Punishment (25 page)

A witness in Kjelsåsveien had noticed that the abductor's arm was in plaster.

Riled by the lack of interest shown by the police – they had noted his name and address and said they would contact him in a day or two – he rang TV2's crimewatch desk. The description he gave was so precise that one of the crime reporters linked it to a recent arrest in Asker and Bærum. The man wasn't quite all there, he seemed to remember, leafing through his notes. A vigilante group had broken his arm, but the case had died a death as he refused to talk to journalists. And in any case, the police were convinced that he had nothing to do with the abductions.

The child killer who was haunting Norway like a nightmare and had already taken three lives, perhaps four, had been arrested earlier! And then been released, without being charged, only a few hours later. Even worse was the fact that the man
had got away this time too. A quick-thinking driver with a mobile phone had alerted the police immediately, but the murderer had vanished all the same. A scandal of enormous proportions.

The Chief of Police in Oslo refused to make any comment. In a terse press release, the Minister of Justice referred to the Chief of Police. The Chief of Police just sat in his office and said nothing.

TV2 had a scoop that NRK could not hope to repeat. The witness came on television. Although he didn't get his fifteen minutes of fame, the interview lasted for at least two. And what's more, he could expect ten thousand kroner in his bank account. As soon as possible, assured the crime reporters, once the camera was turned off.

*

The worst thing was not the hard-porn magazines that lay everywhere in piles.

There wasn't much that Adam Stubo hadn't seen already. The magazines were printed in four colours on cheap paper. Adam knew that they were largely produced in Third World countries, where children could be bought for a penny and a song and the police turned a blind eye for a fistful of dollars. Nor was it the fact that some of the children staring at him with blank eyes from the obscene pictures were no more than two. Adam Stubo had seen a six-month-old rape victim with his own eyes and had no illusions left. The fact that the occupant had a PC was more surprising.

‘I misjudged the man,' he muttered, and pulled on some rubber gloves.

The worst thing was, in fact, the walls.

Everything that had been written about the abductions had been meticulously cut out and pinned up. From the first, moderate reports of Emilie's disappearance to a two-page essay
by Jan Kjærstad in Aftenposten's latest morning edition.

‘Everything,' said Hermansen. ‘He's kept everything.'

‘And more,' said the youngest officer; he nodded over at the photographs of the children.

They were the same photographs that were pinned up in Adam's office. He went over to the wall and studied the copies. They were in plastic covers, but he could see immediately that they weren't cut out of a newspaper.

‘Downloaded from the Internet,' said the youngest officer, without being asked.

‘Can't be a complete idiot then,' said Hermansen without looking at Adam.

‘I've already admitted it,' said Adam gruffly.

The living room was a kind of office. An operations centre for a one-man army. Adam walked slowly round the room. There was a sort of system to the madness. Even the porn magazines were ordered in a perverse chronology. He noted that the magazines nearest the window contained pictures of children aged around thirteen to fourteen. The further into the room you went, the younger the victims were. He picked up a magazine at random from the sideboard by the kitchen door. He looked at the picture and felt his throat tightening before forcing himself to put it back without ripping it to shreds. One of the officers from Asker and Bærum was talking quietly on a mobile phone. When he finished the conversation, he shook his head.

‘They haven't even found the car. Let alone the man. And when you look at what we've got in here . . .'

He opened his arms.

‘. . . I don't particularly feel like going into the bedroom.'

The six policemen stood in silence and looked around. No one said a word. There was a commotion outside the block of flats. They heard cars stopping. Shouts. Heels running on tarmac. Still no one said a word. The policeman who didn't
want to check the bedroom pressed his thumb and index finger to his eyes. He pulled a face that made the colleague who was standing nearest him pat him uncomfortably on the shoulder. It stank of old semen. It stank of masturbation and dirty clothes. It oozed obscenity and shame and secrecy. Adam looked at Emilie on the wall. She was still just as serious; the coltsfoot falling on to her forehead. She looked like she knew everything.

‘It's not him,' said Adam.

‘What?'

The others turned to look at him. The youngest was open-mouthed and his eyes were wet.

‘I made a mistake about the man's mental capacity,' Adam admitted, and tried to clear his throat. ‘He can obviously use a PC. He manages to contact the people who distribute this filth . . .'

He stopped and tried to find a more appropriate word, a harsher word that conveyed more about the printed material that lay in piles and stacks all over the place. ‘. . . this filth,' he repeated in vain. ‘He knows what's going on. And we are nearly one hundred per cent certain that he is the one who attempted the abduction on Kjelsåsveien today. His car. The broken arm. The description fits on all points. But it's not . . . This is not the man who abducted and killed the other children.'

‘And you've reached that conclusion all by yourself?'

The expression on Sigmund Berli's face showed that he no longer regarded Adam Stubo as his partner. He was defecting to the other side. To Bærum Police, who knew that they had solved the case. If only they could find the man who lived in this flat, amongst all the paper clippings and pornography and dirty clothes. They knew who he was and he would be caught.

‘The man has already let himself get caught once. By two amateurs! He nearly got caught again today. Our man, the
man we're looking for, the man who killed Kim and Glenn Hugo and Sarah . . .'

Adam's eyes did not leave Emilie's photograph.

‘. . . and who perhaps is holding Emilie captive somewhere . . . He wouldn't let himself get caught. Not like that. He doesn't try to abduct children on an outing with lots of adults to watch them, in broad daylight in his own car. And a socking great plaster on his arm. No way. You know that, you know you do. We're just so bent on catching the bastard that we . . .'

‘Well, perhaps you can explain to me what this is then?' interrupted Hermansen.

The policeman was not triumphant. His voice was flat, nearly resigned. He had pulled a folder out of a drawer. The folder contained a small pile of A4 sheets. Adam Stubo didn't want to look. He suspected that the contents of the folder would turn the whole investigation. Over a hundred detectives who until now had worked on the theory that nothing was given and that all options should be kept open – good policemen and women who had tried to look at all the angles and who knew that good detective work was the result of being patient and systematic – they would now all charge in one direction.

Emilie, he thought, this is about Emilie. She is somewhere. She is alive.

‘Aaw, shit,' said the youngest policeman.

Sigmund Berli let out a long, low whistle.

More cars could be heard outside. Shouts and conversation. Adam went over to the window and carefully pulled the curtain to one side. The journalists had arrived. Naturally. They were flocking around the main entrance. Two of them looked up and Adam let the grey curtain go. He turned back to face the room. The other four were standing around Hermansen, who was still holding a red folder in one hand. In the other he had a small pile of paper. When he lifted one of the sheets for Adam
to see, the writing was easy to read, even from the window.

NOW YOU'VE GOT WHAT YOU DESERVED.

‘It's written on a machine,' Adam pointed out.

‘Give over,' said Sigmund. ‘Just give over will you, Adam. How could this guy know . . .'

‘The messages on the children were written by hand. They were written by hand, people!'

‘Should you or I talk to them out there?' asked Hermansen, putting the paper carefully back into the folder. ‘There's not a lot we can say, but it's probably most natural if I . . . as we're in Asker and Bærum and all that.'

Adam Stubo shrugged his shoulders. He was silent as he pushed through the group of people that had gathered outside the low-rise block in Rykkin. He eventually reached his car and got in. He was just about to give up waiting for Sigmund Berli, when his colleague got into the car, out of breath. They barely exchanged a word all the way back to Oslo.

‘I
don't know how you manage it all,' exclaimed Bente, enthusiastically. ‘That was so good!'

Kristiane was asleep. She was normally restless when Johanne was expecting guests. In the early afternoon, she would already have long periods where it was impossible to talk to her. She would roam from room to room, wouldn't eat. Wouldn't sleep. But tonight she had fallen into bed, exhausted, with Sulamit under one arm and Jack, dribbling with delight, under the other. The King of America had changed Kristiane, Johanne had to admit it. This morning her daughter had slept until half past seven.

‘Recipe,' said Kristin, swallowing. ‘I must get the recipe.'

‘There isn't one,' said Johanne. ‘I just made it up.'

The wine was good. It was half past nine on Wednesday night. Her head felt light. Her shoulders didn't ache. The girls round the table were talking over each other. Only Tone had said she couldn't come; she didn't dare leave the children alone, given the situation. Especially after today.

‘She's always so bloody worried,' said Bente, and spilt some wine on the tablecloth. ‘Those children do have a father. Ooops! Salt! Mineral water! Tone is so . . . so hysterical about everything. I mean, we can't just hole ourselves up simply because there's a monster on the loose!'

‘They'll catch him now,' said Lina. ‘Now they know who he is. He won't be able to hide for ever. He won't get far. Did you see that the police have issued a wanted poster with a
photo and everything? Don't pour away all the mineral water!'

Adam hadn't called. Not since Johanne had ignored the ringing phone the night before last. She couldn't decide whether she was upset or not. She didn't know why she didn't want to speak to him. Then. But not now. He could phone now. He could come round, in a few hours, when the girls had finished giggling and tottered out of the flat. Then Adam could come. They could sit at the kitchen table and eat leftovers and drink milk. He could borrow the shower and an old football shirt from the States. Johanne could look at his arms as he leaned over, supporting himself on the table; the shirt was short-sleeved and he had fair hair on his arms, as if it was already summer.

‘. . . isn't that right?'

Johanne smiled suddenly.

‘What?'

‘They'll catch him, isn't that right?'

‘How should I know?'

But that guy,' Lina insisted. ‘The one I met here on Saturday. Doesn't he work for the police? Isn't that what you said? Yes . . . something to do with the NCIS!'

‘Aren't we actually here to talk about a book?' said Johanne, and went out to the kitchen to get more wine; the ladies had brought far too much with them, as usual.

‘Which you, of course, haven't read,' said Lina.

‘I haven't either,' said Bente. ‘I just haven't had the time. Sorry.'

‘Nor have I,' admitted Kristin. ‘If that salt is going to have any effect you have to rub it in to the material. Like this!'

She leaned over the table and stuck her index finger into the mix of salt and mineral water.

‘Why do we call this a book group . . .'

Lina held the book up accusingly.

‘. . . when I'm the only one who reads? Tell me, is that what
happens when you have children? You lose the ability to read?'

‘You lose time,' Bente slurred. ‘Time, Lina. That's what dishapearsh.'

‘You know what, that really annoys me,' Lina started. ‘You always talk as if the only important thing in . . . As if the minute you have children, you're allowed to . . .'

‘Can't you tell us a bit about the book instead?' Johanne suggested swiftly. ‘I am interested. Honestly. I read all of Asbjørn Revheim was I was younger. In fact, I'd thought about buying a copy of . . . what's it called?'

She grabbed the book. Lina snatched it back.

‘Revheim. An Account of a Suicide Forewarned,' read Halldis. ‘And by the way, you didn't ask me. I have in fact read it.'

‘Horrible,' said Bente. ‘You haven't got shildren, Halldis.'

‘Appropriate title,' said Lina, still with an offended undertone. ‘You can feel the death wish in nearly everything he wrote. Yes, a yearning for death.'

‘Sounds like a thriller,' said Kristin. ‘Should we just take the tablecloth off?'

Bente had spilt again. Instead of pouring on more salt, she had attempted to cover the red spot with her serviette. The glass had not been picked up. A red stain was flourishing under the paper napkin.

‘Forget it,' said Johanne, lifting up the glass. ‘Doesn't matter. When did he die?'

‘In 1983. I can actually remember it.'

‘Mmm. Me too. It was quite a novel way to take your own life.'

‘To put it mildly.'

‘Tell me,' said Bente, subdued.

‘Maybe you should have some more mineral water.'

Kristin got some more mineral water from the kitchen. Bente scratched at the stain she'd made. Lina poured some more wine.
Halldis was looking through Asbjørn Revheim's biography.