What is Mine (15 page)

Adam Stubo let the curtain fall and turned back to the room.

“Jesus, Hermansen, the poor guy has never hurt a fly!”

“And who said that our abductor necessarily had a criminal record?”

Hermansen blew his nose on his fingers and swore.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, what the hell do you mean then? Just four hours after yet another child was abducted, there’s a guy at the first crime scene, dressed in camouflage like he’s planning a career in the CIA, jerking himself off and moaning the girl’s name to himself! And now he’s sitting downstairs and can’t tell us what he was doing on Thursday, May 4, when Emilie Selbu disappeared, or May 10, when Kim was abducted. He can’t even remember what he was doing at five o’clock today.”

“That’s quite simply because the man’s got nothing to tell,” said Adam Stubo drily. “The man’s an idiot, literally. At least, he’s not all there. He’s terrified, Hermansen.”

Hermansen lifted a dirty coffee cup to his mouth. The sour smell of stress and sweat pervaded the room. Adam wasn’t sure whom it was coming from.

“He’s a driver by trade,” growled Hermansen. “Can’t be a complete idiot. Drives for a courier company. And he
does have
a record. No less than . . .”

He grabbed a file and pulled out a document.

“Five fines and two sentences for sexual offences.”

Adam Stubo wasn’t listening. Once again, he looked stealthily out at the journalists. Their numbers had dwindled. He rubbed his nose and tried to work out what time it would be on the East Coast of the U.S.

“Indecent exposure,” he sighed heavily, without looking at Hermansen. “The man was arrested for flashing. Nothing else. He’s not the man we’re looking for, unfortunately.”

“Indecent exposure.”

Adam tried to stay neutral. It was impossible. Something about the words themselves echoed contempt for the action they described and could only be spat out, scornfully. The camouflage man had shrunk to a pile of cloth. The sweat was dripping. The man’s shoulders were so narrow that the arms of his jacket covered his hands. He had a sling around his neck but wasn’t using it. The crotch of his pants sagged down as far as his knees.

“Fifty-six years old,” said Adam Stubo slowly. “Is that correct?”

The man didn’t answer. Adam pulled a chair over to him and sat down. He rested his elbows on his knees and tried not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of urine and old sweat. This time he was certain of where the smell was coming from.

“Listen,” he said quietly. “Can I call you Laffen? Laffen, that’s what they call you, isn’t it?”

A slight nod indicated that the man was at least able to hear.

“Laffen,” smiled Stubo. “My name is Adam. It’s been a tiring evening for you, hasn’t it?”

Again, a slight nod.

“We’ll soon get everything straightened out. I just need you to answer a few questions. Okay?”

Another nod, almost imperceptible this time.

“Do you remember where you were caught? Where those two men . . . where they found you?”

The man didn’t react. His eyes, which were clearer at such close range, were like two black marbles in his narrow face. Adam carefully put his hand on the man’s knee and still got no reaction.

“You drive a car, don’t you?”

“Ford Escort 1991 model. Metallic blue. One point six liter engine, but it’s been souped up. The stereo cost eleventhousandfourhundredandninetykroner. Bucket seats and a spoiler. Did it all myself.”

His voice grated. Adam felt like he had put money into an old jukebox, especially when the man continued:

“Did it myself. Did it myself. Bucket seats and spoiler.”

“Great.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Why were you there then?”

“For no reason. Just . . . just standing there. Looking. It’s not against the law to look.”

The man pulled up his left sleeve. A blinding white plaster cast came into view.

“They broke my arm. I didn’t do nothing.”

It was half past three in the morning. Adam Stubo had been awake for twenty-one hours. God knows how long it was since the detainee had last slept. Adam slapped him lightly on the knee and got up.

“Try to get some sleep on the bunk over there,” he said in a friendly tone. “As soon as it’s daylight we’ll get everything straightened out, and then you can go home.”

As he closed the door carefully behind him, he realized that the camouflage man could pose a problem. He couldn’t get drunk in a brewery, let alone carry out three sophisticated abductions and one elaborate return of a child’s body. Sure, the man had a driver’s licence and therefore must be able to read and write. But “driver by trade” as Hermansen had called him was a huge exaggeration all the same. Laffen Sørnes was on disability and delivered hot meals to the elderly in Stabekk twice a week. Unpaid.

The problem was not the flasher himself. The problem was that the police had not arrested anyone else yet. Three children had disappeared. One boy was already dead. All the police had after three weeks of investigation was a middle-age flasher in a Ford Escort.

The flasher could turn out to be a major headache.

“Let him go,” said Adam Stubo.

Hermansen shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay, but then we’ve got nothing. Zip.
You
tell them that, those vultures out there.”

He nodded at the window.

“Let the flasher go home as soon as it’s daylight,” Stubo yawned. “And for God’s sake, get the man another lawyer, one who makes sure that his client isn’t kept awake all night. That’s my advice. He’s not our man. And you . . .”

He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and pointed a finger.

“I can’t decide what you do out here in Asker and Bærum. But if I were you . . . I’d fine the bastards who broke his arm. If not, you’ll be living in the Wild West before you know it. Mark my words. It’ll be like Texas.”

T
WENTY-FIVE

O
ut in the country, in a valley to the northeast of Oslo, in a house high on the hillside, sat a man with a remote control in his hand. He was checking the news on teletext. He liked teletext. He could get the news whenever he liked in a format he liked: short and to the point. It was early morning. The white light of another unused day flooded in through the kitchen window and made him feel reborn, every day. He laughed out loud, even though he was alone.

Man (56) arrested in Emilie case
.

He played with the buttons on the remote control. The letters got bigger, smaller, bolder, narrower. Man arrested. Did they think he was an amateur? And that he’d get angry now? That he’d lose his head just because they had arrested the wrong person? Because they made his actions another man’s property? Did the police think that it would make him hurry, make mistakes, not be as careful?

He laughed out loud again, nearly ecstatic. The bare walls echoed. He knew exactly what the police thought. They thought he was a psychopath. They assumed he would be conceited about his crimes. The police meant to wound his pride. They wanted to lure him into making mistakes, to boast about what he was doing. The man with the remote control knew that, he had done his homework, studied; he knew what the police would do when they discovered that he was out there, someone who stole children and killed them without them knowing why. They wanted to provoke him.

He could picture them. All the information about the children on a big board. Photographs, data. Computers. Age, sex, history. Parents’ background. Dates; they were looking for links. A pattern. He was certain they would make a point of the fact that Emilie was taken on a Thursday, Kim on a Wednesday, and Sarah on a Tuesday. They thought they had it figured out and now expected something to happen on a Monday. When the time came and the next child disappeared on a Sunday, they would panic. No pattern, they would say to each other. No system! Their despair would paralyze them and would become utterly unbearable when yet another child disappeared.

The man went over to the window. He would have to go to work soon. But first he should take some food down to the children. And water. Cornflakes and water, as he’d run out of milk.

Emilie had pulled herself together. She was sweet. Happy and friendly. Just like he’d expected. Even though he had initially been uncertain as to whether he should take her, he was glad he had done it now. Of course, there was something special about Emilie. When he heard that her mother had died, he had decided to leave her alone. But thankfully he’d changed his mind. She was a grateful little girl. Said thank you for her food and was pleased to get the horse, even though she said practically nothing when he gave her the Barbie doll. He was still unsure what he was going to do with Emilie in the long run, when it was all over. But that didn’t really matter. He had plenty of time.

Sarah was a little witch.

But he could have told you that beforehand. The bite mark on his arm was red and swollen; he carefully stroked the skin and was annoyed that he hadn’t been more cautious.

As he looked out the window at the brow of the hill, squinting against the morning sun, he wondered why he hadn’t started earlier. He had put up with too much for too long. Given in too often. Tolerated too much. Got too little. Given in too much. It started when he was four years old. Probably even earlier, but that was the first time that he could remember.

Someone had sent him a present. He didn’t know who. His mother picked it up from the post office.

The man with the remote control liked to reminisce. It was important for him to think back. He turned off the TV and poured some coffee into his cup. He should really be getting the cornflakes and water ready. But memories were his fuel and had to be tended to when they demanded it. He closed his eyes.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, on his knees on a red wooden chair. He was drawing. In front of him was a glass of milk; he could still remember the sweet taste that clung to his palate, the heat from the burner in the corner; it was the start of winter. His mother came into the room. His grandmother had just gone to work. The package was wrapped in brown paper, creased from the journey. The string was tied crosswise with lots of knots and his mother had to use the scissors, even though they normally saved the string and brown paper.

The present was winter clothes. A blue jacket with a zipper and a ring in the zipper. There was a picture of a truck with big wheels on the front. The pants had elastic cords to go under the feet and crossed suspenders over the back. His mother helped him put them on. He was allowed to stand on the kitchen table. He licked his lips to get the taste of sweet milk and the lamp bumped his head as it swung backwards and forwards. His mother smiled. The blue clothes were light. They weighed nothing. He lifted his arms when she had zippered the jacket. He bent his knees and thought he could fly. The jacket was warm and snug and smooth, and he wanted to go out in the snow with the picture of a truck across his chest. He smiled at his mother.

The man dropped the remote control. It was nearly eight o’clock, so he didn’t have much time. Of course the children in the cellar wouldn’t starve if he skipped a meal, but it was best to get it out of the way. He opened the kitchen cabinet and looked at himself in the shaving mirror that hung on the inside of the door.

His grandmother had come back. She had forgotten something and she stiffened when she saw him.

Someone else got the clothes. Another child. Someone who deserved them more, his grandmother said. That he remembered very well. His mother didn’t protest. Someone had sent him a present. It was his, but he didn’t get it. He was four years old.

His face looked grimy in the mirror. But that wasn’t how he felt. He felt strong and decisive. The cornflakes box was empty. The children would have to go hungry until he got home. They would survive.

T
WENTY-SIX

J
ohanne Vik had been working, half concentrating, all evening. The night manager at the Augustus Snow Inn was a boy who must have lied about his age to get the job. His mustache was obviously darkened with mascara and in the course of the evening it got lighter. And there were now black specks all around his nose, where he couldn’t help squeezing his pimples. He gave her the code of the hotel’s own Internet server, so Johanne could log on from her room. If she had any problems, all she needed to do was call room service. The boy smiled broadly and smoothed his mustache with his forefinger and thumb. It had now nearly disappeared.