‘What do you think this is?’ Sung-min said.
She knew he was thinking the same as her. And that neither of them intended to say those words out loud. Not yet. Katrine cleared her throat.
‘The first thing we do is stick to what we’ve got here and find out what happened.’
‘Agreed.’
Katrine hoped ‘agreed’ was a word she would hear often from Kripos in future. But she did, of course, welcome all the help they could get. Kripos had let it be known they were ready to step up from the point Bertine Bertilsen was reported missing exactly a week after Susanne, and under strikingly similar circumstances. Both women had gone out on a Tuesday evening without telling any of those the police had spoken to where they were going or what they were doing, and had not been seen since. Besides, there were other circumstances linking the two women. When these came to light, the police shelved their theory of Susanne having been in an accident or having taken her own life.
‘All right, then,’ Katrine said and stood up. ‘I’d better notify the boss.’
Katrine had to remain standing for a moment before regaining the feeling in her legs. She used the light on her mobile phone to ensure she trod on more or less the same footprints they had made on their way into the crime scene. Once beyond the cordon tape, which was strung between trees, she tapped in the first letters of the name of the Chief Superintendent. Bodil Melling picked up after the third ring.
‘Bratt here. Sorry for calling so late, but it looks like we might have found one of the missing women. Murdered, her throat is cut, probable arterial spatter, likely raped or sexually assaulted. Fairly certain it’s Susanne Andersen.’
‘That’s too bad,’ Melling said, in a voice lacking any tone. And at the same time Katrine pictured the lack of expression in Bodil Melling’s face, the lack of colour in her attire, lack of emotion in her body language, guaranteed lack of conflict in her home life and lack of excitement in her sex life. The only thing that triggered a reaction in the newly appointed Chief Superintendent, she had discovered, was the soon-to-be vacated office of Chief of Police. It wasn’t that Melling wasn’t qualified, Katrine just found her unbearably boring. Defensive. Gutless.
‘Will you call a press conference?’ Melling asked.
‘OK. Do you want to...?’
‘No, as long as we don’t have a positive ID on the body, you take it.’
‘Together with Kripos, then? They have people at the scene.’
‘All right, fine. If there’s nothing else, we have guests.’
In the pause that followed Katrine heard low chat in the background. It sounded like a genial exchange of views, the kind, that is, where one person confirms and elaborates on what the other has said. Social bonding. That was how Bodil Melling preferred it. She would almost certainly be annoyed if Katrine brought up the subject again. Katrine had suggested it as soon as Bertine Bertilsen was reported missing and suspicion arose that the two women might have been killed by the same man. She wouldn’t get anywhere either, Melling had made that very clear, had, in effect, put an end to the discussion. Katrine ought to just let it go.
‘Just one thing,’ she said, letting the words hang in the air as she drew a breath.
Her boss beat her to it.
‘The answer is no, Bratt.’
‘But he’s the only specialist on this we have. And he’s the best.’
‘And the worst. Besides, we don’t have him any longer. Thank God.’
‘The media are bound to look for him, ask why we’re not—’
‘Then you just tell them the truth, which is we don’t know his whereabouts. Moreover, considering what happened to his wife, coupled with his unstable nature and substance abuse, I can’t imagine him functioning in a murder investigation.’
‘I think I know where to find him.’
‘Drop it, Bratt. Resorting to old heroes as soon as you’re under pressure comes across as an implicit disparagement of the people actually at your disposal in Crime Squad. What will it do to their self-esteem and motivation if you say you want to bring in a wreck without a badge? That’s what we call poor leadership, Bratt.’
‘OK,’ Katrine said and swallowed hard.
‘All right, I appreciate that you think it’s OK. Was there anything else?’
Katrine thought for a moment. So Melling could actually be antagonised and bare her teeth after all. Good. She looked at the crescent moon hanging above the treetops. Last night, Arne, the young man she had been dating for almost month, told her that in two weeks there would be a total lunar eclipse, a so-called blood moon, and they should mark the occasion. Katrine had no clue what a blood moon was, but apparently it occurred every second or third year, and Arne was so eager that she hadn’t had the heart to say maybe they shouldn’t plan something as far in the future as two weeks, seeing as they barely knew each other. Katrine had never been afraid of conflict or of being direct, something she had probably inherited from her father, a policeman from Bergen who’d had more enemies than that city had rainy days, but she had learned to choose her battles and the timing of them. But now, having thought about it, she understood that unlike a confrontation with a man she didn’t know whether she had any future with, this was one she had to face. Now rather than later.
‘Yes, actually,’ Katrine said. ‘Would it also be OK to say that at the press conference if anyone asks? Or to the parents of the next girl who is killed?’
‘Say what?’
‘That the Oslo Police District is declining the assistance of a man who has cleared up three serial killer cases in the city and apprehended the three culprits? On the grounds we think it may impact on the self-esteem of some colleagues?’
A long silence arose, and Katrine could not hear any chat in the background now either. Finally, Bodil Melling cleared her throat.
‘You know what, Katrine? You’ve been working hard on this case. Go ahead and hold that press conference, get some sleep at the weekend, and we’ll talk on Monday.’
After they hung up, Katrine called the Forensic Medical Institute. Rather than go through the proper channels, she called the direct line of Alexandra Sturdza, the young forensic medical officer, who had neither partner nor child, and wasn’t too averse to long working hours. And sure enough, Sturdza replied that she and a colleague would take a look at the body the following day.
Afterwards, Katrine stood looking down at the dead woman. Maybe it was the fact that in a man’s world she had got where she was on her own that would not allow her to set aside her contempt for women who willingly depended on men. That Susanne and Bertine lived off men was not the only circumstance that bound them, but also that they had shared the same man, one more than thirty years their senior, the property mogul Markus Røed. Their lives and existences relied on other people, men with the money and the jobs they themselves did not have, providing for them. In exchange, they offered their bodies, youth and beauty. And — insofar as their relationship was exposed — their selected host could enjoy the envy of other men. But, unlike children, women like Susanne and Bertine lived with the knowledge that love was not unconditional. Sooner or later their host would ditch them, and they would have to seek out a new man to feed upon. Or allow themselves to be fed upon, depending on how you viewed it.
Was that love? Why not, simply because it was too depressing to think about?
Between the trees, in the direction of the gravel road, Katrine saw the blue light of the ambulance, which had arrived noiselessly. She thought about Harry Hole. Yes, she had received a sign of life in April, a postcard — of all things — with a picture of Venice Beach, postmarked Los Angeles. Like a sonar pip from a submarine in the depths. The message had been short. ‘Send money.’ A joke, she wasn’t sure. Since then there had been silence.