The Boy in the Headlights

by Samuel Bjork

  Big Brother is watching.

  His old anarchist hacker friends would probably choke on their microchips if they knew what he was doing these days but, to be honest, their opinion no longer mattered to him. To begin with, it had, when he had been on the receiving end of sarcastic messages in some of the IRC chat rooms he visited.

  Changed sides, have we?

  Did it still hurt him?

  Hell, no.

  Six-year-old girls hanging from trees with a sign around their necks. A teenager found naked on a bed of feathers in a circle of candles. Vivian Berg, aged twenty-two, found in a mountain lake, killed with an injection of antifreeze straight to her heart.

  They could think whatever they wanted.

  He was a police officer now.

  As he took a sip of his cola and logged on to the first database, Gabriel realized he felt a huge pride in his job.

  Chapter 10

  Christiane Spidsøe was a gracious, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, and there could be no doubt that she was a former dancer. She moved like a ballerina across the office, pouring coffee into cups as though it were part of a performance, with a smile on her lips and her head held high, but no matter how hard the beautiful woman tried to act as if this were just another meeting, Mia could clearly see how deeply the murder had affected her.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  The elegant woman reached across the table to a bowl and a jug on a silver plate.

  ‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ Munch said.

  ‘What a tragedy,’ Spidsøe said, looking briefly at Mia.

  ‘We’re sorry for your loss. It must have been a shock.’ Munch unbuttoned his duffel coat.

  ‘A terrible shock.’ Spidsøe shook her head. ‘We can barely believe it. It still hasn’t sunk in. Vivian. She was … our little ray of sunshine.’

  She smiled briefly and raised the coffee cup to her lips.

  ‘I know it sounds silly, but she really was. Vivian wasn’t like the others – not so self-obsessed, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Not really.’ Munch coughed and smiled.

  ‘Oh well, you know,’ Spidsøe went on. ‘Dancers?’

  ‘I still don’t follow,’ Munch said kindly.

  ‘My sister used to dance,’ Mia said.

  ‘Oh? Professionally?’

  ‘No, only when we were little. School productions, and so on.’

  ‘How lovely.’ Spidsøe nodded. ‘Dance is an art form which is sadly underrated in the cultural canon, but we do our best to make it accessible to the man in the street.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’ Munch said, and cleared his throat.

  ‘Vivian? Yes and no.’ Spidsøe put down her coffee cup. ‘As the artistic director of ballet, I’m responsible for almost sixty dancers, as well as ballet masters, tutors, arts administrators, but I try to get to know everyone personally, as far as that’s possible.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Mia asked.

  ‘Wednesday afternoon. We’re in between shows so everyone had Thursday and Friday off. As it happens, Vivian stopped by my office to ask if she could take Monday off as well.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘I believe she was going away.’

  ‘Did she say where?’ Munch asked with interest.

  Spidsøe reached towards the silver plate and dropped a sugar lump into her coffee cup.

  ‘Family business, I believe. I’m sorry, my mind was on other things. We’ve had a budget cut so we’ve been a bit busy recently.’

  ‘And you said yes?’

  Spidsøe nodded.

  ‘Everyone works round the clock during performance periods here, so I don’t mind my dancers taking some time off when they can.’

  ‘But you have no idea where she was going?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Mia shifted her gaze out of the window. She could see a sailboat far out on the fjord.

  ‘Such a tragedy. Do you have any idea …?’

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ Munch said.

  ‘Did Vivian have pierced ears?’ Mia said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Spidsøe looked oddly at her.

  ‘You know …’ Mia touched her earlobe.

  ‘Er, I really don’t know. Why?’

  Mia could see it even more clearly now. That this was only a front. Christiane Spidsøe had put on a brave face to get through the day, but the truth was that she was on the verge of a breakdown. The silver tray under the coffee cup clattered when she returned it to the table with trembling hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, I …’ Spidsøe smiled feebly as a tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away resolutely and straightened her back again.

  ‘We’re the ones who should apologize,’ Munch said. ‘We know how hard this must be for you. We really appreciate you taking the time to help us.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Spidsøe said as a new tear followed.

  Mia was starting to feel unwell.

  All this grief.

  She was saved by her mobile vibrating in the pocket of her leather jacket.

  The display read Ludvig Grønlie.

  ‘I have to take this,’ she said apologetically, and went out into the corridor.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I managed to get hold of him,’ Grønlie said. ‘Sebastian Falk. He’s in Switzerland, on a climbing holiday. Poor bloke, didn’t even know that she was dead.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘Total shock,’ Ludvig said. ‘He was speechless. He had to ring off and then call me back.’

  ‘Did you ask if they were in a relationship?’

  ‘I got the impression that they were very close friends, but that was all. He said he’d get on the next plane.’

  ‘Did you ask him to contact us when he gets back?’

  ‘I asked him to call me. He was very keen to help.’

  ‘Great, thank you, Ludvig,’ Mia said, and rang off.

  She was about to return to Christiane Spidsøe’s office when her mobile rang again.

  ‘Hello,’ Gabriel Mørk said. ‘Is there a problem with your mobile?’

  ‘Yes, it’s behaving strangely. I’ll buy a new one when I have a moment. Did you find anything?’

  ‘Definitely,’ the young man said, and now she could hear that he was excited. ‘It took a while, but I discovered something eventually.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘I found an entry in Indicia on Karoline Berg in connection with a man called Raymond Greger.’

  ‘Karoline Berg has previously been a person of interest to us?’ Mia was surprised.

  ‘No, not her, him. However, for some strange reason there was nothing in the file, only the name of the police lawyer in Bodø.’

  ‘The entry provided no details?’

  ‘None, just those names, so I called the police lawyer. Very interesting, if I may say so. Is this a good time?’

  ‘Yes, fire away.’

  ‘It turns out,’ Gabriel went on, ‘that Raymond Greger was a suspect in a bizarre case some years ago.’

  ‘And what is his link to Vivian?’

  ‘He’s her uncle.’

  ‘He’s Karoline Berg’s brother?’

  ‘Stepbrother.’

  ‘And what was he suspected of?’

  ‘That’s where it starts to get interesting,’ Gabriel said. ‘Six years ago there were two unrelated cases in Bodø of a little girl going missing. The girls turned up again and both told the same peculiar story.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘They were picked up by a man who took them to a house outside Bodø.’

  ‘And assaulted them?’

  ‘Er, not exactly. He played with them.’

  ‘Define “play”.’

  ‘As in, he played with them. They played with dolls, had a tea party, they dressed up …’

  ‘Eh …?’

  ‘I know, it’s the weirdest thing I’ve heard for a while.’

&nb
sp; ‘So why was there no mention of this in the database?’

  ‘Right, listen to this,’ Gabriel said eagerly. ‘Both girls identified Raymond Greger, but he was never prosecuted.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not really sure, some kind of technicality. Perhaps Anette can explain it better but, whatever it was, he was released without charge and got a lawyer to make sure that we don’t have anything on him in the register.’

  ‘How odd. Did the police lawyer say anything about why?’

  ‘So that he could continue, would be my guess.’

  ‘Continue with what?’

  ‘His job. He’s a teacher.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In Bodø?’

  ‘No, no. He left town.’

  ‘Do we know where he is now?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Gabriel said triumphantly. ‘I’ve tracked him down. These days he works at Hedrum School. It’s just outside Larvik.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘I know. Do you think there might be something in it?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Mia said. ‘Great work, Gabriel.’

  ‘The police lawyer in Bodø would like to be kept informed.’

  ‘OK. Ask Anette to handle that.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Mia put the mobile back in her pocket and returned to the office of the artistic director.

  Chapter 11

  Thomas Lorentzen was sitting in his office in Gabrielsgate, nervously watching the phone in front of him. He was waiting for the inevitable call. He couldn’t believe they wouldn’t call. They would; he was certain of it. Shit, how did that happen? His car – the Mercedes – stolen right outside his office less than one week ago. And now it had turned up in a murder investigation.

  It made no sense.

  The mobile continued to lie silently on the desk in front of him, the dead, black, shiny object mocking him, or so it felt. Tormenting him with its absence of noise. He was sorely tempted to hurl it against the wall. Ring, God damn you. You know you’re going to soon, so why keep me waiting? Lorentzen gave the mobile the evil eye, loosened the knot in his tie and got up from the chair. He caught a glimpse of his face in the window as he headed to the drinks cabinet. Did he look exhausted? He didn’t feel exhausted. Yes, of course his car being taken was stressful but, for God’s sake, he had nothing to do with the murder.

  Or did he?

  Was it connected to the other thing?

  Lorentzen opened the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large whisky in one of the crystal tumblers from the shelf on the wall. He didn’t realize until he was back behind the mahogany desk that he had actually run back to it. Bloody mobile. And it wasn’t a smart one either. Not like his personal mobile, a gold-plated iPhone he had ordered especially from the UK. He knew he shouldn’t flash it about, of course, let on how much money he really had, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Surely he was allowed a few treats, after everything he had done? Christ, didn’t they know the risks he ran? He could feel himself starting to get irritable now.

  Shit, a dead body? And it wasn’t just another dead junkie no one cared about. It had been all over the news. A young woman. A ballet dancer. In a lake. He had frantically trawled his memories to see if he could find a connection, but there was nothing. It had to be a coincidence; it couldn’t be anything else. The police had called him earlier that day. An officer called Grønlie.

  ‘Am I speaking to Thomas Lorentzen?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you the owner of a grey Mercedes Benz E220, registration number DN 87178?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re saying the car was stolen?’

  ‘Yes, last Wednesday.’

  ‘And you’re sure about that?’

  Sure?

  Of course he was sure.

  The car had been parked right outside. In his private parking space. He was supposed to be protected from such thefts here in the backyard, behind the gate, and yet it was gone.

  ‘You’ll call us if you notice or remember anything unusual about the theft, won’t you?’

  Lorentzen pulled off his tie and realized he was sweating under the armpits.

  Remember something?

  What would that be?

  Had they found out?

  Was this all a set-up to catch him?

  Was this all …?

  He stopped himself, slumped backwards in the chair and almost laughed.

  He was important, yes, he was. But to imagine that a ballet dancer found dead in a lake had been intended to start this frenzied media circus just to take him down – no, ha-ha, of course not.

  Pull yourself together, Thomas.

  Relax.

  Remember what the doctor said.

  Lorentzen found a small box in a drawer and washed down two round, white pills with another gulp of whisky.

  The police?

  Why were the police calling?

  After all, they had a man on the inside.

  He was supposed to protect them against things like this, wasn’t he?

  Lorentzen got up again, keeping his eyes fixed on the mobile on the desk.

  Bloody ring, damn you.

  He knocked back the whisky and refilled the glass, trying to avoid his reflection in the window this time, while his thoughts returned yet again to a subject whose appeal was growing stronger by the hour. Not just because his car had been stolen, no, but because the moment might have come.

  To take the money and run.

  Disappear.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow.

  Why not?

  He had plenty of money.

  He had had plenty of it for a long time.

  It was just that …

  He collapsed back into the chair and realized how exhausted he was.

  They would find him.

  No matter where he went, they’d find him, wouldn’t they?

  They were everywhere.

  He had sold his soul to the devil.

  Voluntarily.

  There was no way out. Wasn’t that what they had told him?

  Lorentzen shook his head and unbuttoned yet another button on his shirt.

  Christ, it was hot in here.

  Get a grip, you idiot!

  OK, he had to make a plan.

  He set down the glass on the desk and opened his laptop. Entered the code and was granted access. The sum on the screen was mind-boggling. It would take an average citizen a hundred years to earn even a fraction of that.

  Geneva.

  A plan started taking shape in his head now; he could feel the beginnings of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

  The next delivery.

  His fingers flew across the keyboard; he checked the schedule and the map that had appeared in front of him.

  He had contacts, of course he had. Contacts they knew nothing about.

  Just go through with this last one, and then …

  Lorentzen smiled broadly, drained the whisky and staggered across the floor to refill the glass once more.

  He ground to a halt with the glass still in his hand.

  I’ll get out.

  Disappear.

  He nodded quietly at the window.

  It’s over now.

  He smiled and raised the glass in a toast to himself as the object on the table suddenly started to stir.

  His mobile was ringing.

  The tumbler slipped out of his hand. He didn’t even hear it hit the floor.

  Shit.

  Thomas Lorentzen stood rigid for a few seconds before he finally picked up the mobile from the desk.

  ‘Hello?’

  Chapter 12

  The rain was pelting down on the hood of the black Audi. A drenched Munch ran across the square and got in behind the wheel.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. We’re not driving down there.’

  ‘Why not?’ Mia demanded to know.

  ‘Raymond Greger is on sick leave.
And he’s not answering his mobile. He could be anywhere.’

  Mia took a throat lozenge from the pocket of her leather jacket. The intensity of the rain had increased; it sounded like the percussion section of an orchestra now and people were running around like frightened cats, looking for shelter.

  ‘I’ve dispatched a patrol car. If they get hold of him, we can reassess, but I’m not driving three hours for nothing right now.’

  ‘Larvik police?’

  Munch nodded and found his cigarette packet in the pocket of his wet coat.

  ‘What did you make of Spidsøe?’

  ‘She seemed honest enough, don’t you think?’

  Munch shrugged.

  ‘I got the feeling she wasn’t telling us everything, but I can’t be sure.’

  He lit a cigarette and opened the window a tad. Raindrops were blown into the car and mixed with the grey smoke, but Mia didn’t comment on it.

  ‘How does a guy who abducts little girls continue working as a teacher?’ Munch said irritably, staring out through the windscreen.

  ‘If we don’t have anything on him in the register, then there’s nothing to stop him,’ Mia said.

  Munch shook his head.

  ‘Then there’s something seriously wrong with the system,’ Munch muttered, and took another drag on his cigarette just as Mia’s mobile rang.

  ‘Am I speaking to Mia Krüger?’ said a male voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hi, my name is Torfinn Nakken. I’m calling from Bislett Building Management and Maintenance. Do you live at number 3 Sofies Plass?’

  ‘I do. What’s this about?’

  ‘On the second floor?’ the deep voice went on.

  ‘Where did you say you were calling from again?’

  ‘Bislett Building Management and Maintenance. We’re responsible for your block. I’m sorry to bother you, but our office has been broken into and we’re missing quite a few security keys. Have you noticed anything unusual in your flat?’

  Mia waved away the smoke from the cigarette and opened the window on her side.

  ‘Like what?’ she asked.

  ‘Like unwanted visitors, things that have gone missing – anything like that?’

  ‘Not that I know of, no.’

  ‘OK, great,’ Nakken said, sounding relieved. ‘These security keys cost a fortune; we’ll have to change the locks in the whole building. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of kroner – although the insurance will pick up most of it.’