‘Thank you.’
Harry drove past the Vinderen tram stop. A glimpse of a ghost fluttered by. A car chase, a collision, a dead colleague, a rumour that it had been Harry driving and he should have been breathalysed. That was a long time ago. Water under the bridge. Scars under the skin. Versicolor on the soul.
Mathias called back after a quarter of an hour.
‘I spoke to Gregersen – he was the boss of Marienlyst. Everything was deleted or destroyed, I’m afraid. But I think some people, including Idar, took their patient data with them.’
‘And you?’
‘I knew I wouldn’t go into private practice, so I didn’t take anything.’
‘Can you remember any of the names of Idar’s patients, do you think?’
‘Some maybe. Not many. It’s a while ago, Harry.’
‘I know. Thank you anyway.’
Harry rang off and followed the sign to Rikshospitalet. The collection of buildings ahead of him covered the low ridge.
Gerda Nelvik was a gentle, buxom lady in her mid-forties and the only person in the paternity department at the Institute of Forensic Medicine at Rikshospitalet this Saturday. She met Harry in reception and took him through. There was not much to suggest that this was where society’s worst criminals were hunted. The bright rooms, decorated in homely fashion, were rather testimony to the fact that the staff consisted almost entirely of women.
Harry had been here before and knew the routines for DNA testing. On a weekday, behind the laboratory windows, he would have seen women dressed in white lab coats, caps and disposable gloves, bent over solutions and machines, busy with mysterious processes they called hair-prep, blood-prep and amplification, which would ultimately become a short report with a conclusion in the form of numerical values for fifteen different markers.
They passed a room fitted with shelves, on which lay brown padded envelopes marked with names of police stations around the country. Harry knew they contained articles of clothing, strands of hair, furniture covers, blood and other organic material that had been submitted for analysis. All to extract the numeric code that represented selected points on the mysterious garland that is DNA and identified its owner with a certainty of ninety-nine point many nines per cent.
Gerda Nelvik’s office was no larger than it needed to be to accommodate shelves of ring files and a desk with a computer, piles of paper and a large photograph of two smiling boys, each with a snowboard. ‘Your sons?’ Harry asked, sitting down.
‘I think so,’ she smiled.
‘What?’
‘Insiders’ joke. You said something about someone submitting tests?’
‘Yes. I’m keen to know about all the DNA tests submitted by a particular institution. Starting from twelve years back. And who they were for.’
‘I see. Which institution?’
‘Marienlyst Clinic.’
‘Marienlyst Clinic? Are you sure?’
‘Why?’
She shrugged. ‘In paternity cases it’s usually a court or a solicitor who submits the request. Or individuals directly.’
‘These aren’t paternity suits but tests to establish possible family links because of the danger of hereditary medical conditions.’
‘Aha,’ Gerda said. ‘Then we’ve got them on the database.’
‘Is that something you can check on the spot?’
‘Depends on whether you’ve got the time to wait . . .’ Gerda looked at her watch, ‘for thirty seconds.’
Harry nodded.
Gerda tapped away on the keyboard as she dictated to herself. ‘M-a-r-i-e-n-l-y-s-t C-l-i-n-i-c.’
She leaned back in her chair and let the machine work.
‘Terrible autumn weather we’re having, isn’t it.’ she said.
‘Yes, it is,’ Harry answered, miles away, listening to the whirring of the hard disk as if that could reveal whether the answer was the one he was hoping for.
‘The darkness can get to you,’ she said. ‘Hope snow is on its way soon. Then it’ll brighten up at least.’
‘Mm,’ Harry said.
The whirring stopped.
‘There you go,’ she said, looking at the screen.
Harry took a deep breath.
‘Yes, Marienlyst Clinic has been a client here. But not for quite some time.’
Harry tried to think back. When was it Idar Vetlesen had finished there?
Gerda furrowed her brow. ‘But before that there were a lot, I can see.’
She hesitated. Harry waited for her to say it. And then she said: ‘An unusually high number for a medical centre, I would say.’
Harry had a feeling. This was the path they should take, this one led out of the labyrinth. Or to be more precise: into the labyrinth. Into the heart of darkness.
‘Have you got any names or personal details of those tested?’
Gerda shook her head. ‘Usually we do, but in this case the centre wanted them to be anonymous, evidently.’
Fuck! Harry closed his eyes and deliberated.
‘But you still have the test results? About whether individuals are fathers or not, I mean.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Gerda said.
‘And what do they tell you?’
‘I can’t give you an answer off the cuff. I’ll have to go into each one and that’ll take more time.’
‘OK. But have you saved the DNA profiles of those you have tested?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the test is as comprehensive as in criminal cases?’
‘More comprehensive. To establish paternity beyond doubt we require more markers since half of the genes are from the mother.’
‘So what you’re saying is that I can collect a swab from a specific person, send it here and have you check it for any similarities with those you’ve checked from Marienlyst Clinic?’
‘The answer is yes,’ Gerda said with an intonation that suggested she would appreciate an explanation.
‘Good,’ Harry said. ‘My colleagues will send you some swabs from a number of people who are husbands and children of women who have gone missing in recent years. To check whether they’ve been submitted before. I’ll make sure this is authorised to receive top priority.’
A light seemed to be switched on in Gerda’s eyes. ‘Now I know where I’ve seen you! On
Bosse
. Is this about . . . ?’
Even though there were only two of them there, she lowered her voice as if the name they had given the monster was a curse, an obscenity, an incantation that was not to be uttered aloud.
Harry called Katrine and asked her to meet him at Java café in St Hanshaugen. He parked in front of an old block of flats with a sign on the entrance threatening that parked cars would be towed away, although the entrance was barely the width of a lawnmower. Ullevålsveien was full of people hurrying up and down doing their essential Saturday shopping. An ice-cold northerly wind swept down from St Hanshaugen on its way to Vår Frelsers cemetery to blow black hats off a bowed funeral procession.
Harry paid for a double espresso and a cortado, both in takeaway paper cups, and sat on one of the chairs on the pavement. On the pond on the other side of the road a lone white swan drifted round quietly with a neck formed like a question mark. Harry watched it and was reminded of the name of the fox trap. The wind blew goose pimples onto the surface of the water.
‘Is the cortado still hot?’
Katrine was standing in front of him with outstretched hand.
Harry passed her the paper cup, and they walked to his car.
‘Great that you could work on a Saturday morning,’ he said.
‘Great that you could work on a Saturday morning,’ she said.
‘I’m single,’ he said. ‘Saturday morning has no value for people like us. You, on the other hand, should have a life.’
An elderly man stood glaring at their car as they arrived.
‘I’ve ordered a breakdown truck,’ he said.
‘Yes, I hear they’re popular,’ Harry said, unlocking the door. ‘The only problem is finding somewhere to park them.’
They got in and a wrinkled knuckle rapped on the glass. Harry rolled down the window.
‘Truck’s on its way,’ the old man said. ‘You’ve got to stay here and wait.’
‘Have I?’ Harry said, holding up his ID.
The man ignored the card and glowered at his watch.
‘Your space’s too narrow to qualify as an entrance,’ Harry said. ‘I’m sending over a man from the traffic department to unscrew your illegal sign. I’m afraid there’ll be a big fat fine, too.’
‘What?’
‘We’re police.’
The old man snatched the ID card, looked suspiciously at Harry, at the card and back at Harry.
‘That’s fine this time. You can go,’ the man mumbled with a sour expression and gave back the card.
‘It’s not fine,’ Harry said. ‘I’m calling the traffic department now.’
The old man stared with fury in his eyes.
Harry twisted the key in the ignition, let the engine roar, then turned to the old man again. ‘And you are to stay here.’
They could see his open-mouthed expression in the rear-view mirror as they drove off.
Katrine laughed. ‘You are
bad
! That was an old man.’
Harry shot her a sidelong glance. Her facial expression was strange, as if it hurt her to laugh. Paradoxically, the episode at Fenris Bar had made her more relaxed with him. Perhaps that was a thing attractive women had, a rejection demanded their respect, made them trust you more.
Harry smiled. He wondered how she would have reacted if she had known that this morning he had woken with an erection and fragments of a dream in which he had fucked her while she was sitting on the sink with her legs wide apart in the Fenris Bar toilet. Screwed her so hard the pipes creaked, water slopped in the toilet bowls and the neon tubes buzzed and flickered as he felt the freezing porcelain on his bollocks every time he thrust. The mirror behind her had vibrated so much his features had blurred as they banged hips, backs and thighs against taps, hand dryers and soap holders. Only when they had stopped did he see that it wasn’t his but someone else’s face in the mirror.
‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked.
‘Reproduction,’ Harry said.
‘Oh?’
Harry passed her a packet which she opened. At the top was a piece of paper with the heading
Instructions for DNA
Swabbing Kit.
‘Somehow this is all tied up with paternity,’ Harry said. ‘I just don’t know how or why yet.’
‘And we’re off to . . . ?’ Katrine asked, lifting a small pack of cotton buds.
‘Sollihøgda,’ Harry said. ‘To get a swab from the twins.’
In the fields surrounding the farm the snow was in retreat. Wet and grey, it squatted on the countryside it still occupied.
Rolf Ottersen received them on the doorstep and offered them coffee. As they removed their outer clothing Harry told them what he wanted. Rolf Ottersen didn’t ask why, just nodded.
The twins were in the living room knitting.
‘What’s it going to be?’ Katrine asked.
‘Scarf,’ the twins said in unison. ‘Auntie’s teaching us.’
They motioned to Ane Pedersen, who was sitting in the rocking chair knitting and smiling a ‘nice to see you again’ to Katrine.
‘I just want a bit of spit and mucus from them,’ Katrine said brightly, raising a cotton bud. ‘Open wide.’
The twins giggled and put down their knitting.
Harry followed Rolf Ottersen to the kitchen where a large kettle had boiled and there was a smell of hot coffee.
‘So you were wrong,’ Rolf said. ‘About the doctor.’
‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘Or maybe he has something to do with the case after all. Is it OK if I take a look at the barn again?’
Rolf Ottersen made a gesture inviting Harry to help himself.
‘But Ane has tidied up in there,’ he said. ‘There’s not a lot to see.’
It was indeed tidy. Harry recalled the chicken blood lying on the floor, thick and dark, as Holm took samples, but now it had been scrubbed. The floorboards were pink where the blood had seeped into the wood. Harry stood by the chopping block and looked at the door. Tried to imagine Sylvia standing there and slaughtering chickens as the Snowman came in. Had she been surprised? She had killed two chickens. No, three. Why did he think it was two? Two plus one. Why plus one? He closed his eyes.
Two of the chickens had been lying on the chopping block, their blood pouring out onto the sawdust. That was how chickens should be slaughtered. But the third had been lying some distance away and had soiled the floorboards. Amateur. And the blood had clotted where the third chicken’s throat had been cut. Just like on Sylvia’s throat. He recalled how Holm had explained this. And knew the thought wasn’t new, it had been lying there with all the other half-thought, half-chewed, half-dreamed ideas. The third chicken had been killed in the same way, with an electric cutting loop.
He went to the place where the floorboards had absorbed the blood and crouched down.
If the Snowman had killed the last chicken why had he used the loop and not the hatchet? Simple. Because the hatchet had disappeared in the depths of the forest somewhere. So this must have happened after the murder. He had come all the way back here and slaughtered a chicken. But why? A kind of voodoo ritual? A sudden inspiration? Rubbish, this killing machine stuck to the plan, followed the pattern.
There was a reason.
Why?
‘Why?’ Katrine asked.
Harry hadn’t heard her come in. She stood in the doorway of the barn, the light from the solitary bulb falling on her face, and she was holding up two plastic bags containing cotton buds. Harry shuddered to see her standing like that again, in a doorway with her hands pointing in his direction. Just like at Becker’s. But there was something else, another realisation, too.
‘As I said,’ Harry mumbled, studying the pink residue, ‘I think this is about family relationships. About covering things up.’
‘Who?’ she asked and moved towards him. The heels of her boots clicked on the wooden floor. ‘Who have you got in mind?’