‘She was naked, and her head was cut off. No one reported missing. As yet. But I’m guessing she was young and beautiful, so...’
She didn’t finish the sentence. That it wouldn’t be long. That from experience it was the young and beautiful who were reported missing earliest.
‘No tracks, I presume.’
‘No, the perpetrator was lucky, it rained last night.’
Sung-min shivered as a sudden cold gust of wind hit. ‘I don’t think it’s luck, Bratt.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Will we do something proactive to get an ID on the body?’
‘Yeah. I was thinking of calling Mona Daa at VG. Give her this as an exclusive in return for them running hard with it and in the way we want. Not too much, not too little. Then the rest of them can quote from her piece and complain about preferential treatment afterwards.’
‘Not a bad idea. Daa will go for it just to have something Våge doesn’t.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
They watched the crime scene technicians in silence, as they continued photographing and fine-combing the cordoned-off search area for evidence.
Sung-min rocked on his heels. ‘She was brought here in a car, just like Bertine, don’t you think?’
Katrine nodded. ‘There’re no buses out here, and the taxi firms we checked had no fares to the area last night, so yeah, in all likelihood.’
‘You know if there’re any gravel or dirt roads around?’
Katrine looked at him closely. ‘Tyre tracks, that what you’re thinking? I’ve only seen tarmac roads round here. But any tyre marks have probably been washed away by the rain now.’
‘Of course, I just...’
‘You just?’
‘Nothing,’ Sung-min said.
‘Then I’ll make that call to VG,’ Katrine said.
It was a quarter to twelve. Prim slowly unfolded the greaseproof paper in front of him.
A fresh wave of anger washed over him. They had come at irregular intervals ever since he had seen the two of them together. Like two lovebirds. Her, the Woman he loved, and that guy. When a man and a woman take a walk in the park like that, there’s little doubt about what’s going on. He was after her. A policeman as well! He hadn’t yet had time to come up with a plan to get this unexpected rival out of the way, but he would soon enough.
The greaseproof paper lay unfolded in front of him, and in the centre of it: an eye.
Prim felt his mouth get dry.
But he must.
He held the eye between two fingers, felt nausea rising. He couldn’t throw it up again, that would be a waste. He placed the eye back on the paper and tried to breathe deeply and calmly. Checked the online newspapers on his phone again. There it was, finally! In VG. It was at the top, with a large picture of the wetlands. Beneath Mona Daa’s byline, he read that the body of an as yet unidentified woman had been found by Lilløyplassen on Snarøya. The body was without a head again, and VG urged the public to get in touch with the police if they had any information about who the murdered woman might be. As well as those who had been in the area the previous evening, irrespective of whether they had seen anything or not. Mona Daa wrote that the police were refusing to comment for the time being on whether this murder was connected to the murders of Susanne Andersen and Bertine Bertilsen, but that that would clearly turn out to be the case.
Prim gazed at the article. It was placed above several items about the politician who had cheated on her taxes, that day’s decisive clash between Bodø/Glimt and Molde, and the war in the East.
He felt the odd intoxication at being there, centre stage, in the main role. Was this how Mummy had felt in front of a spellbound, breathless theatre audience as she brandished the magic wand of the narrator? Was this her genes and passion finally awakening within him?
He took out the other phone, the burner, which he had bought on eBay with a SIM card from Latvia registered under a fictive name. Tapped in the number for VG’s tip-off line. Said it concerned the dead woman by Lilløyplassen and asked to be put through to Mona Daa.
It sounded like an order when she came on the line.
‘Daa.’
Prim affected a deeper tone to his own voice, which from experience he knew no one was able to identify as his. ‘Who I am is of no importance, but I’m very worried. I was supposed to meet Helene Røed in Frogner Park today. She never showed up, she’s not answering her phone, and she’s not at home either.’
‘Who—’
Prim hung up. Looked down at the greaseproof paper. Lifted the eye and studied it. Put it in his mouth. And chewed.
Just after half past twelve Johan Krohn rang Harry Hole’s number.
He had come in from the veranda, where his wife was still sitting with a cup of coffee and her face turned to the sun. She said she didn’t trust the weather report which forecast there was more warm weather in store. He buttoned his coat while waiting for an answer. Finally, he heard Harry’s breathless voice.
‘Sorry, am I disturbing a workout?’
‘No, I’m playing.’
‘Playing?’
‘I’m a dragon attacking a castle.’
‘I see,’ Johan Krohn said. ‘I’m ringing because I just received a call from Markus. His assistant just informed him that the Forensic Medical Institute have been in touch. They want him to come and identify a body.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘They think it might be Helene.’
‘Mm.’
Johan Krohn couldn’t tell whether Hole sounded shocked or not.
‘I thought you might want to accompany him. Then you can see the body. Whether it’s Helene or not, the killer is probably the same.’
‘Good,’ Hole said. ‘Can you come over here and look after a three-year-old for a few minutes?’
‘A three-year-old?’
‘He likes it if you pretend to be an animal. A large mammal, preferably.’
Johan Krohn pressed the call button that said Forensic Medical Institute for a second time.
‘It’s Sunday — you sure there’s anyone at work?’
‘They said I was to come asap and ring at this door,’ Markus Røed said, glancing up at the building’s facade.
Eventually they saw someone wearing green scrubs on the inside trotting towards the glass door, which he opened. ‘Apologies, my colleague has left for the day,’ he said from behind the surgical mask. ‘I’m Helge, post-mortem technician.’
‘Johan Krohn.’ The lawyer instinctively put his hand out, but the technician shook his head as he held up his gloved hands.
‘Can the dead be infected?’ Røed asked sarcastically from behind.
‘No, but they can infect the living,’ the post-mortem technician said.
They followed him through an empty corridor to a room with a window facing into what Krohn assumed was the autopsy room.
‘Which of you will be making the identification?’
‘Him,’ Krohn said, nodding towards Markus Røed.
The man handed Røed a face mask, scrubs and a scrub cap like he himself was wearing.
‘Can I ask what your relationship is to the individual who may be the deceased?’
Røed looked at a loss for a moment. ‘Husband,’ he said. The sarcastic tone was gone, as though the possibility of Helene really lying there was beginning to sink in.
‘Before putting on your face mask, I’d like you to have a drink of water,’ the post-mortem technician said.
‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ Røed said.
‘Experience suggests it can be a good idea to have fluid in the body when we’re dealing with a case such as this.’ The post-mortem technician poured water from a carafe into a glass. ‘Believe me, you’ll understand when we enter.’