She disappeared out into the kitchen, returning straight away with a calendar, flipped back through it.
– He’s written ‘office work’ here. He often stays late at the office in the evenings after he’s back from his bike ride. Applications, social security forms, things like that. That’s all I know.
– When did he come home?
– I pick Marlen up at the riding school on Thursdays. We’re home by eight thirty. I don’t think Axel was home by then that Thursday. Why that day in particular?
Viken waited before replying.
– That was the evening one of the victims disappeared. You perhaps know that she was a patient of your husband’s?
Vibeke jumped up from her chair.
– But this is insane. Do you know how long I’ve lived with him? Twenty-three years. If he was mixed up in anything, I would have known it. You can be a hundred per cent certain of that.
Just the same way you can be certain he’s a man you can trust, Viken thought with a sour smile on his lips.
– Of course, he said. – We don’t doubt that you know him better than anyone else. Can I just use your toilet?
She accompanied him out into the corridor. Viken turned and gave a sign to Norbakk, indicating that he should carry on going through the points they had agreed on earlier in the car.
They came into a large hall with light marble tiling on the floor. Two of the walls were almost covered by mirrors. This must be the hall of mirrors, Viken joked to himself. The toilet was in a corridor leading off it. He locked the door behind him. Having emptied his bladder, he washed his hands. He glanced over at the shelf below the mirror. A tube of toothpaste. Toothbrushes in a mug hanging on the wall. A packet of paracetamol, sticking plasters, some theatrical make-up for kids. The gentry each have their own bathroom, of course, he realised. He sent a text message to Norbakk: Try to get a look at the other bathroom. Probably upstairs. On more than one occasion he had lectured younger colleagues on precisely this subject: living rooms show how people want to be seen in the eyes of others; bathrooms will always tell you something about what lies behind the facade.
As he was letting himself out, he heard a familiar sound coming from a half-open door on the other side of the corridor. He peeked in. A teenager was seated on the edge of his bed, strumming on an electric guitar. A small amplifier stood on the floor in front of him.
– Practising? Viken asked.
The lad didn’t seemed surprised to see him standing there. He nodded and carried on plucking away at the strings.
– You play in a band?
Another nod from the lad. He had shoulder-length black hair that looked dyed, and a ring through one eyebrow.
– What kind of music? Viken wanted to know.
The lad glanced up at him, with perhaps just a touch of contempt in his eyes.
– Rock, blues, metal, whatever.
– I play guitar too, the policeman revealed.
– Oh yeah? The lad appeared tolerably interested in this bit of information.
– What’s your name?
– Tom.
– Mind if I have a go on your guitar?
Tom hesitated for a few seconds before getting up. He was skinny and rangy, the same height as Viken, with a row of pimples studded across his forehead. He unhooked the strap and handed over the guitar. A Gibson Les Paul. More expensive than any guitar Viken had ever owned. His fingers glided reverently across the strings.
– Get this from your father?
– Birthday present, the lad confirmed. – Dad bought it in England.
Viken strummed a few chords. Even with such a tiny amplifier he could feel the power in the sleek instrument.
– Wish I had one of these, he sighed as he ran through some riffs. – Know this one?
He let his fingers go. Tom watched, his face expressionless.
– Good, he said when Viken had finished. – Heard it before.
– ‘Black Magic Woman’, Viken said enthusiastically.
– Santana, isn’t it?
– Santana nicked it from Fleetwood Mac. The guy who wrote it was called Peter Green. Best white blues guitarist ever. He had a Gibson exactly like yours. In the end he let his nails grow so long he couldn’t play any more.
– What did he do that for? Tom asked.
– He thought it might cure him of having to play the blues.
– Crazy.
Viken handed the guitar back.
– Your turn.
Tom hung the guitar round his neck, turned up the amp a few notches. Viken didn’t recognise the riff, but it was powerful; the lad could play, there was no doubt about it. Suddenly a hoarse, reedy sound emerged from his throat. Viken leaned in the doorway, surprised. The lad sat there with eyes closed, suddenly deep inside his own, vulnerable world, with no thought of the stranger standing there watching him.
When he was finished, Viken exclaimed: – That’s powerful stuff, Tom.
The boy could hear that he meant it and smiled quickly, then turned and put the guitar on its stand next to the bed.
– Do you play in a band? he asked, clearly to deflect his embarrassment.
– Long time ago now, said Viken.
– What was it called?
Viken grinned. – We called ourselves the Graveyard Dancers. Actually came quite close to getting a recording contract.
– Cool name, Tom nodded.
Viken took his chance.
– Why isn’t your father home?
Tom shrugged his shoulders. – He rang Ma yesterday. It has something to do with his brother.
– Your father’s brother?
– Yep, twin brother.
Viken was careful not to show too much interest.
– So your father has a twin brother. What’s his name?
– Brede.
– Are they completely identical?
– Dunno. Never met him.
At that moment Vibeke Glenne appeared.
– Are you in here?
Viken winked at Tom.
– Couldn’t pass up the chance to try that guitar. I’ve never played on anything as good. Get yourself a Peter Green album, hear what he gets out of a Gibson.
– Album? Tom echoed in surprise.
– Er, I’m sure you can download the tracks, the chief inspector hurriedly corrected himself.
– Your son tells me that Axel has a twin brother.
Vibeke Glenne refilled their coffee cups.
– There hasn’t been any contact for years. Brede is an alcoholic, or a junkie, or I don’t know what. Been in and out of institutions all his life.
– The lad says he’s never met him.
She stared off into space.
– Neither have I actually.
Viken looked at her in astonishment.
– In twenty-three years?
– They lost touch when they were in their teens. Brede wouldn’t see Axel any more. Jealousy and all the rest of it. Axel has managed to make something out of his life. Brede didn’t care about anything.
Viken sat thinking about this as Norbakk wrote something in his notebook.
– So you don’t actually know if they resemble each other?
– They’re identical. I’ve seen photos of them when they were children. It’s impossible to tell the difference between them.
– Can you show me some of those photographs?
– Childhood photographs? Now listen here, I’ve still not even been told why you…
She broke off, got up and went into the next room. Viken heard her opening drawers. She returned with three or four photo albums in her arms.
– Here. I’m sure you’ll understand if I say I’m not in the mood to sit here reminiscing with you.
– That’s perfectly all right.
The photographs were from the early days of colour film. The colours were dull and had acquired a yellowish patina. Days by the seaside, celebrations of National Day in May. A woman with blond hair gathered in a braid, and a much older man whom Viken seemed to recognise.
– Axel’s parents, I presume.