The Final Murder (12 page)

switched off all the way down Haugesvei. It was finally quiet in the flat downstairs. One of the blasted cats was howling in the garden again, but then it disappeared. Johanne realized that she was enjoying the peace, the safety of the house. For the first time since they had moved in, she really felt at home. She stroked the surface of the counter in surprise. Her finger ran over a dent. Kristiane had played with a knife in an unobserved moment. Johanne’s eyes travelled over the sitting room to the west. The skirting boards were

covered in Jack’s eager claw marks, the parquet was damaged by the runners on Ragnhild’s cot. A red felt-tip drawing of a skyscraper rose up crookedly from the floor to the windowsill.

She sniffed. It smelt a bit stuffy, of food, clean babies and dirty dogs. She bent down to pick up a colourful baby’s toy from the corner by the dishwasher and noticed that Kristiane had written her name along the bottom in strange, crooked letters.

The house was well lived in now, Johanne thought. It was

home.

‘The worst thing,’ she said, and played with a smiling lion with teething rings and multicoloured ribbons round its head, ‘the worst thing would be a murderer with no motive.’

She took a deep breath, put down the toy and took off her

glasses. She tried to wipe away the grease from food and children’s fingers with a corner of her shirt. Then she turned her shortsighted gaze on Sigmund and repeated:

‘The most difficult murderer to catch would be one who killed without a motive. A qualified, intelligent killer who isn’t out to get even with his victim at all. All modern tactical investigations are based on the assumption that there is a motive for the crime. Even the most seriously mentally disturbed serial killer can be caught, as the most absurd and apparently random selection of victims will have some kind of hidden pattern, connections. When there is nothing, no reason, no connection, no logic - no matter how

twisted that sounds - we’re just stuck. A murderer like that could keep playing with us… for ever.’

The candle on the windowsill flickered violently and then

went out. Johanne put her glasses on and closed the window properly.

‘But

I’ve never heard of any monsters like that,’ she added

lightly. ‘I have to go to bed. Any more questions before I go?’

There were no questions.

Rudolf Fjord was washing the bathroom.

It was three o’clock on Tuesday morning. The lanky man was

down on all fours scrubbing the grouting between the floor tiles, with a toothbrush and ammonia. The smell ripped at his nose. He coughed, scrubbed, swore and rinsed it with water that was too hot for his bare hands. He was almost there. The tiles from the sink to the toilet bowl were now framed by light, pale-grey grouting against steel-blue ceramic. Strange that a bathroom could get so dirty in less than six months. He wanted to do the walls as well, he thought, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He should empty the cupboards, wash the drawers. And give the inside of the cistern a going over. It was still hours until he had to go to work.

He couldn’t sleep.

Maybe he could empty the bookshelves, vacuum the books,

one by one. That would certainly get the time to pass.

The relief he had felt when Vibeke died, the physical, jubilant relief on Saturday morning, had lasted for exactly twelve minutes.

Then he had realized that, paradoxically, Vibeke Heinerback was a better insurance in life than in death, and he was literally overwhelmed.

He had tried to get up from the sofa, but his legs had

given way. The sweat poured off him, but it felt cold. His

thoughts were racing. Eventually he managed to get into the

shower and then put together a suitable outfit for the extraordinary meeting of the Steering Committee.

They had looked at him.

Scowled.

Rudolf Fjord picked up the toothbrush.

The brush was flat and grey. Unusable. He staggered to his feet and rummaged around at random in the rubbish bin, looking for another one. Couldn’t find one. The lump in his throat grew. He pulled open a drawer in the bathroom cabinet, cut himself badly as he tried to get a new brush out of the stiff plastic packaging.

The stench of ammonia was unbearable now. He couldn’t find a plaster.

They had really scowled.

‘Good party comrades,’ Vibeke had smiled, somewhat stiff,

when inquisitive journalists had tried to delve deeper into their relationship. ‘We work very well together, Rudolf and I.’

He tried to breathe deeply.

Straightened his back. Lifted his chest, tightened his stomach, as he had on the beach, last summer, that fantastic summer when the weather was great and nothing had been settled. When he was still certain he would be the next party leader as soon as the old man decided it was time for a change.

He simply couldn’t breathe.

Red stars danced in front of his eyes. He was about to faint.

With his hands against the wall, he stumbled out of the bathroom.

It was better in the hall. He gagged without throwing up, staggered on into the sitting room, towards the doors to the balcony.

They were locked. He tried to stay calm, there was something wrong with the hinges, he just had to lift it, like this. The blood drew funny patterns on the door frame. The door opened.

The ice-cold air brought him to round.

He opened his mouth and breathed in.

They had looked at him in an odd way.

Strange, they had no doubt thought. Strange that Rudolf Fjord was the one who was most obviously affected by Vibeke

Heinerback’s brutal murder.

Kari Mundal was the worst.

People really had no idea what she was like. Everyone thought she was a funny, tiny, sharp housewife.

She was certainly sharp.

At best, nothing will happen, Rudolf Fjord thought to himself, and gulped in the clean air. He was calmer now and buttoned his shirt with shaking hands. The blood had already started to clot.

He carefully sucked his finger.

He realized that he had to dilute the ammonia.

At best, absolutely nothing would happen.

The house at the edge of the woods was of its day. A boxy

wooden house with vertical panelling and a bay window in

the middle of a symmetrical facade. It was about the size of a cottage.

The porch was small, with a bench on either side. The steps

were of concrete and the middle step was in need of repair.

Otherwise the building was well maintained. Adam Stubo stood on the road by the fence. He noticed that the roof was new and the external red paint so oily that the moon was reflected in it.

The light on one of the gateposts was broken. As any evidence had long since been secured, he leant over the broken light and lifted the wrought-iron casing to get a better look at the bulb.

Smashed to smithereens. Only a small jagged piece of glass was left in the fitting. He ran his finger over the base of the light.

Minute shards of fine, matt glass stuck to his skin. In the beam of his Maglite he could see that the filament was untouched. He turned off the torch, pulled on his glove and stood there for a few moments while his eyes adjusted to the dark.

There was another light just below the porch roof, above the front door. It was broken too. The evening was clear and cold.

The moon hung above the bare trees at the bottom of the garden, a perfect half, as if someone had sliced it in two. It made it possible to see the details of the house, the gravel path and overgrown garden, although there was no other light nearby except for a street lamp some fifty metres up the road.

‘It’s rather dark here,’ Trond Arnesen said, unnecessarily.

‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘But it was darker a week ago, as there wasn’t even any moonlight.’

Trond Arnesen sniffed. Adam put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Listen,’ he said in a quiet voice. His breath hung in blue-white clouds between them. ‘I know that this is incredibly difficult. I just want you to know, Trond … Is it all right if I call you Trond?’

The man nodded and wet his lips with his tongue.

‘You’re not a suspect in this case. OK?’

Another nod and this time he bit his lip.

‘We know that you were out on a stag night the night she was killed. We know that you and Vibeke had a good relationship. I understand you were going to get married this summer. In fact, I could go as far as to say …’

He looked around, very furtively.

‘We never let things like this out,’ he whispered, not letting go of the other man’s shoulder. ‘No one in Vibeke’s family is a suspect.

Her parents, her brother. You. You were actually the first

person we struck from the list. The very first. D’you hear?’

‘Yes,’ mumbled Trond Arnesen and brushed his eyes with his

gloved hand. ‘But I’m inheriting … I get the house and everything.

We had a …’

His words were stopped by his crying, a strange, soft crying.

Adam let his hand slide down his back. He held him tight. The boy was a head shorter than Adam and he leant in towards him as he raised his hands to his face.

‘The fact that you had a cohabitation agreement only shows

that you were sensible young people,’ Adam said quietly. ‘You must stop being so frightened, Trond. You have nothing to fear from the police. Nothing, d’you understand?’

Vibeke Heinerback’s fiance had been so terrified during the

hearings that the officer present found it difficult not to laugh, despite the tragic circumstances. The fair man in the pink Lacoste shirt, good-looking and well groomed, had gripped the edge of the table and drunk litres of water, as if he still had an almighty hangover, three days after the stag night. He was barely able to give his date of birth and address when asked.

‘Relax,’ Adam said again. ‘We’ll go calmly into the bedroom

now. It’s been cleaned up. The blood has been removed. OK?

Everything is more or less as it was before … Do you hear what I’m saying?’

Trond Arnesen pulled himself together and straightened up.

He coughed lightly into his hand and then smoothed back his

hair. A couple of deep breaths later, he gave a faint smile and said: ‘I’m ready’

The gravel, mixed with ice and snow, crunched under their

feet. Trond stopped again by the steps, as if he needed to galvanize himself. He stood there for a moment, rocking on the balls of his feet. Then he stroked back his hair again, a helpless, vulnerable gesture. He straightened his scarf and pulled down his jacket before mounting the steps. A uniformed policeman guided him

into the bedroom. Adam followed. Nothing was said.

The bed was empty, apart from two pillows. The room was tidy.

A huge reproduction of Munch’s History hung above the head of the bed. Three neatly folded duvet covers, some towels and a couple of colourful cushions were stored in a shelving unit along one wall.

The mattress was clean, without a trace of blood. The floor was newly washed and there was still a faint smell of floor soap in the air. Adam took some photographs out of a manila envelope. He stroked his nose thoughtfully while he studied the photographs for a few minutes in silence. Then he turned to Trond Arnesen, who looked deathly pale in the bright light from the ceiling, and asked in a friendly voice:

‘Are you ready, Trond?’

He swallowed, nodded and stepped forwards.

‘What do you want me to do?’

Bernt Helle had been a widower for twenty-four days. He kept a close track of time. Every morning he drew a red cross over the previous day’s date on the calendar Fiona had hung up in the kitchen to help Fiorella understand the concept of days, weeks and months. There was a Moomin character above each date.

This morning he had crossed off Snufkin, who had the number

twelve on a silver chain round his neck. Bernt Helle didn’t know why he did it. Every morning another cross. They said that time heals all wounds, and every hour was a step closer.

Every night an empty double bed.

‘Today is Friday the thirteenth,’ he thought, and stroked his mother-in-law’s hair.

Fiona was always so superstitious. Frightened of black cats.

Gave ladders a wide berth. Had lucky numbers and believed that the colour red made you restless.

‘Are you still here?’ Yvonne Knutsen said and opened her eyes.

‘You must go now, really you must.’

‘Don’t need to. Fiorella is at Mum’s tonight. It’s Friday, you know.’

‘No,’ she said confused.

‘Yes, it’s Fri…’

‘I didn’t realize. One day is like the next, lying here. Could you get me some water?’

She drank greedily with a straw.

‘Have you ever thought that Fiona had something…’ he asked suddenly, without having really thought about it.’… that it was as if she …’

Yvonne had fallen asleep again. Or at least, her eyes were

closed and she was breathing regularly.

Bernt had never understood Fiona’s leaning towards religion. It might have been different if it was the Church, the normal

Norwegian State Church, which he had grown up with and where he felt comfortable attending weddings, funerals and the odd service. But Fiona had no Church. No sect, either, thankfully. No parish, no spiritual home other than herself. She slipped in and out of something she would never share with him. When they

were young, he thought it was fascinating that she read so much.

About other religions, Eastern philosophy, the great thinkers and great thoughts. For a while, probably at the start of the nineties, maybe even earlier, she had flirted with New Age. Luckily that didn’t last very long. But then, at the end of what seemed to be a search for a theological anchor that had lasted more than a decade, she was even more distant. Not always, and certainly not in every area of her life. When Fiorella was born, their feeling of togetherness was so strong that they arranged a second wedding, fifteen

years after the first.

‘An incurable loneliness of the soul’ is how she explained her need, on the rare occasions when he asked. She would close down, smile without warmth in her eyes, and her face would be