The Boy in the Headlights

by Samuel Bjork

  Same handwriting.

  Blue pen against the knobbly reverse side.

  Salem.

  Of course.

  Oh, shit.

  Mia left the album lying open on the floor, stood up in a daze and started running around the flat, looking for her leather jacket, before realizing she was already wearing it.

  Salem.

  Jon Ivar Salem.

  The Brothers Lionheart.

  The burning house.

  She struggled to get her mobile out of her jacket pocket and found Ludvig Grønlie’s number.

  ‘Mia? Where are you? Munch has—’

  ‘The arsonist,’ Mia interrupted him, feeling the room around her swing from side to side.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jon Ivar Salem? Do you remember him?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ Grønlie said from somewhere far away.

  ‘Please would you look him up for me, Ludvig? Now? Where is he? Which prison?’

  ‘Are you OK, Mia?’

  ‘I’m great, Ludvig. Would you look him up? Please?’

  ‘Of course, hang on …’

  In the distance she could hear his fingers on the keyboard.

  ‘Ullersmo prison,’ Grønlie said, coming back to her.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. What’s going on, Mia?’

  She didn’t take the time to answer; she just ended the call and ran to the hallway.

  The keys to her dad’s old Jaguar.

  Now where had she put them?

  Oh, there they were.

  She snatched them from the hook in the hallway, then failed to shut the door to her flat behind her as she ran as fast as she could down the stairs.

  Chapter 67

  Curry had just pressed the doorbell outside the second-floor flat when it occurred to him that something didn’t add up. The information rose slowly through his brain but it surfaced eventually from a long way away. There had been a car parked on the other side of the street. He recognized it from somewhere, didn’t he? And it was the same flat. That was too much of a coincidence, wasn’t it? Him and Allan Dahl? Out on their totally unnecessary surveillance job? And where had he seen that car before?

  The door opened and a face appeared cagily in the gap.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Kevin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jon Larsen. We’re supposed to be meeting? Jimbo set it up?’

  ‘Mmm, yeah, all right,’ said the young lad. He could barely be more than twenty.

  He took off the security chain and let Curry into the flat.

  What funny eyebrows. It was almost as if they weren’t there.

  He had the right guy.

  All Kevin was missing was the yellow beanie; otherwise, he fitted Mia’s description perfectly.

  ‘Do you have the cash?’ the junkie mumbled, hugging his skinny body.

  ‘I do.’

  Curry glanced around the flat and his expectations were confirmed. It wasn’t somewhere any normal person would call home. Rubbish littered the hallway and spilled towards the mattresses on the floor. A green 1970s lamp by a window. A filthy sheet nailed in front of it.

  ‘Two thousand – that was what we agreed, wasn’t it?’ Curry said, stuffing a hand in his pocket.

  ‘Er, yes, sure.’ Kevin glanced furtively over his shoulder.

  The car in the street.

  Arrrghh, why was this taking so long?

  He had seen the same car outside the window of the pub where Luna worked, when he had crouched down, scared that someone might see him.

  Money passing through the air towards skinny, blue, outstretched hands. His body acting before his brain had time to tell it to stop.

  Allan Dahl.

  It was like wading through treacle as the thought slowly formed.

  A police officer?

  On the take?

  The man behind the steering wheel. He knew he had seen that face before. It was the lawyer, Lorentzen.

  Shit.

  Of course.

  He could see it in the eyes of the junkie now as he slowly took the money and shifted his nervous gaze towards someone who had suddenly appeared behind Curry.

  Oh no …

  Curry raised his arms above his head, trying instinctively to defend himself against the blow he knew was coming, but it was too late.

  A man stepped out from the shadows.

  Metal hitting his temple.

  Curry had blacked out long before his body hit the floor.

  Chapter 68

  An icy shower had washed the car park clean, but Mia didn’t even notice that it had stopped raining when she stumbled out of the big gate of Ullersmo prison. Jon Ivar Salem. He had seemed just as surprised as she was. They had brought him up from Solitary – something about an attack on some fellow inmates; she hadn’t caught all the details. Damn. What had she been thinking? Had it been like this all along? Nothing but red herrings. Raymond Greger. Klaus Heming. She had screamed at Salem in the small room; she had been emotional, unprofessional, the adrenaline pumping through her. Did you pay someone? To kill? Because I caught you? Was that why? My pictures? My album? Who went to my flat? He had stared at her with a deep frown. As if she were the patient and he the doctor.

  Shit.

  Norway’s most notorious arsonist. Jon Ivar Salem. This revolting man had ravaged Østlandet for almost fifteen years. House after house, apparently picked at random. He had set them alight at night. Not with petrol cans and a lighter – oh no, he was cynical and much more devious. A plumber by trade, but familiar with electrical installations. During his trial it was revealed that he had worked in every single house at some point or other. A leaking pipe. A blocked lavatory. A new boiler. And he had been patience itself. Waited until he would no longer be on the list of suspects. A break-in at night. An incorrectly wired electrical circuit, often helped along with some old clothing or rags he found in the basements of the houses. And then he would sit in his car. Watching the flames. Twenty-four detached houses. Twenty-four families. Thirteen fatalities. And no one had spotted the connection until a young and inexperienced Mia Krüger was one day assigned to the case.

  She had seen it in his face in the courtroom. More curiosity than hatred, really, as he kept turning towards her. Who was this person who, after fifteen years, had finally managed to catch him?

  Jon Ivar Salem.

  It’s burning.

  Of course.

  But even so …

  It didn’t make any sense …

  Because Jon Ivar Salem had had absolutely no idea about what was going on.

  ‘Someone just sent me a ring,’ he had muttered at last. ‘I was promised a reward.’

  His leery smile across the table as the prison guard went to his cell to fetch it.

  ‘Who sent it?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I was just promised something. Do you have it? My reward?’

  A gold ring.

  She had stuffed it into her pocket. He had protested vociferously, but the prison guard had dealt with him. He had handcuffed him and escorted him back down to Solitary.

  A gold ring?

  The afternoon sun crept out behind a cloud and gazed at its own reflection in a puddle in the car park. Mia stuffed her hand into her pocket, found a lozenge and tried to clear her head.

  OK, deep breath now, Mia.

  The pictures. In the album. Mia’s album. All the murders are in there. They were reconstructions.

  Congratulations!

  How clever you are.

  Salem.

  Mia was so absorbed in her own thoughts she was unaware that someone was coming up behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she finally noticed him: a prison guard; nothing unusual about that. Ullersmo prison housed some of Norway’s worst criminals and there were strong security measures both inside and out.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the voice said as it came close.

  A bundle of keys jangled. A big torch not yet tur
ned on; darkness was still some hours away.

  ‘Sorry, I’m a police officer,’ Mia mumbled, pulling her warrant card from her inside pocket and holding it up in the air.

  Salem?

  Jon Ivar Salem.

  What the hell was his part in all this?

  The security guard took her warrant card, studied it and returned it to her.

  ‘How clever you are.’

  ‘What …?’

  She turned, still lost in a world of her own.

  ‘How clever you are, Mia.’

  What the hell …?

  She found herself staring into a young, smiling face. An outstretched, gloved hand moved through the air towards her again; it wasn’t holding a torch after all but a small spray can.

  Feet trying to run, fingers curling into her palms as her brain realized what was happening, but by then it was already too late.

  ‘We’ll take your car. It’s such a nice car.’

  A key in the ignition and her arms somewhere far away, a last attempt to control her movements, but all she was able to take in was that it had started to rain again.

  Gentle drops falling softly on the windscreen as the car pulled out slowly from the car park.

  SIX

  Chapter 69

  Munch had just parked in the underground car park in Mariboesgate when his mobile rang. He was hoping the display would read Mia; he had tried calling her several times, but she still refused to pick up.

  ‘Hi, it’s Anette,’ Goli said. ‘We’ve got him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ivan Horowitz.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Three independent tip-offs saying the same thing.’ Goli sounded out of breath. ‘I’ve passed them on to Edvardsen. They’re on their way now.’

  ‘On their way? Who? Where?’

  ‘He has a cabin,’ Goli continued. ‘Not very far from where we found Vivian Berg. It’s about an hour into the forest in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Horowitz?’

  ‘Yes, like I just told you, three independent callers all with the same information. He moved into the cabin a long time ago. Said he’d had enough of people. Wanted to live alone in nature. And no one has seen him since.’

  Munch swore and started running back to his car. ‘So who is on their way there now?’

  ‘The army. They’ve dispatched Alfa, the elite force they mentioned. Edvardsen wants us to come down there.’

  ‘To the situation room?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’ Goli sighed. ‘So that he can boast? Show how they’re so much better than us? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, we have him now. It’ll soon be over. Thank God.’

  Munch could hear the relief in her tired voice.

  ‘Will you be joining us?’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Munch said, and quickly got back into his car.

  Chapter 70

  Mia Krüger woke up and didn’t know where she was. It felt as if she were still dreaming. Diffuse images slipped in and out of her mind. She couldn’t work out which ones were real. She was in a cabin. She could see a wooden wall. A small window which someone had covered up. Her grandmother was sitting at the foot of her bed. She smiled and wrapped a blanket around Mia. Then her grandmother was gone. Her arm was tied to a bedpost. As was one of her feet. She could smell trees. And birds. Her forehead felt hot. Her mother was sitting at the end of the bed. She had a tray with squash and a cold flannel. Then her mother was gone. Her father was outside. He had just come home from work. He had fixed the car, the old jade Jaguar that used to be his father’s, the one she would one day inherit. Sigrid was sitting at the end of her bed, clutching a photo album. Mia wanted to reach out for her. Hold her tight. So tight that she would never disappear again.

  Death isn’t dangerous.

  Her grandmother came back.

  Sigrid smiled at her.

  Are you coming, Mia?

  Mia opened her eyes and gasped.

  What the hell?

  She tried to get up but couldn’t. She could feel herself starting to panic but she forced it back.

  Calm down now, Mia. Easy does it.

  Concentrate. Her arm was tied to a bedpost. As was one foot. There was nothing covering her mouth. She scanned her surroundings, still disoriented, but she could distinguish what was real now. The wooden walls. A door leading to another room. A wardrobe against one wall. Old-fashioned design. A cabin. A covered window. A ceiling lamp. She took a deep breath and tried to free her hand. No luck. Not her foot either. OK.

  Don’t panic, Mia.

  He has caught you, but he hasn’t killed you.

  That must mean something, surely?

  She felt the bile rise from her stomach as the sequence of events slowly came back to her. The camera. The pictures. The images, rather than the camera itself, were what really mattered. The pictures on the walls in Charlie Brun’s home. The page numbers in Mia’s album. The murders were all about her. Salem. In Ullersmo prison. The gold ring.

  She got no further.

  The door opened and a smiling face appeared; its owner was holding something.

  Something that was on fire.

  Candles?

  A cake?

  ‘Many happy returns, darling. I know it’s not your birthday, of course I do, but I thought we ought to celebrate. Would you like me to blow out the candles? Or would you rather do it yourself?’

  Chapter 71

  Curry had never thought about how he would die. It wasn’t something that had ever crossed his mind. From old age, possibly. Sometime in the distant future, on a veranda with a sea view. Certainly not in a place like this, in a filthy flat, ambushed and tied to a chair with a hood over his head.

  He tried to move again, but it was as if he were glued to the hard spindle-back chair. The rope cut into his wrists. The pain made him want to howl, but he pressed his lips together. His head was throbbing. He could feel dried blood on his neck. They had beaten the living daylights out of him. His brain was no longer working.

  Jimbo?

  No, not Jimbo.

  Jimbo had set up a meeting. With Kevin, the junkie. Who was the boyfriend of someone called Lotte. And she was Allan Dahl’s drug mule. That had to be the connection. It explained why they had been watching her flat that morning. Dahl had been there to watch his girl. Watch his heroin. His money.

  And now Curry was tied to a chair.

  With a hood over his head.

  Betrayed by that bastard Dahl who was supposed to be on his side.

  Fuck.

  No, that wasn’t how he had imagined the end.

  He could no longer hear any noise coming from the next room. There had been frantic activity for a while. Raised voices in broken English. The odd word in Norwegian. He had heard him.

  That bastard Dahl.

  ‘What do we do with him?’

  And Dahl had replied.

  Kill him?

  Or had he said: ‘We’re leaving’?

  Curry hadn’t been able to tell.

  He tried the rope yet again but only managed to force it deeper into his wrists. He sat upright in the chair and felt his heart pound under the sweaty, bloodstained shirt.

  Oh, shit.

  Footsteps.

  Someone was out there.

  He heard the door handle moving.

  Shit.

  A sharp flash of light washed over him; it was so bright he could even sense it through the hood. A figure in the doorway. A big, black shadow. He heard the sound of a weapon, the safety catch being flicked off.

  Shit.

  He bowed his head instinctively.

  OK.

  So it was going to be this way.

  He pressed his eyes shut. He could feel himself trembling now and mumbled a few last words between his dry lips.

  Sorry, everyone.

  Chapter 72

  Munch was sitting at the end of the oval table. He could feel the charged atmo
sphere in the room. The general had tried to hide it, but Munch had seen his smug face. Goli had been right. They were there purely to watch. He had noticed it during their first visit. The condescending glances. Wooden-tops. Civilians. Now they would see who was really running this country. Who took charge when national security was at stake.

  ‘Every single image is a live video feed from a soldier’s helmet.’

  Edvardsen was almost like a little kid now, wielding the remote control.

  ‘We can move the images up to the main screen as we see fit.’

  A little kid playing a video game. One costing millions of kroner would be his guess. Munch felt vaguely disgusted, but it no longer mattered. Ivan Horowitz. The serial killer. In a cabin in a forest. Soon it would all be over.

  They could have dispatched Delta, the armed-response unit. But Edvardsen had favoured his own, obviously. And he needed to prove to the politicians in the room that the taxpayers’ money was well spent. Perhaps they could even add a few extra millions to next year’s budget? Oh, grow up, Munch ordered himself. He had to stop it now. The only thing that mattered was that this sick individual was captured once and for all. Munch had been a sceptic about the involvement of the higher ranks, but the death of the priest had convinced him that they needed the extra firepower. Paul Malley. Number twenty-nine on the list.

  A crackling sound came from the screen.

  ‘One, three, target in sight, over.’

  ‘Three, one, await orders, over.’

  The cameras moved through the forest as if in a video game, which was almost what it was. Soldier number one. Light mist between dense tree trunks. Soldier number two. A glimpse of a cabin further ahead. The barrel of an automatic rifle. Soldier number three. Running across the heather, then down behind a tree, the cabin no longer quite so far away.

  ‘One, four, ready to enter, over.’

  ‘Four, one, await go, over.’

  Digital warfare. Live from the forest. Munch realized he was unable to peel his eyes away from the screen. Several soldiers were now approaching the grey door to the cabin.

  ‘Team, this is one. Radio silence, wait for go.’

  Suddenly there was total silence in the situation room. A thumbs-up in front of a camera very close to the grey door.