ten.’

Her laughter was lame. But it was still laughter, Adam thought.

He studied her face for signs of irritation, small twitches in her lower lips, a muscle that drew a shadow along her cheekbone. But all he could see was dimples and a long yawn.

‘I’m just going to check the children,’ she said.

He loved the way she walked. She was slim without being thin.

Even now, only a couple of weeks after giving birth, she moved with a boyish lightness that made him smile. She had narrow hips, straight shoulders. When she bent down over Ragnhild, her hair fell across her face, soft and tangled. She pushed it back behind her ear and said something. Ragnhild was snoring gently.

He followed her into Kristiane’s room. She opened the door

with great care. The little girl was asleep with her head to the foot of the bed, the duvet underneath her and her down jacket over her like a duvet. Her breathing was steady and even. A faint smell of sleep and clean bed linen filled the room and Adam put his arm round Johanne.

‘Well, it certainly worked,’ she whispered. He could hear she was smiling. ‘The magic worked.’

‘Thank you,’ he whispered back.

‘For what?’

Johanne stood still. Adam didn’t let go of her. A feeling of unease that she had tried to repress all afternoon overwhelmed her. She had first noticed it around one, when Adam phoned to explain why he would be so late, and she staved it off. She was always fretting. About the children, about her mother who had started to get confused after her father’s third heart attack and didn’t always remember what day it was, about whether she would ever get back to her research. About the mortgage and the bad brakes on the car. About Isak’s easygoing attitude when it came to discipline and about the war in the Middle East. There was

always something to worry about. This afternoon she had tried to find out in one of her many medical books whether the white

flecks on Kristiane’s front teeth might be symptoms of too much milk or any other imbalance in her diet. Anxiety, bad conscience and the feeling of never being good enough were all part of her normal frame of mind, and she had grown accustomed to living with it.

But this was different.

There in the dark, quiet room, with the heat from Adam’s body against her back and the barely audible breathing of her sleeping daughter to remind her of everyday joys and security, she couldn’t put her finger on what was making her uneasy, a feeling that she knew something she did not want to remember.

‘What’s the matter?’ Adam whispered.

‘Nothing,’ she said quietly and closed the bedroom door again gently.

It was years since she had dared to drink coffee on a plane. But the tempting aroma of coffee had filled the cabin so quickly that she wondered if they had a barrista onboard.

The steward responsible for her row must have weighed well

over a hundred kilos. He was sweating like a pig. Normally she would have been disgusted by the unsightly rings of damp that were visible on the pale shirt fabric. She had nothing against male stewards, but she would prefer the more feminine type, thought the large lady who was now standing and staring southeast from her panorama windows on the hills above Villefranche. Trousered stewards often had a slight gay twist of the wrist and chose aftershaves that were more like light spring perfumes than masculine