The Final Murder (38 page)

‘What’s the matter, dear?’

Kjell Mundal emerged from the sitting room. Light flooded

through the double door and nearly blinded her. Her husband was a dark figure in the doorway with his pipe in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

‘Rudolf is dead,’ she said.

‘Rudolf?’

‘Yes.’

Her husband moved towards her. She could still hear only her own breathing, her own pulse. He turned on the light and it hurt her eyes. She was crying.

‘What are you talking about?’ he asked and took her hand.

‘Rudolf has committed suicide,’ she whispered. ‘They’re not

quite sure when. Yesterday, possibly. They don’t know. I don’t know.’

‘Committed suicide? Taken his own life?’ Kjell Mundal bellowed.

‘But why in the world would that idiot go and take his own life?’

The party secretary had told her that no letter had been found.

Not in the flat, nor on his PC. They would, of course, carry on searching, but for the moment, nothing had been found.

‘No one knows,’ Kari Mundal said, and let go of his hand. ‘No one knows anything yet.’

‘I hope you didn’t write a letter, Rudolf,’ Kari Mundal thought.

‘I hope that your mother, poor soul, never finds out why you were so frightened that you had to take your own life.’

‘I need a drink,’ Kjell Mundal said, and swore savagely. ‘And so do you.’

She followed him, without saying any more.

It was a busy evening, with telephone calls and lots of visitors.

No one noticed that the normally vivacious woman was completely silent, for the first time in her long life. Everyone talked at once. Some were desperate. Some cried. People came and went

until far into the night. Kari Mundal made coffee and tea, mixed strong drinks and prepared sandwiches at midnight. But she said nothing.

As dawn approached, when Kjell had finally fallen asleep, she got up and went downstairs. In her handbag, in a compartment of her voluminous purse, was a copy of the telling invoice. She took it out and went over to the fireplace. There she lit a match. Only when the flames licked her fingers did she let go of the paper.

Two days later she made up a pretext to look at the old

accounts again. She immediately found what she was looking for.

The original invoice was torn to shreds and flushed down the toilet on the second floor, an old-fashioned toilet with a high-level cistern and a porcelain handpull on a gold chain.

No suicide note was ever found. For a while, a couple of policemen in Oslo thought that they knew why Rudolf Fjord had

hanged himself in his own drawing room, so soon after he’d been elected as the much-celebrated leader of one of the largest political parties in Norway. They never said anything. After some

years, the episode faded and was forgotten.

An elderly lady at Snar0ya, to the west of Oslo, was the only person who knew the reason why he had committed suicide.

And she never forgot.

‘ T eap year,’ shouted Kristiane. ‘Leap bound bang bang!’

1 J ‘No pretend guns in the house,’ Johanne reprimanded, and took the plastic spatula she was brandishing at her out of her hand.

‘Honestly, you can’t seriously call that a pretend gun,’ Adam said, irritated.

‘Bang, bang! What’s a leap year?’

‘It’s a year that has a day like today,’ Adam explained, and hunkered down beside her. ‘The twenty-ninth of February. Days like

this come only once every four years. Maybe they’re shy.’

‘Shy,’ repeated Kristiane. ‘Leap year. Peep here. Bang!’

She stopped and put her hair behind her ears, like her mother had just done.

‘But what’s the scientific explanation?’ She was serious. ‘I want to understand, not just be told something funny.’

The adults exchanged looks, Johanne’s was anxious and

Adam’s was proud.

‘Well, the Earth takes a bit longer than 365 days to …’

He stroked his head and looked over at Johanne for help.

‘To go round its own axis?’

‘That takes twenty-four hours, Adam.’

‘To go round the sun?’

Johanne just smiled and wrung out a cloth.

‘To go right round the sun,’ he said with conviction to Kristiane.

‘That’s what we call a year, but it’s a tiny bit longer… So, every now and then, we have to gather together all the extra bits that add up to make a full day. Every fourth year. And then there was something about Gregory and Julius, but I can’t remember that.’

‘You’re clever,’ Kristiane said. ‘Julius is a chimpanzee in the zoo, Adam. I’m going to play leap years with Leonard and today Daddy is coming to collect me. You’re not my daddy.’

‘No, but I love you very much.’

Then she shot off, with Jack at her heels. The small feet clattered down the stairs and the door slammed behind them. Adam

snorted and got up, with pride.

‘I wonder how many times we’ll have to go through that whole rigmarole that I’m not her father,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to get the access agreement sorted out soon. It’s been chaotic this winter.

Wasn’t she supposed to stay at Isak’s on Friday?’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Johanne asked, and stroked his hair. ‘Is it just the Rudolf Fjord case, or is it…’

‘Just? Just?’ He pulled his head away, a bit too abruptly. ‘It’s bloody not “just” when your job forces people to suicide.’

‘You haven’t driven anyone to suicide, Adam. You know that.’

He sat down on the nearest bar stool. A half-eaten celery stick was lying on a dirty plate. He picked it up and took a bite.

‘No, actually, I don’t know that,’ he said and took another bite.

‘My love,’ she said and he had to smile.

She kissed him on the ear, on the neck.

‘You haven’t killed anyone,’ she whispered. ‘You catch spiders and then let them out into the garden. Rudolf Fjord took his own life. He chose to die. By his own volition. Of course it’s …’

She stood up and looked him in the eye.

‘Of course it’s not your fault. You know that.’

‘I miss you,’ he said, chewing on the celery.

‘Miss me? I’m here, you fool.’

‘Not quite,’ he answered. ‘None of us are all here. Not like before.’

‘It will get better,’ she thought. ‘Soon. I’ve finally started to sleep now. Not a lot, but a lot more. Spring will soon be here.

Ragnhild is growing. Getting stronger. Everything will get better.

If only this case were over and you …’

‘Have you considered taking some time off?’ she asked lightly, and started to stack the dirty plates in the dishwasher.

‘Time off?’

‘Yes, take your paternity leave. Properly.’

‘As if we can afford that…’

He chewed and chewed and stared at the green, half-eaten

stick.

‘I could start working again,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t it be good to have this case off your hands? To forget it? Let someone else take over, someone else take…’

‘Nonsense.’

He scratched his groin.

‘Isn’t it strange,’ he said, with his eyes narrowed. ‘Isn’t it strange to choose death rather than …’

‘Don’t change the subject. Have you actually considered it?’

‘You’re entitled to most leave, Johanne. Which is only fair and reasonable. You’ve just given birth, you’re breastfeeding. It’s good for Ragnhild. So it’s good for us.’

He threw the remains of the celery at the rubbish bin in the cupboard under the sink, as if to underline that the conversation was closed. He missed.

‘But isn’t it peculiar,’ he continued and opened out his hands, ‘that a person should choose to take his life because he risks being outed as a homosexual? In 2004? For Christ’s sake, they’re everywhere!

We’ve got hordes of lesbians at work and they don’t seem

to feel persecuted or bothered and we…’

‘Actually, strictly speaking, you don’t know much about that,’

she said, and picked up the celery. ‘You barely know them.’

‘Come on, the finance minister ofNorway is gay, for Christ’s sake.

And no one seems to be too bothered about that!’

Johanne smiled and it annoyed him.

‘The finance minister is a… soigne gentleman from the west end,’ she said. ‘Discreet, professional and according to what little we know of him, an excellent cook. He’s lived with the same man for centuries. That’s a bit…’ She held her finger and thumb together in an exaggerated gesture.’… Different,’ she continued, ‘from someone who buys sex from young boys while parading

around with blondes on his arm whenever there’s a camera

nearby.’

Adam said nothing. He put his head down on his arms

‘Why don’t you have a little sleep?’ she said quietly, and

stroked his back. ‘You were up all night.’

‘I’m not tired,’ he said into his sleeve.

‘What are you then?’

‘Depressed.’

‘Can I do anything for you?’

‘No.’

‘Adam

‘The worst thing is that Rudolf was cleared as a suspect so early on in the case,’ he said angrily and sat up. ‘His alibi was fine.

There was nothing to indicate that he was behind it. Quite the opposite, according to his colleagues in the Storting, he was devastated.

So why couldn’t we just leave the man in peace? What the

hell does it matter to us who he’s fucking?’

‘Adam,’ she tried again, and held his neck between her hands.

‘Listen to me,’ he said and pushed her away.

‘I’m listening. It’s just a bit difficult to answer when what you’re saying isn’t… very sensible. You had every reason to investigate Rudolf Fjord in more detail. Especially after the argument

you heard between him and Kari Mundal. At the memorial service out at…’

‘I remember it well enough,’ he cut her off, cross. ‘But it can’t be more than five days since you sat here and drew a profile of a killer that was nothing like Rudolf Fjord. Why did I then have to pursue …’

‘You never believed in that profile,’ she said curtly, and got out the washing-up powder. ‘Not then and not now. And to be honest, I think you should stop moping.’

‘Moping? Moping?’

‘Yes, you’re moping. Feeling sorry for yourself. You can just stop it now.’

She slammed the dishwasher shut, put the box of powder back

on the shelf in the cupboard and turned to face him, with her right hand on her hip. And grinned.

‘Meany,’ he mumbled, and smiled reluctantly back. ‘Anyway,

you said yourself that the profile had a number of weak points.

Vegard Krogh didn’t fit. He wasn’t well known enough.’

Johanne picked up Sulamit the fire engine, which had been abandoned on the floor. The eyes on the radiator grille had lost their pupils and stared blindly at her. She fidgeted with the broken ladder.

‘I’ve been doing some more thinking,’ she said.

‘And?’

Do you remember… do you remember when we were sitting

here with Sigmund? Not last Tuesday, but a few weeks ago?’

‘Of course.’

‘He asked me what would be the worst imaginable murder.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I answered that it would have to be something like a killer without a motive.’

‘Yes.’

‘They don’t exist.’

‘Right. So what did you mean then?’

‘I meant … I still think my reasoning stands, by the way. A killer who chooses his victims completely arbitrarily, without a motive for the individual murders, would be extremely difficult to catch. Assuming that a number of other factors are in place, of course. Such as the killer doing a good job, to put it simply.’

‘Aha…’

He nodded and put his hand on his stomach.

She put Sulamit down with a thump.

‘Surely you can’t be hungry again. It’s less than an hour since you ate. Now listen.’

‘I’m all ears,’ Adam said.

‘The problem is that it’s difficult to imagine a completely

random series of victims,’ Johanne said, and sat down on the stool beside him. ‘People never function in a vacuum! We’re never

unbiased, we all have our likes and dislikes, we…’

She pressed her fingers together, so that her hands looked like a tent, and then she put her nose in the opening.

‘Let’s imagine,’ she continued, in full concentration. Her voice sounded quite nasal when she sat like that. ‘… a murderer who decides to kill. For whatever reason. We’ll come back to that. But he decides to kill, not because he wants to take someone’s life, but because he …’

‘It’s difficult to imagine that anyone can be murdered in cold blood, unless the murderer actually wants them dead.’

‘Try to imagine it all the same,’ she said impatiently. She folded her hands and clasped them together until the knuckles turned white. ‘The murderer would possibly choose the first victim fairly randomly. Like when we were children and spun the globe. Then, wherever your finger hit…’

‘… You would go in twenty-five years’ time,’ he finished. ‘I even read a children’s book about something like that. The Kept Promise.’

‘Do you remember what tended to happen the second time you

tried?’

‘I cheated,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Opened my eyes ever so

slightly to make sure I got somewhere more exciting than my

mate.’

‘In the end I would stand there with open eyes and aim,’

Johanne admitted. ‘I wanted to go to Hawaii.’

‘And your point is …’

‘I’ve read in the papers,’ she said, letting him stroke the back of her hand, ‘that they’re calling these cases the perfect crime. Not so strange really, considering how helpless the police seem to be. But I think perhaps we should shift the focus and instead say that we’re in fact talking about the perfect murderer. But

She chewed her lip and reached out for a caper from one of the bowls.

‘The point is that there is no such thing,’ she said, studying the stalk. ‘The perfect murderer is completely free of any context. The perfect murderer feels nothing - no fear, no horror, no hate and certainly no love. People have a tendency to think that mad murderers have no feelings and are completely incapable of relating to other human beings. They forget that even Marc Dutroux,