‘Yes.’
‘Then it’s time to reap your reward, Våge. Hurry up.’
The connection was broken. Terry Våge drew a deep breath, and a thought struck him. He could still turn the key in the ignition and get the hell out of there. He could go and have a beer at Stopp Pressen! Tell anyone who would listen that he had spoken to the serial killer on the phone and they had arranged a rendezvous, but that Terry had chickened out at the last minute.
Våge heard his own barking laughter, grabbed the camera and the torch and stepped out of the car.
Perhaps this was the lee side of the hill, because strangely enough the wind wasn’t as strong up here as it had been lower down or in the city centre. He spotted the forest trail a few metres in from the road. He walked past the barrier, turning towards the street light one last time before switching on the torch and continuing on into the darkness. The wind soughed in the treetops and the gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he counted the steps and alternated between shining the torch on the ground and at the tree trunks on the left side. He had made it to one hundred and five when he caught sight of the first patch of reflective paint shining in the beam. He saw the second patch further into the forest.
He touched the sheath of the knife in his jacket pocket again before swinging the strap of the camera over his shoulder, hopping over the ditch and making his way in among the trees. It was pine forest, and the space between the trees meant he could move through without great effort and be afforded some visibility. The paint had been applied at eye level at ten- to fifteen-metre intervals on selected tree trunks. The terrain grew gradually steeper. At one spot he paused to catch his breath and ran a finger over the blotch on the tree. Looked at his finger. Fresh paint. He was standing on a carpet of pine needles in a cluster of mighty pines. The rustle from the treetops was distant, but that only served to make the cracking and creaking from the almost imperceptible swaying of the trunks all the more present. The sounds were coming from all around, as though a conversation were taking place, as though they were discussing among themselves what to do with their nocturnal guest.
Våge continued.
The forest grew more dense, visibility poorer and the distance between the smudges of paint less, and now the ground was so rugged and steep that there was no point in counting steps any longer.
Then — suddenly — he made it to a plateau and the forest opened up. The beam from his torch shone into a small clearing and had to search before it found more paint. This time it wasn’t just a patch, it was a T-shape. He went closer. No, it was a cross. In the centre of the clearing he raised the torch. He couldn’t see any more reflective patches beyond the cross. He was at journey’s end. He held his breath. A sound could be heard, like when you hit two wooden sticks against one another, but he couldn’t see anything.
Then, as if to help him, the moon appeared between the scudding clouds, bathing the clearing in a soft, yellow light. And he saw them.
He shuddered. The first thing he thought of was an old number Billie Holiday sang, ‘Strange Fruit’. Because that was what they looked like, the two human heads hanging from the branch of the birch tree. The long hair on both heads swaying in the wind, and when they knocked against each other, they made a hollow sound.
It struck him at once that it must be Bertine Bertilsen and Helene Røed. Not because he recognised the stiff, mask-like faces, but because one was dark and the other blonde.
His pulse was racing as he swung the camera off his back and began to count again. Not steps this time but seconds. He pressed the shutter release again and again, the flash went off and continued going off as the moon disappeared back behind the clouds. He had counted to fifty, moved closer, refocused and continued taking pictures. More excited than terror-struck, he no longer thought of the two heads as people who had been alive not too long ago, but as proof. Proof that Markus Røed was innocent. Proof that he — Terry Våge — wasn’t a fraud, but had spoken to the killer. Proof that he was Norway’s best crime journalist, a person demanding of everyone’s respect, his family’s, Solstad’s, Genie’s and that crappy band of hers. And — most important of all — the respect and admiration of Mona Daa. He had pushed the thought from his mind after being fired, how he must have fallen in her esteem. But now that would be turned on its head, everybody loves a comeback kid. He couldn’t wait for them to meet again. No, he literally couldn’t wait, so he would have to ensure that they did meet, and he promised himself it would happen as soon as Dagnija left for Latvia.
Ninety. He had thirty seconds left.
Then I’ll come for you.
Like a troll in a folk tale.
Våge lowered the camera and filmed with his phone. Turned the camera towards himself so he had proof he was the one who had been there and taken pictures.
Time to reap your reward, the guy had said. Was that why Våge had picked up on the association with the Billie Holiday song when he saw the heads in the trees? That was about the lynching of black Americans in the South, not about... this. By reap, had he meant he could take the heads with him? Våge took a step closer to the birch tree. Stopped. Had he lost his mind? These were the killer’s trophies. And time was up. Våge slung the camera behind his back and held his hands up in the air to show any watching eyes in the forest that he had finished and was leaving.
The return journey was more difficult, given that he didn’t have any reflective paint to navigate by, and even though he hurried, it took nearly twenty minutes before he found the forest trail again. When he was back in the car and had started the engine, a thought occurred to him.
Even though he hadn’t taken the heads, he should have taken something. A strand of hair. As it was, he had photos of two heads that even he — who had seen countless pictures of Bertine Bertilsen and also some of Helene Røed — couldn’t say for certain was them. Or if they were real human heads. Fuck! If it hadn’t been for him having to engage in a little artifice after Truls Berntsen had let him down and he had been found out, they would have believed in solid pictorial proof like this without question. Now he risked it being viewed as fresh deception and then he really was finished. Should he call the police right away? Would they get here before the murderer made off?
He was steering the car down Toppåsveien when he remembered what the guy had said. Get into your car and drive straight home.
The guy had been worried about Våge waiting for him. Why? Maybe this was the only road down from the forest.
He slowed down and tapped his phone. Kept an eye on the road while he brought up the window with the map he had used on the way there. After consulting it, he concluded that if the guy had come by car there were only two roads he could have parked on. Våge drove all the way down Toppåsveien and up the alternative road that ended where the forest trail began. No cars parked on either road. OK, then maybe he had walked all the way up from the main road. Walked beneath the street lamps through a quiet neighbourhood with the residents’ eyes on him as he carried a couple of heads and a tin of paint in his backpack. Maybe. Maybe not.
Våge studied the map a little more. Getting to the top of the mountain and to the main road around the back looked like a steep and arduous hike, and he couldn’t see any trails shown on the map. But the climbing wall was shown, with a path along the base. And there, towards the west, a path led down to a residential area and a football pitch. From there, you could drive down past Kolsås Shopping Centre to the main road without going close to Toppåsveien.
Våge thought for a moment.
If the guy was up in the forest, and if he were in his shoes, Våge had no doubt which retreat route he would have chosen.