‘For that,’ Smith said, ‘I think we should go for a walk.’
Katrine walked alongside Hallstein Smith down the gravel track that led from the house to the barn. He was explaining that his wife had inherited the farm and almost a hectare of land, and that only two generations ago there were cows and horses grazing here in Grini, just a few kilometres from the centre of Oslo. Even so, a smaller plot containing a boathouse on Nesøya that had also formed part of the inheritance was worth more. At least if you were to believe the offers they had received from their filthy rich neighbours.
‘Nesøya’s really too far away to be practical, but we don’t want to sell for the time being. We’ve only got a cheap aluminium boat with a twenty-five horsepower engine, but I love it. Don’t tell my wife, but I prefer the sea to this bit of farmland.’
‘I come from the coast too,’ Katrine said.
‘Bergen, right? I love the dialect. I spent a year working in a psychiatric ward in Sandviken. Beautiful, but so much rain.’
Katrine nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I’ve got drenched in Sandviken before.’
They reached the barn. Smith pulled out a key and undid the padlock.
‘Big lock for a barn,’ Katrine said.
‘The last one was too small,’ Smith said, and Katrine could hear the bitterness in his voice. She stepped through the doorway and let out a small yelp when she put her foot on something that moved. She looked down and saw a rectangular metal plate, one metre by one and a half, set into the cement floor. It felt like it was on springs as it swayed and knocked against the cement edge before settling again.
‘Fifty-eight kilos,’ Smith said.
‘What?’
He nodded to his left, towards a large arrow that was quivering between 50 and 60 on a half-moon-shaped dial, and she realised she was standing on old-fashioned cattle scales. She squinted.
‘Fifty-seven point six-eight.’
Smith laughed. ‘A long way below slaughter weight, anyway. I have to admit that I try to jump across the scales every morning, I don’t like the idea that every day could be my last.’
They carried on past a row of stalls and stopped in front of the door to an office. Smith unlocked it. The room contained a desk with a PC, a window looking out across the field, a drawing of a vampire with big, thin bat’s wings, a long neck and square face. The bookcase behind the desk was half full with files and a dozen or so books.
‘What you see before you is everything that has ever been published on vampirism,’ Smith said, running his hand over the books. ‘So it’s pretty easy to get an overview. But to answer your question, let’s start with Vandenbergh and Kelly, from 1964.’
Smith pulled out one of the books, opened it and read: ‘“Vampirism is defined as the act of drawing blood from an object (usually a love object), and receiving resultant sexual excitement and pleasure.” That’s the dry definition. But you’re after more than that, aren’t you?’
‘I think so,’ Katrine said, and looked at the picture of the vampire. It was a fine piece of art. Simple. Lonely. And it seemed to radiate a chill that instinctively made her pull her jacket tighter.
‘Let’s go a bit deeper,’ Smith said. ‘To start with, vampirism isn’t some newfangled invention. The word obviously refers to the myth about bloodthirsty creatures in human guise, going way back through history, especially in Eastern Europe and Greece. But the modern concept of vampires comes mainly from Bram Stoker’s Dracula in 1897 and the first vampire films of the 1930s. Some researchers mistakenly believe that vampirists – ordinary but sick individuals – are largely inspired by these myths. They forget that vampirism had already been mentioned in this …’ Smith pulled out an old book with a half-disintegrated brown cover. ‘Richard von Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis from 1887 – in other words, before the myth became widely known.’ Smith put it back carefully and pulled out another book.
‘My own research is based on the idea that vampirism is related to such conditions as necrophagia, necrophilia and sadism, just as the author of this book, Bourguignon, also thought.’ Smith opened it. ‘This is from 1983: “Vampirism is a rare compulsive disorder with an irresistible urge for blood ingestion, a ritual necessary to bring mental relief; like other compulsions, its meaning is not understood by the participant.”’
‘So a vampirist just does what vampirists do? They simply can’t act differently?’
‘That’s an oversimplification, but yes.’
‘Can any of these books help us to put together a profile of a murderer who extracts blood from his victims?’
‘No,’ Smith said, replacing Bourguignon’s book. ‘One’s been written, but it’s not on the shelf.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s never been published.’
Katrine looked at Smith. ‘Yours?’
‘Mine,’ Smith said with a sad smile.
‘What happened?’
Smith shrugged. ‘The time wasn’t right for that sort of radical psychology. After all, I was flying in the face of this.’ He pointed at one of the spines on the shelf. ‘Herschel Prins and his article in the British Journal of Psychiatry, 1985. And you don’t get away with that unpunished. I was dismissed because my results were based on case studies rather than empirical evidence. But of course that was impossible when there are so few cases of real vampirism, and the few that are recorded have been diagnosed as schizophrenia because there hasn’t been enough research. I tried, but even newspapers that are more than happy to publish articles about B-list American celebrities thought vampirism was frivolous, sensationalist. And when I had finally collected enough research evidence, that’s when the break-in happened.’ Smith gestured towards the empty shelves. ‘Taking my computer was one thing, but they took all my patient notes too, my entire archive of clients, the whole lot. And now certain malicious colleagues are claiming that I was saved by the bell, and that if my material had been published I would only have exposed myself to more ridicule, because it would have become obvious that vampirists don’t exist.’
Katrine ran her finger across the frame of the picture of the vampire. ‘Who would break in here to steal medical records?’
‘God knows. I assumed it was a colleague. I waited for someone to step forward with my theories and results, but it never happened.’
‘Maybe they were after your patients?’
Smith laughed. ‘I wish them luck with that. They’re so crazy no one else wants them, believe me. They’re only useful as research subjects, not as a way of making a living. If my wife hadn’t been doing so well with her yoga school we wouldn’t have been able to keep hold of the farm and boathouse. Speaking of which, there’s a birthday party going on up at the house that needs a hawk.’
They walked back outside and as Smith locked the door to the office Katrine noticed a small surveillance camera fixed to the wall above the stalls.
‘You know the police don’t investigate ordinary break-ins any more?’ she said. ‘Even if you’ve got security camera footage.’
‘I know.’ Smith sighed. ‘That’s for my own peace of mind. If they come back for any of my new material, I want to know which of my colleagues I’m dealing with. I’ve got a camera outside by the gate as well.’
Katrine couldn’t help laughing. ‘I thought academics were bookish, cosy types, not common thieves.’
‘Oh, I’m afraid we do just as many stupid things as less intelligent people,’ Smith said, shaking his head sadly. ‘Myself included, I have to admit.’
‘Really?’