At that moment Harry felt it again. The sensation he had had at Spektrum, earlier that evening. The sensation that he was being observed. Instinctively, he switched off the torch, and the darkness descended over him like a blanket. He held his breath and listened. Don’t, he thought. Don’t let it happen. Evil is not a thing, it cannot take possession of you. It’s the opposite; it’s a void, an absence of goodness. The only thing you can be frightened of here is yourself.
Harry switched on the torch and pointed it towards the clearing.
It was her. She stood erect and immobile between the trees, looking at him without blinking, the same large sleepy eyes as in the photograph. Harry’s first thought was that she was dressed like a bride, in white, that she was standing at the altar, here, in the middle of the forest. The light made her glitter. Harry breathed in with a shiver and grabbed his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. Bjørn Holm answered after the second ring.
‘Cordon off the whole area,’ Harry said. His throat felt dry, rough. ‘I’m calling in the troops.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘There’s a snowman here.’
‘So?’
Harry explained.
‘I didn’t catch the last bit,’ Holm shouted. ‘Poor coverage here . . .’
‘The head,’ Harry repeated. ‘It belongs to Sylvia Ottersen.’
The other end went quiet.
Harry told Holm to follow the footprints and rang off.
Then he crouched against a tree, buttoned his coat right up and switched off the torch to save the battery while he waited. Thinking he had almost forgotten what it tasted like, the darkness.
Part Two
10
DAY 4.
Chalk.
I
T WAS HALF PAST THREE IN THE MORNING AND
H
ARRY WAS
exhausted as he finally unlocked the door to his flat. He undressed and went straight into the shower. Tried not to think as he let the burning jets of water numb his skin, massage his stiff muscles and thaw his frozen body. They had spoken to Rolf Ottersen, but the formal questioning would have to wait until the morning. At Sollihøgda they had quickly wrapped up the door-to-door inquiries with the neighbours; there weren’t so many to ask. But the crime scene officers and the dogs were still at work and would be the whole night. They had a brief window of time before the evidence would become contaminated, melted or covered by snow. He turned off the shower. The air was grey with steam, and when he wiped the mirror a new layer of condensation immediately settled. It distorted his face and blurred the contours of his naked body.
Harry was cleaning his teeth when the telephone rang. ‘Harry.’
‘Stormann, the mould man.’
‘You’re up late,’ Harry said in surprise.
‘Reckoned you were at work.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was on the late-night news. Woman in Sollihøgda. Saw you in the background. I’ve got the results back.’
‘And?’
‘You’ve got fungus. A hungry bugger, too.
Aspergillus versicolor
.’
‘Which means?’
‘That it can be any colour. If and when it’s seen. Apart from that, it means I’ll have to take down more of your walls.’
‘Mm.’ Harry had a vague sense that he ought to show more interest, more concern, or at least ask more questions. But he couldn’t be bothered. Not at this hour.
‘Feel free.’
Harry rang off and closed his eyes. Waited for the ghosts, for the inevitable, just as long as he stayed away from the only medicine he knew for ghosts. Perhaps it would be a new acquaintance this time. He waited for her to come out of the forest, stumping along towards him on a huge white body without legs, a misshapen bowling ball with a head, black sockets with crows pecking at the remainder of her eyeballs, teeth bared after the foxes had helped themselves to the lips. Hard to know if she would come, the subconscious is unpredictable. So unpredictable that when Harry slept, he dreamt that he was lying in a bath with his head underwater listening to a deep rumble of bubbles and women’s laughter. Seagrass grew on the white enamel, stretching out for him like green fingers on a white hand seeking his.
The morning light cast rectangles of light over the newspapers lying on POB Gunnar Hagen’s desk. It lit up Sylvia Ottersen’s smile and the headlines on the front pages.
KILLED AND DECAPITATED, DECAPITATED IN THE FOREST
and – the shortest and probably the best –
DECAPITATED
.
Harry’s head ached from the moment he woke up. Now he was holding it gingerly in his hands thinking that he might as well have had a drink last night, it wouldn’t have made the pain any worse. He wanted to close his eyes, but Hagen was staring straight at him. Harry noticed that Hagen’s mouth kept opening, twisting and closing – in short that he was formulating words which Harry was receiving on a badly tuned frequency.
‘The conclusion . . .’ Hagen said, and Harry knew it was time to prick up his ears, ‘. . . is that this case has top priority from now on. And that means, of course, that we will increase the size of your investigation team forthwith and –’
‘Disagree,’ Harry said. Just articulating a single word invoked a sense that his cranium was exploding. ‘We can requisition more people as and when, but for the moment I don’t want anyone else at the meetings. Four is enough.’
Gunnar Hagen looked dumbfounded. In murder cases, even the straightforward ones, investigation teams always comprised at least a dozen people.
‘Free thinking functions best in small groups,’ Harry added.
‘Thinking?’ Hagen burst out. ‘What about standard police work? Following up forensic evidence, questioning, checking tip-offs? And what about the coordination of information? A total of –’
Harry held up a hand to stem the flow of words. ‘That’s just the point. I don’t want to drown in all that.’
‘Drown?’ Hagen stared at Harry in disbelief. ‘I’d better give the case to someone who can swim then.’
Harry massaged his temples. Hagen knew that right now there was no one else in Crime Squad apart from Inspector Hole who could lead a murder case such as this one and Harry knew it. Harry also knew that giving the case to the central investigation bureau, Kripos, would be such a huge loss of prestige for the new POB that he would rather sacrifice his extremely hirsute right arm.
Harry sighed. ‘Normal investigation teams fight to stay afloat in the stream of information. And that’s when it’s a
standard
case. With decapitations on the front pages . . .’ Harry shook his head. ‘People have gone mad. We received more than a hundred calls just after the news item last night. You know, drunks slurring and the usual nutters, plus a few new ones. People telling you that the murder was described in the Book of Revelation, that sort of thing. So far today we’ve had two hundred calls. And just wait until it emerges that there may be several bodies. Let’s say we have to set aside twenty people to take care of the calls. They check them out and write reports. Let’s say that the team leader has to spend two hours every day physically going through the incoming data, two hours coordinating it and two hours assembling everyone in groups, updating them, answering their questions, and half an hour editing the information that can be revealed at the press conference. Which takes three-quarters of an hour. The worst part is . . .’ Harry put his forefingers against his aching jaw muscles and grimaced. ‘. . . that in a standard murder case this is, I suppose, a good use of resources. Because there will always be those out there who know something, who have heard or seen something. Information which we can painstakingly piece together or which enables us to magically solve the whole case.’
‘Exactly,’ Hagen said. ‘That’s why –’
‘The problem is’, Harry continued, ‘that this is not that kind of case. Not that kind of killer. This person has not confided in a friend or shown his face in the vicinity of the murder. No one out there knows anything, so the calls that come in won’t help us, they’ll just delay us. And any possible forensic clues we uncover have been left there to confuse us. In a nutshell, this is a different kind of game.’
Hagen had leaned back in his chair, pressed his fingertips together, and, immersed in thought, he was now observing Harry. He blinked like a basking lizard, then asked: ‘So you see this as a game?’
As he nodded, Harry wondered where Hagen was going.
‘What sort of game? Chess?’
‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘blindfold chess maybe.’
Hagen nodded. ‘So you envisage a classic serial killer, a cold-blooded murderer with superior intelligence and a proclivity for fun, games and challenges?’
Now Harry had an idea where Hagen was going.
‘A man straight from the serial killings you profiled on that FBI course? The kind you met in Australia that time? A person who . . .’ the POB smacked his lips as if he were tasting the words, ‘. . . is basically a worthy opponent for someone of your background.’
Harry sighed. ‘That’s not how I think, boss.’
‘Don’t you? Remember I’ve taught at the military academy, Harry. What do you think aspiring generals dream about when I tell them how military strategists have personally changed the course of world history? Do you think they dream about sitting around quietly hoping for peace, about telling their grandchildren that they just
lived
, that no one would ever know what they might have been capable of? They might say they want peace, but inside they dream, Harry. About having one opportunity. There’s a strong social urge in man to be
needed
, Harry. That’s why generals in the Pentagon paint the blackest scenario as soon as a firecracker goes off anywhere in the world. I think you
want
this case to be special, Harry. You want it so much that you can see the blackest of the black.’
‘The snowman, boss. You remember the letter I showed you?’
Hagen sighed. ‘I remember a madman, Harry.’
Harry knew he ought to give in now. Put forward the compromise suggestion he had already concocted. Give Hagen this little victory. Instead he shrugged. ‘I want to have my group as it is, boss.’
Hagen’s face closed, hardened. ‘I can’t let you do that, Harry.’
‘
Can’t
?’
Hagen held Harry’s gaze, but then it happened. Hagen blinked, his eyes wandered. Just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
‘There are other considerations,’ Hagen said.
Harry tried to maintain an innocent expression as he twisted the knife. ‘What sort of considerations, boss?’
Hagen looked down at his hands.
‘What do you think? Senior officers. The press. Politicians. If we still haven’t got the murderer after three months, who do you think will have to answer questions about the unit’s priorities? Who will have to explain why we put four people on to this case because small groups are better suited to . . .’ Hagen spat out the words like rotten shrimps: ‘free thinking and games of chess? Have you considered that, Harry?’
‘No,’ Harry said, crossing his arms on his chest. ‘I’ve thought about how we’ll catch this guy, not about how I’m going to justify not catching him.’
Harry knew it was a cheap shot, but the words hit home. Hagen blinked twice. Opened his mouth and shut it again, and Harry instantly felt ashamed. Why did he always have to instigate these childish, meaningless wall-pissing contests, just to have the satisfaction of giving someone else – anyone at all – the finger? Rakel had once said that he wished he’d been born with an extra middle finger that was permanently sticking up.
‘There’s a man in Kripos called Espen Lepsvik,’ Harry said. ‘He’s good at leading large investigations. I can talk to him, get him to set up a group which reports to me. The groups will work in parallel and independently. You and the Chief Superintendent take care of the press conference. How does that sound, boss?’
Harry didn’t need to wait for an answer. He could see the gratitude in Hagen’s eyes. And he knew he’d won the pissing contest.
The first thing Harry did when he was back in his own office was to ring Bjørn Holm.
‘Hagen said yes, it’s going to be as I said. Meeting in my office in half an hour. Will you ring Skarre and Bratt?’
He put down the phone. Thought about what Hagen had said about hawks wanting their own war. And pulled out the drawer in a vain hunt for a Dispril.
‘Apart from the footprints, we haven’t found a single trace of the perp at what we assume is the crime scene,’ Magnus Skarre said. ‘What’s harder to understand is how we haven’t found a trace of the body, either. After all, he cut off the woman’s head, there ought to have been masses of evidence left behind. But there was nothing. The dogs didn’t even react! It’s a mystery.’
‘He killed and decapitated the woman in the stream,’ Katrine said. ‘Her footprints came to an end further up the stream, didn’t they. She ran in the water so as not to leave prints, but he caught up with her.’
‘What did he use?’ Harry asked.
‘Hatchet or a saw, what else?’
‘What about the burn marks around the skin where he cut?’
Katrine looked at Skarre and they both shrugged.
‘OK, Holm, check that out,’ Harry said. ‘And then?’
‘Then maybe he carried her through the stream down to the road,’ Skarre said. He had slept for two hours and his sweater was on back to front, but no one had had the heart to tell him. ‘I say
maybe
because we’ve found nothing there, either. And we should’ve done. A streak of blood on a tree trunk, a lump of flesh on a branch or a shred of clothing. But we found his footprints where the stream flows under the road. And beside the road there were imprints in the snow of what might have been a body. But, for Christ’s sake, the dogs didn’t pick it up. Not even the bloody cadaver dog! It’s a –’
‘Mystery,’ Harry repeated, rubbing his chin. ‘Isn’t it pretty impractical to cut off her head while standing in a stream? It’s just a narrow ditch. You wouldn’t have enough elbow room. Why?’