Axel stumbled to the toilet. Played the message over again. There was something familiar about the man’s voice. He couldn’t place it. It was drowned out by Miriam’s scream. She was calling for him. She was frightened.
He ran to the door.
– Hey there! yelled the bartender and raced after him. – You’re a helluva cheeky bastard.
Axel raised both hands submissively.
– Sorry, got a message, I have to leave. Of course I’ll pay.
The bartender glowered at him. Not even a big tip sweetened his mood.
Outside the café he ran into a woman in a black coat.
– The very person I’m looking for, she said as he hurried on.
He turned round.
– Kaja Fredvold, VG, the woman informed him. – We’ve met before. I’d like to interview you.
A swarm of thoughts buzzed through Axel’s head. Miriam. She had been afraid when he called her the previous afternoon. Afraid when he visited her that last time. He hadn’t understood what it was. Hadn’t wanted to understand.
– I don’t have time for people like you, he said as calmly as he could.
The journalist grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket. When she smiled, her jaw jutted forward, making her underbite even more prominent.
– We’re going to run a story on you anyway, Glenne. You’ll find it pays to play along.
A man emerged from a car parked half up on the pavement. He was fat and grunted like a sumo wrestler. He was holding a camera.
– This is Villy, he works with me. We’ll drive you home and we can talk on the way.
Axel turned and was about to walk on. The journalist still had hold of him.
– Or we can just do it in here in the café, she suggested. – Looks like you’ve been enjoying yourself there.
Axel pulled himself free and pushed her. She staggered back a few paces and somehow or other managed to trip over a kerbstone. As Axel rounded the corner, he heard her shouting something to the photographer.
He asked the taxi driver to stop at the bus bay in Helgesens gate and continued on foot. The gate was half open; he slipped through and let it swing shut behind him.
On the landing outside her doorway, there was no sign of the mangled corpse that had been lying there when he’d left the flat two days earlier. A bouquet of flowers hung from the door handle. He’d sent them himself, before his arrest. He rang the bell, tried the handle at the same time. The door wasn’t locked.
Her smell in the hallway. Her perfume. Faint smell of damp from the bathroom. All the lights in the living room were on. The bed was made. He lifted the blanket; a T-shirt on the pillow. Surgical textbook on the shelf above. And the photo of the man in naval uniform. The coffee machine in the kitchen was on, the glass jug half full. On the table, a dish with a packet of lasagne, ready for heating, and a piece of crispbread with a bite taken out. Next to it was a white A5 envelope. He picked it up. There were photos inside. Four of them. The first showed the terrified face of Hilde Paulsen, the physiotherapist. She was lying on the floor, up against a stone wall. On the back of the photo the number 1 had been written with a black marker pen. The second picture showed the face of a dead person, with bloody scratches running from the jaw down over the neck. He recognised Cecilie Davidsen. She lay propped up against what had to be the same stone wall. On the reverse the number 2, again written with a black marker pen. The third photograph: the head of a woman with fair hair. He was in no doubt that this must be Anita Elvestrand. The eyes stared at him – he could tell that she was still alive – but the mouth had been ripped open at one side and the tongue protruded from the gash. On the back, the number 3.
The fourth picture was of Miriam. She was smiling and looked happy. Bright sunlight caused her to peer into the camera, and her hair was shorter than it was now. The photo was taken standing against a creosoted wall. Half of it had been cut off. Someone was standing next to her; a bit of the hand holding her shoulder was still visible. On the back, in the same felt-tip writing: And the fourth will be…
He dropped the pictures on to the table and stumbled out into the corridor and down the twisted staircase without closing the door behind him.
58
AXEL WAS RUNNING through Sofienberg Park. Suddenly he stopped and pulled out his phone, punched in the police station number. He couldn’t face the thought of talking to Viken so instead asked for the young sergeant, whose name, he now recalled, was Norbakk.
– I’ll put you through to the operational leader, the woman at the other end told him.
– I want to talk to Sergeant Norbakk, Glenne insisted. – Nobody else. Call him and tell him that Axel Glenne is trying to get in touch with him.
Within half a minute his call was returned.
– Glenne? Where are you calling from?
Axel recognised Norbakk’s voice.
– It’s about Miriam Gaizauskaite. You know who that is? He carried on walking through the park.
– What about her?
– I think she’s been abducted. She left a message on my voicemail.
– Message?
– She was screaming, calling for help. Someone attacked her. It must have been last night. In her flat there’s an envelope with photographs of the dead women. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?
– I understand. We’ll send a car up there. Can you come to the station and make a statement?
– I’ve got nothing else to say.
He terminated the call, switched off his mobile.
Rita stood in the doorway and stared at him, her eyes wide.
– What do you look like? Has someone beaten you up?
He tried to smile through his swollen lip.
– You’d make a pretty convincing tramp.
– The envelope, he said.
Rita pulled her dressing gown tight around her.
– What is it, Axel? Aren’t you well?
He was neither well nor ill. Fear had made him alert, cleared his head. He explained the situation in a few words.
– That is the sickest thing I’ve ever heard, Rita declared. – You know what, now, for the first time, I really do feel afraid.
– Where is that envelope Miriam rang you about?
– It’s still in the drawer in Ola’s office.
– Can I borrow your car?
– Yes, but have something to eat first. You stink of alcohol. It can’t be all that urgent now you’ve told the police.
He allowed himself to be persuaded. While he waited, he sat at her computer and logged on. He was the lead story in all the online editions. Police release accused,he read in Aftenposten; 43-year-old doctor is still suspect. VG ran with a different story: Furious suspect attacks journalist. He had to read it through twice before he realised what it was about. Beneath the headline, a photograph of himself. An old one that Bie had taken at Liseberg. He was standing by a merry-go-round, laughing. The light in the room seemed to change as he looked at it, becoming brownish and dreamlike, the shadows deepening. He was losing everything. He thought of Bie. The children. Mostly of Daniel. This is your father, Daniel. Miriam’s voice came to him: If I close my eyes in the dark, Axel, I see your face. He stood up, went out to the bathroom. Pulled off his jacket and vest and stuck his head under the shower. You’ve got to wake up now, he growled. Axel Glenne, you’ve got to wake up.