A Time For Monsters

by Gareth Worthington

“Ah, yeah, sorry,” Arne replied, then grudgingly stuffed his unlit cigarette back into the carton.

  “Anyway,” Bjorn said, “this time he fucked up. He picked a rare bottle.” Bjorn waltzed over to the shelf, collected a bottle, brought it back and handed it to Arne. “The product belongs to a small manufacturer of akevitt. Small batch, select. The lab came back with minute traces of platinum. Makes it sparkle, you see? This brand is sold to just five stores in the whole of Oslo. I checked with them all. Only one store, this one, had sold any in the last few days. It’s really expensive. All we have to do is check the surveillance, and presto, we have a lead on the killer.”

  “Maybe,” Huakaas said, examining the bottle, which did look just like the one they pulled from the latest victim’s head. “Or maybe he stole it. Or maybe he works for the manufacturer. Or maybe it’s this guy.” He nodded to the owner.

  “Okay, that’s a possibility,” Bjorn conceded. “But, I thought of that. The manufacturer is family-owned. Twenty employees. I’ll go over and see them in the morning. But if one of them was the killer, you think they’d use their own stock?”

  “Depends on how crazy they are.”

  “Anyway,” Bjorn continued. “I doubt it. As for it being stolen, that’s a possibility. If it was stolen, though, we can see on the CCTV who it was stolen from. Again, likely not the case. My gut tells me we have the killer on tape.”

  Bjorn had done his homework. Huakaas had been facetious but had to give his partner credit. This was the strongest lead.

  “So—”

  “And before you say anything, yes it could be the owner,” Bjorn interjected. “I’ll be asking stretch over there where he was in the last few days. Don’t worry.”

  Huakaas glanced over at the sleepy-eyed owner—a tall, thin man with a silver goatee and shaved head, who kept yawning.

  “I was going to say, fine, let’s look at the surveillance.”

  Bjorn beamed like a pup that had just peed on newspaper for the first time.

  Arne rolled his eyes.

  The detectives were ushered into the backroom—a closet-sized space, cluttered with chocolate wrappers, beer cans, and a full ashtray. Huakaas cursed the hypocrisy of the owner while savoring the lingering sweet odor of recently extinguished cigarettes.

  A single monitor displayed the interior of the shop from a fixed angle, focused on the cash register. The perspective was a little forced and the image grainy, with no audio, but it would do. Clear enough to make out individual brand names of some of the goods on the shelves, so it would be good enough to make out a face.

  The tired owner tapped into the keyboard the date and time, minus a couple of minutes to show the leadup, as it read on his receipt. Two days ago, 16:34. The recording jumped to the required time point. Huakaas and Bjorn leaned in to absorb every detail.

  On the screen, a woman with long dark hair wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses entered the store. Huakaas eyed her, waiting for someone else—the killer—to follow her in. Instead, the woman walked directly to the liquor shelf, grabbed the exact brand of akevitt—a replica of the bottle still in Arne’s grasp—and then made her way straight to the counter. She paid in cash, nodded once, and left. She never once turned her face to the camera. The video continued to roll. Five minutes. Ten minutes. No one else came in.

  “That’s it?” Huakaas asked.

  The owner nodded. “I remember her, now. Foreigner. Spoke English.”

  “Spoke English, or was English?”

  The owner shrugged. “Could have been American, or Australian. All sounds the same to me.”

  “The only person who bought that particular bottle of akevitt in the last few days was a woman? A skinny woman at that,” Huakaas near spat, backing away from the monitor. “You want me to believe she is clubbing full-grown men to death and displaying them like fucked-up puppets?”

  “Could be,” Bjorn said. “Or maybe she’s an accomplice.”

  Huakaas rubbed his face. “Now that makes more sense.” It just fits better with the profile of a murderer.

  “We need to find that woman,” Bjorn said. “We’ll get forensics in, dust for prints and fibers.”

  Huakaas opened his mouth to argue, aching to point out the shop was likely covered in a million peoples’ prints, and covered in hair from every man and his dog—literally, but he held back. Huus had been right about the bottle. Found the needle in the haystack. Might as well let him have his moment and keep digging. So instead, Arne nodded once and tossed the bottle of akevitt to the owner, who fumbled the catch.

  “I need your keys, Huus,” Arne said.

  “My keys?”

  “I’m not hoofing it back, and there’ll be no bloody taxis about now. You don’t live far from here. I do.” He held out his hand. “Keys.”

  Huus hesitated, but then fished out his car keys and slapped them in Arne’s hand.

  Arne left the store, only to be greeted by the skinny frame of a familiar and unwelcome foe. “What the fuck do you want, Hansen?”

  The blogger gave a self-satisfied grin. “Tsk, tsk, Detective. A liquor store? When you fall off the wagon, you really go for it huh? Belt and braces. Off to slap the shit out of someone else? Maybe a kid thi—”

  Arne wheeled, grabbing the man by his blue wool coat.

  “Oh, please do it,” Hansen said with a slimy smile. “Give your boss a reason to investigate everything you’re up to. Including covering up something. I know what this is about. It’s the King Kubb Killer, isn’t it?”

  Huakaas’s eyes widened.

  “Don’t look so surprised. You might have friends in the press, Huakaas, but I have friends too. I know you’re hiding something. I know you’re dirty.”

  Arne released Hansen and shoved him away. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Can I quote you on that?” Hansen said, holding out his phone like a Dictaphone.

  Huus bowled out from the liquor store, jaw set.

  Hansen’s demeanor shifted, a pang of fear now in his eyes. Huus might be a gentle giant most of the time, but at well over six feet tall, built like a brick shit house and with years of experience as a beat cop, he was not someone with whom Hansen wanted to fuck.

  “I thought I told you to piss off,” Huus said, towering over the blogger.

  “Just passing by,” Hansen said, palms raised.

  “Pass by somewhere else, jerkoff,” Huus said.

  “Sure, sure.” Hanson swallowed, stepping away from Huus. “I’ll see ya round, Huakaas.” He winked and disappeared into the night.

  “How did that little shit know we were here?” Huus asked.

  “No idea, but he’s a problem.”

  “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here before he starts taking pictures.”

  Arne shook his head. I’m too old for this shit. He climbed into Huus’s Ford Focus, turned the engine over, popped it into first, and pulled away.

  The streetlights and snow-cum-sleet made for an uneasy drive. The winding, reflective, slick road made it seem as if Arne were driving down the throat of some enormous snake. Streetlights illuminated the blockish buildings and cast awkward shadows. More and more these days Arne felt the city to be unremarkable and certainly to lack the charm of the country’s other cities like Bergen. Driving these same roads his entire life meant he could navigate them without thinking, an internal autopilot guiding his hands on the steering wheel. Often while driving, he imagined captaining a Viking longboat in search of new lands—salty sea air on his face. The wail of police sirens always brought him crashing back to reality.

  Do your job, and be grateful you have one, his father would say.

  Arne tapped on the steering wheel and wet his lips, which were now devoid of moisture thanks to his beer session earlier. He swallowed hard, his marinated brain stewing on the new piece of evidence. The killer could be a woman.

  Was it possible? Statistics would say no. Ninety-six percent of all homicides worldwide were committed by men. In his thirty years, he’d
never had a female murderer. Not once. Could this really be the one time—this nut job? He shook his head, muttering to himself. Buying the akevitt was a coincidence. Maybe the killer hadn’t bought it in the last few days. Maybe he’d bought it months ago. Correlation is not causation.

  Get your head straight, Detective, he thought.

  If a woman wanted revenge, she was cleverer than murder. Death was quick. Final. Satisfaction in the deed too little. That’s why serial killers were just that: serial. The killing of one person never quenched the desire inside. They needed to repeat the thrill or continue the mission. Women were different—they could make men suffer over the years. Take half their wages, steal their pension, and abscond with their children. The torture inflicted day after painful day.

  That’s what Aslaug had done. Ten years ago, now. The vindictive jævla fitte refused to marry her long-term boyfriend, just to ensure Arne kept paying the alimony. Apparently, Christoph shouldn’t have to pay for her or their daughter.

  Clara.

  Arne’s heart ached a little. Aslaug had poisoned her against him. His little one—perhaps not so little—now hated him as much as his ex did. The vitriol was not justified. Whatever happened between him and his spiteful ex, Clara had always been left out of it. He had never done anything to her.

  Irritation swelled in his chest, growing in intensity as he considered the shitty apartment to which he was now headed. Moth-eaten, damp, and covered in fucking rabbit shit. He gripped the wheel with one hand and fished a cigarette out with the other. A practiced flick of the packet and a cigarette slid out. He took it between his lips, then pressed the in-car lighter button and waited for it to heat. A moment later, the lighter popped with an anticipated clunk, and Arne pressed the white-hot coil to the end of his cigarette. He sucked at the cigarette until the tobacco caught flame, and immediately inhaled that first drag. The intoxicating fumes and bitter taste melded with the lingering buzz of his last beer. The euphoria extinguished his growing rage, replacing it with a calm mellow. He took a deep breath and exhaled a purposeful sigh.

  The impact threw him forward, then the seatbelt snatched him back. He was sure he’d slammed on the brakes. His nose was left hovering inches from the steering wheel. Arne’s heart beat hard and his buzz dissolved as the horrific realization took hold. He’d closed his eyes for just too long.

  Your eyes are still closed, you fucking idiot! Arne told himself. Get out of the fucking car!

  Arne grasped at the door handle, then yanked it. He pushed the door open and climbed out onto wobbly legs. He stumbled to the front of Huus’s Ford. Not so much as a dent. But on the pavement lay a woman, sprawled and unconscious. For a moment, he was unable to move, but his trained eyes took in the scene quickly.

  She was on the pavement. He’d curbed the car, taken her out.

  “Fuck, shit, fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

  A small crowd had gathered.

  Did these people lurk in corners only to spring out from the shadows and film accidents with their damned phones? Because that’s what this was—an accident. He hadn’t meant to. She must have stepped out. Not looked up. Eyes buried in her damn phone.

  Her phone.

  He scanned the wet tarmac. Sure enough, there it was. A meter away from her left hand. Yes, exactly, she’d not been paying attention. Not his fault.

  “She’s alive,” a man said.

  Arne snapped his attention back. A man was on his knees next to the woman, who now stirred.

  “Okay, okay, back off. C’mon out of the way,” Arne said, regaining some authoritative demeanor. “I’m a police detective.” He flashed his badge and ushered the man out of the way.

  “A cop? Didn’t you hit her?”

  Control the narrative, Arne. Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable.

  “She stepped out,” he said, examining the moaning woman in front of him. A cursory examination revealed no lacerations, no blood at all, and she was groaning while moving all four limbs. No spinal damage. “I’ll take her to the hospital.”

  “Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?” another woman said.

  “I’m sorry, are you a cop or med-tech?” Arne snapped.

  The woman threw him a scathing glance that withered as Arne held her gaze.

  He shook his head and turned back to the woman on the road. “Madam, can you hear me?” Arne said, loudly and enunciated. “Can you hear me? Where does it hurt?”

  She mumbled something unintelligible, then lost consciousness again.

  Arne rifled through her pockets, searching for a purse or wallet. He pulled out a wad of Krone, a tram ticket ... and a passport. A quick flick to the photo page. A pretty woman with long chocolate curls and big brown eyes stared out. Georgina Thompson. He glanced down at the victim, her pale skin, sunken features, and hairless face a far cry from the picture he held in his hand. She was British.

  Arne asked her again if she was okay, only this time in his best English.

  She didn’t respond.

  Arne collected her phone and headset and stuffed them into his pocket. With a grunt, he slipped his arms under her neck and knees, then lifted her from the ground. Half-walking, half-stumbling, he carried her on unsteady legs to the backseat of his partner’s car, awkwardly opened the door, and slid her inside. The door slammed shut, then Arne climbed into the driver’s seat. He took a few controlled breaths and turned the car around, heading back through the wet, shiny streets to the emergency room.

  Plymouth, England, 1987

  The small porcelain dog smashed against the wall. It wasn’t an expensive ornament, just one that belonged to Rey’s mom. A mere two inches high, with faded beige ears. A cocker spaniel. A silly little thing, really, but important—sentimental. The dog had belonged to Rey’s great-grandmother. Rey’s mom had been raised by her grandmother—who had died long before Rey was born—but she had known from a young age that this woman was special. A kind and caring soul who had taught Rey’s mom all she knew. There were so few things that had been kept from that time. One or two sepia photos of a woman in her fifties with thick-rimmed glasses, short curly white hair and a dark dress adorned in flowers. And that dog.

  The ornament shattered into countless pieces, tinkling across the kitchen floor, and with its destruction, another memory was smashed into oblivion. That’s what her dad did. He destroyed all the things important to her mom. To all of them. Not so long ago, he’d wrecked a vinyl record. A special one. Even Rey knew that. Most records were black, but this one had been white. A Night at the Opera, by Queen. Mom’s favorite. At least, it used to be.

  The attack pushed Rey’s mom from the kitchen to the living room. More shouting ensued. All her dad’s voice. Rey’s mom barely said anything. Instead, she cowered on the floor, crying out each time Dad struck her across the head. There was nothing Rey could do. It was like watching a movie being played out. Rey found it strange how, in these instances, her initial fear transformed into a dazed form of analysis. That’s how her brain worked. She analyzed everything. Studied everything. Her teachers said as much. Rey was smart.

  Already at school, she’d corrected her teachers. What idiot thought Brontosaurus was the largest dinosaur? Everybody with a brain knew the Brachiosaurus was the biggest dinosaur that ever walked the planet. Here, Rey observed the scene, taking in the details, comprehending just how clever her father was. Open-handed. That’s how he hit. Never with a fist. Never bruising. Never on the face. Always around the head, much like someone might strike a disobedient dog. Not to cause lasting physical damage, but more to demean. Control. Show her mother who was in charge. Occasionally he would put his foot on her mom’s head, spit on her. Words like whore, fat, and worthless would hiss from his cigarette-stained lips.

  A door upstairs slammed, jolting Rey from her thoughts.

  Her dad had gone to the bedroom.

  Rey’s gaze fell on her mom who was curled up in a ball between the fake fireplace and the chintz sofa. There she stayed, sobbing.
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br />   Rey inched forward. She wanted to cuddle her mom but the idea itself felt awkward, wrong. There wasn’t much cuddling in her house. Dad didn’t seem to like it. Rey had grown accustomed to little contact, little love. Cuddling wouldn’t help her mom anyway. Only action would.

  “Mum, you have to leave. Go. Just go.” Rey touched her arm.

  “I can’t,” her mom whispered. “Your brother and sister.”

  “I’ll look after them. You have to go, while he’s gone. It’s okay. I’ll look after them.”

  Her mom stared into Rey’s eyes for an eternity, but Rey held fast, her jaw locked in determination. She could look after Damien and Riley. That wasn’t a problem. When Riley had been born two years ago and Mom was in the hospital, Rey had cooked dinner for Damien. Made chips in the oven. She’d burned her arm but still managed to serve up something edible. She was four then. Now, she was six. Much older. Much more capable. Smarter than her teachers.

  “Go, Mum,” Rey pressed.

  Silently, Rey’s mom pushed herself from the floor and made her way to the doorless entry to the living room. Quietly, she slid on her old, moth-eaten fur coat—the one Rey used to rub on her belly when she was little—cracked open the front door, and slipped out into the night.

  Alone in the living room, Rey felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. Her mom had left. She couldn’t be hurt anymore. Rey had done it. Now she had to look after Damien and Riley, just as she’d promised.

  Rey sauntered over to the stereo. It was a collection of separates of which her dad was very proud—pioneer tuner, Technics amplifier, and CD player and Wharfdale speakers. Rey had no idea how they could afford such things when school shoes were hard to come by. Still, there it was in all its shiny black glory. She pulled a CD from the shelf—the album cover looked like fractured stone, a gold seal in the middle. Whitesnake. She released the disc from its holder and placed it in the CD player tray. The machine accepted the offering and Rey waited for the familiar blue lights to shine—numbers and words made up of little pointed bars. She adjusted the equalizer for high treble, low midrange, and high bass, and then skipped to track three—“Here I go again ’87.” A long, slow keyboard intro played out before David Coverdale’s voice came—a cracked and pained voice Rey loved so much. The words resonated with her life, her situation. Just like David, she felt like a drifter, born to walk alone.