by Samuel Bjork
What was it about her hair?
It looked so strange.
‘Wouldn’t you like to try it on first?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary.’
Was it a wig?
‘Are you sure? I mean, isn’t it important that—’
‘I’ll take it,’ the girl said again. ‘How much?’
‘This one costs eight thousand four hundred kroner and the tailor will charge sixteen hundred. It may sound like a lot, perhaps, but it’s important that it fits perfectly on your big day. Don’t you agree?’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Very well,’ Samantha said with a light cough. ‘It certainly looks as if it would fit you. Now it would obviously be best to try it on. The changing rooms are just down there and I would be happy to help you.’
‘How much, did you say?’
The girl with the wig had already gone over to the till.
‘Eight thousand four hundred. But like I said—’
‘Cash OK?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Cash?’
The girl was looking straight at her now. Samantha had seen so many eyes in here, eyes sparkling with joy and anticipation, but she had never seen a gaze like that one.
The young woman looked almost frightened.
‘So you just want me to bag it up as it is?’
‘Yes, great,’ the girl said, and stuck her hand into her bag.
She produced an envelope full of banknotes. Counted them with trembling hands and placed them on the counter.
‘May I take your name?’
‘No,’ the girl said.
‘I mean, in case—’
‘It’s fine,’ the girl said as she took the big white bag from Samantha.
‘You’re welcome to come back if you need anything, OK? Like I said, we’re happy to help with the fitting, if it needs to be altered.’
She stopped because she was only talking to herself now. The girl with the green baseball cap had already left the shop.
Samantha shook her head. Buying a wedding dress was a big deal and the woman hadn’t batted an eyelid at the price. Some people. She heaved a sigh, went to the back room, poured herself a cup of coffee.
So should she do it? Now?
Create a new profile?
She wasn’t supposed to be on her mobile or laptop during opening hours – they were quite strict about it – but come on, she had just sold a dress.
And it was only a quarter past ten.
And a Rosa Clara. Within the first hour.
Sod it, what harm could it do?
Samantha took her mobile out of her bag, returned to the counter, smiled to herself and started thinking about how to present herself this time.
Chapter 19
Blakstad psychiatric hospital. A yellow monument half an hour’s drive from Oslo surrounded by trees and a park and bordering a large lake. Mia had been in a pub once a long time ago, in another lifetime, and had overheard a conversation at a neighbouring table.
‘Why do psychos always get the best views? I mean, it doesn’t matter where you go, same thing all over Norway. Bergen. Trondheim. Here in Oslo. Prime locations. Not that they give a toss about it – why would they? They’ve gone loopy. Had to be locked up. Surely it doesn’t matter where they are. Imagine what we could do with those plots.’
As Mia got out of the car and followed Munch towards the imposing building, she couldn’t help thinking that they might have a point. Blakstad psychiatric hospital was in a location worthy of royalty.
‘So he’s a consultant here, but he also has a private practice in the centre of Oslo?’ Munch said, throwing away his cigarette.
‘Nothing unusual about that, is there?’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘So Vivian Berg was a patient here?’ Mia said, as they approached the magnificent building.
‘The way I’ve understood it, no. She was one of his private patients. How much money do you think these people make?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re already being paid by the state. The director of a place like this, with a private practice as well? Is that legal? I mean, obviously it is, but even so.’
He shook his head and stuffed his hand into his duffel coat to get another cigarette. He changed his mind halfway down the path and put the cigarettes back in his pocket. A carer with a tight ponytail and a staff card around his neck let them into the big building.
Mia had imagined a stereotypical German psychiatrist, tall, bearded, wearing glasses and a tweed jacket and smoking a pipe, but Wolfgang Ritter looked nothing like his name suggested. The man across the desk was stick thin, feminine in his manner and spoke so softly that Mia had to lean forward in order to hear him. The psychiatrist was wearing a brown polo-neck jumper which might be thirty years old and the rest of his clothes and the room in general told her that this was a man more concerned with spiritual matters than material possessions. A lava lamp with pink blobs on one windowsill and a clock on the wall strongly suggested the 1970s, but they were the only elements that could be associated with Doctor LSD, if that really was how he was now known.
‘A tragedy, a real tragedy,’ Ritter said in his soft voice. ‘Vivian was a princess. Utterly unique.’
‘I’m sorry for getting straight to the point, but we have so much to do,’ Mia said. ‘What was Vivian’s diagnosis?’
‘Diagnosis, illness, normality – who can tell which is which?’ Ritter mused, leaning back. ‘First and foremost, we’re all human beings, aren’t we? Some with more baggage than others, of course, but does that mean some people need a label?’
Munch gave Mia a brief sideways glance and she knew exactly what he meant. Ritter didn’t seem to be on the same planet as the rest of humankind.
‘Ziprasidone and sertraline,’ Munch said, pulling out a note from his pocket. ‘She must have taken these for a reason. Did you suggest them?’
Munch slid the note across the messy desk. Ritter touched his glasses and looked quickly at the note before giving a small shrug and sinking back in the chair.
‘We all need a little help, don’t we? A diabetic needs insulin. A child takes a fluoride pill. Nature didn’t give us that, did it?’
‘I think you misunderstand,’ Mia reassured him. ‘We’re not trying to stigmatize anyone here. We’re just trying to get an idea of who Vivian was. A twenty-two-year-old girl doesn’t take heavy medication just for the fun of it, does she?’
Wolfgang Ritter fell silent for a moment while he studied them both from behind his glasses.
‘Vivian Berg had what we call a dissociative identity disorder,’ he said at length. ‘It was brought on by a mother who was unable to take care of her. It started when she was little, the soul’s urge to disappear into another consciousness because her reality was too hard to deal with. Was that what you meant? Was that what you want to hear?’
He shook his head almost imperceptibly and looked at Mia with contempt.
I do know my job, if that was what you were wondering.
‘Dissociative …?’ Munch said.
‘Identity disorder,’ Ritter said. ‘It’s often confused with schizophrenia, which means that many patients don’t get the right treatment, which obviously wasn’t the case here. I like to think I know what I’m doing. She continued to improve, with almost every appointment. A tragedy, of course, that she didn’t live long enough to get completely well.’
‘Multiple personalities?’ Mia said with interest.
‘Yes, that’s why the two diagnoses are so often confused. They’re very similar, often presenting with the same symptoms. Reduced impulse control, emotional instability, self-harm, derealization.’
‘Derea—?’
‘Being unable to perceive or experience the world as real.’ Ritter smiled.
Munch glanced briefly at Mia.
‘She had problems knowing what was real?’
‘That’s right. Something which, not surprising
ly, leads to problems coping with the real world. Job, friends, family.’
‘So she thought she was someone else?’ Mia asked.
Ritter nodded.
‘Who?’
Ritter wavered for a moment.
‘Listen, I know that you’ve been granted access to her records, but it still feels …’
He took off his glasses.
‘… a bit wrong. What I’m doing, do you understand?’
‘So you would rather we get someone to come here and copy the information from your computer?’
Mia briefly regretted her harsh tone, but she was tired and she didn’t have the patience for this.
‘Of course not. But even so …?’
‘We understand,’ Munch said. ‘But it would be a great help to us, so if you could—’
‘An older man,’ Ritter said quietly.
‘A what?’
‘There were times Vivian thought she was an older man.’
‘Why a man?’ asked Munch.
‘Good question,’ Ritter said with a shrug.
The room fell silent.
‘She needed someone she regarded as stronger than herself,’ Mia said at length.
She was aware of Ritter’s reaction, that he hadn’t expected her to say that.
‘It’s a theory,’ the psychiatrist said, sucking on one of the arms of his spectacles. ‘Dissociative phenomena are thought to be a defensive response either during, or more frequently after, a traumatic experience. The most important aetiological factor is thought to be serious and ongoing sexual or physical assaults. The earlier in life the abuse occurs, the more serious the symptoms.’
‘So Vivian was abused?’ Munch asked.
‘No, I didn’t say that.’
‘So why did she get this …?’
Munch turned to Mia.
‘Dissociative personality disorder,’ Mia said, and hesitated.
Ritter had challenged her to a pissing contest and she wished she hadn’t been so childish as to have gone along with it, but there was something in his prudish manner that meant she just couldn’t help herself.
‘She wasn’t abused. She developed it through association,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ Munch said.
‘Raymond Greger,’ Mia began.
‘Yes?’ Munch was confused.
‘My guess is that Karoline Berg was abused in some way by her stepbrother and that she involved her daughter in her grief. That’s a common occurrence, isn’t it, Doctor? A single mother and her daughter. The roles get mixed up. The person who was meant to be the adult can’t do their job.’
If Ritter was impressed, he didn’t show it, but she could feel that the mood had changed.
‘Vivian Berg wasn’t abused, no,’ he said with a cough. ‘But she grew up in an unsafe environment where it felt like she was. This happens more frequently than we think. A young child looks up to its parents in a way they don’t actually deserve. A fragile young mind, if we don’t take care of it, can quickly find somewhere to hide in order to feel safe. That’s why I always say I don’t believe in a god. If there was one, he or she wouldn’t have created a race that needed looking after for twenty years before it could manage on its own and was so easy to damage. Humanity? We’re delicate creatures, don’t you think?’
‘So people retreat into their own heads?’ Munch said.
‘They retreat. Disappear. Seek help.’
‘But,’ Munch went on, ‘if she was seriously ill, why wasn’t she admitted here so that she could be treated?’
‘We discussed it, of course, but dancing was important to her. As long as she saw me often enough, we could keep it at bay.’
‘You said she was improving?’
‘Absolutely. The medication helped somewhat, but the most important thing was obviously the distance.’
‘The distance?’ Munch said, but understood halfway through his question. ‘From her mother?’
‘Yes. Now, physical distance from the problem isn’t everything, of course, but it’s more important than you might think.’
‘Did she know that?’ Mia said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Vivian? When she came. Did she understand her illness?’
‘Partly,’ Ritter said. ‘She came to me originally to get help with the symptoms, that’s how it usually starts.’
‘Which were?’
‘Eating disorders primarily, but then again, that’s very common in her profession so it took a while before I realized what was really going on.’
Mia detected a hint of pride in his voice.
‘Do you treat many people with this condition?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss other patients,’ Ritter said, and smiled again with a rather superior expression.
‘I didn’t mean any specific individuals, but—’
‘Like I said. That piece of paper you turned up with grants you access only to Vivian’s medical records.’
‘Did she talk much about her mother?’ Munch said.
‘Not to begin with. But in time, of course. Because we had to. It was difficult for her. She loved her mother more than anybody else in the whole world. That’s what makes it so difficult, isn’t it? To acknowledge that she’s the person who has hurt you the most.’
‘Did she ever mention Raymond Greger?’
‘Oh yes, several times.’
‘How?’
‘Well, with anger, despair. She knew everything. Her mother had told her. Killing was mentioned.’
‘Killing?’
‘Oh yes, of course, I recommend it to all my patients.’
‘What do you mean?’ Munch said with a quick glance at Mia.
‘Not literally, of course. But it’s an important part of my therapy.’
‘Killing?’
Ritter laughed briefly.
‘A great way to slay the animal we can’t conquer inside us, don’t you think? I’ve had great success with this method, if I say so myself.’
‘And how is that done, if I may ask?’ Munch said with interest.
‘The killing?’
‘Yes?’
Ritter smiled faintly once more.
‘In various ways. We do role play. Sometimes my patients write it down. Others draw pictures. It depends entirely on the individual.’
‘And what did Vivian do?’ Mia said.
Ritter fell quiet for a moment.
‘Listen, we hadn’t really got that far, but it was going to happen. She had planned a dance.’
‘A death … dance?’ Munch said, scrunching up his nose.
‘You never saw her dance, did you?’ Ritter said.
‘No,’ Munch said.
‘Did you?’ Mia asked.
‘Oh, yes, several times. She was, well, what can I say? Unique. Sublime. Her death is a real loss to the world. She could have gone as far as she wanted to. Watching her on stage was – well, no, it almost defies description.’
Munch glanced at Mia again, and again she realized what he was insinuating.
The mobile on the table had been vibrating intermittently. Ritter finally checked it.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we have to leave it there. Some of my patients – well, this can’t wait, I’m sure you understand.’
‘Thank you for your time,’ Munch said, getting up. ‘You will send us copies of all her records?’
‘My secretary will see to it,’ Ritter said, and shook hands with them both. ‘Please ring her if there’s anything else.’
‘What are you thinking?’ Munch said when they were back in the car park.
‘That a few more pieces have just fallen into place, wouldn’t you say?’ Mia reached into her jacket for a lozenge.
Munch lit a cigarette as raindrops started dripping on them. The Oslo spring was reluctant to arrive.
‘Raymond Greger?’
‘We really need to find him.’
‘I agree. I’ll call Larvik police and tell them to put more peo
ple on the job. Are you hungry?’
‘I wouldn’t mind something to eat.’
‘Great. I can’t think on an empty stomach. Burger?’
‘Something a little bit healthier, perhaps?’
‘He saw her dance?’
‘I know,’ Mia said. ‘Want him put under surveillance?’
‘Let’s think about it,’ Munch said, leading the way towards the car. His mobile rang.
His face fell as he listened to the voice on the other end.
She knew what was coming long before he had ended the call.
‘Where?’
‘A hotel in Gamlebyen.’
‘Same killer?’ Mia asked, swiftly opening the car door.
Munch didn’t reply. Just nodded with dark eyes and got in behind the wheel.
Chapter 20
Hotel Lundberg lay at the end of a side street in Gamlebyen with the railway tracks as its nearest neighbour. It was barely worthy of the word ‘hotel’. Only the ‘O’ was still lit up on the old neon sign, and the handwritten note on the door – ‘Cash only’ – spoke volumes about the kind of customers who normally frequented this run-down establishment. Patrol cars at the scene had blocked off the narrow street and Mia could see that the media had already descended. A crowd of eager reporters had gathered behind the cordons as Munch and she entered through the rusty door and were met by a slightly fraught Anette Goli in the shabby reception.
‘Do we know who it is?’ Munch said, unbuttoning his coat.
‘The victim’s ID says Kurt Wang. A few people have said that he’s a jazz musician, but we’re checking that out now.’
‘Who found him?’ Mia wanted to know.
‘The receptionist,’ Goli said, nodding towards the back room, where they could see the outline of an old man holding a cup of coffee with trembling hands.
‘Many guests?’
‘No. A junkie in room three and a Bosnian girl who denies being a prostitute in room five.’
‘They’re still here?’ Munch asked.
‘We’re keeping both of them in their rooms for now.’
‘How many rooms are there?’ Mia asked.
‘Ten. Our victim is in number nine,’ Goli said, leading the way down the corridor.
They were met by a crime-scene technician, who nodded and issued each of them with a pair of blue latex gloves.