Viken let him ramble on and didn’t waste time with interruptions that would only have encouraged him. When Frøen did finally stop, he even permitted himself a question: – Any further objections? He was careful to sound encouraging rather than sarcastic, and cast a glance in Finckenhagen’s direction, though she wasn’t the one he had asked.
– I’m certainly not going to lecture you about the due processes of law, he said to Frøen, once the prosecutor had declined the invitation to continue. And thinking that a touch of flattery never did any harm, he added: – It’s good to have you on the team, Jarle. A relief to have people around who really know their stuff. Who can separate the wheat from the chaff. If we put enough effort into it and find Glenne in the course of the evening, that gives us effectively twenty-four hours before we need to make a formal application for remand. Plenty of time to go over every inch of his office, both the cars, the villa with garage and outhouses, the summer place down in Larkollen, and anywhere else you like. As for technical evidence, you can bet your boots we’ll have some by this time tomorrow. As you know, we have DNA traces from the victims. The most interesting were those found under Anita Elvestrand’s fingernails. I’ve just been talking to the pathologists. They had a preliminary DNA analysis of this material. Dr Plåterud said it was very interesting.
– In what way? Frøen wanted to know.
– Some peculiarity or other they need to take a closer look at… Viken prised a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and put his glasses on. – She called it translocation. People with such genes need not necessarily be visibly different, but it is not unlikely that someone in the immediate family might in some way deviate from the norm. It would be absolutely spiffing to get a little peek at this Dr Glenne’s molecules.
From the corner of his eye he could see Finckenhagen smiling.
– And I’ll use stronger language if we haven’t got something out of this chap before we get that far. I’ll use the time well, you can rely on it. We’ll drive him as hard as we can the whole night. You asked about motive. Well, as you know, I am of the considered opinion that the whole concept of motive is too narrow to encompass murders of this kind.
He left a short pause before continuing.
– This won’t be so much about motive as about a psyche so twisted that we have difficulty in comprehending it.
– Do you have any reason to believe that Glenne is so deranged? I mean, to all intents and purposes the chap seems completely functional.
Viken leaned across the table and gave a detailed account of the story of the twin brother whom no one had ever seen. Frøen did not look impressed.
– Someone born in the middle of Oslo in the sixties must be registered.
Viken couldn’t agree more.
– I’ve got Jebsen trying to trace him. But if she’d found him in births, marriages and deaths then she would have let us know long ago. Anyway, whether he exists or not, this whole business with the twin is so odd that the shrinks are going to be on it like vultures.
– What about the claw marks on the victims? Do you have anything connecting Glenne to that? I mean, apart from the fact that the man obviously likes riding his bike out in the woods?
This latter was said with what Viken would call a sly look, but he didn’t let it put him off his stride.
– I’ve had Plåterud look at these marks again, he answered, and pointed to a document on the table in front of him. – The slashes on the victims aren’t particularly deep; they could well have been made using claws from a severed bear’s paw. Even the rip on the cheek, if the claws had been sharpened. I have a theory as to why the killer does this. Apart from that, you’re probably also aware of the fact that Glenne doesn’t have a watertight alibi for any of the relevant periods of time.
Still in the same acid tone Frøen said: – I see you suggest that he may even have risen in the middle of the night, driven to a premises in Lillestrøm, stolen a stuffed bear and then returned to his bed before his wife woke up.
– That may be what happened, Viken confirmed stoically. – He might also have got hold of a bear’s paw in some other way. And I’ll bet my bottom dollar that several pieces of this puzzle fall into place when we interview him. If we don’t get started now, I’m afraid these pieces may elude us for good.
Frøen shrugged his shoulders.
– We can still bring him in on a voluntary basis and get a DNA sample, he protested, addressing Finckenhagen.
– In principle, she observed.
Viken nodded, as though again giving the idea serious consideration.
– Always supposing that we get hold of the bloke, and he says don’t mind if I do when we politely ask him to accompany us. On the other hand, he’s been playing hide-and-seek with us for two and half days now. Even so, Jarle, this is not the thing we’ve really got to worry about. He disliked addressing the prosecutor by his first name, but the situation required it.
– No?
Frøen was clearly feeling ill at ease, despite his uncharacteristically tough tone. A large oval patch of sweat had formed between his prominent nipples. His whole fat, doughy body would slump to the floor if the chair wasn’t there to keep it up, thought Viken as he played the card he had been saving till last, even though everyone knew he held it.
– How would you like to wake up early tomorrow morning and read the following story in VG? He held an imaginary newspaper up in front of him and pointed to the screaming headline: – Wild beast claims its fourth victim. Police helpless.
Frøen’s nostrils flared, and he started clicking the point of his Biro in and out.
– Can we pick him up tonight? Suddenly his major worry seemed to be that the arrest wouldn’t happen quickly enough.
Viken raised his hand, and for a moment it looked as though he was about to swear an oath.
– Just give us the sign, Jarle, he said warmly, – and we’ll have Dr Glenne next time he turns on his mobile phone.
53
THE WIND SWEPT down from Slemdalsveien as he crossed the road, the little drops of rain stinging against his forehead and cheeks. He was glad it was rainy and blustery. He wished he could open his head and let the wind stream through it. He was on his way to talk to the police. And home after that. It would be late when he got there. The children would be asleep. Probably Bie too, unless she was too restless. He imagined himself sneaking into the bedroom, sitting down on the side of the bed. Waking her by placing a still-wet hand on her cheek.
He stopped on the steps up to Majorstuehuset, turned on his mobile and scrolled down to Miriam’s name. It was the fourth time in half an hour he’d called her. Even so he waited for the answering machine to come on. He had no message for her.
He heard a train come jangling into the station as he bought his ticket from the machine. He had no small change, used his credit card. Didn’t hurry, ambled down on to the platform as the last carriage disappeared into the tunnel. If he never went home again, what would he miss? Sitting on the terrace with a glass of cognac. Looking up into the bright, fathomless sky above the fjord. Or sitting with Marlen at the kitchen table. She’s telling a story she’s made up, a journey somewhere, out beyond the Milky Way. She’s drawn the fabulous creatures she encountered there… Standing outside Tom’s room, hearing him play on his electric guitar. All he said when he got it was Thanks, sullen as ever, but Axel could see how thrilled he was, and understood that this guitar would bring them closer together.