The Thirst: Harry Hole 11 Page 14

  ‘So, what?’

  ‘Do you want the devil to come?’

  ‘We’ve got a double murder, Harry, maybe a serial killer. Can it really get any worse?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘It can.’

  11

  SATURDAY EVENING

  ‘WE’RE ASSUMING THAT we’re dealing with a serial killer,’ Detective Inspector Katrine Bratt said, and looked out at the conference room and her entire investigative team. Plus Harry. They had agreed that he would participate in meetings until he’d set up his own group.

  There was a different, more focused atmosphere than during their previous meetings. This was obviously to do with the development of the case, but Katrine was pretty sure that Harry’s presence also made a difference. He may well have been Crime Squad’s drunk, arrogant enfant terrible, someone who had directly or indirectly caused the deaths of other officers, and whose working methods were highly questionable. But he still made them sit up and pay attention. Because he still had the same dour, almost frightening charisma, and his achievements were beyond question. Off the top of her head, she could only think of one person he had failed to catch. Maybe Harry was right when he said that longevity bestowed respect, even upon a whorehouse madam if she kept going for long enough.

  ‘This sort of perpetrator is very difficult to find for a number of reasons, but primarily because – as in this case – he plans carefully, chooses his victims at random, and doesn’t leave any evidence at the scene except what he wants us to find. That’s why the folders in front of you containing the analysis from Forensics, the forensics medical officer and our own tactical analysts is so thin. We still haven’t managed to link any known sex offender to Elise Hermansen or Ewa Dolmen, or either of the crime scenes. But we have managed to identify the methodology behind the murders. Tord?’

  The IT expert let out a short, inappropriate laugh, as if he had found what Katrine had said funny, before saying: ‘Ewa Dolmen sent a message from her mobile phone which tells us that she had a Tinder date at a sports bar called Dicky’s.’

  ‘Dicky’s?’ Magnus Skarre exclaimed. ‘That’s more or less opposite the Jealousy Bar.’

  A collective groan ran round the room.

  ‘So we could be on to something, if the murderer’s MO is to use Tinder and arrange to meet in Grünerløkka,’ Katrine said.

  ‘What, though?’ one of the detectives asked.

  ‘An idea of how it might happen next time.’

  ‘What if there isn’t a next time?’

  Katrine took a deep breath. ‘Harry?’

  Harry rocked back on his chair. ‘Well, serial killers who are still learning the ropes usually leave a long gap between their first murders. It can be months, years, even. The classic pattern is that after a killing there’s a cooling-down period, before his sexual frustration starts to build up again. These cycles typically get shorter and shorter between each murder. With a cycle that’s already as short as two days, it’s tempting to assume that this isn’t the first time he’s committed this type of offence.’

  A silence followed, during which everyone waited for him to go on. He didn’t.

  Katrine cleared her throat. ‘The problem is that we can’t find any serious crimes in Norway during the past five years that show any similarities to these two murders. We’ve checked with Interpol to see if it’s possible that any likely perpetrator may have switched hunting grounds and moved to Norway. There are a dozen candidates, but none of them appears to have moved recently. So we have no idea who he is. But we do know that experience indicates that it’s likely to happen again. And in this case, soon.’

  ‘How soon?’ a voice asked.

  ‘Hard to say,’ Katrine said, glancing at Harry, who discreetly held up one finger. ‘But the gap could be as short as one day.’

  ‘And there’s nothing we can do to stop him?’

  Katrine shifted her weight to the other foot. ‘We’ve contacted the Chief of Police to ask for permission to issue a public warning in conjunction with the press conference at 1800 hours. With a bit of luck the perpetrator will cancel or at least postpone any plans for another murder if he thinks people are going to be more wary.’

  ‘Would he really do that?’ Wolff wondered.

  ‘I think—’ Katrine began, but was interrupted.

  ‘With all due respect, Bratt, I was asking Hole.’

  Katrine swallowed and tried not to get annoyed. ‘What do you say, Harry? Would a public warning stop him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘Forget what you’ve seen on television, serial killers aren’t robots with the same software who follow the same pattern of behaviour, they’re as diverse and unpredictable as everyone else.’

  ‘Smart answer, Hole.’ Everyone in the room turned towards the door, where the new arrival, Police Chief Bellman, was leaning against the door frame with his arms folded. ‘No one knows what effect a public warning might have. Maybe it would only encourage this sick murderer, give him a feeling that he’s in control of the situation, that he’s invulnerable and can just carry on. But what we do know, on the other hand, is that a public warning would give the impression that we here at Police Headquarters have lost control of the situation. And the only people who would be scared by that are the city’s inhabitants. More scared, we should probably say, because – as those of you who have read what the papers have been saying online in the past few hours will have noticed – there is already a lot of speculation about these two murders being linked. So I have a better suggestion.’ Mikael Bellman pulled at his shirtsleeves so that the white cuffs stuck out from the sleeves of his jacket. ‘And that is that we catch this guy before he does any more damage.’ He smiled at them all. ‘What do you say, good people?’

  Katrine saw a few of them nod their heads.

  ‘Good,’ Bellman said. ‘Carry on, Detective Inspector Bratt.’

  The bells of the City Hall signalled that it was eight o’clock as an unmarked police car, a VW Passat, drove slowly past.

  ‘That was the worst fucking press conference I’ve ever held,’ Katrine said as she steered the Passat towards Dronning Mauds gate.

  ‘Twenty-nine times,’ Harry said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said “We can’t comment on that” twenty-nine times,’ Harry said. ‘I counted.’

  ‘I was so close to saying “Sorry, the Chief of Police has muzzled us”. What’s Bellman playing at? No warning, no saying we’ve got a serial killer on the loose and that people should watch out?’

  ‘He’s right when he says it would spread irrational fear.’

  ‘Irrational?’ Katrine snapped. ‘Look around you! It’s Saturday night, and half the women you can see wandering about are on their way to meet a man they don’t know, a prince they hope will change their lives. And if your idea of a gap of a single day is correct, one of them is going to be really fucking right about that.’

  ‘Did you know there was a serious bus crash in the centre of London the same day as the terror attacks in Paris? Almost as many people were killed as in Paris. Norwegians who had friends in Paris started calling, worried they might be among the dead. But no one was particularly worried about their friends in London. After the terror attacks people were frightened of going to Paris, even though the police there were on high alert. No one was worried about travelling by bus in London even though traffic safety hadn’t improved.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘That people are more scared than the likelihood of meeting a vampirist ought to make them. Because it’s all over the front pages of the newspapers, and because they’ve read that he drinks blood. But at the same time they light cigarettes that are pretty much certain to kill them.’

  ‘So tell me, do you actually agree with Bellman?’

  ‘No,’ Harry said, gazing out at the street. ‘I’m just musing. Because I’m trying to put myself in Bellman’s shoes to work out what he wants. Bellman always has something in mind.’

&n
bsp; ‘And what is it this time?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he wants this kept as low-key as possible, and solved as fast as possible. Like a boxer defending his title.’

  ‘What are you talking about now, Harry?’

  ‘Once you’ve got hold of a belt, you really want to try to avoid fights. Because the best thing you can achieve is holding on to what you’ve already got.’

  ‘Interesting theory. What about that other theory of yours?’

  ‘I said I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘He painted the letter V on Ewa Dolmen’s door. That’s his initial, Harry. And you said you recognised the crime scene from when he was active.’

  ‘Yes, but like I said, I can’t put my finger on what it is that I recognised.’ Harry paused as a split-second shot of a neutral street scene flashed through his mind.

  ‘Katrine, listen: biting throats, iron teeth, drinking blood – that isn’t his MO. Serial attackers and murderers might be unpredictable when it comes to details, but they don’t change their whole MO.’

  ‘He’s got a lot of different MOs, Harry.’

  ‘He likes pain, and he likes their fear. Not blood.’

  ‘You said the killer put lemon in the blood because he didn’t like it.’

  ‘Katrine, it wouldn’t even help us to know that it is him. How long have you and Interpol been looking for him now?’

  ‘Getting on for four years.’

  ‘That’s why I think it would be counterproductive to tell the others about my suspicions and risk the investigation narrowing down to focus on just one person.’

  ‘Or else you want to catch him yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s the reason you’re back, isn’t he, Harry? You got his scent right from the start. Oleg was just an excuse.’

  ‘We’re dropping this conversation now, Katrine.’

  ‘Because Bellman would never have gone public about Oleg’s past – the fact that he hadn’t done anything before now would bounce back and hit him.’

  Harry turned the radio up. ‘Heard this one? Aurora Aksnes, it’s pretty …’

  ‘You hate synth-pop, Harry.’

  ‘I like it more than this conversation.’

  Katrine sighed. They pulled up at a red light. She leaned forward towards the windscreen.

  ‘Look. It’s a full moon.’

  ‘It’s a full moon,’ Mona Daa said, looking out of the kitchen window at the rolling fields. The moonlight made it look like they were shimmering, as if they were covered with fresh snow. ‘Does that increase the likelihood of him striking for a third time as early as tonight, do you think?’

  Hallstein Smith smiled. ‘Hardly. From what you’ve told me about the two murders, this vampirist’s paraphilias are necrophilia and sadism rather than mythomania or any delusion that he’s a supernatural being. But he will strike again, that much is certain.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Mona Daa was writing in her notebook, which was lying on the kitchen table next to the cup of freshly brewed green chilli tea. ‘And where and when will that happen, do you think?’

  ‘You said the second woman had also been on a Tinder date?’

  Mona Daa nodded as she continued to take notes. Most of her colleagues used recording devices, but – even though she was the youngest of the crime reporters – she preferred to do it the old-fashioned way. Her official explanation was that in the race to be first with the news, she saved time in comparison to the others because she edited her stories while taking notes. That was a particular advantage when she was covering press conferences. Although this afternoon at Police HQ you could have managed without a Dictaphone or notebook. Katrine Bratt’s refrain of ‘We can’t comment’ had eventually managed to provoke even the most experienced crime reporters.

  ‘We haven’t printed anything about it being a Tinder date in the paper yet, but we’ve received a tip-off from a source in the police saying that Ewa Dolmen had sent a text message to a friend telling her that she was on a Tinder date at Dicky’s in Grünerløkka.’

  ‘Right.’ Smith adjusted his glasses. ‘I’m pretty sure he’ll stick to the method that’s proved successful for him so far.’

  ‘So what would you say to people who are thinking of meeting new men via Tinder over the next few days?’

  ‘That they ought to wait until the vampirist is caught.’

  ‘But do you think he’ll go on using Tinder himself after he’s read this and realised that everyone knows that’s his method?’

  ‘This is a psychosis, he won’t let himself be stopped by rational considerations when it comes to risk. This isn’t a classic serial killer, calmly planning what he does, a cold-blooded psychopath who doesn’t leave any evidence, who hides in corners spinning his web and taking his time between murders.’

  ‘Our source says the detectives leading the investigation believe he is a classic serial killer.’

  ‘This is a different sort of madness. The murder is less important to him than the biting, the blood – that’s what’s driving him. And all he wants is to carry on, he’s on a roll now, his psychosis is fully developed. The hope is that he – unlike the classic serial killer – actually wants to be identified and caught because he’s so out of control, so indifferent to being found. The classic serial killer and the vampirist are both natural disasters in the sense that they are perfectly ordinary people who happen to be mentally ill. But while the serial killer is a storm that can rage and rage and you don’t know when it’s over, the vampirist is like a landslide. It’s over after a very short time. But in that time he could have wiped out an entire community, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Mona said, scribbling away. Wipe out an entire community. ‘Well, thanks very much, I’ve got all I need.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. I’m actually surprised that you came out here for so little.’

  Mona Daa opened her iPad. ‘We had to come anyway, to get a picture, so I came along as well. Will?’

  ‘I was thinking of taking a picture out on the field,’ the photographer said, having sat quietly and listened to the interview. ‘You, the open landscape and the light of the moon.’

  Mona knew exactly what the photographer was thinking, of course. Man alone outside in the dark, full moon, vampire. She nodded almost imperceptibly to him. Sometimes it was best not to tell the subject of a photograph what your ideas were, because then you only ran the risk of them objecting.

  ‘Any chance my wife can be in the picture too?’ Smith wondered, looking rather taken aback. ‘VG … this is a pretty big deal for us.’

  Mona Daa couldn’t help smiling. Sweet. For a moment an idea flashed through her head, of them taking a picture of the psychologist biting his wife’s neck to illustrate the case, but that would obviously be taking it too far, too much slapstick for a serious murder story.

  ‘My editor would probably prefer to have you on your own,’ she said.

  ‘I understand, I just had to ask.’

  ‘I’ll stay here and write, then maybe we can get it up on the website before we leave. Have you got Wi-Fi?’

  She got the password, freudundgammen, and was already halfway through by the time she saw the camera flash out on the field.

  The unofficial explanation of why she avoided recordings was that they were incontrovertible evidence of what had really been said. Not that Mona Daa ever consciously wrote anything that contradicted what she believed her interviewee had meant. But it gave her the freedom to emphasise certain points. Translating quotes into a tabloid form that the readers would understand. And would click to read.

  PSYCHOLOGIST: VAMPIRIST CAN WIPE OUT WHOLE CITIES!

  She glanced at the time. Truls Berntsen had said he’d call at ten o’clock if anything new had cropped up.

  ‘I don’t like science-fiction films,’ said the man sitting opposite Penelope Rasch. ‘The most irritating thing is the sound as the spaceship passes the camera.’ He pursed his lips and made a quick whooshing sound. ‘There’s no air in space, ther
e’s no sound, just complete silence. We’re being lied to.’

  ‘Amen,’ Penelope said, and raised her glass of mineral water.

  ‘I like Alejandro González Iñárritu,’ the man said, raising his own glass of water. ‘I prefer Biutiful and Babel to Birdman and The Revenant. I’m afraid he’s getting a bit mainstream now.’

  Penelope felt a little shiver of pleasure. Not so much because he had just mentioned both her favourite films, but because he had included Iñárritu’s rarely used middle name. And he had already mentioned her favourite author (Cormac McCarthy) and city (Florence).

  The door opened. They had been the only customers in the neglected little restaurant he had suggested, but now another couple walked in. He turned round. Not towards the door to look, but away from it. And she got a couple of seconds in which to study him unobserved. She had already noted that he was slim, about the same height as her, well mannered, nicely dressed. But was he attractive? It was hard to say. He certainly wasn’t ugly, but there was something slippery about him. And something made her doubt he was as young as the forty years he claimed to be. His skin looked tight around his eyes and neck, as if he’d had a facelift.

  ‘I didn’t know this restaurant was here,’ she said. ‘Very quiet.’

  ‘T-too quiet?’ he smiled.

  ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘Next time we can go to this place I know that serves Kirin beer and black rice,’ he said. ‘If you like that.’

  She very nearly squealed. This was fantastic. How could he know that she loved black rice? Most of her friends didn’t know it even existed. Roar had hated it, he said it tasted of health-food shops and snobbery. And, to be fair, those were both fair accusations: black rice contained more antioxidants than blueberries and was served alongside the forbidden sushi that was reserved for the emperor and his family.

  ‘I love it,’ she said. ‘What else do you like?’

  ‘My job,’ he said.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m a visual artist.’