Dreamless (20 page)

He’d arrived just in time.

He’d carefully chosen what he’d told her about her parents. It would make her think. He thought she was getting ready to sing for him now. It wouldn’t be necessary to prepare her for as long as he’d done with Silje Rolfsen. Maybe he’d waited too long with Silje. But what he’d said about Julie’s parents wasn’t quite true. He wanted to give them a shock—because he didn’t like them. He’d seen them before, outside, sometimes with Julie. Once he’d heard her mother yelling at her. He couldn’t stand that woman. People like her didn’t deserve Julie. The girl was too good for those two, and he’d been right to give them a shock. And their response had been to wound him. What should he do with people like that?

Then he took the dog and climbed the basement stairs. After what he’d done to the animal, the dog could barely walk.

18

Gro Brattberg was
a good leader when things weren’t going well. She was even better when they were. She considered it a lucky break that the suspected perpetrator had been shot. At least as long as he wasn’t dead. Brattberg was a pragmatist, and she knew how significant this would be for the investigation.

Joining her in the conference room on this morning were Singsaker, Jensen, Gran, and Grongstad.

“So what you’re saying is that he’s most likely still alive?” Brattberg said to Grongstad.

The crime technician paused before he replied, furrowing his brow. Then he gave his boss a sidelong look.

“We didn’t find a lot of blood. But before the snow really started coming down, we were able to gather enough to run the necessary tests. But there’s nothing to indicate that he’s going to bleed to death. The blood traces stop a few hundred yards from where he was shot. That means that he managed to get control of the bleeding, possibly by wrapping the wound with his own clothing. I’d guess it was a superficial injury and not a deep bullet wound.”

“What about the music box?”

“We found a strand of hair inside. My guess is that it’ll show the same DNA profile as the blood. Provided that it doesn’t belong to anyone in the Edvardsen family, that is.”

“Could it belong to the daughter?”

“Hardly. It’s from a person with short hair. As far as I know, Julie Edvardsen has very long hair.”

“What color is it?” asked Brattberg.

“I’d call it gray.”

“So it’s from an older person?” said Singsaker with interest.

“Not necessarily. Plenty of people start going gray in their early thirties. And sometimes the gray is so sparse that no one really notices. So in theory the hair could just as well have come from a younger or middle-aged man.”

Singsaker nodded. Then he said, “The music box is interesting. I think it can tell us just as much about his state of mind as it can about his outward appearance.”

“Yes, this is a turning point for us,” said Brattberg. “By all accounts, we’re dealing with a mentally unbalanced individual, and the motive for this new kidnapping seems more or less irrational.”

“That’s right,” said Singsaker. “It’s possible that our perp will be in the system. But the police don’t have access to the records of psychiatric patients. Our hands are tied here because of doctor-patient confidentiality laws and privacy rights.”

“We’ll just have to use the resources that we have,” said Brattberg with a sigh. “Gran, I want you to spend the morning on this. Take a fresh look through police reports, complaints filed, and the criminal records. Is there anything we’ve forgotten or overlooked? We’re looking for individuals who may have behaved in a disturbing way, been reported for stalking or other types of irrational actions. Put on your psychiatrist’s glasses.”

“All right,” said Gran. “Even though Mr. Edvardsen couldn’t give us a good description of the man, except to say that he was wearing a coat with a hood, there’s one thing we shouldn’t forget. The person we’re looking for has now been branded. We can identify him by the gunshot wound.”

“Are you thinking of Høybråten?” asked Singsaker.

“We need to check him out.”

“No matter what, we should bring him in for questioning sometime today. Even eliminating him from the list of suspects would be progress,” said Brattberg.

“One more thing,” said Singsaker. “We have to expect even more media attention. How can we keep Edvardsen and the gunfire out of the news?”

“We can’t,” said Brattberg. “He shot someone, after all. But for the time being, we’ll call it an accident, and devote our energy to finding the girl.”

*   *   *

Singsaker stopped just outside his apartment building. On his way inside he hummed the tune from the music box, which had lodged inside his brain against his will.

When he came in, he found Felicia sitting in front of her computer at the desk in the living room. He headed for the kitchen.

“Want anything to eat?” he called to Felicia and then went back to humming. She appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Where’d you hear that tune?” she asked, sounding particularly interested.

“It has to do with the case I’m working on,” he told her. “Why?”

“It has something to do with my case too,” she said.

She went back to the living room and returned, carrying a piece of paper. It was the broadsheet her client had sent her. She handed it to Singsaker.

“Take a look at the score,” she said.

“Felicia, this is me you’re talking to. You know I can’t read music,” he replied with a helpless gesture. He handed back the broadsheet.

“I’m not very good at sight-reading either, but Siri hummed it for me. Listen,” she said and began humming.

A cold shiver ran down his back.

“What the hell?” he said in shock.

She nodded.

“That bastard knows the tune to a ballad that is almost totally unknown,” she said. “Music that has existed only as some sort of heirloom of a Norwegian-American family, and on an original broadsheet that was stolen from the Gunnerus Library. And he was so taken by the tune that he made a music box that would play it for him. But why?”

“That’s something I’d really like to know. How’s it going with your research?”

“I’m actually waiting for Siri to find out more about this Jon Blund,” said Felicia.

“Oh, right. Jon Blund,” he said, thinking out loud. “That’s one name that should never get to the editorial desk at
Adresseavisen.
I don’t even want to think about the headlines they’d come up with. Maybe we should go over to talk to Siri right now.”

“We can, but she mentioned something about having time off this morning. I think she was going to work out.”

Singsaker made himself a ham sandwich to take along.

“Come on,” he said, heading for the front door. “I know where she works out.”

His worries from the night returned. Was he about to become a father again? How was he going to tell Felicia? And was he prepared for such an enormous responsibility at his age?

*   *   *

“I’ve got an idea,” said Felicia as they drove.

They were stopped at an intersection, and Singsaker swallowed the last bite of his ham sandwich before he glanced at her.

“What is it?” he asked

“I’ve only had contact with my client by e-mail.”

“So?”

“He has a Gmail address, and I didn’t really think much about it until now. But I think the English he writes is rather formal. He doesn’t make any grammatical errors, but the way he formulates his thoughts seems a bit stiff. As if they were written by a foreigner who has a good command of the language, but it’s not his mother tongue.”

Singsaker thought about this as the light changed to green and he started driving again.

“So what you’re saying is that your client might not be who he’s pretending to be?”

“Well, don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence that this particular ballad should show up in a case that I’ve taken on, while at the same time it’s a crucial element in your investigation?”

“You’re right,” he said, noticing that he was clutching the steering wheel a little too hard as he braked to take the exit toward the Trondheim martial arts center. “But why would the killer do something like that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he wants to find out more about this Jon Blund without drawing attention to himself. A fake inquiry on the Internet could be just the cover he needs. We have to assume that Jon Blund and this ballad are somehow connected with the twisted reasons he has for killing.”

19

The art of moving
hands and feet. Siri Holm had long since stopped using her mind when she fought. The impulses behind every movement emanated from her fingertips and the soles of her feet. That didn’t mean she was no longer thinking, that there was no consideration given to each blow. But these thoughts were different, automatic and carefully reasoned and yet endlessly creative. This might well have been what she liked best about
kyorugi,
which in tae kwon do was both sparring and fighting—the fact that her hands and feet understood things that her brain couldn’t put into words. But her focus had started shifting inward, into her body. Her abdomen became a focal point around which all her movements circled. As if she were constantly engaged in a defensive battle for what lay inside her.

Today, the battle felt more real than ever. Usually she didn’t feel anything when she struck a blow or connected with a kick. She was merely aware of how many she’d landed and how many she’d received. The same could be said about sex, in some instances. Or at least it could be said about the sex she’d had with her opponent, Rolf Birger Gregersen, her only real competition in the Trondheim Tae Kwon Do Club. She’d slept with him almost without noticing it, just once, right after she moved to town and joined the club. Afterward she explained to him that she’d done it simply in order to get to know him better. And that she liked the way he fought better than the way he made love. He’d understood. Besides, he was married. They’d become regular sparring partners and now sweat together, but without any erotic contact.

They were an even match. She kicked and then retreated. Paused for a moment. Right now they were tied. They were approaching the part of the fight when she usually took the advantage. Slowly, they started up again. That graceful, deliberate dance. Eye contact. He looked at her and yet did not. This gaze of his was his best weapon, both in battle and in love. Both of them lunged but didn’t strike. Then she felt a pinching in her belly. For an instant she lost focus, and that was all he needed. Quick as lightning he struck. For a moment she lost her balance, but she managed to stay on her feet. Then the time was up.

“It’s been forever since I beat you,” he said.

The truth was that he’d never beaten her since that first week she was in town. And then she’d let him win so she could come down in his
doboken.

“I can’t understand why you don’t compete,” he said, breathing hard as they headed for the bench against the wall.

He wasn’t the only member of the club to say this. Siri knew she was the best one there, and that she could have gone far, possibly even to the Olympic Games, if she’d wanted to. But for her, tae kwon do was primarily a way of thinking. A totally different form of rationalizing than she couldn’t find anywhere else. If she started competing, it would become just like everything else in her life. While she was fighting, it would distract her to know that a medal was waiting for her when she won. Just as the baby inside her was distracting her now.

“I’ve been thinking of taking a break,” she said.

“What do you mean? Why?”

“Relax! It’s no big deal. It’ll just be a break of about nine months, minus the four that have already passed.”

“You mean that you’re…” His face turned pale.

“Take it easy. It’s not yours,” she said with a laugh. “Although I could have you locked up for a previous pregnancy attempt.” They both laughed.

“Shit, Siri. Congrats!” He seemed relieved.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Is this your last training session, then?”

“Yes. But don’t say anything to the others until I’ve showered and left the premises.”

“Why not?”

“I know things about you, Rolf Birger Gregersen,” she replied.

“Fine. My lips are sealed. Fuck, I’m going to miss you.”

“You’re just going to miss aiming for my boobs,” she said, smiling. Then she headed for the locker room.

After showering she went back into the hall to get a towel she’d left behind. That was when she saw two familiar people at the door, and she went over to them.

“Felicia and Odd? What are you doing here?”

Singsaker told her about the music box and the melody it played.

When he finished, Siri said, “I’ve requested the police log from the 1700s that we talked about, and I’m expecting it to be delivered to the library today. I could go over there, even though it’s my day off.”

“Good,” said Singsaker. “That’s what we were hoping. If the kidnapper was inspired by this lullaby, we might need to find out exactly who this Jon Blund was.”

At that moment, Gregersen walked past, carrying a bag on a shoulder strap.

“I’m going to miss you, lady,” he said jokingly as he went out the door.

“I’ll miss you too,” Siri called after him.

Singsaker and Felicia looked at her.

“I’m going to take a break for a while,” Siri answered Singsaker’s questioning look.

“A break? Why?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. She didn’t feel ready to tell them yet. She wasn’t sure how they’d react. “I’m not feeling very motivated. That’s all.”

Neither Singsaker nor Felicia said anything more about it.

*   *   *

Singsaker was having trouble concentrating on his driving. At the first stoplight Felicia pointed out that he was in the wrong lane, headed toward the harbor instead of the center of town. So there was no longer any doubt about Siri. And he could think of only one reason why she didn’t want to tell them.

“Felicia,” he said as he steered the car into the right lane when the light turned green and the traffic started moving. “She’s really pregnant, isn’t she?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” she said, smiling.