It was only when she was lying in the snow with a scalpel to her throat that Laila Aasen admitted she had told a friend she was going to meet him. Because in fact they had originally had a dinner date. But she’d only mentioned his Christian name and not why they were meeting.
‘Why did you say anything at all?’
‘To tease her,’ Laila howled. ‘She’s so nosy.’
He pressed the thin steel harder against her skin and Laila sobbed her friend’s name and address. After which she said no more.
When, two days later, Mathias was reading about the murder of Laila Aasen and the disappearances of Onny Hetland and Gert Rafto in the newspaper, he had mixed feelings. First of all, he was displeased with the murder of Laila Aasen. It had not gone as he had planned; he had lost control in a frenzy of fury and panic. Hence there had been too much mess, too much to clear up, too much that reminded him of the photographs in Rafto’s flat. And too little time to enjoy the revenge, the justice of it.
The murder of Onny Hetland had been even worse, nigh on a catastrophe. Twice his courage had failed him as he was about to ring her doorbell, and he had walked away. The third time he had realised he was too late. Someone was already there ringing the bell. Gert Rafto. After Rafto had left he had rung and introduced himself as Rafto’s assistant and had been let in. But Onny had said she wouldn’t tell him what she had told Rafto; she had given a promise that the matter would stay strictly between them. Only when he had made an incision in her hand with the scalpel did she talk.
Mathias gleaned from what she said that Gert Rafto had decided to solve the case under his own steam. He wanted to rebuild his reputation, the fool!
There had been nothing to criticise about the disposal of Onny Hetland, however. Very little noise, very little blood. And the carving up of her body in the shower had been efficient and quick. He had packed all the parts in plastic and placed them in the large rucksack and bag he had brought along for the purpose. On his visits to Rafto, Mathias had been told that one of the first things the police check in murder cases is cars observed in the vicinity and registered taxi rides. So he walked the whole way back to his flat.
All that remained now was the last part of Gert Rafto’s instructions for the perfect murder: kill the detective.
Strangely enough this was the best of the three murders. Strange because Mathias had no feelings for Rafto, none of the hatred that he had felt for Laila Aasen. It was more about him getting close, for the first time, to the aesthetics he had envisaged, to the idea he had of how the murder should be executed. His experience of the very act itself was above all as gruesome and heart-rending as he had hoped it would be. He could still hear Rafto’s screams echoing round the deserted island. And the strangest thing of all: on the way back he discovered that his toes were no longer white and numb; it was as if the gradual freezing process of his extremities had been halted for a moment, as if he had thawed.
Four years later, after Mathias had killed a further four women, and he could see that all the murders were an attempt to reconstruct the murder of his mother, he concluded that he was mad.
Or, to be more precise, that he was suffering from a serious personality disorder. All the specialist literature he had read certainly pointed to that. The ritual nature of the murders, their having to take place on the day the first snow of the year came, his having to build a snowman. And, not least, his growing sadism.
But this insight in no way prevented him from continuing. For time was short; Raynaud’s phenomenon was already appearing with increasing frequency, and he thought he could detect the first symptoms of scleroderma: a stiffness in the face that would eventually give him the revolting pointed nose and the pursed carp mouth with which the worst afflicted were ultimately burdened.
He had moved to Oslo to continue his work on immunology and water channels in the brain, as the research centre for this was the Anatomy Department in Gaustad. Alongside his research he was working at Marienlyst Clinic where Idar was employed and had recommended him. Mathias also did night shifts at A&E since he couldn’t sleep anyway.
It was not difficult to find victims. Initially it was the patients’ blood samples which in many cases ruled out paternity, and then there were the DNA tests by the Paternity Unit at the Insititute of Forensic Medicine. Idar, who had fairly limited competence, even for a general practitioner, covertly took advice on all cases concerning hereditary illness and syndromes. And, if the patients were young people, Mathias’s advice was invariably the same.
‘Get both parents to appear at the first consultation, take mouth swabs from everyone, say it’s just to check the bacterial flora and send the samples to the Paternity Unit so that we at least know we’re working from an accurate starting point.’
And Idar, the idiot, did as he was told. Which meant that Mathias soon had a little file on women with children who were sailing under a false flag, so to speak. And best of all was that there was no link between him and these women as the mouth swabs were submitted under Idar’s name.
The method for luring them into the trap was the same as the one applied with such success to Laila Aasen. A telephone call and an agreement to meet at a secret location unknown to anyone. Only once had it happened that the appointed victim broke down on the phone and went to her husband to tell all. And that had ended with the family splitting up, so she had received her just deserts anyway.
For a long time Mathias had pondered how he could dispose of the bodies with increased efficiency. At any rate, it was obvious that the method he had used with Onny Hetland was not viable long term. He had done it piecemeal with hydrochloric acid in the bath at home in his bedsit. It was a risky, laborious process, injurious to health, and it had taken almost three weeks. Great therefore was his pleasure when he chanced upon the solution. The body storage tanks at the Anatomy Department. It was as brilliant as it was simple. Just like the cutting loop.
He had read about it in an anatomy journal where a French anatomist recommended this veterinary device for use on bodies which had started to decompose, because the loop cut through soft, rotting tissue with the same precise efficiency as through bone, and because it could be used on several bodies at the same time without any danger of transmitting bacteria. He had realised straight away that with a loop to cut up the victims, transportation would be radically simplified. Consequently he contacted the manufacturer, flew to Rouen and had the tool demonstrated, in halting English, one misty morning inside a whitewashed cowshed in northern France. The loop consisted of a plain handle shaped like – and the approximate size of – a banana furnished with a metal shield to protect your hand against burns. The wire itself was as thin as fishing line and ran into both ends of the banana from which it could be tightened or slackened with a button. There was also an on-off switch which activated the battery-driven heating element and made the garrotte-like wire glow white in seconds. Mathias was elated; this tool would be useful for more than carving up bodies. When he heard the price he almost burst out laughing. The loop cost Mathias less than the flight. Batteries included.
The publication of the Swedish study concluding that somewhere between 15 and 20 per cent of all children had a different biological father from the one they thought reflected Mathias’s own experiences. He was not alone. And nor was he alone in having to die a cruel, premature death because of his mother’s whoring with tainted genes. But he would be alone in this: the act of cleansing, the fight against disease, the crusade. He doubted that anyone would thank or honour him. This he did know, however: they would all remember him, long after his death. For he had finally found what was to be his fame for all posterity, the masterpiece, the final flourish of his sword.
It was chance that set the ball rolling.
He saw him on TV. The policeman. Harry Hole. Hole was being interviewed because he had hunted down a serial killer in Australia. And Mathias was reminded of Gert Rafto’s advice: ‘Not on my beat.’ He also recalled, however, the satisfaction of having taken the life of the hunter. The feeling of supremacy. The feeling of power. Nothing later had quite compared with the murder of the police officer. And this Herostratically famous Hole appeared to have something of Rafto about him, some of the same offhandedness and anger.
Nonetheless, he might have forgotten all about Harry Hole had it not been for one of the gynaecologists at Marienlyst Clinic mentioning in the canteen the next day that he had heard this, to all outward appearances, solid detective off the TV was an alkie and a nutcase. Gabriella, a paediatrician, added that she had the son of Hole’s girlfriend as a patient. Oleg, a nice boy.
‘He’ll be an alkie then, as well,’ said the gynaecologist. ‘It’s in the bloody genes, you know.’
‘Hole’s not the father,’ Gabriella countered. ‘But what’s interesting is that the man who’s registered as the father, some professor or other in Moscow, is also an alcoholic.’
‘Hey, I didn’t hear that!’ shouted Idar Vetlesen over the laughter. ‘Don’t forget client confidentiality, folks!’
Lunch carried on, but Mathias was unable to forget what Gabriella had said. Or, rather, the way she had expressed herself: ‘the man who’s registered as the father’.
Accordingly, after lunch, Mathias followed the paediatrician to her office, went in behind her and closed the door.
‘May I ask you something, Gabriella?’
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, and a flush of anticipation spread up her cheeks. Mathias knew she liked him, he supposed she thought he was handsome, friendly, funny and a good listener. She had even, indirectly, asked him out on a couple of occasions, but he had declined.
‘As you may know I’m allowed to use some of the clinic’s blood samples for my research,’ he said. ‘And in fact I found something interesting in the sample of the boy you were talking about. The son of Hole’s girlfriend.’
‘My understanding is that their relationship is now a thing of the past.’
‘You don’t say? There was something in the blood sample, so I was wondering if there was anything in the family . . .’
Mathias thought he could discern a certain disappointment in her face. As for himself, he was far from disappointed by what she had to tell him.
‘Thank you,’ he said, standing up and exiting. He could feel his heart pumping eager, life-giving blood, his feet propelling him forward without consuming any energy, his pleasure making him glow like a cutting loop. For he knew this was the beginning. The beginning of the end.
Holmenkollen Residents’ Association was having its summer party on a burning hot August day. On the lawn in front of the association pavilion the adults were sitting on camping chairs under umbrellas and drinking white wine while the children ran between tables or played football on the gravel pitch. Although she was wearing enormous sunglasses that concealed her face, Mathias recognised her from the photograph he had downloaded from her employer’s website. She was standing on her own, and he went over to her and asked with a wry smile if he might stand beside her and pretend he knew her. He knew how to do this sort of thing now. He was not the Mathias No-Nips of old.
She lowered her glasses, scrutinised him quizzically and he established that the photograph had lied after all. She was much more beautiful. So beautiful that for a moment he thought plan A had a weakness: it was not a foregone conclusion that she would want him; a woman like Rakel – single mother or not – had alternatives. Plan B had, to be sure, the same result as A, but would not be anywhere near as satisfying.
‘Socially timid,’ he said, raising a plastic beaker in an embarrassed gesture of greeting. ‘I was invited here by a chum living nearby, and he hasn’t showed up. And everyone else looks as if they know each other here. I promise to decamp the second he appears.’
She laughed. He liked her laugh. And knew that the critical first three seconds had gone in his favour.
‘I just saw a boy score a fantastic goal on the gravel pitch down there,’ Mathias said. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting you’re related to him.’
‘Oh? That might have been Oleg, my son.’
She succeeded in hiding it, but Mathias knew from countless sessions with patients that no woman can resist praise of her child.
‘Nice party,’ he said. ‘Nice neighbours.’
‘You like parties with other people’s neighbours?’
‘I think my friends are worried I’m spending too much time on my own,’ he said. ‘So they try to cheer me up. With their successful neighbours, for example.’ He took a sip from the plastic glass. ‘And with the very sweet house wine. What’s your name?’
‘Rakel. Fauke.’
‘Hello, Rakel. Mathias.’
He shook her hand. Small, warm.
‘You haven’t got anything to drink,’ he said. ‘Allow me. House sweet?’
On his return, and after passing her the glass, he took out his pager and looked at it with a concerned expression.
‘Do you know what, Rakel? I’d love to stay and get to know you better, but A&E is short-staffed and needs an extra man sharpish. So I’ll put on my Superman outfit and make my way into town.’
‘Shame,’ she said.
‘You think so? It’s only for a few hours. Are you going to be here long?’
‘I don’t know. It depends on Oleg.’
‘Right. We’ll see then. Anyway, it was nice to meet you.’
Again he shook her hand. Then left, knowing he had won the first round.
He drove to his flat in Torshov and read an interesting article about water channels in the brain. When he returned at eight she was sitting under one of the umbrellas, wearing a big white hat. She smiled as he sat down beside her.
‘Saved any lives?’ she asked.
‘Mostly scrapes and grazes,’ Mathias said. ‘An appendicitis. The high point was a boy who’d got a Lemonade bottle stuck up his nose. I told his mother he was probably too young to sniff Coke. Sad to say, people in that type of situation don’t have much of a sense of humour . . .’