‘That was a short conversation,’ Groth said.
‘He’s in pain, just bawling and wailing,’ the lawyer said. ‘You need to get him medical help, and then I’ll come back later.’
‘Oh, the doctor was just in there, but he couldn’t find anything the matter with him. The guy got painkillers, so I’m sure he’ll stop his wailing soon.’
‘He’s screaming like he’s about to die,’ the lawyer said, walking towards the exit. Groth watched him leave. Something wasn’t right but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He pressed the call button.
‘Svein, how are things in number 14? Is he still screaming?’
‘He was when I unlocked to let the lawyer in, but when I went to let the lawyer out he’d stopped.’
‘Did you take a peek inside?’
‘No. Should I?’
Groth hesitated. The line he took — and it was built on experience — was to let the prisoners scream, cry and yell without giving it too much attention. They’d been stripped of anything they could use to harm themselves and if you came running every time they started whining, they soon learned it got them attention, just like wailing infants. In the box that was still in front of him lay the possessions the prisoner in number 14 had had on him when they brought him in, and Groth automatically took a look for something that could give an answer. Evidence and Seizure had already been to collect the bags of cocaine and money, and all he saw were house keys, car keys and a crumpled theatre ticket that said ‘Romeo and Juliet’ on it. No packets of medicine, prescriptions or anything to give an indication. He twisted in the chair, felt a jolt of pain as one of the haemorrhoids became pinched and swore under his breath.
‘Well?’ Svein said.
‘Yeah,’ Groth said gruffly. ‘Yeah, check on the prick.’
Aune and Øystein were sitting at one of the tables in the Radium Hospital’s almost deserted canteen. Truls had gone to the toilet, and Harry was standing on the terrace outside the canteen with the phone to his ear and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
‘You’re the doctor in these sorts of things,’ Øystein said and nodded out in the direction of Harry. ‘What’s bugging him?’
‘Bugging?’
‘Driving him on. He never stops working, even now the guy’s been caught and he’s not getting paid any more.’
‘Oh, that,’ Aune said. ‘I suppose he’s seeking order. An answer. The need for that is often more keenly felt when everything else in your life is chaotic and seems to lack meaning.’
‘OK.’
‘OK? You don’t sound convinced. What do you think the reason is?’
‘Me? Well. Same as Bob Dylan answered when he was asked why he keeps on touring long after he’d become a millionaire and his voice had gone to shit. ‘“It’s what I do.”’
Harry leaned on the railings with the phone in his left hand while he sucked on the single cigarette he had allowed himself to take from Alexandra’s Camel packet. Perhaps the principle of moderation could be applied to smoking. While waiting for an answer on the other end, he caught sight of a person standing down below in the sparsely lit car park. A man with his face tipped up towards Harry. It was hard to make out at this distance, but he had something white on his neck. A freshly laundered shirt collar, a neck brace. Or a clerical collar. Harry tried to put the thought of the man in the Camaro out of his mind. He had got his money, why would he be coming for Harry now? Another thought occurred to him. What he had said to Alexandra when she asked if he thought he had killed the man with that blow to the throat. If he had died, I don’t think his friends would have let me live afterwards. Afterwards. After he had made sure they got their money.
‘Helge.’
Harry was jarred out of his thoughts. ‘Hi, Helge, Harry Hole here. I got your number from Alexandra, she was saying you might be at the Forensic Medical Institute working on your doctorate.’
‘She’s not wrong,’ Helge said. ‘Congrats on the arrest, by the way.’
‘Mm. I was going to ask you for a favour.’
‘Shoot.’
‘There’s a parasite by the name of Toxoplasma gondii.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re familiar with it?’
‘It’s very common, and I am a bioengineer.’
‘OK. What I was wondering was if you could check to see if the victims might have had the parasite. Or a mutated version of it.’
‘I understand. I wish I could, but the parasite is concentrated in the brain, and we don’t have theirs.’
‘Yes, but the parasite can also be present in the eyes, I’m told, and the killer left one eye on the corpse of Susanne Andersen.’
‘True, they are also concentrated in the eyes, but it’s too late. Susanne’s remains were sent for the funeral, and that was to take place earlier today.’
‘I know, but I checked. The funeral did go ahead today, but the body is still lying in the crematorium. There’s a queue so she won’t be cremated until tomorrow. I got an oral court order over the phone, so I can go up there now, get the eye and then come over to you. That OK?’
Helge let out a laugh of disbelief. ‘All right, but how were you planning to remove the eye?’
‘You’ve got a point. Any suggestions?’
Harry waited. Until he heard Helge sigh.
‘It would, strictly speaking, be regarded as part of the post-mortem, so I’d better get down there and do it.’
‘The country owes you a debt of thanks,’ Harry said. ‘See you there in thirty minutes.’
Katrine walked as quickly as she could across the floor of the Custody Unit. Sung-min was right behind her.
‘Open up, Groth!’ she called out, and the duty officer did as he was told without a murmur. For once Groth looked more shocked than grumpy. But that was small comfort.
Katrine and Sung-min squeezed through the rotating bars of the turnstile. A guard held open the door leading into the corridors between the detention cells.
The door of cell 14 was open. Even in the corridor she could smell the stench of vomit.
She stopped in the doorway. Over the shoulders of the two medics, she saw the face of the person lying on the floor. Or rather, what should have been a face but was now only a bloody mass, the front of a head where fragments of nasal bone were the only white in a red pulp of flesh. Like a... Katrine didn’t know where the words came from... blood moon.
Her eyes moved to the spot on the brick wall the man had obviously dashed his head against. He must have done it recently, because half-coagulated blood was still making its way down the wall.
‘Inspector Bratt,’ she said. ‘We just got the message. Is he...?’
The doctor looked up. ‘Yes. He’s dead.’
She shut her eyes and cursed to herself. ‘Is it possible to say anything about the cause of death?’
The doctor grinned grimly and shook his head wearily, as though it were an idiotic question. Katrine felt anger bubbling up. She saw the Médecins Sans Frontières logo on his jacket, he was probably one of those doctors who had spent a few weeks in some war zone and played the role of hardcore cynic the rest of his life.
‘I asked—’
‘Miss,’ he interrupted, his voice sharp, ‘as you can see, it’s not even possible to tell who he is.’
‘Shut up and let me finish my question,’ she said. ‘Then you can open your mouth. Now, how—’
The doctor without borders laughed, but she could see the vein in his neck become more pronounced and more colour come into his face. ‘You may be an inspector, but I’m a doctor and—’