Killing Moon полностью

‘It’s Terry Våge,’ he said, managing to control the quaver in his voice. ‘We have spoken previously. But before you hang up, you should know I haven’t contacted the police. Not yet. And I won’t either, not if you talk to me.’

There was silence on the line. What did that mean? Was the person on the other end trying to decide whether it was a crazy person or a pal playing a prank? Then, quietly and slowly, a different voice sounded.

‘How did you find out, Våge?’

It was him. It was that deep, rasping voice he had used when he had called Våge from the hidden number, probably on an unregistered phone.

Våge shuddered, without knowing how much it was down to delight and how much it was down to pure dread. He swallowed.

‘I saw you driving past Kolsås Shopping Centre two nights ago. You went by twenty-six minutes after I’d left the place where you’d hung up the heads. I have all the timestamps on the photos I took.’

There was a long pause.

‘What do you want, Våge?’

Terry Våge took a deep breath. ‘I want your story. The whole story, not just about these killings. A true picture of the person behind them. So many people have been affected by what’s happened, not only those who knew the victims. And they need to understand, the entire country needs to understand. I hope you realise I have no interest in portraying you as a monster.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because monsters don’t exist.’

‘Don’t they?’

Våge swallowed again. ‘You have of course my word that you will remain anonymous.’

A brief snort of laughter. ‘Why would I take your word for it?’

‘Because,’ Våge said, stopped to get his voice under control. ‘Because I’m an outcast in journalism. Because I’m stuck on a desert island and you’re my only salvation. Because I have nothing to lose.’

Another pause.

‘And if I don’t grant you an interview?’

‘Then my next call is to the police.’

Våge waited.

‘All right. Let’s meet at Weiss behind the Munch Museum.’

‘I know where it is.’

‘Six o’clock sharp.’

‘Today?’ Våge checked the time. ‘That’s in three-quarters of an hour.’

‘If you come too early or too late, I’m leaving.’

‘Fine, fine. See you at six.’

Våge put the phone down. Took three shaky breaths. Then laughter took hold, and he lay his head on the keyboard as he slammed his palm on the desk. Fuck you! Fuck the lot of you!

Harry and Øystein were sitting on either side of the bed when the door opened gently and Truls stole into the room.

‘How’s he doing?’ Truls whispered, found a seat and looked at Ståle Aune lying there pale with eyes shut.

‘You can ask me,’ Aune said sharply, opening his eyes. ‘I’m fair to middling. I asked Harry to come but don’t the two of you have something better to do on a Friday night?’

Truls and Øystein looked at one another.

‘Nope,’ Øystein said.

Aune shook his head. ‘Where were you, Eikeland?’

‘Yeah,’ Øystein said. ‘So, I had a fare from Oslo to Trondheim, five hundred kilometres, and this guy was playing a cassette with a panpipe version of “Careless Whisper”, and in the middle of the Dovrefjell mountain range I snapped, ejected the tape, rolled down the window...’

Harry’s phone rang. He presumed it was Alexandra wondering if he was going to make it over for the lunar eclipse at 10.35 p.m., but he saw it was Sung-min. He hurriedly stepped out into the corridor.

‘Yeah, Sung-min?’

‘No. Say talk to me.’

‘Talk to me.’

‘I will. Because it doesn’t add up.’

‘What doesn’t add up?’

‘Kevin Selmer. He had an alibi.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was at the Custody Unit and it was right in front of me. Selmer’s ticket to Romeo and Juliet. If my brain was a little more efficient I’d have realised it there and then. That is to say, my brain tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen. Not until Mona Daa spelled it out for me on the phone.’

Sung-min paused.

‘On the date Susanne Andersen was reported missing, Kevin Selmer was at Romeo and Juliet at the National Theatre. I’ve traced the ticket, it was one of several sponsor tickets that were sent to Markus Røed, the same type as Helene used.’

‘Yeah. She told me she handed out a few of them at the party. Probably where Selmer got his. And I assumed that was where he found out when Helene would be going to the theatre too — her ticket was stuck to the fridge door.’

‘But it wasn’t him. Not if it was the same man who killed Susanne Andersen. Because the ticket office at the theatre contacted the people next to Selmer that night and they confirmed the man in the seat beside them fitted his description, they remembered because he sat there in his parka. And he didn’t disappear at the interval.’

Harry was surprised. Mostly by the fact he wasn’t more surprised.

‘We’re back where we started,’ Harry said. ‘It’s the other guy, the Greenhorn.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The killer, it’s the amateur with the green coke. It’s him after all. Fuck, fuck!’

‘You sound... eh, sure.’

‘I am sure, but if I were you, I wouldn’t trust someone who’s been wrong as many times as me. I need to call Katrine. And Krohn.’

They hung up.