He remembered the tattoo. The Louis Vuitton logo. Shone the light on her ankles. They were so white in the glare, as though she were made of snow. But no Louis Vuitton logo. What did that mean?
An owl, at least he guessed it was an owl, hooted somewhere out in the darkness. He couldn’t see the outside of her left ankle, maybe that’s where the tattoo was. He moved along the bank until he was at the right angle and shone the light on her.
And there it was. Black on snow white. An L over a V.
It was her. Had to be her.
He took out his phone again and called Katrine Bratt. Still no answer. Strange. Not taking Harry Hole’s call might have been a choice, but the lead detective should always be available to those they’re working with, that was an unwritten rule.
‘So you see, Bertine, I have an important task to carry out.’
Prim leaned across the table and laid his hand against her cheek.
‘I’m just sorry you had to become part of that task. And I’m sorry that I must leave you now. That this will be our last night together. Because even though I know you want me, you aren’t the one I love. There, I’ve said it. Tell me you forgive me. No? Please. Sweet girl.’ Prim chuckled quietly. ‘You can try to resist, Bertine Bertilsen, but you know that I can turn you on any time with the slightest touch.’
He did it, she could not prevent him. And, of course, she lit up for him. For the last time, he thought, raising his glass in a farewell toast.
Sung-min had got hold of the Crime Scene Unit, they were on their way. All he could do was sit on a tree stump and wait. He scratched at his face and neck. Mosquitoes. No, gnats. Little mosquitoes that sucked blood, even from larger mosquitoes. He had switched off the torch to save the battery and could just discern the body out there in front of him.
It was her. Of course it was her.
Still.
He checked the time, was already impatient. And where was Katrine? Why didn’t she call back?
Sung-min found a long, thin branch on the ground. Turning the torch on again and placing it on the ground, he stood by the shore and used the branch to snag the edge of the dress. Lifted it. Higher. And higher. Saw the bare upper arms now, waited to see her brown hair, it had been long and worn loose in the photos he had seen. Was it tied up? Was it...?
Sung-min made a hooting sound. Like an owl. He simply lost control, the sound just came out, the branch fell in the water and the dress was back covering what had caused him to make the sound. Covering what was not there.
‘Poor thing,’ Prim whispered. ‘You’re so beautiful. And spurned all the same. It’s not fair, is it?’
He hadn’t straightened her head after striking the table two nights previously and the shaking had caused the head to tilt a little to one side. The head was mounted on top of a standard lamp he had placed in front of the chair on the other side of the table. When he pressed the switch on the cord lying across the table and the 60-watt bulb inside Bertine’s head turned on and the light shone out of her eye sockets, colouring her teeth in the gaping mouth blue, an unimaginative man might say it resembled a pumpkin head at Halloween. While a man with just a little more imagination would see that the whole of Bertine — at least that part of her not by a lake in Østmarka — lit up, beamed with joy, yes, a man could easily imagine she loved him. And Bertine had loved him, desired him at any rate.
‘If it’s any consolation, I enjoyed the lovemaking with you more than with Susanne,’ Prim said. ‘You have a nicer body, and...’ He licked at his fork. ‘I like your brain better. But...’ He cocked his head to one side, looking at her ruefully. ‘I had to eat it for the sake of the life cycle. For the eggs. For the parasites. For revenge. It’s the only way I can become whole. The only way I can be loved for who I am. Yes, I know that probably sounds pompous. But it’s true. To be loved, that’s all any of us want, isn’t it?’
He pressed his forefinger on the light switch. The light bulb in her head went off and the living room was left lying in semi-darkness.
Prim sighed. ‘Yes, I was afraid you’d take it like that.’
19
Tuesday
Chimes
Katrine was listening to Sung-min.
Closing her eyes, she pictured the crime scene while he spoke. Answered that, no, she didn’t need to see it herself, she would dispatch a couple of detectives, then study photos of the scene. And, yes, she apologised for not being available by phone. She had switched it off while putting the child to bed and must have performed a very good rendition of ‘Blueman’, because she had fallen asleep too.
‘Maybe you’re working too hard,’ Sung-min said.
‘You can scratch maybe,’ Katrine said. ‘But that goes for all of us. Let’s call a press conference for tomorrow at ten. I’ll get Forensics to prioritise this.’
‘All right. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Sung-min.’
Katrine rang off and sat staring at the phone.
Bertine Bertilsen was dead. That was as expected. Now she had been found. That was as hoped. The place and way she had been found confirmed the suspicion that it was the same killer. That was as feared. Because that meant there might be more murders.
Katrine heard a whimper from behind the open door to his bedroom. She told herself she would stay sitting where she was listening for more, but wasn’t able, stood up from the kitchen chair and tiptoed over to the doorway. It was quiet in there, just the sound of Gert’s steady slumberous breathing. She had lied to Sung-min. She had read that on average we hear two hundred lies every day, most of them white fortunately, the sort that keep the social wheels turning. This had been one of them. It was true she had switched off the phone to put the child to bed, but not about falling asleep herself. She hadn’t switched it back on because Arne usually called right after Gert’s bedtime, knowing that was when he would catch her. That was nice, of course it was. After all, he just wanted to hear how her day had been. Listen to her small joys and petty frustrations. Lately — with the missing girls — she had been mostly sharing her frustrations, naturally enough. But he had listened patiently, asked follow-up questions that showed he was interested, did everything a good, supportive friend and potential boyfriend should do. It was just that tonight she really wasn’t in the mood, she needed to be alone with her thoughts. Had decided to serve up the same white lie about having fallen asleep when Arne asked tomorrow. She had been thinking about Harry and Gert. How she was going to solve it. Because she had seen it in Harry’s eyes, the same helpless love she had seen in Bjørn’s when they looked at their son. Bjørn’s son and Harry’s son. How much should and could she include Harry in things? For herself, she wanted to have as little as possible to do with Harry and Harry’s life. But what about Gert? What right did she have to take yet another father from him? Hadn’t she herself had an unstable drunkard for a father, one she had loved in her own way and would not have been without?
She had switched the mobile back on before going to bed, hoping there wouldn’t be any messages. But there were two. The first, from Arne, was a declaration of love of the kind the younger generation obviously had a lower threshold for:
Katrine Bratt, you are the Woman, and I am the Man who loves you. Goodnight.