‘What about the relationship between them?’ Sejer said. ‘How would you describe that?’
‘Jon never asserted himself much, but perhaps he preferred being part of a group,’ Skarre said. ‘And this need led him to Axel and Reilly. Reilly is characterised by this strange passivity which prevents him from ever taking a stand, while Axel assumes the lead in every situation. And because he is strong and charismatic, the others followed him. Anywhere, possibly. But we’ve no chance of getting them convicted. We don’t even know what happened and we don’t have enough evidence to charge them. The only thing that could help us would be a confession.’
He drank his room-temperature whisky.
‘And we can forget about that.’
Afterwards they took the dog for a walk.
They crossed the car park in front of Sejer’s block of flats and turned on to a path. Frank Robert was let off his leash. He had a flashing blue light attached to his collar so he was clearly visible even when he darted in between the trees. Skarre’s eyes followed the blue light.
‘Dogs can sniff out drugs,’ Skarre said, ‘and explosives. And corpses. Some dogs can detect rot in timber. Scientists believe they might even be able to sniff out cancer. Imagine if we could teach them to detect guilt. Then we could take a dog to Frimann and Reilly and it would smell their guilt straight away.’ He stopped to light a cigarette. ‘But we can’t be sure that they meant to commit a crime. Incidentally, some people claim that criminality can be measured,’ he said.
‘And how is that done?’ Sejer asked.
‘An American professor has designed a scale from one to twenty-two. He gives the example of a woman who shot and killed her husband because he was having an affair. She caught him with someone else and acted on impulse. She scored only two points on the scale.’
‘We don’t own each other,’ Sejer remarked. ‘She got off lightly.’
‘And then there’s Ted Bundy,’ Skarre continued. ‘He scores seventeen points.’
‘Who scores twenty-two?’ Sejer asked.
‘Many top the scale,’ Skarre said. ‘John Edward Robinson, Dennis Rader. Kemper, Holmes and Sells. And John Wayne Gacy. And I am getting to the point. I’m making a point, I promise. Just because you’re to blame for something, doesn’t mean that you accept that blame. Or that you feel guilty. Gacy killed more than thirty people, but he said it was like squashing cockroaches. When he was finally caught, he went on about his childhood and how awful it had been. He spoke the following classic line when he was put in prison: “I’m the real victim here.”’
Skarre took a puff of his cigarette. ‘If we’re lucky we might nail Axel Frimann. And I have a strong feeling he’ll say the same thing.’
The telephone was ringing when they unlocked the front door and entered the hall.
Forensics had completed their examination of Axel Frimann’s Mercedes.
‘A fair amount of time has passed and the car was cleaned very thoroughly, probably on several occasions. No evidence from Kim Van Chau was found in the front or the back seats or on the floor. No fingerprints or other biological trace.’
Sejer received the information with great composure. ‘I wouldn’t expect them to carry a dead body inside the car,’ he said. ‘Get to the point. What about the rest of it?’
‘Precisely. In the boot we did discover some evidence, and we are certain that it belongs to Kim Van Chau.’
‘Evidence. What kind of evidence?’
‘The boot was lined with a blanket. And Frimann has undoubtedly hoovered it, but Asian hair is very coarse. It locks into the fibres.’
‘Are you sure of your evidence? Is it a full match?’
‘Absolutely. And this means that Kim’s body was definitely transported in Frimann’s car.’
CHAPTER 33
Reilly awoke with a shudder.
There was someone in his room. Someone was standing in a corner, breathing softly. He sensed movement, detected a faint smell. He fumbled around the sleeping bag for the revolver. The darkness was so compact that it was impossible to see anything. Even the kitten was startled. It clambered over him and jumped on to the floor. He became aware of an even denser darkness which might be the outline of a man by the door. The black mass was immobile, poised as if it were watching him. Reilly propped himself up on one elbow.
‘Axel?’ he whispered.
No reply. All he heard was the wind. It had dropped considerably, and the morning was not far off. He eased himself into a sitting position, keeping the weapon ready all the time. His heart was pounding and it was difficult to keep the revolver still. Was that a glimmer of light in the darkness, the blade of a knife, or the gleam in Axel’s eye? He could not be sure. He wriggled out of the sleeping bag and stood up. He could no longer make out the black mass by the door. He tiptoed across the floor. Every nerve on edge. There was no one there. His hands felt only timber with the occasional splinter in the walls. He opened the door as noiselessly as he could and peeked into the living room. A barely perceptible grey light fell through the windows, and the back of a chair was just visible. Reilly still thought he heard breathing. He crept across the room and stopped at Axel’s door. It was a simple pine door with a plastic handle. He clutched the butt of the revolver and eased the door open. Grey light from the living room seeped in. The green sleeping bag on the bed reminded him of a limp cucumber. He had no idea how long he stood like that, his arms dangling, the mouth of the gun pointing towards the floor.
Axel came at him from behind. Reilly was yanked backwards and crashed to the floor. The revolver slipped out of his hand, skidded across the floor and hit the wall with a bang.
‘Are you trying to shoot me?’ Axel cried. ‘Eh?’
He put his arm around Reilly’s neck and squeezed as hard as he could. Axel was strong. Reilly could hardly breathe. All he could do was kick his legs, but that did not help him get air into his lungs.
‘I’m always one step ahead!’ Axel screamed. ‘Don’t you understand?’
The grip around his neck tightened. Reilly tried to force out a reply; he could only manage some unintelligible grunts, and while he lay there, growing weaker because of oxygen deprivation, it dawned on him that he wanted to give up, that it no longer mattered to him either way. Jon couldn’t cope with being alive and neither can I, Reilly thought. He was starting to black out. His head felt very hot.
‘I understand people and I see through them,’ Axel snarled. Reilly felt his breath in his ear. The smell of Axel, his raw strength.
‘You can’t even put up a proper fight,’ Axel said. ‘You don’t deserve to live.’
Reilly wanted to beg for mercy. He wanted to explain and to put forward a proposal, but he couldn’t get a word out. Finally Axel let go of him. Reilly filled his lungs with air, but he was too terrified to move. Something in his throat had been badly hurt and he did not know if he still had a voice.
Axel got up and stared at Reilly lying on the floor.
‘So what the hell were you doing?’
‘I was unsettled,’ Reilly said. ‘I heard something.’ He tried to work out what he was feeling. He realised he did not feel much of anything. Now I know why people kill, he thought. They’re scared.
‘Would you have shot me?’ Axel asked. ‘You would have, wouldn’t you?’
He picked up the revolver. He opened the chamber and looked inside.
‘Six bullets. Bloody hell.’
Reilly dragged himself to standing. He massaged his neck for a while, then staggered to a chair and collapsed. After some time he began to recover; he got up and fetched the kitten. He put it inside the travel kennel. He gathered his belongings and packed them in his bag, along with his toiletries, his spare sweater and the Koran. Finally he put on his long coat.