Mona Daa did not believe her ears. Not the story nor the man who told it to her. But she did believe her eyes. Which was why she was now reconsidering her opinion about Terry Våge’s story. When he had called she had almost inadvertently answered the phone to spare herself yet another of Isabel May’s pretentious monologues in the TV series
But she had forgotten about all that now.
She stared at the pictures Våge had sent to back up his story and his suggestion. He had used a flash, so even though it had been dark and the heads were moving in the wind, the photos were pin-sharp.
‘I sent the video as well, so you can see I was the one there,’ Våge said.
She opened the video and was no longer in any doubt. Even Terry Våge wasn’t crazy enough to stage such an outrageous lie.
‘You need to call the police,’ she said.
‘I have done,’ Våge said. ‘They’re on their way, and they’ll find the reflective markings, I doubt he’s had time to remove them. For all I know he’s left the heads hanging there too. Whatever they do find, they’ll make public, which means you and the paper don’t have much time to decide if you want this.’
‘And the price?’
‘I’ll take that up with your editor. Like I said, you can only use the one photo I’ve tagged that’s a little out of focus, and the reference to my blog has to be in the opening sentence after the lead-in. It also has to clearly state that there are more pictures and a video on the blog. Does that sound all right? Oh yeah, one more thing. The byline is yours and yours alone, Mona. I’m an outsider here.’
She looked at the pictures again and shuddered. Not because of what she saw but because of the way he had articulated her first name. Half of her felt like yelling no and hanging up. But that was the half which wasn’t at work. She couldn’t
‘All right.’
‘Good. Ask the editor to ring me within the next five minutes, OK?’
Mona ended the call and brought up Julia’s name. While waiting for Julia to answer the phone she felt her heart beating. And heard eight words echoing in her head.
Alexandra moved the magnifying glass millimetre by millimetre over Helene Røed’s entire head. She had been at it since arriving this morning, and soon it would be lunchtime.
‘Can you come here for a sec, Alex?’
Alexandra took a break in the hunt for clues and walked to the far end of the bench where Helge was busy with Bertine Bertilsen’s head. She didn’t allow anyone other than him to shorten her name to an androgynous one, perhaps because coming from his mouth it sounded so natural, almost affectionate, like she was his sister.
‘What is it?’
‘This,’ Helge said, pushing down the decomposing lower lip on Bertine’s head and holding the magnifying glass up in front of the teeth in the lower jaw. ‘There. It looks like skin.’
Alexandra leaned closer. It was barely visible to the naked eye but under the magnifying glass there was no doubt. A white, dried-up flake protruding between two teeth.
‘Jesus, Helge,’ she said. ‘It
It was a minute to twelve. Katrine looked out over the audience in the Parole Hall and concluded that, like the last time, the press had turned out in strength. She saw Terry Våge seated next to Mona Daa. Not so strange considering the story he had served up on a plate to
Kedzierski outlined what had happened, that the police, acting on information from journalist Terry Våge, had arrived at Kolsåstoppen, where the heads of Bertine Bertilsen and Helene Røed had been found. That Våge had given a statement and how at present the police had no plans to bring any charges against the journalist for his conduct in the case. That they could of course not rule out the possibility of two or more people cooperating to carry out the murders, but as things stood, Markus Røed would be released.
Afterwards — like an echo of the previous night — a storm of questions followed.
Bodil Melling was seated on the podium to handle questions of a more general character. And — she had informed Katrine — to answer any questions about Harry Hole.
