by Thomas Enger
Fosse dried his sweat again. ‘How did he die?’ he asked.
‘Circulatory failure, most likely. It’s a bit early to say.’
‘But we suspect he’s been murdered too?’ Fosse queried.
Blix nodded. ‘Some form of poisoning.’
‘In the letter? Powder, or something?’
Blix shook his head. ‘But I think I know what’s going on here,’ he added. ‘And what might happen, looking ahead.’
Fosse met Blix’s gaze in the mirror in front of him. Dried himself again.
Blix spent the next few minutes going through the high-profile cases they were working on, explaining how each victim could be linked to a number.
Fosse picked up a water bottle and unscrewed the lid. He took long greedy gulps from it before squinting sceptically at Blix.
‘I didn’t believe any of it either until Calle Seeberg dropped down dead during his show today,’ Blix went on. ‘But it can’t be denied that he worked at Radio 4.’ Blix placed extra emphasis on the number four. ‘And he is – was – perhaps the most prominent celebrity they have. This is somebody who is killing famous people, and it’s happening in descending order.’
Fosse stepped off the treadmill and took a seat on a bench close by.
‘Why would Dahlmann deliver a number four to Seeberg unless that particular number signifies something?’ Blix ploughed on. ‘It’s obviously a number from a countdown series into the bargain.’
‘But a countdown to what?’ Fosse asked. ‘What’s the point of it all?’
‘I don’t know that yet.’
Fosse downed more water. ‘Who, then, is number three?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know that either. We just have to hope we can stop this before it gets to that stage.’
Fosse needed a few more minutes thinking time.
‘What are your next steps, then?’
‘The radio studio’s been cordoned off,’ Blix explained. ‘Ann-Mari Sara has sent a few technicians to examine the scene. I’ve asked Pia Nøkleby to request a post mortem, and then we’ll pay a visit to Calle Seeberg’s home to see if there’s anything in his flat to indicate how he was poisoned.’
Fosse got to his feet and headed for the dumbbells. Blix noticed that he still looked dubious.
‘Fine,’ Fosse said, slinging his towel over a chair. ‘But we’ll keep this close to our chests. The same applies to the numbers. As things stand, it’s nothing but a wild guess.’
Fosse picked up a dumbbell marked with the number ten. ‘Our first priority is to find Dahlmann.’
He lifted his eyes to his own reflection. ‘And since Dahlmann was obviously daring enough to attend our press conference yesterday, it could be that he’ll do the same today. Then it’ll pay dividends not to have disclosed his name earlier.’
Fosse shifted his eyes from himself to Blix, apparently feeling pleased with himself. ‘If we had done, we’d never have had that opportunity.’
Blix wanted to point out that there would be no such opportunity, since Dahlmann certainly wouldn’t show himself. Not now. He wasn’t stupid; he knew the likelihood was too great that they were on to him.
‘Tell everyone, make sure they keep their eyes peeled, and that they’re ready for action as soon as they catch sight of him,’ Fosse continued in a brash manner, before lifting the dumbbell and performing a biceps repetition.
Blix was tempted to tell him he was doing the exercise the wrong way, but decided to leave him to it.
43
A communications adviser welcomed the assembled journalists to the press conference, then handed over to Police Superintendent Gard Fosse. His cheeks were flushed. He poured himself a glass of water before delivering a chronological account of the facts and circumstances.
‘We are searching for a named suspect in connection with Ragnar Ole Theodorsen’s murder,’ he went on. ‘A forty-three-year-old male is the subject of an intensive police search.’
This statement unleashed a salvo of camera flashes. Fosse sat posing for a few seconds before going on to speak in general terms about the police working hard, both technically and tactically, to hunt down the person in question. He then said the police were seeking tip-offs from the public and he held up a still image of a man with a black hood on his head, looking down. The picture had been taken by one of the surveillance cameras inside the subway station.
‘We don’t know which route he took after shooting Theodorsen,’ Fosse added. ‘Which is why we need help from the public.’
When the room was opened to questions, Emma was one of the first to raise her hand. She was sitting close to the front this time, in the hope of being seen, but the first questions went, as usual, to the biggest media players. But none of them posed the question Emma was keen to hear an answer to, so she kept shooting her hand up. Only when the session was nearing its end did she get a chance to speak.
She cleared her throat and stood up. ‘Emma Ramm, news.no.’
She felt nervous. The press conference was being broadcast live, and she had never liked asking questions in public.
‘Calle Seeberg also died today,’ she ventured. ‘Do you regard his death as linked to the murder of Ragnar Ole Theodorsen and the other recent celebrity killings in the Østland area?’
Fosse regarded her for a few seconds, fixing his eyes on her in a way that suggested he knew who she was, or at least would remember her next time.
‘The murder of Ragnar Ole Theodorsen is the focus of this press conference,’ Fosse said slowly, as if to gain time to formulate his answer. ‘But I can confirm that police are making routine inquiries into the death of Calle Seeberg. These have certainly been demanding days for the investigators in Oslo Police District. We are also looking into the murder of Jessica Flatebø and cooperating with the Danish police with the homicide of Jeppe Sørensen.’
‘But are you investigating the connections between them?’ Emma demanded.
‘All of these inquiries are in their initial stages,’ Fosse answered, shifting position in his chair. ‘This involves the exchange of experience and expertise.’
Several journalists in the room now turned to face Emma.
‘Does that include the Nordstrøm case?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Fosse confirmed. ‘But there is little point speculating about what may or may not have happened, not least out of consideration for the family and friends of these victims, and especially in a public forum, as you are doing now.’
Gulping, Emma gathered her thoughts quickly. She saw that Fosse was about to hand the floor to someone else.
‘There’s an arrow from Sonja Nordstrøm to Jeppe Sørensen,’ she said. ‘You said so yourself yesterday. And there’s another arrow leading from that press conference to Jessica Flatebø. I’m thinking, of course, of the music played on a mobile phone in here – “Angel”, composed by Ragnar Ole Theodorsen. The same song was played in the doorway of the cabin where Jessica Flatebø was found. And this morning Theodorsen himself was shot and killed.’
The room became eerily silent. For a moment it felt as if only Emma and Fosse were present in the room.
‘They are all famous people who have no other obvious connection to one another,’ she continued. ‘The same can be said of Calle Seeberg, who died earlier today in – as far as I understand – unusual circumstances. Hence my question.’
A journalist further back coughed as Fosse exchanged glances with Pia Nøkleby.
‘As I said, it’s not part of our brief to speculate at this stage in our investigation.’
Fosse rose to his feet with a nod to the PR manager.
‘Thanks for coming,’ the communications adviser said, taking a few steps to the front of the podium. ‘Unfortunately there won’t be an opportunity for one-to-one interviews at this stage.’
Fosse picked up the sheets of paper in front of him and before he left his place, he shot another quick look at Emma. She stood watching as he disappeared out through a side door.
‘We’ll keep you updated as soon as we have made progress in the investigation,’ the adviser continued.
The assembled journalists packed up their gear and began to file out. Emma stayed where she was, her laptop on her knee, and added Fosse’s comments about a connection between the murders and the news story she’d already written. She omitted the fact that the killings seemed to have been committed in a numerical sequence. She would include that in her follow-up story, which she’d not quite finished yet.
Kasper Bjerringbo approached her. Emma hadn’t realised he was here. No hug this time. No thanks for a good time. She wondered whether he was disappointed that there had been no more than dinner the previous night.
‘Are you sure it was a good idea to share your theory with the rest of the world?’ he asked.
Emma pressed ‘publish’ before looking up. ‘I’m not afraid of competition,’ she answered.
‘It’s not the competition I was thinking of,’ Kasper said. ‘It’s the people out there. The ones watching and listening. Maybe it’ll put the frighteners on them.’
‘Well,’ Emma replied. ‘Maybe it should.’
‘Maybe it’s not up to you to decide that?’
Emma felt her irritation rising to the surface.
‘Are you going to write about these arrows in that blog of yours?’
His tone sounded mocking, so she said nothing but ‘I don’t know’ in return and walked past him, following the crowd of reporters out into the daylight. Only when she felt the fresh air on her face did she realise how hot she was.
44
The text message from Fosse arrived only fifteen minutes after the press conference finished. Blix was seated in the canteen with a cold hamburger sandwich and Kovic for company. The superintendent wanted a chat with him straight away, in his office. Blix said he would come as soon as he had finished eating.
Fosse responded: This minute.
‘Uh huh?’ Blix said to himself.
‘What is it?’ On the opposite side of the table, Kovic had just started tucking into a chicken salad.
‘No idea,’ Blix replied, rolling his eyes. ‘But it seems I’ll need to run. If I’m held up, check how Abelvik’s getting on with Dahlmann. She was about to speak to his best friend.’
‘OK.’
Blix took the rest of his sandwich with him and descended the stairs to the floor below. He managed to gobble down the last mouthful as he reached his boss’s office. Fosse was sitting behind his desk.
‘What’s all the urgency?’ Blix asked.
‘Sit down.’
Blix resisted the order for a moment, but then drew a chair nearer to the desk.
Fosse looked at him and waited an age before saying: ‘Emma Ramm.’
He stood up and began to pace to and fro behind his desk. Blix licked the last few crumbs from his lips while he waited for his boss to continue.
‘She’s never worked on crime news before, not until very recently, but she suddenly leads the news agenda in front of a pack of baying crime reporters. And at the press conference today she was audacious enough to question me along almost the same lines you pitched to me down in the gym.’ Fosse stopped and pivoted around to face Blix.
Blix slumped into his seat.
‘She wrote her first story as a crime journalist after she’d met you at Sonja Nordstrøm’s home.’ Fosse began to stride back and forth again. ‘I’ve gone through the other stories she’s written since then too. She’s come up with news from so-called “anonymous police sources” more than once.’
Blix didn’t know what to say.
Once again Fosse stopped in his tracks. ‘You were the one who leaked the information that Nordstrøm’s phone was found at Gamlebyen Graveyard,’ he said, his eyes boring into Blix.
‘No,’ Blix answered, shaking his head at the same time. This was actually true: Emma had found out about the phone on her own initiative.
But Fosse pounced on him again before Blix had a chance to clarify. ‘I’m not stupid, even though I know you sometimes think so. I also know that one of her colleagues was the first reporter to turn up out at Nordstrøm’s summer cottage the day Jeppe Sørensen was found. Long before all the others. What happened – couldn’t she go herself?’
Blix had a protest on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t spit it out.
‘You don’t think I know who she is?’
Blix sat bolt upright, aware of a sharp shudder in his gut.
‘You owe her nothing, Alex.’
Not even now did Blix manage to force out a single word.
‘I’ve pointed out several times in this case how important it is for us to keep information to ourselves,’ Fosse went on. ‘It could cause direct damage to the investigation.’
Fosse paused, stopped again and this time rested his hand on the back of his chair.
He leaned forwards, breathing noisily. ‘It’s of no interest to me how this has come about, but I can’t risk leaks,’ he added. ‘I can’t control the press and I can’t take Emma Ramm off the case. But I can remove you.’
Blix looked up at him again. ‘What are you saying?’
Fosse waited for a few seconds before replying.
‘I’d rather not suspend you, because that will just lead to a lot of internal upheaval, and put you in an awkward position with the others. But it would seem strange if you’re still here but no longer working on a case you’ve led from the start. So … you’ve earned a considerable number of days in lieu, Alex; I suggest you take a week off to start with, with immediate effect.’
Blix cleared his throat. He felt his irritation bubbling up, but managed to control his temper. ‘I can cut off all con—’
Fosse raised a hand. ‘Does she know who you are?’
Blix did not answer.
‘You haven’t told her?’
‘No.’
Fosse finally sat down. Pulled himself closer to his desk with a resolute motion. ‘I need competent investigators on this case, you’re well aware of that. This means I can’t have you in the building while we work on these celebrity murders. Have I made myself clear?’
Blix did not respond, simply waited for a few moments before pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. He looked down at his boss, feeling his blood boil. Initially he’d intended just to turn and leave, but he simply couldn’t do that.
‘Typical,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘This has always been your problem, Gard.’ Blix struggled to control the tremble in his voice. ‘You’ve always hidden behind rules and regulations. Protocols. That’s probably why you’ve landed in this beautiful office.’
Blix pointed at the walls, at the photos of Fosse pictured with the justice minister, the prime minister, and the chief of police. ‘This lets you avoid doing anything out in the real world, where you just might have to tackle things differently. Where you’ll find situations you can’t deal with by looking something up in a book. You’ve never had the slightest clue about practical police work.’
Blix grabbed his chair with both hands, so hard that his knuckles whitened. ‘And you’re about to demonstrate that again, by removing one of the best investigators you’ve got from a case where you need all the help you can get. Simply because the correct, formal procedures haven’t been followed. You know as well as I do that the investigation hasn’t been damaged by me discussing the case with Emma Ramm. On the contrary, in fact; but you don’t give a shit about that. As far as you’re concerned, principles trump everything.’
Fosse was about to answer but Blix had no intention of being stopped.
‘Days off in lieu?’ he snorted. ‘I don’t give a damn what you tell the others in the unit. I’ve no problem about explaining why I’m off the case, or standing up for what I’ve done. You can do it in the public arena if you like, after all that’s where you shine. I couldn’t care less. But I do care about stopping a crazy murderer who has killed God knows how many people in the past few weeks, and who st
ill hasn’t finished his project. That should be your priority too.’
There was more Blix wanted to say, but he stopped and stamped out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
The toilets were three metres down the corridor. Blix went in, turned on the tap at the basin and splashed cold water on his face. His outburst had inflamed his cheeks. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down.
He faced his own reflection in the mirror.
You don’t think I know who she is?
Blix tore off some paper towel, dried himself and headed out. In the corridor, he bumped into Kovic.
‘There you are,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘We have an address for Dahlmann. The emergency response team have been alerted. Shall we go?’
Shaking his head, Blix marched past her. Kovic turned and stared at him.
‘Has something happened? Is something wrong?’
‘I just need to take care of some personal business,’ Blix replied. ‘It might take a few days.’
‘Days?’ Kovic asked in disbelief. ‘But…’
She said nothing more. And although Blix didn’t see them, he felt her eyes on the back of his neck.
‘I’ll phone you later,’ she called after him.
Blix didn’t reply.
45
The possibility that one and the same perpetrator lay behind all the celebrity murders was now the focus of all news coverage, but no one mentioned the fact that a news blogger at news.no was the one who had first pointed out the links. Instead, the media had dredged up expert comments from previous police investigators and brought in various specialists in psychology. The expression ‘serial killer’ was used in headlines, but none of the media outlets had so far referred to any numerical connections.
Emma had finished writing her article detailing how each victim represented a number, and how they had been killed in descending numeric order, as in a countdown. However, she still felt something was lacking – something to give the story substance.
She hoped Blix would have it.