by Samuel Bjork
I need a favour.
Stupid, perhaps, that she was like this. Saying yes to everything, to everyone, all the time, although it wasn’t always reciprocated. Well, it was too late now. It had sounded important.
‘Hi, Susanne,’ Mia said, and gave her a long hug. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you, but you know how it is.’
‘Forget it.’ Susanne smiled. ‘Everything all right with you?’
Mia looked very well. The last time they had met Mia had looked like a ghost. Skinny. Exhausted. Like a skeleton on the verge of collapse. She was a changed woman now. Herself again. Almost like the old days.
‘I’m fine,’ Mia said. ‘Did you manage it? Did you get hold of him?’
‘We have several,’ Susanne smiled. ‘But I got hold of one of them, yes. Is it really that urgent?’
‘It’s an ongoing investigation,’ Mia said, glancing up the steps. ‘Something I need to confirm. Or disprove. Is he in there?’
‘Why don’t we go for coffee first?’ Susanne said. ‘Or lunch? I’m between production meetings today. We’re doing The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. Gísli Örn Garðarsson? The Icelandic director? It sold out last year and is being revived on the main stage this autumn.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Mia said. She seemed to be preoccupied. ‘So he knows about this?’ Mia pointed to her own face. ‘Masks. How you change your appearance, and so on?’
‘Sure.’ Susanne smiled and swallowed her disappointment. ‘In here people can do most things.’
She ushered her friend up the steps.
‘He understands that this is police work?’ Mia asked as they made their way to the wardrobe department.
‘Well, I’ve only had a quick word with him,’ Susanne said, grabbing the door handle. ‘If you had given me a little more warning—’
‘He can’t tell anyone about what I’m going to show him,’ Mia interrupted her. ‘OK? And neither can you.’
‘Understood.’ Susanne nodded and opened the door.
Ishmael was sitting at his worktable and got up when they entered.
‘Mia Krüger,’ Susanne said. ‘This is …’
‘Ishmael Malik,’ the young make-up artist said, unable to hide the fact that he knew who she was.
It happened all the time. Mia Krüger. Homicide investigator. Celebrity. Susanne had always been a little jealous – no, not that, not jealous, mostly proud, but yes, a little envious, she had to admit.
‘Hi, Ishmael.’ Mia nodded and took something from her bag. ‘Sorry to spring this on you, but I need you to look at something for me. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not.’ The young Afghan smiled and cleared his table. ‘Happy to help. What is it?’
‘These three,’ Mia said, placing three pieces of paper on the table.
Two drawings and one photograph.
Susanne was no fool. She realized immediately that the pictures related to the murders the whole country was talking about. It was everywhere now, no matter which TV channel you watched. She had seen the press conferences. The blonde police lawyer, who kept brushing aside all the questions, seemed calm. No need to worry. Despite that, everyone at the theatre and everyone else she met had started looking over their shoulders. A serial killer at large in Oslo? Even her mother had called earlier today. Are you quite sure you don’t want to come home to Åsgårdstrand, Susanne?
‘What am I looking at?’
‘This needs to stay between us, understand?’ Mia placed her hand on his shoulder for a moment.
Ishmael nodded, still gazing at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was really here.
‘Is this the same man?’ Mia wanted to know.
‘It’s hard to say.’ Ishmael studied the three images on the table in front of him. ‘Two of them are sketches, so yes, but …’
He held up the photograph to the light.
‘The fringe,’ Mia pointed. ‘And as you can see, we have a moustache here and a pair of spectacles there. Is it that simple? To change your appearance, I mean?’
‘Like I said,’ Ishmael added, putting down the photograph, ‘these two are just sketches, but no, I don’t think it would be that difficult.’
‘No?’
‘Absolutely not. It could be the same man, if that’s what you’re asking me.’
‘We’ve been wondering if we’re dealing with several people here.’
‘I see,’ Ishmael said, still with flushed cheeks. ‘Now that’s possible, of course. But I would have said not.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Like I said, it’s possible. And again, these two are just sketches, but there are structural similarities here.’
‘Yes? You mean the nose?’
‘No, no,’ the young man said, warming to his subject now. ‘Some things are easy to change. The nose, the forehead, the ears, the chin – I can turn you into a fat old man in a matter of hours, say. What you need to look out for is the eyes.’
‘Go on?’
‘Look at them. You can’t change the eyes.’
‘So you’re saying it’s the same man?’
‘Again—’
‘Except that two of the pictures are only sketches. Yes, I know.’
Susanne could feel it returning now, the sting of disappointment. She had been trying to contact Mia for so long. Not for any special reason, just so that they could hang out together.
She dismissed the feeling and plastered on a smile. But there was no need; neither Mia nor Ishmael was aware that she was still in the room.
‘So, as far as you’re concerned,’ Mia said, ‘this is the same man?’
Ishmael studied the images again.
‘I would say so, yes. Look. These lines. Here. If the sketch artist or the people who told him what to draw have got this right, then that’s a feature which is hard to disguise.’
Susanne rummaged around in her pocket for her mobile, just to have something to do.
‘Thank you so much. Ishmael, was it?’
‘Yes, and you’re welcome.’ The young man nodded, an almost bashful smile at the corners of his mouth.
‘You’re a brick, Susanne.’
And she was off. Mia gave her a quick hug and zipped up her leather jacket.
‘Don’t mention it. How about lunch or maybe a drink one evening?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll call you,’ Mia said, and gave her a peck on the cheek before running down the steps and disappearing into the crowd in front of the Spikersuppa ice-skating rink.
Chapter 39
Erik Rønning had just had his make-up done and thought he looked rather orange, but he had been on TV before and knew that it was necessary. It would make him look better in the studio lights. He had arrived at TV2’s studios just over half an hour ago and been welcomed like – well, like a hero, he would say. Ever since the news of the film from Camp Skar had come out his phone hadn’t stopped ringing. He had briefly discussed with Grung whether he should talk exclusively to Aftenposten, but they had agreed that the newspaper would receive even more exposure if he agreed to be interviewed by other media outlets, and Erik Rønning didn’t mind in the least. In addition to all the newspapers, he had done the rounds of the TV stations, NRK TV and NRK Dagsnytt 18, and had now been invited to be the expert commentator on TV2’s news channel. Open doors. Smiles in the corridors. Eager hands pressing his.
Welcome, Erik.
Brilliant, what a scoop.
How did you do it?
Delighted you could make it!
How about a drink later tonight?
‘Are we ready in here?’
An elegantly dressed young woman with a set of headphones around her neck popped her head in and looked at him with warm, curious eyes.
‘I’m good to go,’ Erik said with a nod.
‘Great,’ the producer said. ‘We’ll have a commercial break soon, then you’re on straight afterwards.’
‘I’ll be there. I just need the little boys’ room.’ Rønning winked and got up from the make-up
chair.
The woman with the headset giggled.
‘Now don’t get lost.’
‘I’ll try not to.’ Rønning smiled and went to the Gents.
Mi-mi-mi-mi.
Mo-mo-mo-mo.
Ki-ka-ko-ka-ki-ko.
Vrr-brr-vrr-brr-vrr.
He did the voice warm-ups he had been taught during his year at Romerike Adult Education College back when he thought he wanted to become an actor and looked in the mirror again. He had brought out the big guns. He wore the dark-blue suit he had had made specially at Brooks Brothers in Manhattan. It was a little tight now – he didn’t work out as often as he should – but he still looked very good in it. A simple, red Armani tie and Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. He checked that he didn’t have anything in his teeth, washed his hands and returned to Make-up. Back to the big mirror now; an important politician, that was what he looked like. Maybe that would suit him, Erik Rønning, Member of Parliament? Erik Rønning, Foreign Minister? He laughed to himself and ran his hand over his hair, smoothing his fringe to the left. He liked it like that, hard and smooth. He thought of his hopeless colleagues who saw themselves as artists, who wore their hair long and pretty much turned up for work in Crocs, if you could believe it. Erik Rønning, Prime Minister? He ran his hand over the red tie and tightened the knot slightly. Red ties. The colour always worn by conservative politicians when they wanted to be seen as warm and trustworthy, as having a heart. Rønning had briefly dated a stylist who worked for a PR company and that had been her job. To make the idiots look human. Likeable on TV. Because that was what it was all about, wasn’t it?
‘You’re on after the commercial break. Are you ready?’
‘I was born ready.’ Rønning winked again and followed the producer into the studio.
He nodded to the news anchors and sat down in the chair indicated. The studio was small. It could almost have been his living room. It never ceased to surprise him, the reality of television compared to your expectations.
‘Microphone check,’ a young man said. He, too, was wearing a headset.
Erik Rønning said, ‘One-two,’ and got a thumbs-up.
‘Twenty seconds,’ the producer said as Rønning turned to the female news anchor and got a smile back.
Now what was her name again?
Mossfjord?
Mossberg?
Veronica Mossberg, that was it.
He had seen her at various events and she had never deigned to look at him, but today was different.
‘Ten seconds.’ The producer held up a hand in the air. ‘Five.’
Outstretched fingers. She closed them one after the other in silence as the commercial break came to an end.
Vignette. Imposing and action-packed. The producer closed her hand and swung her arm through the air towards Mossberg.
‘Welcome back,’ the pretty presenter said. ‘Tonight we have a guest in the studio, Erik Rønning from Aftenposten. He’s the journalist who managed to capture this morning’s terrible incident on film, but first a summary for those of you who have just joined us. Roger?’
Rønning cleared his throat and took a sip of water. Roger. A short guy with a reddish, speckled face, Rønning had played poker with him some months ago and hadn’t taken to him.
‘Is there a serial killer at large in Oslo?’ Roger asked in a grave, slightly affected voice. ‘That’s the question everyone in Norway is asking after the third victim in just a few days was found this morning in the boot of a car in Maridalen. Lars Ellingsen has the story.’
The producer appeared and indicated that they were off air. A pre-recorded report was shown on a small screen behind them, the volume on mute. Rønning had seen it earlier today. Vivian Berg, the ballet dancer. Blah-blah. Kurt Wang, the jazz musician. Found in a hotel. Ruben Iversen, the teenager. Same killer? Blah-blah. Was this really necessary? When they had him right here? He shook his head and hoped they would notice. Took another sip of water from the glass in front of him and cleaned his teeth with his tongue.
The producer stepped out beside the camera and repeated her countdown as the report neared its ending.
Three-two …
‘As I was just saying, we have Erik Rønning from Aftenposten with us. Welcome,’ Roger said, nodding towards him when they were live again.
‘Thank you,’ Rønning said solemnly.
‘You’ve managed to get hold of footage which shows the actual murder of Ruben Iversen, is that correct?’
‘That’s correct.’ Rønning nodded and folded his hands in front of him.
‘Tell us how that happened? Was it coincidence? Or was it, as some unpleasant rumours have it, that the killer gave you advance notice?’
‘I would like to deny this immediately, Roger.’ Rønning cleared his throat. ‘The footage is the result of another feature we were working on, and yes, whether we were extremely skilful or just lucky, that’s for others to decide, but fortunately, fortunately …’
At this point, he looked straight into the camera in order to make contact with the viewers.
‘… we were able to produce evidence which has been absolutely essential for the police in this case. They are very grateful.’
‘Is it the case …?’
It was Veronica Mossberg now, in a completely different tone of voice. She sounded impressed, whereas Roger was simply envious. Wasn’t that always the case in this business? Rønning couldn’t help chuckling to himself when the female news anchor practically ate him up with her eyes.
‘… that the footage will never be shown to the public? Don’t you think that we all have a right to know?’
‘Well, Veronica,’ Erik Rønning said, and cleared his throat again, ‘as you know, in cases such as this one it’s important to protect not just the victims and their families but also – well, the whole nation, I would say.’
‘But—’ Roger began.
‘This is …’ Rønning smiled and made a conciliatory gesture ‘… obviously not something which I alone, or we from Aftenposten’s editorial team, have decided. We’re working very closely with the police and the authorities, as you would expect, and when you think about it, Roger, the answer is clear, isn’t it? Would you like your son’s murder streamed live on national television? I don’t think so.’
Rønning winked at Mossberg and took another sip of water.
‘But what do you think,’ Mossberg continued, ‘of the prospect that we who live in a small country like Norway may now be dealing with a second serial killer in less than a year? What’s going on in our country?’
‘Well, Veronica,’ Rønning began, but was interrupted by Roger pressing a finger against his ear plug.
‘We have to interrupt you there. We’re going live to Stockholm, to Sweden’s most highly regarded expert in this field, the crime novelist and professor of criminology Joakim Persson. Professor Persson, welcome and thank you for joining us.’
The bearded, middle-aged Swede appeared on the screen in front of them.
‘My pleasure.’
Rønning shook his head and drank some more water.
What was this?
Was it really necessary?
He had better things to do than be messed about by TV2.
In fact, he had many other things to do; they should count themselves lucky he had even deigned to come here. And then to cut him off for a bloody Swede?
‘Here in Norway,’ Roger continued, ‘we’re not used to this phenomenon, a thrill killer who appears to pick his victims at random. Are you, as an expert, able to tell us what that means?’
A thrill killer? Someone who kills for pleasure?
Where the hell did he get that expression from?
It sounded really professional, damn it.
‘Well, it’s early days yet,’ Persson said. ‘And I don’t know what the police know, so I can only go on the information in the media, but saying that, I have no doubt that we’re now faced with a perpetrator who could kill again at any time.’
&nbs
p; ‘And what do you base that on?’ Roger asked.
‘It all seems planned,’ Persson continued. ‘The method is the same and the crime scenes appear staged. It’s typical in such cases that …’
Rønning zoned out from the suit and wondered whether to start using the term as well.
Thrill killer?
He would be posting a new article online in a few hours. They were updating the story constantly now; the paper wrote of little else. They had people in the field talking to the boy’s school, to his neighbours and friends. Ruben Iversen was said to have been on his way to a sleepover at a friend’s house but had disappeared after filling up his moped at a petrol station.
What was the link between the two first victims and a teenage boy? No one had found one so far and yet it seemed as if all the murders were planned, although the police continued to deny it.
The Swede held forth about serial killers and why they did the things they did.
Ted Bundy.
David Berkowitz.
Jeffrey Dahmer.
Edmund Kemper.
Blah-blah.
Rønning had heard it all before.
Was it possible that Roger had actually stumbled across something? That the killer really did pick his victims at random? Killed people just because … he felt like it?
Now that was something.
He could use that.
Because there was no link, was there? It was just brutal chance.
Was there a sexual motive?
Random killings?
A thrill killer?
He had to phone Grung. Rønning could feel an itching under his collar when the Swede signed off and the producer with the headset raised her hand to count them down to another commercial break.
Chapter 40
Munch had just stepped out on to the smoking balcony when his mobile rang. He checked the display and decided to take the call.
‘Hi, Marianne, how are you?’
‘I could ask you the same.’
He had heard that voice so many times before. His ex-wife trying not to sound anxious, and failing.
‘Busy,’ Munch said. ‘And Miriam?’
‘Better and better. The physiotherapist said yesterday how well she was doing.’