Killing Moon полностью

What was interesting was that Våge could now be used to solve the problem that had arisen. The problem of Markus Røed sitting safely in prison and beyond his reach indefinitely. This was time he didn’t have, because biology runs its course, the natural cycle has its rhythm. But it was a major decision to take, a big deviation from the original plan, and past improvisation had already proved there was a price to pay. So he would have to think carefully. He went through the details yet again.

He looked down at the burner phone and at the note with Terry Våge’s number, which he had found in directory enquiries. Felt the nervousness a chess player running out of time must feel when he decides on a move, in the knowledge it will either win or lose him the game, but has yet to move the piece. Prim thought through the scenarios one more time, what could go wrong. And what must not go wrong. Reminded himself that he could retreat at any time without any trails leading back to him. If he did everything right.

Then he tapped in the number. He had a feeling of free fall, a wonderful shiver of excitement.

It was answered on the third ring.

‘Terry.’

Prim tried to hear if there was anything in Våge’s voice to reveal the desperation he must be feeling. A man at rock bottom. A man nobody wanted. A man without alternatives. A man who had managed to make a comeback once before and was willing to do whatever it took to do so again, to win back his throne. To show them. Prim took a breath and put his voice in a deeper register.

‘Susanne Andersen liked being slapped in the face when she had sex, I’d imagine you can get her ex-boyfriends to confirm that. Bertine Bertilsen smelled of sweat, like a man. Helene Røed had a scar on her shoulder.’

Prim could hear Våge breathing in the pause that followed.

‘Who is this?’

‘This is the only person at large who could have this combined knowledge.’

Another pause.

‘What do you want?’

‘To save an innocent person.’

‘Who’s innocent?’

‘Markus Røed, of course.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I’m the one who killed the girls.’

Terry Våge knew he should have tapped Reject when unknown caller came up on the display, but as usual he couldn’t help himself, it was that bloody curiosity of his. The belief that suddenly something good might occur, that one day the woman of his dreams might just ring him up, for instance. Why didn’t he learn? The calls today had been from journalists looking for a comment on Dagbladet giving him the sack, and from a couple of die-hard fans letting him know how unfair they thought it was, among them a girl who sounded fit on the phone, but he had found her Facebook page and discovered she was much older than she sounded and pig ugly. And now this call, yet another nutter. Why couldn’t normal people ring? Friends, for instance? Was it due to him no longer having any perhaps? His mother and sister got in touch, but his brother and father didn’t. That’s to say, his father had called once — he probably thought the success at Dagbladet compensated somewhat for the scandal that had brought shame to the family name. In the past year a couple of girls had contacted Terry. They always popped up when he attracted attention; it had been the same when he was a music journalist. Obviously the band members got more pussy, but he got more than the guys on the mixing desk. The best strategy was sticking close to the band — a couple of positive reviews were always rewarded with a backstage pass — and hope for trickle-down benefits. The next best was the opposite: slate the band and reap the cred. As a crime journalist he no longer had the gigs as a hunting ground, but he compensated with the gonzo style he had cultivated as a music journalist; he was in the story, he was the war correspondent of the streets. And with a byline and a photo there was always the occasional woman who’d call. It was for that very reason he had kept his number listed — not for people to call him up at all hours of the day with all manner of idiotic tips and stories.

Taking this anonymous call was one thing, not hanging up was something else entirely. Why hadn’t he? Perhaps it wasn’t what the man said, about him being the one who had killed the girls. It was the way he had said it. Without fanfare, just stated it calmly.

Terry Våge cleared his throat. ‘If you really killed those girls, shouldn’t you be happy the police suspect someone else?’

‘True, I’ve no desire to be caught, but it gives me no pleasure that an innocent man should atone for my sins.’

‘Sins?’

‘Granted, choice of word’s a tad biblical. The reason I’m calling is that I think we can help one another, Våge.’

‘Can we?’

‘I want the police to realise they have the wrong man so that Røed is released immediately. You want to reclaim your place at the top after your attempts to fake your way there.’

‘What would you know about that?’

‘You wanting to get back to the top is just guesswork on my part, but as for your last article, I know it’s made up.’