Smoke Screen

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘Good,’ Blix nodded.

  He strongly doubted whether that would be of much help. Britt and Ruth-Kristine would have been in the large Swedish city a long time ago, and from there it was just a short distance by ferry, plane or train to every corner of Europe. In theory, the sisters could be anywhere.

  Kovic had come in early too.

  ‘Any news?’ Blix asked, after reiterating to her how important it was to get hold of the sisters’ electronic data.

  Kovic sat down. ‘The taxi company confirmed that Britt Smeplass booked a trip from Aschehougs vei to Oslo Central Station,’ she continued. ‘Paid by card.’

  ‘At least that’s one thing that correlates,’ Blix replied.

  ‘Have you heard back about the dummy analysis yet?’ Kovic enquired.

  ‘Not yet,’ Blix replied. ‘It has to go through the DNA database before I’m told.’

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and lay it on the desk in front of him, to make sure it would be ready for whenever that update came.

  Gard Fosse emerged from his office shortly after eight o’clock and made a beeline to their workstations.

  ‘Crime Scene Investigation are currently at the Botanical Garden,’ he announced, looking at Blix. ‘A death; suspicious circumstances. They’re requesting assistance from a homicide investigator.’

  Blix groaned. ‘Are they sure it’s murder?’

  ‘They’ve said that it’s a young woman,’ Fosse answered. ‘Someone had tried to hide the body.’

  ‘We can’t take that on right now,’ Blix protested, gesturing around them, as if to highlight everything else they had going on.

  ‘It’s your job,’ Fosse pointed out. ‘I don’t have anyone else I can send.’

  ‘But we might be awaiting a breakthrough in a case we’ve been working on for almost a decade,’ he argued, and quickly updated Fosse on the investigation.

  ‘So you’re really just waiting for a DNA analysis and phone records to track down the Smeplass sisters?’

  ‘We’re not just doing that.’

  ‘No, but pretty much all of our resources are tied up in the investigations into the bombings. I’ve given you free rein to work on other things. But now one of you will have to take the lead at the Botanical Garden.’

  Blix sighed heavily. ‘Brilliant.’

  Fosse returned to his office. Blix looked at his investigators.

  ‘I can take it,’ Kovic offered.

  Blix mulled it over for a few seconds. Kovic had never been the lead investigator on a homicide case before. But there had to be a first time.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Just call if there’s anything.’

  Kovic threw her jacket on and disappeared. Blix turned to the stack of papers on his desk. He read through the documents from the initial investigation, connecting the dots and drawing up an outline so that he was thoroughly prepared for the interview.

  The results arrived at 09:02.

  The woman calling was from the DNA database team. Her name was Gitte Kollemyr.

  ‘You requested an urgent analysis of a sample marked B-8 for Case 2019000372 from the South-Eastern Police District?’ she said in a formal tone.

  ‘A dummy,’ Blix confirmed. ‘I’m the one responsible for that case.’

  ‘A DNA sequence has been found on the item,’ the woman continued. ‘It is identical to a DNA profile from a missing person relating to Case 150293 from 2009, from the Oslo Police District.’

  ‘Patricia Storm Isaksen,’ Blix said.

  ‘I understand it’s related to that case, yes,’ Kollemyr replied.

  ‘Just so we’re clear – is it a match?’ Blix asked, holding his breath.

  ‘The samples are one hundred percent consistent,’ the woman said.

  It felt as if his heart had imploded. His theory was correct.

  Now they had him.

  46

  Two police cars, an ambulance and an unmarked police car were parked on the pavement outside the southern entrance to the Botanical Garden. Kovic pulled up behind them. The snowflakes were descending horizontally, landing thick and fast, in wet splotches on the windscreen.

  She stayed in the car for a moment, collecting her thoughts, before pulling the lapels of her jacket right up to her chin and pushing the door open. A taxi drove by slowly as she made her way round the car.

  A uniformed officer was standing at the gate, hands behind his back. He was moving his weight from one foot and to the other, as if trying to warm his legs up. A thin layer of snow had settled on his shoulders.

  Kovic pulled her ID card from inside her jacket and held it up for him.

  ‘On the left,’ he said, pointing out the correct path for her.

  Kovic thanked him with a nod and shoved her hands deep into her pockets. After six months of working in homicide with Blix, and with her previous experience behind her, she felt more than equipped to take on the responsibility of a murder investigation, but she still felt nervous. It was vital that she did everything right. The initial phase was crucial. Everything had to be done as soon as possible.

  Both the car belonging to the forensic technician Ann-Mari Sara and the Crime Scene Investigation van were parked at the top of the steep hill. The barrier tape was already up. A flash of light shone out from somewhere behind the nearby trees.

  A few onlookers had gathered around. A man with a dog stepped aside as Kovic edged through them and introduced herself to the officer guarding the barrier. He noted her name and arrival time before lifting up the tape for her.

  The narrow footpath wound its way through the trees and shrubs. On her way into the bushes, she nodded briefly to two of the paramedics who were on their way back out.

  The dead woman lay hidden beneath some branches. Tracks in the snow beside her suggested that someone had attempted to cover her up. Her eyes were open. A few crystals of ice had formed on her eyelashes. Her face was blue and frostbitten. As if she had been lying there for some time.

  Ann-Mari Sara was squatting at the woman’s feet, her back to Kovic, not realising yet that she had arrived.

  The investigator from the Crime Scene Investigation unit walked over to her. She recognised him. Edvald Rognlien. A man in his late forties, sporting a few grey streaks in his dark hair. He wore thick glasses that were spattered with droplets of water. The eyes behind them were always calm. Kovic recognised a sincerity in them.

  ‘So they’ve sent you,’ he noted, sounding neither satisfied nor dissatisfied.

  ‘What have you got?’ Kovic asked.

  ‘The alert came in at 07:48 this morning,’ Rognlien explained. ‘A jogger found her after coming into the forest to relieve himself.’

  He mentioned the name of the jogger.

  ‘We’ve questioned him.’

  Ann-Mari Sara straightened up and approached them.

  ‘Looks like she was strangled,’ she said. ‘There are blue marks on her neck.’

  Kovic peered over to see them.

  ‘And then she was dragged in here?’ She turned, indicating the path.

  ‘Hard to tell, with the fresh snow,’ Abelvik chimed in. ‘But she’s probably been here since yesterday.’

  Kovic looked over at the body again. Nothing to suggest that there had been an attempted rape. Her jacket was still zipped up, her trousers hadn’t been unbuttoned.

  ‘What do we know about her?’

  ‘Her name is Amy Linh,’ Rognlien replied. ‘Having said that, we should probably be a bit careful about coming to conclusions like that so quickly these days.’ He sent Kovic a quick smile. ‘But she had an ID card in her bag for what I presume is her workplace. There’s a picture of her on it. And there’s a certain resemblance.’

  Rognlien pulled out an evidence bag from the folder he was holding and passed it to Kovic. She studied the image through the plastic.

  ‘Hotel Gyldenløve,’ she read aloud. ‘That’s in Majorstua, I think.’

  ‘On Bogstadveien,’ Rognlien confirmed.

/>   Kovic realised that he had already carried out the first few essential tasks.

  ‘Where does she live?’ she asked.

  ‘On Sars gate,’ Rognlien replied, turning to point in the right direction. ‘About five hundred metres that way.’

  ‘Family?’

  Rognlien shook his head. ‘According to our records, she lives alone.’

  Kovic turned to Ann-Mari Sara. ‘Does she have any keys on her?’

  Sara walked over to her trunk and pulled out a labelled evidence bag with a key chain inside. ‘Found in the right jacket pocket,’ she said. ‘She had a wallet on her too, the cards and cash left inside, the phone untouched too. It’s still got some battery left. I’ll make sure it’s unlocked with her fingerprints, so you can access it.’

  Rognlien’s phone rang. He checked the number and turned the screen off.

  ‘What do you want us to do now?’ he asked.

  Kovic was rather taken aback by the direct question. It sounded like a challenge. Rognlien was almost twice as old as she was, and had far more experience.

  ‘I want to map out her movements and circle of friends,’ she answered, thinking she was taking a bit too long to reply.

  A murder investigation had one of two starting points. She was either a random victim, or Amy Linh was taken out because she was who she was. The latter meant that someone had a specific motive and that the perpetrator was someone she knew.

  ‘We’ve not found any relatives,’ Rognlien said. ‘But she may have some family where she’s from. Vietnam.’

  Kovic nodded and took the bag with the key chain. She would start with her flat.

  She stood there a moment longer, staring down at the dead woman. Then she turned and left.

  47

  Emma stood in front of the fridge, staring at the contents, trying to work out if there was anything in there that she actually wanted to eat.

  She’d had a restless night, drifting in and out of sleep. Lying there, thinking about Kasper, and his parents, and what it was going to be like to see them again. The images of Kasper at the harbour had resurfaced, but now she had started imagining him on the cold autopsy table too. How the pathologist had sliced into him, plucked the shrapnel out of his body.

  She grabbed an apple, pushed the fridge door closed and was met with a reminder that she was supposed to have a session with Gorm Fogner at eleven o’clock. The card with the details of the therapy appointment was stuck to the fridge. She hadn’t heard anything from him, other than the text on New Year’s Day. He must have found out that Kasper had died. His name had been mentioned in almost every news report since Wednesday.

  She took a bite of the apple, sat behind her laptop and pushed aside the half-empty coffee cup she had left there the day before.

  The article about Christer Storm Isaksen was still not complete; she was finding it impossible to collect her thoughts and make a proper start. She had spent that morning scrolling through news websites and social media. Fear that the bomber might strike again reigned. The newspapers had several theories, as did the people commenting on the articles. The criticism of the police and PST had become even more intense.

  What Emma couldn’t quite understand, was how and why Ruth-Kristine was first believed to have been a victim of the explosion, and then reported missing somehow. If the two things weren’t connected, it was certainly a bizarre coincidence. The kind of coincidence she didn’t believe in.

  It was half past eight. Still early, but she could probably get away with calling Jette Djurholm. She found the Danish phone number. Ruth-Kristine’s former neighbour didn’t pick up this time either.

  She spent some time researching where exactly Ruth-Kristine had been living at the time of Patricia’s disappearance and discovered that it was the same address she lived at now – in Holmlia. There could be other people who lived there at that time and who still lived there too.

  The chairman of the housing association was called Mustafa Jamal Hayd. She considered calling him to see if he might have any information, but decided to just take the rental car and drive over there before her therapy session.

  It had started to snow, and the drive took longer than the sat nav estimated. A boy with a school satchel ran past, through a flurry of snow, but other than that, a strange silence enveloped the low-rise block of flats as she arrived. No one to talk to.

  She found the chairman’s phone number and called him. He picked up.

  ‘You’re not the only journalist to have come up here,’ he said after Emma introduced herself. ‘The police, too. A few times.’

  He explained that he lived in one of the terraced houses, but offered to walk over to meet her. He turned up five minutes later.

  ‘Do you know her?’ Emma asked with a nod towards the block.

  ‘Not really,’ Mustafa replied. ‘There have been a few complaints, every now and then. Loud music, being too noisy, but I’ve never had any problems with her.’

  ‘Were you living here when her daughter disappeared?’ Emma enquired.

  ‘I’ve lived here for sixteen years,’ Mustafa said, a touch of pride in his voice, as if it were an achievement in itself. ‘I’ve been chairman for the last eight.’

  ‘You must like it here, then, by the sounds of it?’

  ‘I must say, I really do. And there’s quite a lot to keep track of. It’s easy to combine with work, luckily.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I run my own IT company. Server support.’

  Emma nodded.

  ‘Do you remember Patricia? Her daughter?’

  His expression changed. From warm and welcoming to something more sober. Sad, even. He nodded.

  ‘Such a sweet girl,’ he said, although somehow Emma had the impression that he didn’t actually remember her. ‘Always happy,’ he added. ‘But she lived with her dad most of the time, so I didn’t see her often.’

  He shook his head gloomily.

  ‘It was terrible, what happened. It really affected us. For a long time. I would say that it still affects us, actually. Or at least, we often think about what could have happened to her.’

  ‘So do I,’ Emma said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m trying to get in touch with Jette Djurholm, or some of Ruth-Kristine’s other neighbours from around that time,’ she said. ‘Do you remember Jette?’

  Mustafa thought about it for a moment.

  ‘The Danish woman? Quite short, blonde hair, a little plump?’

  ‘She’s from Denmark, yes,’ Emma said. ‘But she’s not picking up when I call.’

  ‘They were neighbours, that I can remember. Jette and Ruth-Kristine.’

  ‘Can you tell me about them?’

  He sent Emma a quizzical look. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Were they good friends? Did they spend a lot of time together?’

  ‘I can’t really say. Jette didn’t live here for that long, no more than a few years anyway, maybe not even that. But I did see them outside together quite often, over at the play area between the two buildings with their kids. Remembrance Park, as we call it.’

  ‘So Jette had children as well?’

  Mustafa nodded.

  ‘I have five myself,’ he said, smiling. ‘One of them was the same age as Patricia. They would have been in the same class.’

  ‘Can you remember if Ruth-Kristine used to spend much time with anyone else back then? Other people who lived here, I mean.’

  Mustafa seemed to be thinking hard, trying to remember.

  ‘No, it was mostly Jette, I believe.’

  Emma started to feel as if she had come out here for nothing.

  ‘As chairman … you don’t happen to have the contact information for Jette or her husband, do you?’

  Mustafa considered it.

  ‘It’s been a while … I don’t think they left anything behind. I can have a look through my documents though. I might find something.’

  Emma thanked h
im and tried to think of anything else she could get out of him.

  ‘What were the police doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘Someone had broken into her flat,’ Mustafa answered. ‘It’s been a long time since anything like that happened here.’

  Emma raised her eyebrows. ‘When was that?’

  ‘New Year’s Day. I showed them in when they arrived.’

  ‘Do you know if they found whoever did it?’

  Mustafa shook his head again. ‘No idea.’

  Emma checked her watch. She would have to leave if she were going to get to her appointment on time.

  ‘Thank you for all the help.’

  Mustafa smiled.

  ‘Anytime.’

  48

  Blix printed out the results of the DNA analysis and made his way to the interview room where Sophus Ahlander and his lawyer, Vidar Rødland, were waiting. Copies of all of the documents from the Patricia case were stacked up on the table between them.

  Both stayed in their seats when Blix entered the room. Ahlander looked like a completely different person. All the colour had drained from his face.

  ‘Have you been able to get some sleep?’ Blix asked. ‘Any breakfast?’

  Blix forced himself to speak as gently and politely as he could. The lawyer answered for his client:

  ‘Yes, he’s been treated well enough. But I don’t think he’s eaten much.’

  Blix stared at Ahlander for a few seconds, before turning on the room’s recording function and going through all the formalities.

  ‘Let’s start by talking about Knut Ivar Skage,’ Blix said. ‘How do you know him?’

  Ahlander stared at him, surprised by the question.

  ‘Old acquaintance,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Ah, so him too,’ Blix said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ruth-Kristine Smeplass was also an old acquaintance of yours.’

  Ahlander didn’t respond.

  ‘Was that a question?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘Knut Ivar Skage admitted to Patricia’s father that he had been involved in the kidnapping,’ Blix continued, unperturbed. ‘He had been asked to help take care of the child, after the fact.’