At seven o’clock Ingrid Aune arrived. Øystein and Truls were in the cafeteria, and when Ståle went to the bathroom, Ingrid and Harry were left sitting alone in the room.
‘We’re heading off now, so the two of you can get some peace,’ Harry said.
Ingrid, a small, stocky woman with steel-grey hair, a steady gaze and the residue of a Nordland accent, straightened up in the chair and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve just come from the senior consultant’s office. He’s received a report expressing concern from the head nurse. About three men who tire Ståle Aune out with their numerous and lengthy visits. As the patients tend to find it difficult to say it themselves, he was wondering if I could urge you to curtail the visits from now on as Ståle is entering the final phase.’
Harry nodded. ‘I understand. Is that what you want?’
‘Absolutely not. I told the consultant that you need him. And...’ She smiled. ‘That he needs you. We need something to live for, I said to him. And sometimes something to die for. The consultant said they were wise words, and I told him they weren’t mine, but Ståle’s.’
Harry smiled back. ‘Did the senior consultant say anything else?’
She nodded. Turned her gaze to the window.
‘Remember that time you saved Ståle’s life, Harry?’
‘No.’
She gave a brief laugh. ‘Ståle has asked me to save his life. That’s how he put it, the nitwit. He’s asked me to get hold of a syringe. He suggested morphine.’
In the ensuing silence, Jibran’s steady breathing as he slept was the only sound in the room.
‘Are you going to?’
‘I am,’ she said. Her eyes filled with tears and her voice grew thick. ‘But I don’t think I can manage it, Harry.’
Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. Felt it tremble weakly. Her voice was only a whisper.
‘And I know that’s what I’m going to feel guilty about for the rest of my life.’
34
Monday
Trans-Europe Express
Prim read the article on VG’s website once more.
It didn’t directly say that Våge had falsified his stories but that was the subtext. Nevertheless, if they weren’t saying it directly that had to mean they had no proof. Only he, Prim, could prove it, tell them what actually happened. Once again, this instilled in him that warm, intoxicating sense of control which he hadn’t anticipated, but was a pure bonus.
He had been thinking over and over ever since this morning, when he saw the small notice in Dagbladet about Terry Våge being taken off their crime cases. Prim had understood why right away. Not only why Våge had been removed, but why Dagbladet had drawn attention to it instead of just letting it happen quietly. They knew they had to actively distance themselves from Våge before the other newspapers confronted them with the lies they had published about cannibalism and resewn tattoos.
What was interesting was that Våge could now be used to solve the problem that had arisen. The problem of Markus Røed sitting safely in prison and beyond his reach indefinitely. This was time he didn’t have, because biology runs its course, the natural cycle has its rhythm. But it was a major decision to take, a big deviation from the original plan, and past improvisation had already proved there was a price to pay. So he would have to think carefully. He went through the details yet again.
He looked down at the burner phone and at the note with Terry Våge’s number, which he had found in directory enquiries. Felt the nervousness a chess player running out of time must feel when he decides on a move, in the knowledge it will either win or lose him the game, but has yet to move the piece. Prim thought through the scenarios one more time, what could go wrong. And what must not go wrong. Reminded himself that he could retreat at any time without any trails leading back to him. If he did everything right.
Then he tapped in the number. He had a feeling of free fall, a wonderful shiver of excitement.
It was answered on the third ring.
‘Terry.’
Prim tried to hear if there was anything in Våge’s voice to reveal the desperation he must be feeling. A man at rock bottom. A man nobody wanted. A man without alternatives. A man who had managed to make a comeback once before and was willing to do whatever it took to do so again, to win back his throne. To show them. Prim took a breath and put his voice in a deeper register.
‘Susanne Andersen liked being slapped in the face when she had sex, I’d imagine you can get her ex-boyfriends to confirm that. Bertine Bertilsen smelled of sweat, like a man. Helene Røed had a scar on her shoulder.’
Prim could hear Våge breathing in the pause that followed.
‘Who is this?’
‘This is the only person at large who could have this combined knowledge.’
Another pause.
‘What do you want?’
‘To save an innocent person.’
‘Who’s innocent?’
‘Markus Røed, of course.’
‘Because?’
‘Because I’m the one who killed the girls.’
Terry Våge knew he should have tapped Reject when unknown caller came up on the display, but as usual he couldn’t help himself, it was that bloody curiosity of his. The belief that suddenly something good might occur, that one day the woman of his dreams might just ring him up, for instance. Why didn’t he learn? The calls today had been from journalists looking for a comment on Dagbladet giving him the sack, and from a couple of die-hard fans letting him know how unfair they thought it was, among them a girl who sounded fit on the phone, but he had found her Facebook page and discovered she was much older than she sounded and pig ugly. And now this call, yet another nutter. Why couldn’t normal people ring? Friends, for instance? Was it due to him no longer having any perhaps? His mother and sister got in touch, but his brother and father didn’t. That’s to say, his father had called once — he probably thought the success at Dagbladet compensated somewhat for the scandal that had brought shame to the family name. In the past year a couple of girls had contacted Terry. They always popped up when he attracted attention; it had been the same when he was a music journalist. Obviously the band members got more pussy, but he got more than the guys on the mixing desk. The best strategy was sticking close to the band — a couple of positive reviews were always rewarded with a backstage pass — and hope for trickle-down benefits. The next best was the opposite: slate the band and reap the cred. As a crime journalist he no longer had the gigs as a hunting ground, but he compensated with the gonzo style he had cultivated as a music journalist; he was in the story, he was the war correspondent of the streets. And with a byline and a photo there was always the occasional woman who’d call. It was for that very reason he had kept his number listed — not for people to call him up at all hours of the day with all manner of idiotic tips and stories.
Taking this anonymous call was one thing, not hanging up was something else entirely. Why hadn’t he? Perhaps it wasn’t what the man said, about him being the one who had killed the girls. It was the way he had said it. Without fanfare, just stated it calmly.
Terry Våge cleared his throat. ‘If you really killed those girls, shouldn’t you be happy the police suspect someone else?’
‘True, I’ve no desire to be caught, but it gives me no pleasure that an innocent man should atone for my sins.’
‘Sins?’
‘Granted, choice of word’s a tad biblical. The reason I’m calling is that I think we can help one another, Våge.’