‘Mine,’ said Bjørn.
She lifted another. ‘John Fante?’
‘Harry’s.’
‘OK, so let’s detail the jobs,’ Beate said, putting down the cup. ‘Katrine?’
‘I’ll keep watch online. Still no sign of life from either Valentin Gjertsen or Judas Johansen. You need to be smart to hide from the electronic eye for so long, and that reinforces the theory that it wasn’t Judas Johansen who escaped. Judas is not exactly top priority for the police, and it seems unlikely he would restrict his freedom by going into total blackout just to escape a couple of months in prison. Valentin has more to lose of course. Anyway, if either of them is alive and so much as moves a muscle in the electronic world, I’m on them.’
‘Good. Bjørn?’
‘I’ll go through the files of various cases Valentin and Judas have been involved in and see if I can find any links to Tryvann or Maridalen. Names that come up again and again or forensic evidence we’ve missed. I’m making a list of people who know them and may be able to help us find them. The ones I’ve spoken to so far are willing to open up about Judas Johansen. Valentin Gjertsen, on the other hand. .’
‘They’re frightened?’
Bjørn nodded.
‘Ståle?’
‘I’ll examine the Valentin and Judas cases as well, but to make a profile of each of them. I’ll write an assessment of them as potential serial killers.’
The room went silent at once. It was the first time anyone had spoken the words.
‘In this case, serial killer is no more than a technical, mechanical term, not a diagnosis,’ Ståle Aune hastened to add. ‘It describes an individual who has killed more than one person and may conceivably kill again. All right?’
‘All right,’ Beate said. ‘As for me, I’ll go through all the visual material we have from CCTV cameras around the crime scenes. Petrol stations, all-night shops, photo booths. I’ve already seen quite a few shots of the police murders, but not everything. And there are the original murders as well.’
‘Enough to do then,’ Katrine said.
‘Enough to do,’ Beate repeated.
The four of them stood looking at one another. Beate raised the John Fante cup and put it back behind the coffee machine.
13
‘All right?’ Ulla said, leaning back against the kitchen worktop.
‘Oh, yes,’ Truls said, shifting uneasily on the chair and lifting the coffee cup from the narrow worktop. He took a swig. Looked at her with the eyes she knew so well. Frightened and hungry. Embarrassed and searching. Rejecting and imploring. No and yes.
She had immediately regretted allowing him to visit her. But she hadn’t been prepared when he had suddenly rung and asked how things were going with the house, was there anything that needed fixing? As he was suspended now, the days were long, and he had nothing to do. No, there was nothing that needed fixing, she had lied. Oh, right. What about a cup of coffee then? A little chat about old times? Ulla had said she didn’t know if. . but Truls acted as if he hadn’t heard, said he was passing by, a coffee would be nice. And she had answered, OK, why not, drop in, Truls.
‘I’m still alone, as you know,’ he said. ‘Nothing new there.’
‘You’ll find someone. Of course you will.’ She made a show of looking at the clock, had considered saying the children had to be picked up. But even a bachelor like Truls would realise it was too early.
‘Maybe,’ he said. Looking into his cup. And instead of putting it down he took another swig. Like taking courage, he thought with dread.
‘As you probably know, I’ve always liked you, Ulla.’
Ulla clutched the worktop.
‘So you know if you have a problem and you need. . er, someone to talk to, you can always count on me.’
Ulla blinked. Had she heard him correctly? Talk?
‘Thank you, Truls,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got Mikael, haven’t I?’
He put his cup down slowly. ‘Yes, of course. You’ve got Mikael.’
‘By the way, I have to start cooking dinner for him and the children.’
‘Yes, of course you have to. You’re in the kitchen cooking for him while he. .’ He stopped.
‘He what, Truls?’
‘Has dinner elsewhere.’
‘Now I don’t understand what you mean, Truls.’
‘I think you do. Listen, I’m only here to help you. I have your best interests at heart, Ulla. And the children’s, of course. The children are important.’
‘I’m going to make them something nice. And these family meals take time, Truls, so. .’
‘Ulla, there’s one thing I want to say.’
‘No, Truls. No, don’t say it, please.’
‘You’re good to Mikael. Do you know how many other women he-?’
‘No, Truls!’
‘But-’
‘I want you to go now, Truls. And I don’t want to see you here again for a while.’
Ulla stood by the worktop watching Truls go out of the gate to the car parked beside the gravel drive winding between the newly built houses in Høyenhall. Mikael had said he would pull a few strings, make a few calls to the right people on the council, get the tarmac laid, but so far nothing had happened. She heard the brief chirp as Truls pressed the key and the car alarm switched itself off. Watched him get into the car. Watched him sit motionless, staring into the distance. Then his body seemed to twitch and he started pummelling the steering wheel so hard she saw it give. Even from a distance it was so violent she shuddered. Mikael had told her about his anger, but she had never witnessed it. If Truls hadn’t become a policeman, according to Mikael he would have been a criminal. He said the same about himself when he was acting tough. She didn’t believe him. Mikael was too straight, too. . adaptable. But Truls. . Truls was made of something else, something darker.
Truls Berntsen. Simple, naive, loyal Truls. She’d had a suspicion, no doubt about that, but she couldn’t believe Truls could be so sly. So. . imaginative.
The Grand Hotel.
They had been the most painful seconds of her life. Not that she hadn’t considered the idea that he could have been unfaithful. Especially after he had stopped having sex with her. But there could be several explanations for that, the stress of the police murders. . but Isabelle Skøyen? Sober, in a hotel in the middle of the day? And it had also struck her that the whole scenario had been a set-up. The fact that someone could know the two of them would be there suggested it was a regular occurrence. She wanted to throw up whenever she thought about it.
Mikael’s suddenly pale face in front of her. The frightened, guilty eyes, like a boy caught apple scrumping. How did he manage it? How did he, the faithless swine, how did he make it seem as if it was a minor issue requiring his protective hand? The man who had trodden all over everything they had that was good, the father of three children. Why did he look as if he was the one carrying the cross?
‘I’ll be home early,’ he had whispered. ‘We can deal with it then. Before the children. . I have to be in the council chairman’s office in four minutes.’ Had he had a tear in the corner of his eye? Had the bastard had the temerity to shed a tear?
After he had gone she had pulled herself together surprisingly quickly. Perhaps that is what people do when there is no alternative, when a nervous breakdown is not an option. With numb composure she rang the number the man claiming to be Runar had used. No answer. She had waited for another five minutes, then she had left. When she got home she checked out the number with one of the women she knew at Kripos. And she told Ulla it was a pay-as-you-go mobile. The question was: who would go to such lengths to send her to the Grand so that she could witness it with her own eyes? A journalist from the celebrity gossip press? A more or less well-meaning woman friend? Someone on Isabelle’s side, a vengeful rival of Mikael’s? Or someone who didn’t want to separate him and Isabelle but him and her, Ulla? Someone who hated Mikael or her? Or someone who loved her? Who thought it would give him a chance if he could drive a wedge between her and Mikael. She knew only one person who loved her more than was good for anyone.