Death By Water

by Damhaug, Torkil

  Nina Jebsen drove steadily, never exceeding two kilometres above the speed limit.

  He leaned back in the seat. – From what I know about the Ylva Richter case so far, it’s worth the price of the air fare at least. And it’s so bloody lovely here.

  With a glance up at the peaks surrounding the town he added: – And not a single drop of rain.

  – Pretty soon the weather’s going to be just as bad wherever we live, she answered. – In town here the architects have started designing buildings for a sea level two metres above what it is today.

  To avoid people asking questions, Nina Jebsen didn’t introduce him to anyone. Roar was led up to the third floor of the Bergen police headquarters and into a tiny office that was remarkably similar to his own.

  Nina Jebsen closed the door behind them. – I’m working on three or four cases. No one knows that this isn’t an interview in connection with one of those.

  – Am I a witness or a suspect?

  – Hard to say. She handed him a folder. – A summary of the Ylva Richter case. I suggest you read that first.

  Three quarters of an hour later, he’d got the main outline. Ylva Richter, then nineteen years old, grew up in Fana, south of the city. Father a business lawyer, mother a textile artist. Two younger siblings. No reports of any problems in the family. Clean sheet for both parents, nothing except a number of convictions for speeding for the father. Ylva had finished at secondary school that year, marks were good; she’d started at business college but was still living at home. Active member of the swimming club, some success in the national championships at junior level. Apparently a popular girl, always surrounded by friends. Some boyfriends at secondary school but for the time being unattached. The circles she moved in could be described as constructive and healthy though inevitably with some use of recreational drugs. No one in her crowd with a criminal record. One boy treated for a psychological problem but not regarded as unstable.

  On the evening of Friday 15 November 2003, Ylva Richter took the bus from the bus station in the centre of Bergen after spending an evening in town with some girlfriends. She had her own car but wasn’t using it that evening as she knew she would be drinking alcohol. Last seen by the bus driver who dropped her off at the stop nearest her home. The time was then 00.30. Other passengers confirmed this. She did not arrive home and the police were contacted at two o’clock, after the father had gone down to the bus stop to look for his daughter. A patrol car was sent but the full-scale alarm not sounded till the following morning.

  Five days later they found her in a wood about twenty kilometres north-east of where she lived, handcuffed, gagged and tied to a tree. She was naked. Her clothes were found later under a pile of heather some distance away. Marks from a heavy blunt object on the temple on one side of the head, a stone possibly, but the blows were not fatal. Probably done before she was dragged into a car. There followed an extensive account of the damage done to her eyes, which had been repeatedly penetrated with a pointed object, possibly a screw. She did not appear to have been sexually assaulted. The conclusion was that she had frozen to death.

  The investigation had been extremely thorough. Over five hundred interviews with witnesses. Nina Jebsen had gathered together the most important ones. Parents, siblings, friends, bus driver, passengers. According to one girlfriend, Ylva described an odd experience she had on the way to the bar where they were to meet. Somebody had approached her in Torgalmenningen Square and offered her a tin opener or corkscrew. It was one of the many unexplained details in the case, and Roar was sufficiently struck by it to flip back to the description of the damage done to the eyes. All registered sex and violent offenders who were thought potentially interesting were interviewed, and a couple were given the formal status of suspects; in the case of one of them, an arrest was considered but then dropped. Naturally the case was not shelved, but the chances of solving it were considered minimal to non-existent.

  While Roar read, Nina Jebsen had logged on to her computer and punched away rapidly at the keyboard. Once he was finished and laid the folder back on her desk, she wound things up, closed the document and turned towards him. Before she could ask him what he thought, he said:

  – Let’s talk to the parents first, then discuss things afterwards.

  The Richter family house lay in an affluent suburb just south of the city. The man who opened the door and introduced himself as Richard Richter was of medium height with thin grey hair that was smoothed back with gel or hair cream. He smelled slightly of alcohol, Roar noted, as he and Nina Jebsen were admitted to the living room.

  Anne Sofie Richter entered carrying a tray with a coffee pot and cups. She was slender and suntanned, with her hair dyed dark. She put the cups out for them, seemed alert, her movements quick.

  Roar was well prepared. As they sat down, he said: – Apologies if any old wounds are ripped open here. We would much prefer not to have to put you through this again.

  Richard Richter remained standing at the foot of the table. – Horvath, wasn’t it? Let me tell you, Horvath, that the wounds have never healed, if that is what you are talking about. Just yesterday I found myself recalling the last conversation I had with her. I drove her into town that night. She turned and looked at me with that smile that was like no other smile; she said see you, thanks a lot, and that was the last I ever saw of my daughter.

  He fell silent for a few moments.

  – The rest is what happens in our imagination, he continued, struggling to control his voice. – We’ve got off the bus with her, walked from the crossroads where you turned off and up the hill. We’ve imagined the car there waiting, because we’re certain about that, someone must have been waiting for her, and we have driven with her in the car out to the place in which she was found.

  Roar glanced over at the wife. She sat there smiling like a doll, just as she had done ever since they arrived. Occasionally she nodded as her husband spoke for them both.

  – I am not exaggerating when I tell you that this is something we go through every day. So your coming here and asking questions is not going to open anything at all, because nothing ever closed.

  Again Richard Richter fell silent. Roar said:

  – You will understand, of course, that I haven’t made the trip from Oslo without good reason. But we need to avoid raising any false hopes of getting answers to the many questions you still have. There may be a connection to another case we’re working on, and we want to know as much as possible about the very thorough groundwork our colleagues in Bergen have already done in investigating what happened to Ylva.

  He hadn’t intended to use her name, but now it was done, and neither parent seemed to react. There was no reaction either to his words of praise for the work done by the Bergen police.

  – No stone must be left unturned. All of them, and not just once, but many times.

  A cough from Richard Richter seemed to suggest that he had had enough of the speech-making.

  – It’s about the woman who was found, isn’t it? In that factory.

  Roar breathed out slowly. – I wish I could discuss things with you freely and openly, but in the interests of the investigation …

  – Didn’t she freeze too? Anne Sofie Richter wanted to know. Her voice was light and wondering, as though she’d stopped during a walk in the forest, curious to know what kind of a bird it was sitting in the tree and singing such an unusual song.

  Nina Jebsen, who had been sitting listening in silence on the sofa, now said: – We’re grateful that people like you exist who are willing to take the trouble to help us. As I said on the telephone, it’s very important that you don’t talk to anyone about this. Not even friends and neighbours. So far no journalist, neither newspaper nor TV nor magazine, knows that we are looking at this case again.

  Richard Richter interrupted: – If that pack turns up at the door again, there’s no telling what I might do.

  He was still standing at the foot of the table, coffee cup in one hand
, the other in his pocket. Roar could see how the fist opened and closed through the cloth of his suit trousers.

  – You have been asked this before, Roar said, – but I would like you to think about it again. Did anything ever happen in Ylva’s crowd that really took you by surprise?

  He could hear that the question was much too wide ranging and tried again: – Could we ask you to make a list of the things she was involved in, let’s say over the last two years before that fateful night?

  Richard Richter let out a groan, but his wife said, still with that same doll-like smile hovering about her mouth: – That’s perfectly possible. I’ve kept all her school diaries from secondary school. She always made a note of appointments and the things she did. The police already know a lot of this, but as far back as two years?

  – Swimming outings, camping trips, school holiday trips, Roar nodded. – Also with the family. In other words, a pretty extensive job.

  As they stood out in the hallway saying thanks for the coffee, Anne Sofie Richter turned and disappeared through a doorway. A few moments later, she was back again.

  – I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of Ylva, she said, addressing Roar. – Including the kind taken after they found her.

  He didn’t reply.

  – This is from the spring of that year, when she graduated from secondary school. I want you to see it, because this is what she was like, our daughter.

  She handed him a framed photograph. He recognised her from other photos. The brown hair falling in waves from beneath the red student cap, regular features, brown eyes, full lips. Pretty girl, he was about to say, but managed not to. As he handed it back, he saw a vague resemblance to the mother, as though a last vestige of the young girl was still visible, stiffened, in the doll-like face.

  – Thank you very much, he said as he shook her hand.

  Out in the car, he had an idea. – Do you have time to drive to where the body was found?

  Nina looked over at him. – Do you have time?

  There were still four hours before his plane took off. He didn’t know why he’d asked her.

  – I’m guessing you’re not expecting to find any tracks. After five years, I mean.

  He gave a brief laugh. – You never know what’s going to happen when the supersleuths from Oslo turn up.

  She smiled too. – Pity for you I know that crowd so well that I’m not about to prostrate myself in admiration.

  He liked the teasing tone. If his trip hadn’t been a day return, he would have invited her out for a beer. He glanced at her hands on the steering wheel. Several rings, all with stones.

  – Did you have problems with Viken? he risked asking her. – Was that why you left?

  He could feel he was inviting the kind of intimacy there was no real grounds for after just the few hours in which they’d known each other, but she said: – It was something else. I know a lot of people find him difficult. It was never a problem for me. I would almost say I liked him.

  Roar believed her. Among those who didn’t avoid him like the plague, Viken was much admired. He realised that her reason for moving on had something to do with the bear murders, but chose not to press the matter.

  She was following the GPS signal and turned off the main road as directed.

  – Of course I don’t know the exact spot. She drove on between the fields until they came to the forest at the end. – According to the report, it should be just about here somewhere.

  As they parked, the sun slid down behind the mountains in the south-west. The sky took on a deep blue sheen, darker but still as clear as it had been earlier in the day. They found a track with footprints in the soft woodland earth. Roar went first. Abruptly he came to a halt. Behind some clumps of heather, next to a tree growing beside a rocky overhang, he saw a few objects. He hurried through the bracken. There was a lamp there with a thick white candle inside. It wasn’t burning, but might have done so recently, because beside it was a bouquet of flowers, and, in a vase, five roses that were still fresh.

  – Looks like we found it, Nina Jebsen remarked as she joined him. They remained there for a few moments, looking at the scene. Roar suddenly experienced a flash of memory of what it felt like to stand by the grave of someone missed. In that instant he was convinced there was a connection between the two murder cases. As though the place itself was telling him as much: the trees, the path winding on, but above all these flowers and this lamp. He knew there wasn’t a shred of common sense in this kind of intuitive stuff, that it was distracting rather than useful. Alert now, Roar, he told himself. Full alert, level five steady. And by the time a couple of hours later he called Viken from the airport, he had assembled a handful of rational arguments that he felt ought to be enough to convince the detective chief inspector of the need to continue liaising with the Bergen force. The damage to the eyes and the fact that the girl had been hit on the head with a stone were just two of them.

  But before he could voice even a single argument, Viken barked out: – I’m just about to send an email with some material to the police in Bergen. Have you got time to read it before you leave?

  Roar told him where he was, and that the plane to Oslo was about to board.

  Viken swore. – Then we might have to make another trip. We’ve got a new link to Ylva Richter.

  He explained what Liss Bjerke had found inside the sofa cover at the family’s cabin.

  – When you get back, I’ll tell you who she chose to give the information to, he rasped.

  Roar had no intention of letting him know that he had already guessed who it was.

  19

  Saturday 3 January

  LISS PULLED OUT the Marlboro packet. Almost empty. She needed something else, too. Tampons. Something to drink.

  She wandered into an open Bunnpris. Glanced at her phone. Message from Rikke. And one from the footballer, the one who was called, of all things, Jomar. She still had his jacket.

  Rikke wrote: Z’s father asked about you at the funeral – gave him your address in Norway – forgot to tell you last time – hope that’s okay.

  It’s not okay, she fumed, maybe even said it out loud. It’s not okay for Zako’s father to have my address. What does he want it for? She chased the thought away. Imagined squeezing it out of herself; watched it fly away on a raven’s wings into the cold Oslo night. The way she got rid of thoughts when she was a teenager. Didn’t work quite as well now.

  Jomar’s message: Call me. Must talk to you.

  Standing there at the freezer counter in Bunnpris, it felt good to know that he still wanted to meet her. Suddenly she called his number. He didn’t sound surprised to hear her voice; seemed almost to take it for granted. It irritated her so much she nearly ended the call, but then controlled herself. Didn’t want to seem childish or unpredictable. All the things she really was.

  – What have you got to tell me that’s so important? Did you win a football match? She was satisfied with her tone of voice. Just the right amount of sarcasm in it.

  – Football? Don’t try to talk shop with me. You’ll find out what it is when we meet.

  – Are we going to meet?

  – Yes.

  – Who said so?

  – You did.

  – Let’s stick to the truth.

  Afterwards she scolded herself for being so agreeable. She paid for the three things she had come in for and then went back out into the street.

  Liss sat at the coffee table, directly opposite him.

  – Sorry, she said, forgetting to maintain the sarcastic tone. She didn’t really know what she was sorry about either. Maybe that she was twenty minutes late. Or that she’d run off with his jacket and not replied to any of his messages.

  Jomar Vindheim gave her a teasing smile. – Quite okay. Doesn’t matter what you’re apologising for, Liss, it’s quite okay by me whatever.

  – Your jacket, she said, putting the plastic bag down beside his chair. – I didn’t mean to nick it.

  – I’v
e reported you for theft, he said in a serious voice. – But I only had a very vague description, so it didn’t help much. Now I’ve got the chance to get a clearer look at you.

  She wasn’t on his wavelength. He seemed to notice.

  – Seriously, Liss, I’m the one who should be apologising. All this business with your sister …

  – All this business? She’d found her way back to sarcasm again, but let it go. He was probably just trying to be considerate.

  – I understand why you haven’t answered any of my messages.

  – Do you, she said.

  – You’ve got other things to think about besides an old jacket, Liss.

  It sounded as if he enjoyed repeatedly saying her name. Did he imagine that using it like that would bring them closer together?

  – I actually did wear it, she told him. – Almost every day.

  He grinned. – You could have stuck a pole inside that jacket and used it as a tent.

  She looked at him. The slanting eyes were a surprisingly light blue colour. He wasn’t handsome; there was something crude and disproportionate about his features, as though he was still passing through puberty and things hadn’t found their rightful shape. A row of pimples arced across his forehead. Clearly all this was something not only teenage girls found attractive, but for example Therese too. Not to mention Catrine, but then she was always on the lookout for sex.

  – Maybe you’d like to keep it?

  She turned up her nose. – If I had a place to live, I could have hung it up on the wall, with your autograph on it.

  This time he laughed and didn’t bother with a comeback. He had an irritatingly white and regular set of teeth, and seemed sure of himself. He was a top-flight footballer and bound to be earning in excess of a million a year for playing around with a ball. And he certainly had other women besides Therese hanging around him. But from the moment he walked across to their table at the Café Mono, Liss was the one he had been concentrating on. And after she passed out at his place that night and then ran off with his jacket, he’d sent her four or five messages.