Requiem

by Geir Tangen

  The Oslo media had woken up from its slumber. The tabloid press was hysterical in its headlines. In the newspapers he had grabbed on the way, the pictures from Tømmerdalen leaped out at him. VG enticed with THE EXECUTIONER’S LATEST VICTIM and a large picture of Ranveig. Dagbladet went for the more “serious” variation. NEW KILLING IN HAUGESUND—PEOPLE LEAVE TOWN. Every single news broadcast and current events program was about “the Executioner.” Implicit in this was that Ranveig had done something criminal.

  Ranveig had told him the story at a staff party with an open bar. She had fallen asleep in the passenger seat of a car and woke up only after the accident had happened, and the driver had fled the scene. The keys were still in the ignition. The car owner even maintained that she had stolen the car. She was indicted for drunk driving, but acquitted because of the state of the evidence. No one could prove that she was the one who’d been driving.

  Using the incident as an excuse that she deserved to die was just laughable, and deep down, the killer knew that too. Ranveig was chosen to affect him personally.

  This case is about me. Lotte can believe what she wants. This is a vendetta. If I disappear, it will stop.

  When Lotte showed up, he was about to open the email for her, but from now on, she would have to read them herself. He had no plans to stay in the city much longer. She would get an insight into the theories he and Øystein Vindheim had come up with. She and the rest of the police would have to take on the rest. This game had gone too far.

  I have more than enough with my own ghosts, he thought as the doorbell rang.

  Outside stood Lotte. Or more precisely, what was left of her. They didn’t say anything to each other. Viljar simply opened the door wide to let her past. He could see she’d been crying. Her cheeks were streaked, and her eyes red-rimmed and sore. She was unkempt and tousled.

  She passed him and hurried right into the living room without taking off her coat. Plopped down in the nearest armchair and let out a deep, heartfelt sigh. It was as if someone had vacuumed all the identity and personality out of her. Left behind was a zombie in full daylight. Viljar sat down on the couch and pushed the laptop toward her. Pointed at the email.

  A tinge of despair came over her eyes. She fixed her gaze on the screen and opened the email. Read it carefully.

  Lotte shook her head with a grieved expression when she was through reading. For the first time since she came to Viljar’s apartment, she opened her mouth.

  “Oh my God … Have you read the message?”

  Viljar shook his head. Fished out a pouch of tobacco and at the same time couldn’t care less about Lotte’s warning gaze. His house, his rules. If it was unpleasant, she could leave. Lotte cleared her throat, looking around for a window she could open. She slipped out of the armchair and trudged over to the window by the kitchen nook.

  “He’s after smugglers this time. Uses the same name, but has changed email provider again.” She picked up the phone and called the police station with the information. Promised to forward the email to Olav at once. Viljar waited to say anything till she was done.

  “That means nothing,” Viljar said. “You won’t find him based on the information he provides. It may limit the search somewhat, but he’s going to succeed. What is interesting is the letters and numbers in small type at the bottom. What does it say?” Lotte looked inquisitively at him before she turned her eyes toward the screen again. She scrolled down until she found what she was looking for.

  “AH 1-2.”

  “Great. Then we’ll know very soon how the murder is going to be committed,” said Viljar. The whole case was so exhausting that he felt no satisfaction in being in possession of part of the solution.

  “I’m about as fond of guessing games as I am of secretive, over-the-hill journalists. If there’s anything we don’t have here, it’s plenty of time.”

  “The code refers to an exact murder in a crime novel. More precisely, a crime novel written by an author with the initials AH. It will be the second murder in his or her first book.”

  “Anne Holt?”

  “For example, but there might be others, and that has to be checked. If it’s Anne Holt, you’re fortunate. I have her whole collection on the shelf here.”

  Viljar pointed with his thumb behind him, where an enormous bookcase covered the whole wall from floor to ceiling. Even if the rest of the apartment was messy as a drug den, there was order there.

  “Didn’t think you read books…”

  Viljar brushed aside the comment with a hand gesture. “Left behind by the ex.”

  Lotte got up and went over to the shelves. She ran her index finger carefully over the spines of the books.

  “Which is number one?”

  “Blind Goddess. They’re in the right sequence on the shelf.”

  Lotte didn’t answer. Only nodded thoughtfully and pulled out the mentioned title from the shelf. She started to browse, but stopped after a few pages.

  “Do we have to read, or do you know the answer?” She turned her head away from the bookshelf and toward Viljar on the couch.

  “No idea. You’ll have to search for yourself.”

  Lotte went over to the armchair again. With the book in her hands. “The other three, then. Which books?”

  “The first was from Unni Lindell’s Man of Darkness. A lady gets thrown off the balcony in her high-rise apartment. The second was the most difficult. Jo Nesbø’s The Redbreast. An attorney is shot on his doorstep with a rifle. The last one I hardly need to say. We’ve all seen the movie.…”

  “Fallen Angels…”

  Lotte whispered the words out in the air. The scenes with the angelic murder victims hanging from the ceiling in white nightgowns was one of the most frightening ever in Norwegian cinema. Gunnar Staalesen’s horror script had become unpleasantly lifelike on film.

  Viljar looked away. The memory of Ranveig would always be nailed to that scene.

  The awkward silence lasted no more than a few seconds. He reached his hand toward her. Not to have someone to hold on to, but to get the book she had in her hands. She took the hint. Gave him the book, and made another call to the police station.

  Ten minutes later, he was sitting with the answer before him.

  “Here it is.… A guy is shot at close range with a high-caliber pistol at the front door of his own home. Short and brutal. A shot in the head, and game over. If Anne Holt is the right author, here’s your answer.”

  “Can there be any others?”

  Lotte looked from Viljar to his bookcase.

  “You’ll have to check thoroughly, but I think it’s Holt. All three others have been well-known Norwegian crime writers. Gunnar Staalesen, Unni Lindell, and Jo Nesbø.”

  Lotte nodded. In that case, they had the answer to both what and how.

  The problem was that they were lacking who, where, and when.

  Viljar stole a glance at Lotte as she sat with her own thoughts. He felt sorry for her. She had responsibility for a case that wouldn’t let itself be solved. The killer was too quick for that.

  Haugesund Police Station

  Saturday afternoon, October 18, 2014

  Three hours after the meeting between Lotte and Viljar, the atmosphere was focused in the operations center inside the police station. Olav Scheldrup Hansen had been briefed by Lotte after her visit with Viljar, but now she wasn’t here. That her thoughts were with her sister at the hospital was inopportune, but he had decided to leave her alone. He was just happy that he got to steer the ship alone for the time being. It was clear to him what had to be done, and he tried to give concise and direct orders to the group.

  “Knut … You are responsible for coughing up acquitted smugglers at Haugesund District Court from 2002 until now. You’ll take two constables from the station with you of your own choosing. All weekend leaves are withdrawn, so you’ll have a few folks to pick from. I’ve made an agreement with executive officer André Ferkingstad that you can meet him at the courthouse. He’ll help y
ou locate the right judgments more quickly.”

  Olav then looked over at Lars Stople.

  “Lars! You know the people on the street after having walked a beat for years. I assume that you also know some of the men behind smuggling. Forget about drug dealers. The email gives a clear impression that this concerns smugglers who shirk their civic responsibility for taxes and fees by selling alcohol and tobacco. You know who I’m talking about. Try to have a chat with some of them. See if you can produce some interesting names. Take a couple of constables with you who know the milieu in the city, okay?”

  The Kripos investigator did not take time to wait for a confirming nod or yes from Lars Stople. He expected that the man would do as he was told.

  “I’ll take responsibility for meeting with a team from Kripos in Oslo and briefing them thoroughly about the case. The rest of the group will concentrate on investigation of the murders that have been committed, but be ready to take part in operations later this evening if anything should turn up.”

  Everyone around the table nodded, and the assembly left with their own assignments.

  Two hours later, Olav Scheldrup Hansen had the list in front of him. Seven names and addresses. Seven potential victims.

  I have to eliminate some of these, we can’t be in seven places at once, he thought, and waved Lars Stople over to him. Perhaps the old policeman could help him.

  “We have seven names, Lars. Can you tell me a little about what challenges we face in terms of protecting them?”

  Lars scratched his head and looked over the address list. He took his time. Thorough, as always. Olav wanted to shake him. Just as he was about to lose control and scold the policeman, Lars cleared his throat.

  “This will be simple,” he said, pointing at the third name on the list. Johan Gundersen. Fjellvegen 8H in Haugesund. Olav exhaled and waited for an explanation. After a few seconds, it came.

  “Johan lives on the eighth floor in the high-rise where Rita Lothe lived. There’s only one exit from the high-rise, and a patrol of two men could easily stop people on their way in and out of there.”

  “Good, Lars. That’s exactly how I wanted you to think. With that said, I think we can remove Gundersen from this list with certainty. He can sleep securely tonight.”

  “I see…?” Lars looked skeptically over at his superior.

  Olav smiled. “Our man isn’t stupid. No one ever uses the same crime scene twice. He knows that the residents in that area are nervous and on their guard. They will be observant and curious about people who come and go. The risk is too great.”

  Lars Stople nodded. “This one,” he said, putting his finger on the last name. “Ivar Staurseth. You can delete him too. He’s gone underground.”

  “Underground, what do you mean?”

  “We’ve had a search warrant out on him for the past two weeks. He showed up in a narcotics case, but disappeared from his residence before we got ahold of him. We’ve had the whole building under observation, and he’s not there anyway. The guy I talked with in the environment thought that ‘Ivers’ had fled and was now enjoying tropical drinks at some warmer place on the globe.”

  The investigator nodded contentedly. Maybe the old man was a little sluggish on the trigger, but he shot with high caliber. This was beyond all expectation. Five names left.

  “Reidun Samland … Even if we can’t delete her, we can protect her easier than the others anyway.”

  * * *

  Lars pointed at the address behind her name. “Røvær, where’s that?”

  “A little island community ten kilometers west of the city. He would have to take a coastal steamer or have his own boat to get out there, and it would be impossible to anchor without being observed. We could stop him by having a couple of observers keep an eye on her out there, who can warn us if anything happens.”

  “Does that mean that by sending two men out to this island, we can use the rest of the corps for the remaining four addresses?”

  Lars nodded. Made a check mark by the four names that remained. “I assume that we’ll have flashing lights and visibility this time?”

  Even Olav Scheldrup Hansen knew that the safest approach this time was to be visible. Nothing would be worse than if the killer was able to get to the victim unseen. A visible police presence would scare him off.

  “Yes, we’ll do that. All patrols should position themselves in the vicinity of the residences we’ve checked off.”

  Lars nodded again. Olav wondered for a moment whether that was a rehearsed movement in any conversation with a superior. First a cautious question, then a nod …

  “So you’re not evacuating? No police inside?”

  “If we do that, he’ll be forced to wait. All opportunities are closed. By being present the way we’re doing it now, we allow for his big ego to take the chance to try to fool us. He feels self-confident, and he will try if he glimpses a slight hope of succeeding.”

  Lars seemed indisposed. Coughed and cleared his throat before he asked yet another question.

  “What you are saying is that these four people will be used as bait? I have a problem believing that Lotte has approved this.”

  Olav led him away from the others. He refused to tolerate that the old man stuck his nose into his tactics and plans. He chose to give him a reminder.

  “Listen here, Lars … Lotte and I are in agreement about how to proceed. What you’re doing is sowing doubt about that. It’s just these kinds of things that obstruct an investigation. Negative focus and lack of coordinated action. Do you understand?”

  Olav waited for a response from old Stople, but this time there was no nodding, but no more questions either.

  Requiem: Offertorium, Hostias

  All I feel is my calm pulse. Slight electrical jolts that throb. I am present in my own body. Feel every single nuance in the changes in my surroundings. The sea breeze that tickles the back of my neck. The odor of people passing me on Haraldsgata. Kebab, sausage, and garlic dressing. Every single impulse is reinforced. Nothing gets past me. A predator on the hunt. Sensing the prey ahead.

  The final preparations were made early today. Then an almost unbearable ten-hour waiting period followed. In the beginning, I enjoyed this pocket of time. It gave me an excitement I’d never felt before. Now this feeling is replaced by impatience and restlessness. I don’t want to wait. Just want to feel yet another life go out between my hands.

  Today’s chosen one will be the simplest. It will all be over in three seconds. A door opens, the pull of a trigger, and the subsequent shot. Pistols are the simplest.

  The police are still blissfully unaware of who I am, and so far I’ve kept myself under their radar. Something that in itself is quite laughable. Yet no one has asked a single critical question or raised an eyebrow. The birdbrains are behaving like … Well, confused, headless chickens.

  This unforeseen incompetence in the opposing party entails added work. I have to adjust the score again. Add to and take away. It works in a way, but I liked the original better.

  It was not so predictable. It had elements of surprise.

  I smile a little at myself while I have these thoughts. I’ve prepared myself for this. These are people I’m working with. People aren’t marionettes in a puppet theater. They do unexpected things. Make irrational choices. Act with their heart instead of their head. Nonetheless, I must say I’m satisfied. If everything doesn’t go according to plan, the notes are still just as predictable in harmony as the pattern of moves in a master chess game. I can lead the pieces where I want them to be. Places where I can take them one by one. When the game is over, the moves will remain in the history books. Unchangeable for all eternity.

  Arnfred Simonsen’s residence is as if created for my task. At the bottom of a grove of trees above Our Savior’s cemetery. It is playfully easy to slip unseen both in and out from the lot through the grove. From the walking path two hundred meters farther up, I can easily disappear without anyone being able to see what’s happen
ing. No one will notice a jogger along the path, and the view into the grove of trees is hidden by the underpass along Karmsundsgata.

  I look over my shoulder as the underpass approaches. No one in the vicinity. Jog calmly down toward the underpass and sprint toward the grove of trees as soon as I’m out of sight from the path. In among the trees, I lie down in the dry fall leaves and wait. Five minutes slip away without anyone passing. The forest is not very dense, and it’s easy to move ahead toward the house. I can see the red roof reflected in the light from the streetlamps on Salhusveien. Once at the end of the grove of trees, I stop. Get down on my knees and breathe deep and long. Crawl soundlessly back, because I’m not alone. I feel the sweat beading on my forehead, and my heart rate increases.

  Two police cars with rotating blue lights are parked on the road down by the cemetery. This is definitely not part of the plan, and I feel panic taking hold of me. The calm I have felt has been closely connected with control. In less than a second, it’s gone. I am irritated. Not at the police, they’re just doing their job, but at myself. I should have waited with the email until this afternoon, the way I’d planned. I got too eager! Now the police have had enough time to take their precautions. I am starting to get careless. Overeager. Impatient and incautious. Everything I promised myself not to be.

  I lay my head down in the leaves and breathe out. Exhort myself to an even pulse and even breathing. My brain needs oxygen in order to think clearly. I must think clearly in order to regain control. I must regain control in order to get the mission accomplished. I must complete the mission so as not to ruin the artwork. Simple. Logical. Rational. I look down at the police cars again. Two men in each car. Passersby will perceive it as police cars waiting to stop a drunk driver along Salhusveien. I know better. They are here to scare me away from the house. To prevent Arnfred Simonsen from becoming the next victim.

  I am tempted to execute the original plan, but that’s my heart talking. A few breathing exercises later, I have turned my thoughts onto the right frequency. The strategy is clear. When the police are here, they are also at other possible locations. It’s time for plan B. I smile as I stand up and stroll back. I love plan B.…