Something crunched beneath their feet.
Truls grabbed the back of the policeman’s jacket, and he stopped and pointed the torch at the floor. Splinters of glass sparkled, and between them Truls could see indistinct footprints in what he was fairly sure was blood. The heel and front of the sole were clearly divided, but he thought the print was too big to be a woman’s. The prints were pointing down the stairs, and he was sure he would have seen them if there had been any further down. The ticking sound had got louder.
Truls gestured to the policeman to go on. He looked at the stairs, saw that the bloody prints were getting clearer. Looked up the stairs. Stopped and raised his pistol. Let the policeman carry on. Truls had seen something. Something that had fallen through the light. Something that sparkled. Something red. It wasn’t ticking they had heard, it was the sound of blood dripping and hitting the stairs.
‘Shine the torch upward,’ he said.
The police officer stopped, turned round, and for a moment looked surprised that the colleague whom he had thought was right behind him had stopped a few steps below and was looking up at the ceiling. But he did as Truls said.
‘Oh my God …’ he whispered.
‘Amen,’ Truls said.
There was a woman hanging from the wall above them.
Her checked skirt had been pulled up, revealing the edge of her white knickers. On one thigh, level with the policeman’s head, blood was dripping from a large wound. It ran down her leg, into her shoe. The shoe was evidently full, because the blood was running down the outside and gathering in drops at the point of the shoe, then falling to join a red puddle on the stairs. Her arms were pulled up above her lolling head. Her wrists were tied with a peculiar set of cuffs which had been hooked over the lamp bracket. Whoever had put her there had to be strong. Her hair was covering her face and neck, so Truls couldn’t see if there was a bite mark, but the amount of blood in the puddle and the terrible dripping told him that she was empty, dry.
Truls looked hard at her. Memorised every detail. She looked like a painting. He would use that expression when he spoke to Mona Daa. Like a painting hung on the wall.
A door opened slightly on the landing above them. A pale face peered out. ‘Has he gone?’
‘Looks like it. Amundsen?’
‘Yes.’
Light streamed out when the door on the other side of the hallway opened. They heard a gasp of horror.
An elderly man stumbled out while a woman who was presumably his wife stayed behind and looked out anxiously from the doorway. ‘That was the devil himself,’ the man said. ‘Look what he’s done.’
‘Please, don’t come any closer,’ Truls said. ‘This is a murder scene. Does anyone know where the perpetrator went?’
‘If we’d known he was gone, we’d have come out to see if there was anything we could do,’ the old man said. ‘But we did see a man from the living-room window. He left the building and headed off towards the metro. We don’t know if it was him though. Because he was walking so calmly.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Quarter of an hour, at most.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Now you’re asking …’ He turned to his wife for help.
‘Ordinary,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ the man agreed. ‘Neither tall nor short. Neither fair nor dark hair. A suit.’
‘Grey,’ his wife added.
Truls nodded to the policeman, who understood the signal and began talking into the radio that was clipped to the top pocket of his jacket. ‘Request assistance to Hovseterveien 44. Suspect observed heading on foot towards the metro, fifteen minutes ago. Approximately 1 metre 75, possibly ethnic Norwegian, grey suit.’
Fru Amundsen had come out from behind the door. She seemed even less steady on her feet than her husband, and her slippers dragged on the floor as she pointed a trembling finger at the woman on the wall. She reminded Truls of one of those pensioners they used to clear snow for. He raised his voice: ‘I said, don’t come any closer!’
‘But—’ the woman began.
‘Inside! Murder scenes mustn’t be contaminated before Forensics gets here, we’ll ring on the door if we have any questions.’
‘But … but she’s not dead.’
Truls turned round. In the light from the open door, he saw the woman’s right foot quiver, as if it was cramping. And the thought popped into his head before he could stop it. That she was infected. She had become a vampire. And now she was waking up.
12
SATURDAY NIGHT
THERE WAS A loud noise of metal on metal as the bar carrying the weights hit the cradle above the narrow bench. Some people would think it a terrible sound, but for Mona Daa it was like bells chiming. And she wasn’t bothering anyone else either, she was on her own at Gain Gym. They’d switched to twenty-four-hour opening six months ago, presumably inspired by gyms in New York and Los Angeles, but Mona still hadn’t seen anyone else exercising there after midnight. Norwegians simply didn’t work enough hours for it to be a problem finding time for the gym during the day. She was the exception. She wanted to be the exception. A mutant. Because it was like evolution, it was the exceptions who drove the world forward. Who perfected things.
Her phone rang, and she got up from the bench.
It was Nora. Mona put her earphone in and took the call.
‘You’re at the gym, bitch,’ her friend groaned.
‘I haven’t been here long.’
‘You’re lying, I can see that you’ve been there for two hours.’
Mona, Nora and a few of their other friends from college could find each other using the GPS on their mobiles. They’d activated a service that allowed them to voluntarily track the others’ phones. It was both sociable and reassuring. But Mona couldn’t help thinking that it felt a bit claustrophobic at times. Professional sisterhood was all well and good, but they didn’t have to follow each other about like fourteen-year-olds going to the toilet together. It was high time they realised that the world was full of career opportunities for intelligent young women, and that the only thing holding them back was their own lack of courage and ambition, ambition to make a difference, not just get the others’ validation of their own smartness.
‘I hate you just a tiny bit when I think of all the calories that are falling off you right now,’ Nora said. ‘While I’m sitting here on my fat arse consoling myself with another pina colada. Listen …’
Mona felt like pulling the earphone out as the sound of drawn-out slurping through a straw battered her eardrum. Nora believed that a pina colada was the only antidote to premature autumn depression.
‘Did you actually want to talk about anything, Nora? I’m in the middle of—’
‘Yep,’ Nora said. ‘Work.’
Nora and Mona had been at the College of Journalism together. A few years ago the college had had stricter entrance requirements than any other higher education establishment in Norway, and it had seemed as if every other clever little boy or girl’s dream was to get their own newspaper column or a job on television. That had certainly been the case for Nora and Mona. Cancer research and running the country were for people who weren’t quite as bright. But Mona had noticed that the College of Journalism now had competition from all the local high schools that were using their state funding to offer Norwegian youngsters popular courses in journalism, film, music and beauty therapy, with no consideration of the kind of qualifications the country lacked and actively needed. Which meant that the richest country in the world had to import those skills while the nation’s carefree, unemployed, film-studying sons and daughters were left sitting at home with their drinking straws stuck deep in the state’s milkshake while they watched – and, if they could be bothered, criticised – films made abroad. Another reason for the falling entrance requirements was of course that the boys and girls had discovered the blog market and no longer needed to work hard for the grades with which to achieve the same level of attention offered by the more traditional route of television and the newspapers. Mona had written about this, about the fact that the media no longer demanded professional qualifications from its journalists, with the result that aspiring reporters no longer made the effort to acquire them. The new media environment, with its increasingly banal focus on celebrity, had reduced the role of journalists to that of the town gossip. Mona had used her own newspaper, the biggest in Norway, as an example. The article never got published. ‘Too long,’ the features editor had said, referring her to the magazine editor. ‘Well, if there’s one thing the so-called critical press doesn’t like, it’s being criticised,’ as one more positively inclined colleague explained. But Mona had a feeling that the magazine editor hit the nail on the head when she said: ‘But, Mona, you haven’t got any quotes from celebrities here.’