Chapter 31
Mikkel Wold, a journalist with Aftenposten, had just had one of his articles uploaded on the Internet and he was very pleased with the result. Everything was happening so fast these days that he had barely had time to proofread it before it was published. He had skimmed through the articles a few times as it appeared online: no typos – phew! Everything looked fine. ‘Final farewell to Pauline’. He had covered the funeral the previous day, along with two of his colleagues. They had been responsible for the main feature in the printed version of the paper, while his task had been to find another angle. Reporters working on the printed and the Internet editions of Aftenposten usually worked independently of each other, but not in this case. ‘Do it all and do it first’ was the motto now, and he had noticed that their rivals did exactly the same.
Skøyen Church had been filled to the rafters with mourners. The family had requested that all press remained outside, but not everyone had respected their request. Mikkel Wold had watched as several reporters from other newspapers blagged their way into the church, mixing with the family, neighbours and friends. Yes, of course they worked in a competitive industry, but surely there had to be some boundaries. Aftenposten had a good team working on the story. Talented people. Skilled journalists. They hadn’t discussed it, but there was a tacit understanding at the paper to keep it low key. Not shout ‘Fire!’ in a crowded theatre. Show consideration. Not prod deep wounds with their dirty, intrusive fingers. Like some of their competitors did.
Mikkel Wold had been offered a job with a rival newspaper some months ago. He was approaching forty and had worked for Aftenposten for almost twelve years; the new job had sounded exciting, and who knew when he would get another offer, but he was pleased that he had said no. ‘Final farewell to Pauline’. He had interviewed a friend of Pauline’s from nursery school, and her parents. Was it borderline bad taste? Possibly, but he had decided it was responsible journalism. Relevant. Profound grief following the loss of her friend. They had taken a picture of the little girl crying, holding a bunch of flowers in one hand and a drawing she had made for Pauline in the other. It was beautiful and moving. Well within press regulations, surely? Or perhaps it wasn’t? Mikkel Wold sighed and stretched his arms. He hadn’t had much sleep since the girls’ bodies had been found. Was he starting to lose his sense of perspective? Would he have written this article ten years ago? Five years ago? He dismissed his moral qualms and went to the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. The offices were buzzing. It was a long time since they had had a story like this. In fact, had they ever seen anything quite like it? A serial killer who dressed up girls like dolls, put satchels on their backs and hung them from trees? He shook his head and sipped his coffee. The whole thing seemed surreal. Like a case from the US or on TV, perhaps, but not here in Norway. Mikkel Wold had struggled to keep his emotions in check when he saw the crowd of mourners leave the church. The small white coffin. The grim faces. Grieving. Final farewell to Pauline. He hoped he had managed to stay within the guidelines. Yes, he had. It was a fine article.
‘They’re off again.’
Silje popped her head into the kitchen.
‘Where are they going this time?’
Mikkel put down his cup down on the counter and followed the young journalist into the next room. They had started listening to the police radio round the clock in order not to miss out on anything.
‘Skullerud.’
‘Another girl?’
‘It’s difficult to tell,’ Silje said, turning up the volume a fraction.
‘What have we got?’
Grung, their editor, entered the room, ruddy and unshaven, as usual. He didn’t look as if he had had much sleep recently either.
‘Several units have been dispatched to Skullerud.’
‘Skullerud? I thought they were going to Disenveien?’
‘Both locations.’
‘Disen?’ Mikkel Wold said. He hadn’t been aware of that.
‘A few minutes ago.’ Grung nodded. ‘Erik and Tove are there now.’
He turned to Silje again.
‘Do we have an address for Skullerud?’
‘Welding Olsens Vei. Not far from Skullerud School.’
‘I’ll go,’ Mikkel said.
‘Good.’ Grung nodded. ‘Keep me updated as it unfolds, will you?’
Mikkel Wold ran back to his desk and grabbed his bag.
‘Do we have a photographer?’
Grung shouted across the room.
‘I think Espen is available.’
‘No, he’s gone to Disen.’
‘Call Nina,’ Mikkel Wold said, heading for the exit. ‘Tell her to meet me up there.’
He took the lift down to the ground floor, ran to the taxi rank and got into a taxi. He took out his mobile and called Erik Rønning, his fellow reporter who had gone to Disen.
‘Erik speaking.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘They’ve blocked the area off, so we can’t get access. It’s chaos. Nobody knows what’s going on.’
‘Are we the only ones there?’
‘You wish.’
His colleague chortled to himself.
‘Oh, no, the whole pack has turned up. Mia! Mia!’
His colleague disappeared for a moment. Then he was back on the phone.
‘What’s happening?’ Mikkel Wold asked.
‘Munch and Krüger have just arrived. Looks like we’re in the right place. Mia! Mia!’
His colleague disappeared once more, this time for good. Mikkel Wold made eye contact with the taxi driver and told him to speed up. He was hoping he would be one of the first reporters to get to Skullerud, that the other journalists would not have heard the call going out over the police radio. Mikkel tried to ring Erik back, but his call went straight to voicemail. Holger Munch and Mia Krüger had turned up. Something big must have happened.
Mikkel Wold arrived at Welding Olsens Vei only to discover that the police had already cordoned off that area as well. He paid the cab driver, jumped out of the car and made his way through the small crowd of onlookers that had already assembled. Cordons out so soon? It was happening more and more these days. Even though they listened to the police radio, they were still too late. He had heard several journalists discuss it. Have we lost our touch? Rumours had it that the police were trying out something new, a different means of communication, but so far no one had been able to work out what it was.
Mikkel Wold pushed his way right up to the cordon and spotted a reporter from VG.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Don’t know yet.’
The VG journalist lit a cigarette and gestured towards the road.
‘I think it’s number three or number five. One of the yellow terraced houses over there. None of the heavyweights has turned up yet, just the foot soldiers. I don’t know what’s happening.’
Mikkel Wold looked about him. New people kept arriving. He could see NRK and TV2. He nodded to a reporter from Dagsavisen, just as his mobile rang.
‘Mikkel speaking.’
‘It’s Grung. What have we got?’
‘Nothing so far, but everyone is here.’
‘Why the hell are we always playing catch-up?’ Grung snapped.
‘It’s a problem, I know. We need to do something about it,’ Wold said.
Grung fell silent. The editor did not like being told how to do his job.
‘Munch and Krüger have gone to Disen,’ Mikkel said to change the subject. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Grung; he had seen what happened to people who did and it wasn’t pleasant. He had no wish to be demoted and cover missing cat stories in Sandvika.
‘Krüger has just left Disen,’ Grung told him. ‘I bet she’s on her way up to Skullerud.’
‘Did you get hold of Nina?’
‘Yes, she’s coming. I’ve got Erik on the other line. I’ll call you back.’