She walked from the station towards the building rising up in front of her, which looked like it had a halo. Penelope realised that there was a full moon tonight, that must be what was glowing behind the building. Four. She had slept with four men since Roar left her, eleven months and thirteen days ago. Two of them had been better than Roar, two worse. But she didn’t love Roar for the sex. But because … well, because he was Roar, the bastard.
She found herself quickening her pace as she passed the little clump of trees on the left-hand side of the road. The streets of Hovseter grew empty early each evening, but Penelope was a tall, fit young woman, and until now it hadn’t even occurred to her that it might be dangerous to walk here after dark. Perhaps it was because of that murderer who was in all the papers. No, it wasn’t that. It was because someone had been inside her flat. It was three months ago now, and at first she had dared to hope that Roar had come back. She realised someone had been there when she found mud in the hallway that didn’t match her shoes. And when she found some more in the bedroom, in front of the chest of drawers, she had counted her knickers in the idiotic hope that Roar had taken a pair. But no, that didn’t seem to be the case. Then she realised what was missing. The engagement ring in its box, the one Roar had bought her in London. Could it just have been a run-of-the-mill burglary, after all? No, it was Roar. He had snuck in and taken it, and had given it to that bitch of a gallery owner! Naturally, Penelope had been furious, and had called Roar and confronted him with it. But he swore he hadn’t been back, and claimed to have lost the keys to the flat during the move, because otherwise he would have posted them to her. A lie, of course, like everything else, but she had still gone to the effort of getting the locks changed, both the front door and the door to her flat on the fourth floor.
Penelope took her keys out of her handbag – they were next to the pepper spray she had bought – unlocked the front door, heard the low hiss of the hydraulics as it swung behind her, saw that the lift was on the sixth floor, and started to walk up the stairs. She passed the Amundsens’ door. Stopped. Felt that she was out of breath. Funny, she was in good shape, these stairs had never tired her out before. Something was wrong. What?
She stared up at the door to her flat.
It was an old building, built for the working classes of western Oslo, now long gone, and they had been sparing with the lighting. There was just one large, metal-framed light on each floor, jutting out from high up on the wall above the stairs. She held her breath and listened. She hadn’t heard a sound since she came into the building.
Not since the hiss of the hydraulics.
Not a sound.
That was what was wrong.
She hadn’t heard the door close.
Penelope didn’t have time to turn round, didn’t have time to put her hand in her bag, didn’t have time to do anything before an arm swung round her, locking her arms and pressing her chest so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Her bag fell onto the stairs and was the only thing she managed to hit as she kicked out wildly around her. She screamed soundlessly into the hand that was clamped over her mouth. It smelt of soap.
‘There, there, Penelope,’ a voice whispered in her ear. ‘In space, no one c-can hear you scream, you know.’ He made the whooshing sound.
She heard a noise from down near the front door, and for a moment hoped someone was coming, before realising that it was her bag, her keys – and the pepper spray – sailing through the railings and hitting the floor downstairs.
‘What is it?’ Rakel asked, without turning round or stopping chopping the onion for the salad. She had seen from the reflection in the window above the kitchen worktop that Harry had stopped laying the table and had gone over to the living-room window.
‘I thought I heard something,’ he said.
‘Probably Oleg and Helga.’
‘No, it was something else. It was … something else.’
Rakel sighed. ‘Harry, you’ve only just got home, and already you’re climbing the walls. Look at what it’s doing to you.’
‘Just this one case, then it’s over.’ Harry walked over to the worktop and kissed the back of her neck. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ she lied. Her body ached, her head ached. Her heart ached.
‘You’re lying,’ he said.
‘Am I good liar?’
He smiled and massaged her neck.
‘If I ever disappeared,’ she said, ‘would you look for someone new?’
‘Look for? That sounds tiring. It was bad enough trying to persuade you.’
‘Someone younger. Someone you could have kids with. I wouldn’t be jealous, you know.’
‘You’re not that good a liar, darling.’
She smiled and let go of the knife, leaned her head forward and felt his warm, dry fingers massage the aches away, giving her a break from the pain.
‘I love you,’ she said.
‘Mm?’
‘I love you. Especially if you make me a cup of tea.’
‘Aye aye, boss.’
Harry let go and Rakel stood there waiting. Hoping. But no, the pain came back again, punching her like a fist.
Harry stood with both hands on the kitchen worktop, staring at the kettle. Waiting for the low rumble. Which would get louder and louder until the whole thing shook. Like a scream. He could hear screams. Silent screams that filled his head, filled the room, filled his body. He shifted his weight. Screams that wanted to get out, that had to get out. Was he going mad? He looked up at the glass of the window. All he could see in the darkness was his own reflection. There he was. He was out there. He was waiting for them. He was singing. Come out and play!
Harry closed his eyes.
No, he wasn’t waiting for them. He was waiting for him, for Harry. Come out and play!
He could feel that she was different from the others. Penelope Rasch wanted to live. She was big and strong. And the keys to her flat lay three floors below them. He could feel her relinquishing the air from her lungs and tightened his grasp round her chest. Like a boa constrictor. A muscle tightening a little more each time the prey lets air out of its lungs. He wanted her alive. Alive and warm. With this wonderful desire to survive. Which he would break, little by little. But how? Even if he managed to drag her all the way downstairs to get the key, there was a risk that one of the neighbours would hear them. He felt his rage growing. He should have skipped Penelope Rasch. Should have taken that decision three days ago when he discovered that she’d changed the locks. But then he had been lucky, had made contact with her on Tinder, she had agreed to meet at that discreet place, and he had thought that it was going to work out after all. But a small, quiet place also means that the few people who are there pay more attention to you. One customer had stared at him a little too hard. And he had panicked, had decided to get out of there, and had rushed things. Penelope had turned him down and walked out.
He had been prepared for that eventuality and had the car nearby. He had driven fast. Not so fast that he risked being stopped by the police, but fast enough to reach the cluster of trees before she emerged from the metro. She hadn’t turned round when he was following her, nor when she got her keys out of her bag and went in. He had managed to stick his foot in the gap before the door clicked shut.
He felt a shudder run through her body and knew that she would soon lose consciousness. His erection rubbed against her buttocks. A broad, fleshy woman’s arse. His mother had had a similar backside.
He could feel the boy coming, eager to take over, and he was screaming inside, wanting to be fed. Now. Here.
‘I love you,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I really do, Penelope, and that’s why I’m going to make an honest woman of you before we go any further.’
She went limp in his arms and he hurried, holding her up with one arm as he fumbled in his jacket pocket with the other.