by Samuel Bjork
‘Right, it’s your turn now.’
‘Vivian Berg?’
Halvorsen rolled his chair across the floor and came back with a file, which he placed in front of her.
‘But we’ve already seen this,’ Mia said, having flicked through a few pages.
‘Yes,’ the technician said. ‘But that’s all I’ve got.’
‘This is the report you sent to Kripos, isn’t it?’
Halvorsen nodded.
‘Yes. And I said the same to them.’
‘Which was?’
‘That it must be a joke. How am I meant to extract any evidence from that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You haven’t read it?’
‘Yes, or, that is to say … no. What does it say?’
Halvorsen sighed.
‘It’s a circus, that’s what it says.’
‘A circus?’
‘You really haven’t read it? Sometimes I wonder why I even bother doing my job.’
Halvorsen rolled his chair across the floor and returned with a sheet of paper, which he thrust at her.
‘Talk me through it,’ Mia said, having glanced at it.
‘Abundance,’ Halvorsen said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone is messing with you.’
‘As in …?’
Halvorsen pointed to the list he had given her.
‘DNA.’
‘Yes?’
‘From all of Norway, in one place? How am I supposed to do my job when the car and the crime scene contained more hair and skin samples than the drains of a public swimming pool?’
‘This is from the Mercedes?’
‘And from Lake Svarttjønn.’ The technician nodded and rolled his chair back towards his laptop. ‘But seeing as it’s you, Moonbeam …’
He angled the laptop towards her and opened a document.
‘Look at this.’
Mia looked at the screen, but she still did not understand.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘A mess. Sixty-one hair samples. Forty-nine skin samples. Eight samples of excrement. No DNA match on any of them. According to this, more than a hundred people were present at the crime scene and inside the car. How do you imagine I can work with this?’
‘So the killer contaminated the crime scenes?’
‘That, Sherlock, I think we can say with total accuracy,’ Halvorsen declared, letting the glasses fall onto his chest on their string. ‘The real question is how the hell did the killer get hold of all this? Hair and skin samples? Excrement? Who does something like that, Mia?
‘Oh, and by the way,’ Halvorsen added, and abruptly got up.
He disappeared towards the back of the lab and returned with a camera.
‘This is what happens when you have too much to do.’
‘This is the camera you found at the crime scene?’
‘Yes. A Nikon E300. No fingerprints, of course, either on the camera or the tripod, but …’
Halvorsen smiled conspiratorially as he passed her the camera.
‘Look through the lens.’
Mia held it up towards the light and peered through it.
‘Do you see it?’
It took a while, but then she suddenly spotted it.
Scratched into the lens.
‘Oh, no,’ she mumbled. ‘Please tell me it’s not true.’
She could see it clearly now.
A number.
‘Shit,’ she said, and looked a second time to double-check.
‘I think it looks like the number four, but you’re the detective,’ Halvorsen said with a shrug.
Mia could feel her heart beating a little faster under her leather jacket.
A number?
She raised the camera to her eyes again.
Yes, it was there.
‘I took a picture,’ he said, getting up again.
‘Using this camera?’
‘Yes, take a look.’
Mia quickly studied the picture. There was no doubt about it.
Four.
Crudely scratched into the lens.
‘Can I keep this?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you for this, Theo,’ said Mia, slipping the picture into her pocket. ‘I mean it.’
‘That’s what I’m here for, Moonbeam.’
‘Tell Britt I say hi. Keep me posted if you find anything else, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Halvorsen nodded. ‘Just call me if you need anything.’
‘I will, Theo. See you soon.’
‘Always a pleasure.’ The amicable forensic technician smiled and raised a finger to his forehead.
Chapter 15
‘We have a lot to get through and not much time, so please could everyone keep it short?’ Munch said, standing up by the screen.
Gabriel Mørk put down his cola and had only just taken his place as the light was turned off.
‘Was that aimed at me?’ Curry piped up.
‘If you could save any questions until the end, that would be great, yes,’ Munch mumbled, flicking swiftly through the papers on the table next to him.
There was muted laughter in the room, but it soon stopped when the first picture appeared on the screen.
‘Vivian Berg, aged twenty-two,’ Munch said, clicking through the first series of photographs. ‘She went missing from her flat in St Hanshaugen on Thursday afternoon and was found floating in Lake Svarttjønn early on Saturday morning.’
‘We’re sure about that?’ Curry asked.
‘Sure about what, Jon?’ Munch said with a sigh.
‘That she disappeared from her flat last Thursday?’
‘Anette?’ Munch nodded towards Goli, who stood up.
‘We have two witnesses from her apartment block who saw Vivian Berg leave her flat last Thursday afternoon, somewhere between five o’clock and a quarter past five. The video we have just received shows that this could well be true, but—’
‘Video?’ said Curry, who clearly wasn’t up to speed.
They had just received CCTV footage from a corner shop which apparently showed Vivian Berg leaving her flat.
‘What did I just say about saving questions for the end?’ Munch said.
‘I know, but come on …’
‘For anyone who hasn’t heard this,’ Anette said in a somewhat weary tone, ‘we have now received three videos. The Mercedes heading out on the E18. The Mercedes driving past Sandvika shopping centre, and now this last one that shows Vivian as she leaves her flat, presumably heading towards the Mercedes.’
‘According to the pathologist, Vivian had been in the water for less than twenty-four hours when she was found,’ Anette went on. ‘The last footage from Sandvika shows the car passing the shopping centre on Thursday evening just before seven o’clock, so that gives us a time frame of between twenty-four and thirty-six hours.’
She looked towards Munch, who nodded in agreement.
‘And the trip from Sandvika to Lake Svarttjønn takes how long?’ asked Ylva.
The young Icelandic woman had joined the team last autumn and as usual no one quite knew where Munch had found her, but she had fitted right in. Gabriel was thrilled to no longer be the youngest member. The more experienced investigators took so many things for granted, but now he had Ylva to ask the questions without him looking like an amateur.
‘Two hours, max,’ Goli said.
‘So she was kept in the car?’ Ylva said. ‘For more than twenty-four hours?’
‘We’ll get to this later,’ Munch said, nodding to Anette Goli.
‘So,’ Goli continued, ‘Vivian disappears on Thursday afternoon. According to Kripos, it looked as if she left her home in a hurry. She didn’t take her mobile. Her laptop was left open on the coffee table. There was food in the oven. It looks like she was in the middle of cooking supper but then she suddenly puts on her coat, goes out into the stairwell, locks the door and calmly leaves the apartment block.’
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‘Eh?’ Curry said, unable to restrain himself. ‘She leaves her flat in a hurry without taking anything and yet she leaves calmly?’
‘Something else that’s worth noticing is that we found prescription drugs in her flat,’ Goli went on. ‘As you’ll all be aware by now, we found both antidepressants and sedatives. There’s a lot to suggest that Vivian was unhappy. We have been in contact with her GP and her psychiatrist and we’re currently working on accessing her medical records.’
‘Thank you, Anette,’ Munch said as Goli sat down.
‘Raymond Greger,’ Ludvig Grønlie said, getting up. ‘Something of an oddball. I can find very little on him. Bodø police wouldn’t say much either and it’s clear that lawyers have been involved and have apparently threatened them with this, that and the other. Even so, the case against him some years ago, where two little girls went missing, doesn’t look like something we can bring him in for or something that could help us in any way. Nevertheless, this is what we have. He’s fifty-eight years old. Single. No children. He works as a teacher at Hedrum School near Larvik and is currently on sick leave due to …’
Grønlie put on his glasses and flicked through his papers.
‘Well, I don’t think I found that out but, in any case, we want to talk to him. Larvik police are looking for him and I’ve made it clear to them that he’s our number-one priority right now.’
‘His mobile?’ Gabriel said, opening his mouth for the first time.
‘According to Telenor, it’s switched off and has been since Thursday,’ Grønlie said, sitting down again.
‘Was there anything on her mobile?’ Ylva wanted to know.
‘Not according to the records I was given,’ Gabriel said. ‘She hasn’t been in touch with her uncle. As for Facebook, no, they weren’t friends there either. There’s nothing to indicate that they had any contact.’
‘As Grønlie just said, Raymond Greger,’ confirmed Munch, ‘is our absolute priority right now. Larvik police are looking for him, and we’ll intensify the hunt for him overnight if he’s not found. Mia?’
‘A few things.’ Mia walked up to the screen.
She nodded towards Munch. A new photograph appeared on the screen, one that Gabriel hadn’t seen before.
‘This was scratched into the camera lens.’
‘What is it?’ Ylva asked, pushing her glasses further up her nose.
‘A number. The number four,’ Mia nodded again to Munch, who clicked onto another picture. This time, they could see it even more clearly.
‘At first, I thought that this business with the camera meant, well, that the perpetrator had photographed the murder. That that was his thing. That he wanted a visual record. But now I’m not so sure.’
‘We know it’s a he?’ Curry interrupted her.
‘The prints around the tripod are a size 43,’ Mia said calmly.
‘What if it was a woman wearing a man’s shoes?’
‘Then the prints would be deeper in the middle and lighter around the edges.’
Another photo.
This time the page from the book.
‘Notice that the page number here has been scraped away,’ Mia continued. ‘He’s telling us that this number isn’t significant.’
‘What …?’ Ylva began, but Mia ignored her and gestured to Munch to click again.
‘“Now I come to the evil,”’ Mia said, quoting from the book and indicating the page on the screen. ‘“That which I can’t bear to think of. And yet I can’t not think of it.” It’s from The Brothers Lionheart. It’s the younger brother, Karl Lion, talking about the fire. Karl is sick and needs help, and the hero, his big brother Jonathan, sacrifices his life so that his younger brother can live. Afterwards, everyone wishes that he had died instead.’
There was silence in the room now.
‘So we have the number four,’ Mia continued. ‘That’s the first clue. And then we have this book page, which is the second. This is where we need to start.’
‘But—’ Ylva piped up again but was interrupted a second time.
‘And then we need to look at this,’ Mia said. ‘I think this is very important. The surveillance video we’re about to see shows Vivian leaving her flat last Thursday. Now pay attention to her gait. I’ve known many dancers. They are supple, they move like cats, they control every single muscle in their body.’
‘What’s your point?’ Curry said.
‘This woman isn’t a dancer,’ Mia said softly, nodding to Munch, who pressed the remote control.
‘This woman isn’t the real Vivian Berg.’
Chapter 16
Kurt Wang had never heard a voice like hers. Recorded, yes, but never in real life. Billie Holiday. Radka Toneff. Amy Winehouse, possibly. When the petite, smiling girl with the long, red hair walked up to the microphone and her soft voice filled the large space, which doubled up as a practice room, it was as if time stood still. As if the clouds had disappeared. As if the cold winter had turned into summer. As if the world outside didn’t exist. Kurt didn’t know whether it was the voice or the girl herself he was in love with.
Her. Her. Her. Of course, it was her. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t breathe. He could barely lift the saxophone to his mouth.
The Nina Wilkins Quartet.
They had met on the jazz course in Trondheim, Norway’s best conservatory for training musicians of this calibre. He got in first time. How many saxophonists had tried to get in? Many. Very many indeed. And who had got in straightaway? Aced all three audition pieces, almost to a standing ovation? He had. Kurt Wang. The gangly, shy boy from Manglerud in Oslo where boys are boys only if they play hockey. Hell, he should be strutting like a peacock! He shouldn’t care about a half-Swedish jazz singer – there were so many of them in Trondheim; charming, extremely talented girls who sang – but no, this one was different. The first time Nina Wilkins had opened her mouth, his knees had turned to jelly, and he had felt like a puppy dog ever since. No, not a dog, hell no – he was still his own man – but smitten. Unable to think straight.
She had suggested that they move to Oslo, the whole band, and he had nodded and answered, ‘Yes, whatever you say, Nina.’
Even though he had loved living up in Trondheim. His flat in Møllenberg. The bars: The Nine Muses. The Antikvariat. Ramp. Trondheim was a wonderful city with an insanely inspirational jazz scene.
She had suggested replacing Mulle with another drummer, some Portuguese guy he had never even heard of. ‘Yes, yes, of course, Nina, whatever you say.’
Even though he and Mulle had always played together. They were like twins; they improvised as if they were two heads on the same body.
She had then suggested that he should start playing more soprano saxophone, put away the tenor for now, go up an octave or two; lighter, more brittle, more frantic, like John Coltrane had done at the end of the Miles Davies period. ‘Absolutely. Whatever you say, Nina.’ Of course he could play soprano; in fact, he had always wanted to do that, hadn’t he?
No, his mother had. Jan Garbarek on vinyl in the living room in Manglerud, though he personally had always preferred the fullness of the tenor.
No, enough was enough, he had to put his foot down now. This had to stop. The Nina Wilkins Quartet. Nina. Nina. Nina. Her voice filled his head. No matter where he was.
Certainly after the Portuguese guy turned up in Oslo. Their new drummer. Fine, absolutely, that wasn’t the problem. In theory. Soft. Music in every part of his body, but was he better than Mulle? No, he didn’t think so. Oh, what a fool he had been. He should have seen it coming miles away. Nina and the Portuguese drummer. Tangled up on the sofa. Passionate kisses during rehearsals. Walking hand in hand down the street on their way to Blå.
He should have left at that point. Said that enough was enough. Of course he should have. If he had been man enough. But how could he?
That voice.
Wow, what a voice.
Like honey and sandpaper.
Like the answe
r to a secret.
Every time she opened her mouth.
So he had stayed.
Idiot.
The Nina Wilkins Quartet.
Fortunately, it had paid off. Vossa Jazz Festival last year. They had played on one of the smaller stages but had got the best reviews of anyone. The locals had gone wild. Then Kongsberg Jazz Festival. Same thing again. Sold out. People had fought for the tickets. The plan had been to play just two sets, but the audience had refused to let them leave the stage. Total ecstasy. He had spat blood, been unable to feel his lips for days, but it had been worth it. Of course it had. And now they would be playing in Molde. The most prestigious festival in Norway. And not one of the small stages, oh no, but in the actual Molde Cathedral. If his mother had still been alive, she would have been insanely proud.
‘I’m not really feeling it today,’ Nina slurred, and walked away from the microphone.
She clutched her throat, glanced furtively at the drums and received a complicit nod in return.
Again.
It was happening more and more, and he didn’t like it.
Billie Holiday had done it.
As had Charlie Parker.
Coltrane.
Miles.
What kind of an argument was that?
‘It’s not as if we’re shooting up, Kurt. What the hell is your problem?’
It wasn’t the amount or the frequency.
Or whether it was injected or smoked.
Yes, he was in love.
Yes, she had the voice of an angel.
But heroin?
Hell, no.
He couldn’t even bear to be in the same room as them. He always went out when they got high. And he would come back to these swimming gazes, the spaced-out smiles. And they didn’t play any better, although they thought that they did. They just felt better. That was the only change: heroin had nothing to do with the music that came out. He much preferred her voice when she was clean. And the Portuguese drummer? Oh, don’t even get him started. Always half a beat behind. Or a quarter-beat ahead.
No, he wasn’t putting up with it any longer.
After Molde.
So far, but no longer.
He had other projects.