The Final Murder (43 page)

The head of NCIS stroked his immense belly. Stuck his thumb

in under his tight belt. Sucked through his teeth again. Hoisted his trousers, which immediately slipped back down to the crevice below his gut.

‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll give you two weeks. Three. For three weeks, you are absolved from doing anything other than finding out Wencke Bencke’s movements around the times of the murders. And only that. D’you hear?’

Adam nodded.

‘No other capers. No digging around in other parts of her life. I don’t want any trouble. OK? Find out if her alibi does have any cracks. And my tip is, start with the last murder. With Havard Stefansen. She was certainly close by when he was killed.’

Adam nodded again.

‘If I hear one word that that woman is being investigated …’

His face was beetroot now and the sweat was shining on his

forehead.

‘.. . from anyone other than the people round this table, and who …’

His fat little hand slammed down onto the table.

‘… are damn well going to keep their traps shut about this …’ He took a deep breath and let it out between clenched teeth.

‘… I will be very angry,’ he concluded at last. ‘And you know what that means.’

They all nodded, like eager schoolboys.

‘And you,’ the boss pointed at Sigmund, ‘if you absolutely must be Adam’s squire, that’s fine by me. Three weeks. And not a day more. Otherwise, the investigation continues as before, Lars. The meeting is closed.’

The chairs scraped on the floor. Someone opened a window.

Someone else laughed. Sigmund grinned and gestured that he

had to go to his office to make a phone call.

‘Adam,’ the boss said, and pulled him to one side as the room emptied.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t like that last case,’ he said quietly.

‘Havard Stefansen?’

‘No, the last case in that old lecture. The one that hasn’t happened yet. The fire. The policeman’s house getting burnt down/

Adam didn’t answer. He just blinked and looked out of the

window, distracted.

‘I’ve asked Oslo Police to do a few extra rounds,’ the boss carried on. ‘At night. To Haugesvei.’

‘Thank you,’ Adam said, and held out his hand. ‘Thank you.

We’ve moved the kids to their grandparents.’

‘Good,’ muttered the boss and made to leave.

But for a short second he hesitated, with Adam’s hand in his.

‘And that’s not because I believe in this profile of yours, he said. ‘It’s just a precaution. OK?’

‘OK,’ Adam said in earnest.

‘And,’ the boss continued and whipped the cigar case from

Adam’s breast pocket. ‘I’ll take this. Please stop smoking in your office. I get such a bollocking from health and safety’

‘OK,’ Adam said again, but this time with a broad smile.

He had imagined that it would be more glamorous. Maybe not

quite Hollywood, with the stars’ names glittering on their doors, but an aura of something special. There was nothing special about the puce-coloured room at the top of a long staircase, with tepid coffee in a thermos and tea bags in a paper cup. There were two bench-like sofas along one wall, where five people sat, waiting for something. Adam had no idea what function they had. They

weren’t famous and they did nothing. Sat there in sloppy clothes drinking coffee while they looked at the clock, constantly. Just below the ceiling in the corner was a monitor, where he could see the studio. People with headsets wandered backwards and forwards as if they had all the time in the world.

‘Hi,’ he mumbled to two uniformed policemen who were

standing by the stairs, looking out for whoever approached.

As security had been stepped up in connection with all NRK’s activities, it had been easy to gain access to the studio. He only needed to show his ID to the young lad down in reception and he was pointed in the right direction. He nodded and smiled, but no one seemed to bother. Some of them were talking while the

others ran in and out of the room. The chair opposite the monitor was empty. Adam sat down and grabbed a paper, so that he wouldn’t look completely lost.

‘Adam Stubo,’ said a voice, and someone touched his shoulder.

He turned towards the voice and then got up.

‘Wencke Bencke,’ he said.

‘I get the impression you’re following me,’ she said, and smiled.

‘Not at all. Just tighter security measures.’

He waved his hand in the direction of the two policemen.

‘Well, that certainly is tight security measures,’ she said, and

straightened her glasses. ‘Using an experienced and respected homicide investigator as security during the recording of a light entertainment programme is impressive. But perhaps not the best use of resources?’

She was still smiling. Her voice was friendly, almost teasing.

But he caught a look behind her glasses that made him straighten up.

‘We have to use what we’ve got, you know.’

He was sweating, so he took off his coat.

‘These days,’ he added.

He threw his coat over the back of the chair he had just got up from.

‘These days,’ she repeated. ‘What sort of days are they?’

‘A murderer on the loose,’ he said.

‘Or several,’ she smiled. ‘As far as I can tell, you aren’t even sure if it’s one and the same man.’

‘I’m sure,’ he answered. ‘One man. Or woman for that matter.

Not to be sexist. These days.’

Her cheeks split into dimples, from her eyes to her jaw.

‘Better to be on the safe side,’ she nodded.

She didn’t want to go. The presenter came up the stairs,

greeted everyone, had his nose powdered again by a sprightly young girl, then disappeared into the studio. Wencke Bencke

didn’t move. Her eyes were locked onto Adam’s face.

‘Nice pin you’ve got there,’ he said with deliberation.

‘This one?’ She patted her lapel, without looking at it. ‘Bought it in a second-hand shop in New York.’

‘It’s got a special history,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘That’s why I bought it.’

‘So you know … You know why the laurels have been replaced with …’

‘Eagle feathers? The Chief, of course!’

Her laughter was soft and dark. The chatter in the room had

died down, as if their conversation fascinated more than just the two of them.

‘The Chief?’ Adam asked. ‘D’you know him?’

‘Warren Scifford? No. That would be an exaggeration. I kno

of him, naturally. Have probably read everything he’s written, once had the pleasure of meeting him. At St Olaf’s College.

Minnesota. I followed a series of lectures there. I’m sure

wouldn’t remember me. But it’s impossible to forget Warren

Scifford.’

She looked down at the pin, at last. Stroked it with a stubby finger.

‘Ask your wife,’ she said lightly, without looking up. ‘Warren a man you never forget.’

Everything was spinning for Adam. His head felt light, he put his hand to his throat and tried to swallow.

‘But… know?’ he stuttered incoherently.

She looked at the ceiling, as if she was savouring her last word ‘No,’ she replied.

Then she leant towards him. Her face was barely a hand

breadth from his.

‘What are you doing here, Stubo? Truthfully, I mean?’

It was uncomfortably quiet. The make-up girls’ chat from the adjoining room filled the stillness with a slight hum. Her eyes were darker now, almost black behind the clear spectacle lense He noticed that she had a fleck on her iris, a white patch that was eating into her left eye; he couldn’t see anything but the yelloish-white defect in Wencke Bencke’s staring eye.

‘We have to go in now,’ whispered a woman with big head

phones on and a timetable under her arm. ‘We’re going on air.’

Wencke Bencke straightened up. Pushed her fringe away from

her face; it fell down again.

‘Are you coming?’ asked the production assistant and pulled

her by the arm.

‘There are lots of Norwegians at St Olaf’s,’ said Wenc

Bencke, without showing any sign of moving. ‘And people of

Norwegian descent. Maybe that’s why

‘I’m sorry, but we really must…’

The production assistant put her hand on her arm. Wencke

took three slow steps backwards.

‘Perhaps that’s why Warren always ends his lectures by

saying…’

‘Come,’ said the woman with the headphones, obviously

annoyed now.

‘.. . That Johanne Vik is the best profiler he’s ever met. Or maybe it’s just true.’

Then she disappeared into the studio. The heavy steel door

swung slowly shut behind her.

‘Is everything OK, sir?’ the younger policeman asked. He

seemed worried and offered Adam a glass of water. ‘Detective Inspector? Is everything …’

But the detective inspector was glued to the monitor. The titles were rolling, a hare and a tortoise danced around in a psychedelic labyrinth and forced Adam to lean against a chair for support. The presenter appeared on the floor to enthusiastic applause from the carefully primed studio audience.

Wencke Bencke sat down.

Her suit was deep red.

The presenter laughed at something she said. Adam wasn’t listening.

He was staring at a small pin that was nearly invisible on

the screen. Only every now and then the metal would flash in the studio lights, when the author moved, when she leant forward, as the presenter did. They exchanged confidences in front of a million viewers, and Adam heard nothing until the fair-haired man

asked:

‘And what did you do down there? On the Riviera, I mean, in

the middle of winter.’

‘I’ve been writing,’ she said. ‘I’m working on a novel about a crime writer who starts killing people because she’s bored.’

Everyone laughed. They laughed in the studio, a vibration, a rumbling over the floor. They laughed in the small room where Adam was standing, laughed long and loud, and the presenter

laughed longest and loudest.

‘You can say what you like,’ Wencke Bencke concluded when

things quietened down. She put her hand on the man’s thigh, soft and maternal. ‘If there’s anyone who knows what there is to know about murder, it’s us. And what’s more …’

She smiled and finished:

‘We know how to get away with it.’

‘Bloody hell, Adam. That’s some story.’

In a house in Sagveien, just behind the old mills by the Aker River, a good fire was burning in the brick fireplace. It was late at night. Adam was leaning back in a deep wing chair. When he

closed his eyes he could hear the waterfall at M0lla, where the river roared towards the fjord some kilometres further south, swollen by the spring thaw. Outside the windows it was dark and wet. Inside it was warm and sleepy.

Adam had told the story that he wasn’t supposed to tell.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s quite a tale.’

The other man got up and came back with two glasses from the kitchen. Adam could hear the ice cubes clinking.

‘Here,’ said Bjorn Busk, and handed him a generous whisky

before putting another log on the fire and sitting down in the other chair. ‘Is Johanne at home alone?’

‘No, she’s staying with her parents. But only for one night. She has this idea that Wencke Bencke knows where we are, at any

given time, so she doesn’t want to stay in the same place as the kids. It’s the two of us that the woman is after. Not the children.

We’ll stay at home. Kristiane will stay with Isak for a while and Johanne’s mother will look after Ragnhild, at night that is. God knows how long we can stand it.’

Bjorn Busk put his feet on a pouffe and took a sip of whisky.

‘You’re absolutely convinced,’ he said thoughtfully.

‘That’s she’s out to get us? No. But I am one hundred per cent certain that she killed Vibeke Heinerback, Vegard Krogh and

Havard Stefansen. And I’ve never actually …’ He stopped, and stared at the light playing in the amber drink. ‘… said that

before,’ he finished. ‘That I’m certain that she’s guilty. In a case that is chemically cleansed of evidence.’

‘I’m glad you said that yourself,’ Bjorn Busk smiled. ‘Because as far as I can tell, there’s nothing to give reasonable cause for suspicion.’

‘Which is why I’ve come to you. In the middle of the night.

Without calling.’

‘No problem. After Sara moved out…’

‘I’m so sorry, Bjorn. I should’ve got in touch when I heard. I should’ve …’

‘Forget it. That’s life. We all run around. Are busy. Have

enough with our lives, without having to get involved in other people’s problems. I’m fine, Adam. In a way… I’ve got over it.

And I really appreciate you coming here tonight.’

Bjorn Busk smiled and put down his glass on the small table

between them. He was a big man, the same age as Adam. They

had been friends ever since they went into their first classroom together in 1962, with cropped hair and blue satchels slung over their narrow, suntanned shoulders.

‘It could be said,’ he mused, ‘that our criminal justice system doesn’t really take account of motiveless murders. If there is no real evidence, or it’s weak, we tend to build on the motive. I’ve never quite seen it like that before, but…’

He took a drink. A deep furrow appeared in his brow.

‘… As normal citizens have to be protected from arbitrary

interference by the authorities, by setting standards for reasonable doubt before an actual investigation can be instigated …’

‘Enough, that’s all a bit legal, Bjorn. The point is that if we can’t find a motive, we can’t do a damn thing. Unless of course the murderer is caught with a knife dripping with blood, his trousers

down, or by three witnesses with cameras.’

‘Perhaps a bit extreme, the way you put it. But yes, that’s

roughly what I meant.’

They chuckled. Then it was quiet.

‘You’re asking me to do something that’s actually illegal,’ Bjorn said.