‘Crazy enough that you could envisage meeting a vampirist? Not a murderer, as in this tragic case, but one who might just bite you a little bit?’
Katrine suspected that was a joke, possibly one alluding to her vaguely S&M-inspired outfit.
‘A little bit?’ she repeated, and raised one black, made-up eyebrow. ‘Yes, why not?’
And without actually trying, she too was rewarded with laughter this time.
‘Good luck with catching him, Detective Inspector Bratt. The last word to you, herr Smith. You didn’t answer the question about how to find vampirists. Any advice for Detective Inspector Bratt here?’
‘Vampirism is such an extreme paraphilia that it often occurs in conjunction with other psychiatric diagnoses. So I would encourage all psychologists and psychiatrists to help the police by going through their lists to see if they have patients who demonstrate behaviour that might fit the criteria for clinical vampirism. I think we can agree that a case like this has to take precedence over our oath of confidentiality.’
‘And with that, this edition of The Sunday Magazine …’
The television screen behind the counter went dark.
‘Nasty stuff,’ Mehmet said. ‘But your colleague looked good.’
‘Hm. Is it always this empty here?’
‘Oh, no.’ Mehmet looked around the bar. Cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes.’
‘I like it.’
‘Do you? You haven’t touched your beer. Look at it, going flat there.’
‘Good,’ the policeman said.
‘I could give you something with a bit more life in it.’ Mehmet nodded towards the Galatasaray banner.
Katrine was hurrying along one of the empty, labyrinthine corridors in Television Centre when she heard heavy footsteps and breathing behind her. She glanced back without stopping. It was Hallstein Smith. Katrine noted a running style that was as unorthodox as his research, unless he was just unusually knock-kneed.
‘Bratt,’ Smith called.
Katrine stopped and waited.
‘I’d like to start by apologising,’ Smith said as he caught up with her, gasping for breath.
‘What for?’
‘For talking far too much. I get a bit high from the attention, my wife’s always telling me. But much more importantly, that picture …’
‘Yes?’
‘I couldn’t say anything in there, but I think I might have had him as a patient.’
‘Valentin Gjertsen?’
‘I’m not sure, it must be at least two years ago, and it was only a couple of hours of therapy at the office I used to rent in the city. There’s not really that much of a similarity, but I thought of this particular patient when you mentioned plastic surgery. Because, if I remember rightly, he had a scar left by stitches under his chin.’
‘Was he a vampirist?’
‘What do I know? He didn’t mention it, and if he had I’d have included him in my research.’
‘Maybe he came to see you because he was curious, if he knew that you were conducting research into his … what was that word?’
‘Paraphilia. That’s not impossible. Like I said, I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with an intelligent vampirist who’s aware of his own illness. Either way, this makes the fact that my patient records were stolen even more annoying.’
‘You don’t remember what this patient said his name was, where he worked, where he lived?’
Smith sighed deeply. ‘I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it used to be.’
Katrine nodded. ‘We can always hope that he’s seen other psychologists and that they remember something. And that they’re not too Catholic when it comes to the oath of confidentiality.’
‘A bit of Catholicism isn’t to be sniffed at.’
Katrine raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Smith screwed his eyes shut in frustration and looked like he was trying not to swear. ‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, Smith.’
The psychologist threw his hands out. ‘I’m putting two and two together here, Bratt. Your reaction when the presenter asked if you were crazy, combined with what you said to me about getting drenched in Sandviken. We often communicate non-verbally, and what you were communicating was the fact that you had been treated in the psychiatric unit in Sandviken. And for you as a lead detective at Crime Squad, it’s probably a good idea for us to keep an oath of confidentiality that’s in part designed to protect people seeking help for problems from having it come back to haunt them later in their careers.’
Katrine Bratt felt her mouth hang open as she tried in vain to think of something to say.
‘You don’t actually have to respond to my idiotic guesses,’ Smith said. ‘I’m actually under an oath of confidentiality when it comes to them too. Goodnight, Bratt.’
Katrine watched Hallstein trudge off along the corridor, as knock-kneed as the Eiffel Tower. Her phone rang.
It was Bellman.
He was naked, locked into an impenetrable, burning fog that stung the parts of his skin where he had scrubbed through it, making the blood run onto the wooden bench beneath him. He closed his eyes, felt a sob rising, and visualised how it would happen. The fucking rules. They limited the enjoyment, limited the pain, stopped him from expressing himself the way he would like to. But things would change. The police had received his message, and were after him now. Right now. Trying to sniff him out, but they couldn’t. Because he was clean.
He started when he heard someone clear their throat in the fog and realised that he was no longer alone.
‘Kapatiyoruz.’
‘Yes,’ Valentin Gjertsen replied in a thick voice, but remained seated, trying to stifle the sob.
Closing time.
He touched his genitals carefully. He knew exactly where she was. How she should be played with. He was ready. Valentin breathed moist air into his lungs. And there was Harry Hole, thinking he was the hunter.
Valentin Gjertsen stood up suddenly and walked towards the door.
16
SUNDAY NIGHT
AURORA GOT OUT of bed and crept into the hall. Went past her mum and dad’s bedroom and the stairs that led down to the living room. She couldn’t help listening to the rumbling, silent darkness down there as she crept into the bathroom and turned the light on. She locked the door, pulled her pyjamas down and sat on the toilet. Waited, but nothing happened. She had been so desperate to pee that she couldn’t sleep, so why couldn’t she go now? Was it because she didn’t really need to, and had just persuaded herself that she did because she couldn’t sleep? And because it was so quiet and safe in here? She had locked the door. When she was a child, her parents had told her she wasn’t allowed to do that unless they had guests. Said they needed to be able to get in if anything happened to her.
Aurora closed her eyes. Listened. What if they had guests? Because it had been a sound that had woken her, she remembered that now. The sound of creaking shoes. No, boots. Long, pointed boots that creaked and bent as he crept forward. Stopped and waited outside the bathroom door. Waiting for her. Aurora felt that she couldn’t breathe and looked automatically at the bottom of the door. But it was hidden by the threshold, so she couldn’t see if anything outside was casting a shadow. Anyway, it was pitch-black out there. The first time she saw him she had been sitting on the swing in the garden. He’d asked for a glass of water, and had almost followed Aurora into the house, then vanished when they’d heard her mum’s car coming. The second time had been in the ladies’ toilet during the handball tournament.
Aurora listened. She knew he was there. In the darkness outside the door. He had told her he would come back. If she said anything. So she had stopped talking. That was the safest option. And she knew why she couldn’t pee now. Because then he’d know she was sitting here. She closed her eyes and listened as hard as she could. No. Nothing. And she could breathe again. He had gone.