Viken told Nina what the pathologist had found.
– It shows we’re right, she said eagerly. – The victims were dumped where we found them. Both women were probably killed in a cellar.
– In a house built before the war, Viken added. – Or a cabin. It has to be somewhere where people can be kept prisoner for days without anyone finding out.
At last they came to a break in the dense forest, and spied a few patches of cultivated ground. They took another turn off the road and then up towards a farm on the brow of the forest. It consisted of a fairly large barn, the farmhouse itself, and an outhouse. All the buildings looked to be freshly painted. There was a white Mercedes parked outside the outhouse, next to a tractor hooked up to a trailer full of huge plastic containers. Another car was parked behind the garage, a second Mercedes, but this one older and lacking registration plates. Smoke drifted from the chimney of the house.
The sheriff and his assistant had jumped out and stood waiting as Viken and Jebsen walked over.
– Tried to call ahead, Storaker told them. – That Roger Åheim is the type that only answers the phone when he feels like it.
– Wouldn’t we all like to be like that, murmured Viken.
The woman who opened the door must have been over eighty. Her white hair was cut short and had recently been permed. It made her look like a sad old poodle, the chief inspector thought. But she was wearing a tracksuit and trainers, and looked in good shape for her age. Sheriff Storaker told her who they were, and she responded that of course she knew who he was. She subjected the others to a close scrutiny.
– The reason we’re here is we want a word with Roger Åheim, Storaker explained. – That would be your son, if I’m not mistaken. Is he around?
– You just wait a moment, the old woman croaked. – I’ll go and see.
She closed the door behind her.
– Funny, said Viken. – When you live somewhere like this, you ought to know who’s home and who isn’t.
He wandered across the yard to the barn, returning just as the woman opened up again.
– What’s it about? she asked, not exactly forthcoming, but the sheriff seemed to be as friendly as he was big, and without raising his voice he said: – Just go and fetch that lad of yours, will you, and then we’ll tell you what it’s about. Maybe we could come inside for a moment.
Grudgingly the old woman let them into the house.
The man who came down the stairs was in his late fifties. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms too. There was no hair left at the front of his head, but the large pores showed clearly where it had once been. The rest was combed back smoothly. He was wearing a T-shirt and looked like he’d been pumping iron. His skin was so golden-brown that Viken wondered if he’d spent most of the autumn in some kind of banana-ripening facility.
– Well I’ll be… exclaimed the man.
Storaker beamed good-naturedly.
– No need for me to introduce myself, Åheim. These are my colleagues from the Oslo police.
– Well, well, that’s posh.
– I’ll get straight to the point, the sheriff continued. – A few years ago you were sentenced for that business of shooting lynx. You were also found guilty of attacking a man with a broken bottle.
Roger Åheim opened his arms. A broad gold chain jangled around his wrist.
– It’s about time you let all that stuff go, Kjell Roar.
– There’s a lot of rumours floating about the village, Storaker went on, clearly not too happy about being on first-name terms with the owner of the farm.
– Rumours, yeah, plenty of them about. Åheim winked at Nina. – More rumours up here than there are mosquitoes at midsummer.
– Some people say you engage in illegal hunting activities, Storaker persisted.
Åheim came down to the foot of the staircase. Even wearing his clogs, he was half a head shorter than Viken.
– You got nothing better to do than run around listening to gossip?
– It’s all part of my job, Storaker said. – But if I suggest to you that people have been hunting bears up here recently, what would you have to say to that?
Åheim shook his head.
– Don’t believe a word of it.
Nina Jebsen interrupted.
– Would you know about it?
He let his gaze wander slowly up and down her before turning back to the sheriff.
– Now I’m going to be damned honest with you, Kjell Roar. I keep away from stuff like that. None of my business how other people wipe their arses.
Showing no hint of what he thought of people who announced that they were going to be completely honest, Viken said: – You were quoted in the local newspaper, Glåmdalen. He pulled out the printout. – You and one of your relatives, Odd Gunnar Nytorpet… Someone should catch a hungry bear and release it in the woods near Oslo, then we’d see what they said, these bureaucrats and politicians who are so bloody set on taking care of all the predators.
– For Chrissakes, Åheim exclaimed. – That must’ve been at least ten years ago. You’re not trying to tell me you think any of us actually meant it.
No one answered.
– This is a free country. People can say what they like.
Nina Jebsen said: – It’s not a bad idea to think before you speak. Especially when what you say is going to end up in a newspaper.
Viken turned as the living-room door opened behind him. A young woman stood there. From southern Asia, somewhere round there, he noted. She was holding a baby in her arms.
– Got a visitor? he asked Åheim.
– Visitor, no, this here is mine.
It wasn’t clear whether he meant the woman or the child. Probably both, Viken decided. Sixty years old and he fathers a nipper, good luck with that. He couldn’t help wondering how the young woman had ended up out here on this farm. Åheim had probably fetched her back home with him after a trip to Thailand.
– What do you use the barn for? he asked.
Åheim jumped. He took the bundle out of the woman’s arms and began to rock it back and forth, though it looked to be already fast asleep.
– The barn? Some hay, pig feed, tools… Why d’you ask?
– Come over with us, let’s take a look.
Åheim hesitated.
– It’s locked.
– I saw that. Monster of a bloody padlock. It’s not inconceivable you have the key.
– I rent out part of the barn. I don’t have that key.
Viken put on his friendliest grin.
– What can we do about that, Storaker?
The sheriff was already on his way out the door.
– I’ve got some bolt-cutters in the car. Absolute bloody man-eaters, they are.
– Shit, muttered Åheim, and handed the bundle back to the woman. – I’ll have a look, see if I don’t have an extra one somewhere.
He disappeared upstairs. The woman flashed them a brilliant smile.
– Bite to eat and a nice cup of coffee, if you feel like it?
Her local accent was so strong that even Viken might have had to change his version of her story.
Roger Åheim let them into the barn through a side door. Storaker had a powerful torch with him. A plough and a small tractor stood in the middle of the vast space. Two hay pens further in.
– I note you’ve got cables leading out here, said Viken. – What do you use the electricity for?
Roger Åheim wrinkled his nose.
– Machinery. High-pressure hoses. Battery chargers.
– Show us the fuse box.
The farmer hesitated.
– What d’you say your name was?
Viken hadn’t introduced himself and wasn’t about to do so now.
– You don’t need to know that to show us a few bloody fuses.
Åheim turned to the sheriff.
– Little awkward this, Kjell Roar, he murmured. – Got some bits and pieces…
He went up to a door, opened it, flipped the light switch. On a table stood an apparatus unmistakably designed for the distilling of alcohol. Four or five white plastic containers. Storaker took the cap off one and sniffed.