So that was what he did. But now, after a successful operation, he wasn’t sure that it had made any difference. The tumor had been cut out of his head by surgeons whose hands didn’t shake. Anniken had visited him several times after the operation. She had brought flowers and tea, and aquavit the last time, a sure sign that she counted on him coming back to her soon.
Jens Dahle knew nothing about this. Odd Singsaker talked to him about the weather, the Rosenborg Ballklub team, and car wash detergent. The last topic seemed to interest Dahle the most. No wonder, considering he washed his car at least once a week, always doing a careful job. It could take him hours. Sometimes Singsaker would go downtown while Dahle was at it and return before he was done. As a policeman he felt that this type of knowledge—what he knew about a neighbor’s car-washing habits—was often more revealing than the most intimate details about a person.
Today Dahle remarked that his car was extra dirty. Singsaker had stopped, mostly so as not to seem unfriendly, although he really didn’t have time to chat. Dahle had been away at his cabin with the kids all weekend and hadn’t come home until after his wife had left for work in the morning. As far as Singsaker could recall, his wife worked at the Gunnerus Library.
“The narrow cart path that leads from the highway to the cabin turns into a big mud bath in the fall. It’s better when the frost sets in and there’s some snow on it,” Jens Dahle said with a smile.
Singsaker looked up to catch his eye. Dahle was over six foot seven and particular about his appearance, always wearing a shirt and tie, even when he washed the car. Singsaker knew that he was an archaeologist, and it amazed him that somebody so tall and fond of nice clothes would choose such a profession. He couldn’t imagine him kneeling in a fire pit from the Stone Age, picking out remnants of charcoal. But that probably wasn’t what he did, anyway. Jens Dahle had a position at the Science Museum, where he sat safely ensconced behind a desk. Singsaker assumed that with a job like that he could easily take Monday morning off to wash his car. As he said good-bye, without mentioning where he was off to, it occurred to him that he knew a great deal more about Jens Dahle than the archaeologist knew about him. Singsaker didn’t think he’d even told him that he was a cop.
Moving faster and taking longer strides than he had for the past few months, he walked down Bakkegate and across the bridge to the center of town. He was wearing a parka with a black turtleneck underneath, and jeans. After a weekend of rain, it was a clear day. On the other side of the bridge he turned right, taking the sidewalk on the same side as Olavshallen, then continued across the Brattør canal to arrive at police headquarters. It looked the same as it had when he left it on a cold day last December. The headquarters had been designed in the same quasi-maritime style as most of the buildings around Beddingen, a sort of conglomerate of oil-drilling platforms, shipyards, and the big ferries to Denmark. In the midst of everything stood a gray concrete tower with the word POLICE written on it in huge, bold type. This was the new battleship of the Trondheim police. He had never felt at home here. But he’d never felt at home in the old building either, so it didn’t really matter. He was out of breath when he stepped inside the service entrance, and he felt a faint prickling just above his hairline at the site of the surgery scar.
The day before he had talked to Gro Brattberg on the phone. She was the leader of the violent crimes and vice team, and his boss. Brattberg told him that his old office was still waiting for him. It seemed strangely quiet in the corridors. He tried to remember if it was always that quiet, and was shocked to realize how little he actually remembered from the last time he was here. But maybe that wasn’t so strange, when he thought about it. The whole year before he was diagnosed and went on sick leave, he had felt lethargic and suffered from bouts of dizziness, foggy vision, brightly colored hallucinations, and a constant buzzing sensation behind his eyes that not even a whole bottle of Rød Aalborg could cure.
It wasn’t until he reached the administrative wing that he realized things might be worse than he feared. It was as quiet as a murder scene. All the offices on the way to his own were empty. The whole wing seemed deserted. When he opened the door to his office, he stopped and gaped. Then he forced himself to smile. How could he have run out of aquavit on a day like this? He had feared a welcoming committee. What he got was a whole convention.
Everyone in violent crimes and vice had squeezed into his office; even people who weren’t on duty had dropped by to say hello. As he stood in the doorway, people from other departments crowded around in the corridor, including crime scene technicians and officers from the traffic police. The only one missing was the police chief herself, Dagmar Øverbye, but hardly anyone ever saw her. Witty tongues had begun to call her “The Phantom Ghost.” But thanks to people like Gro Brattberg, this leadership model functioned all right. Actually, Singsaker doubted there would have been room for Øverbye if she’d decided to show up. She was a solidly built woman, and the hallway behind him was crowded. People had somehow figured out how to sneak up on him from behind, and he stood there wondering whether an experienced policeman like himself should be embarrassed at being caught unawares like this. But the worst thing had to be that he felt so touched. Somewhere in all the crap he’d been through with the operation, weeks of hospital smells, gallons of sweat on the sheets, nice nurses, and dreams about his own corpse, the control he used to have over his emotions had disappeared. Odd Singsaker was now easily moved. The tiniest thing could make him break down in tears; even silly sitcoms could make him laugh like a kid.
He stood there looking at all the friendly faces, the banner saying WELCOME BACK hanging from the front of his desk, the flowers on the shelf by the wall, and Gro Brattberg, who stood fumbling with a piece of paper on which she had obviously scribbled some words of welcome. He knew there was really no way out. His Adam’s apple swelled like a mushroom in water, and the tears began running down his cheeks. This was the first time any of the people in the room had seen him cry, and many of them had known him for over thirty years. Several of them came over and gave him a hug, also something new and untried, and it did nothing to quell his tears. Thorvald Jensen came over and placed a hand on his shoulder to lean over and give him a manly hug with no actual skin contact. That was when Singsaker understood that his job would never be the same as it had been when he left with a tumor the size of a golf ball inside his head. Chief Inspector Odd Singsaker, the laconic, pensive investigator with the cynical comments, was gone. No one in the room knew who would replace his old persona. All they knew was that things were not going to be like they were before. And maybe that was just as well.
* * *
Fortunately, things got back to normal fairly quickly. Gro Brattberg gave her speech. Singsaker received a gift, a Moleskine notebook (he had almost forgotten that he swore by these legendary notebooks). Everybody had a piece of cake. Then there were more hugs before they all went into the conference room and started work with a brief report on a quiet night. Most of the team members had assignments they were working on: a serious domestic dispute; a suspicion of sexual abuse in a church congregation; a teenage gang that had beaten up a boy the same age, or “happy slapping,” as they called it. Odd was going to spend the day getting organized and making phone calls. Brattberg, who was aware that Singsaker wasn’t satisfied unless he was working on a specific case, promised that she’d update him on the church case if it turned out there was anything to it.
Finally alone in his office, Singsaker sat down and leafed through the notebook he’d received, wondering what differentiated a Moleskine from other notebooks. Had these books ever made him a better detective? From the advertising material included with the book, it appeared that great writers such as Hemingway had used them. Something told him that he had known this, but now it was forgotten and no longer made any difference. He did need a notebook, however, so it would do. That was when he started to think about his neighbor with the dilapidated Cervelo bicycle. The two of us just stopped cari
ng, he thought.
After paging through the empty notebook, he went to the canteen and bought a dry rusk, a hard, twice-baked biscuit, with ham and cheese. Back in his office, he ate it slowly as he thought about herring, rye bread, and aquavit. Then the phone rang. It was Brattberg.
“Hey, I promised you something to work on,” she said, pausing for effect. “But what sort of shape are you in?”
“I’ve been declared fit to work,” he said. “I’m here to do my job.”
“I could send Jensen, but he’s still with the pastor.”
“Just get to the point,” he replied. “I’m here to work.”
“A few minutes ago Operations received a report of a murder. At the Gunnerus Library.”
“Jesus, inside the library itself?”
“Yes, in the book vault, as a matter of fact.”
“Has it been confirmed?”
“We have people on their way over there to secure the scene. I’ll have confirmation soon.”
“Who reported the killing?”
“A man named Hornemann, head of the library.”
“And the victim?”
Brattberg hesitated before she answered. He could hear her shuffling through her papers.
“Gunn Brita Dahle,” she said at last.
He sat there without saying anything. Gunn Brita Dahle was the wife of Jens Dahle. He had just talked to him this morning on the way to work. The man had shown no sign of grief as he washed his car, believing that his wife had gone to work before he came home from the cabin. Or? Right away the detective in him took charge. How carefree had Jens Dahle actually been? Wasn’t it a little odd that he hadn’t called his wife to tell her that he was home? But maybe he had. Maybe she’d unplugged her phone, the way people occasionally do at work. It was too early to jump to conclusions. He was in the unusual situation of having unknowingly spoken with the victim’s husband after the crime was committed. It gave him the opportunity to evaluate Dahle with the eyes of an impartial witness. And his impression this morning had not been that he was talking with a killer. Jens Dahle had seemed like a relaxed and content family man with plenty of time to wash his car.
“Are you there, Singsaker?” said Brattberg from somewhere far away.
“I’m here,” he said. “I’ll take it.”
“Are you sure you’re ready for something like this?”
“What I’m not ready for is to sit here staring at the wall,” he replied.
Brattberg suggested he take Mona Gran with him, a rookie officer who had started just before he got sick; he barely remembered her.
Wasn’t she the one who had danced wildly with Thorvald on the table at the Christmas party the night before he collapsed and was taken to St. Olav’s Hospital? In any case, she seemed sharp.
* * *
The Christmas party was not a topic of conversation on their way through the downtown area.
“A murder in the library! It’s almost like an Agatha Christie story.” Mona Gran was excited, and Singsaker wondered how many murder scenes she had been to.
“This will be real enough, I promise you,” he said. “But I agree that it certainly does sound incredible,” he added, thinking that he had assumed a much too stern tone. They were met outside the Gunnerus Library by two uniforms, who gave them a brief rundown of what they’d found; a dead body inside the book vault.
“The victim has been flayed. And it’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen,” one of the officers whispered to Singsaker. From his confidential tone, Odd assumed that they’d known each other before the operation.
As they talked, an elderly gentleman came outside to join them. The officer introduced the man as Per Ottar Hornemann, head of the library. They followed him up to the public area on the second floor.
“We have gathered the whole staff in Knudtzon Hall,” said Hornemann. “No one has been admitted to the offices or the book vault since we made the discovery. Jon Vatten here is in charge of security. He can show you the way, if you like.” He pointed at the security chief. It was Singsaker’s neighbor, who rode the dilapidated bike.
Another neighbor, and the case has hardly begun, he thought ironically. He instinctively had a desire to greet Vatten as an acquaintance but realized that he’d only seen him from a distance a few times. The man probably wasn’t aware that they had recently become neighbors. He extended his hand.
To his great surprise, Vatten said, “We meet again.”
Only three words and nothing more. Enough to catch him completely off guard. What the hell did he mean by that?
It occurred to him that he wasn’t really ready to start back to work. Jon Vatten recognized him. It even seemed that they knew each other fairly well. He hadn’t just seen him from his window. The two of them had spoken on some occasion, perhaps several times. And the way Vatten had said “we meet again” told him unequivocally that the security man did not find the encounter pleasant. So they must have met before in a professional capacity. People he met on the job were not always glad to see him again. It came with the territory. It was also part of his job to remember these people. Now he stood there wondering how many memories of acquaintances he might have left on the operating table.
“Yes, we meet again,” he said flatly, hoping to hide his confusion.
“What would you like to see first?” Vatten asked, obviously not wanting to elaborate on their previous contact.
“I think we should go straight to the crime scene,” said Chief Inspector Singsaker, relieved to escape the awkward situation.
* * *
Gunn Brita Dahle was lying on her stomach. Her head was missing. The skin had been flayed off the body above the waist. Next to the victim were two big plastic bags. Singsaker opened one to see what was inside. Fat. From under the skin. She must have had a lot of it. The bulk of the rest of her body indicated as much. The stench was unbearable. Mona Gran, who had accompanied him into the book vault, had turned away and taken a few steps back. He was pretty sure she was looking for a toilet, or at least a wastebasket, where she could throw up. The entire floor inside the vault was covered in blood, apart from a small area by the door where Singsaker was standing, blue plastic booties over his shoes. He turned to Jon Vatten, who was standing right behind him and staring dejectedly at the floor.
“Did you find her here like this?” he asked, glancing again at the grotesque corpse, blood vessels and muscles exposed.
“We haven’t touched anything in here,” replied Vatten.
“All right, then. I want you to return to the others. Knudtzon Hall, you called it?” he asked, knowing quite well that it was.
“Yes, that’s the showpiece of the building, re-creating Knudtzon’s personal library of rare books and art,” Vatten explained.
“Knudtzon’s personal library. I see,” said Singsaker. “Go there, and I’ll be down soon.” He thought hard. “One thing before you leave. Have you noticed if anything is missing from the vault?”
“I haven’t had time to think about that, to tell the truth,” said Vatten.
“Could you take a quick look? You know what’s supposed to be in here, right?” He studied him carefully.
“Yes, I do,” said Vatten firmly.
Singsaker watched as Vatten inspected the shelves. He was very thorough. Not once did he stop and look down at the body. Finally, he said: “No, everything seems to be in its place.”
“I see,” said Singsaker. “There’s one more thing,” he added, and was just about to ask him where in the hell they’d met before. “As head of security, do you oversee who opens and closes the vault?”
“I have one of two codes to the vault, so anyone who wants to go inside has to talk to me. The second code is kept by one of the librarians. Gunn Brita was actually the one who knew what it was. The codes are secret and aren’t given to anyone else. The only person who can enter without telling me is Hornemann. He knows both of the codes.”
“So the big question is,” said the chief inspector,
examining Vatten closely, “How did the victim and the murderer get into the vault without help from you or Hornemann?”
Vatten stared him straight in the eye and answered, “I’ve been wondering that myself.”
Singsaker couldn’t interpret his expression. He could be a good liar, but he could also be completely innocent.
“How long do you think she might have been in here?” he asked.
“I was here with Gunn Brita on Saturday morning. And she had no plans to come back. She was supposed to start a new job today.”
“I see. But in theory she could have come back anytime after that, correct? Maybe she forgot something and came to get it, let’s say on Sunday. Is it possible she knew the other code? Do you ever stand close enough when you open the vault that she might have seen you enter the code and memorized it?”
“That’s possible, sure, but I’m careful about shielding the keypad when I type it in,” said Vatten. “As far as I know, she hadn’t turned in her card key yet, so she might have come back here on Sunday. If she used a card key in any of the outside doors to the library, we’ll see it in the log.”
“When did people arrive this morning?”
“I was here at seven,” said Vatten. “Most people show up between seven and nine.”
“And the body was found just before you called the police at ten thirty?”
“That’s correct.”
“And it’s quite certain that the body was here for several hours without anyone noticing the smell?”
“The book vault is climate-controlled and sealed to maintain optimum humidity for the books. Not a drop of moisture or, for that matter, a molecule of odor could escape through this door.”
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