‘I also had a small shred of skin preserved. Skin from Kevin Selmer’s forearm. He wasn’t the only person I had a tissue sample of; they were something I collected and sometimes had use for in my project to cultivate the perfect parasite. With a toothpick, I lodged a flake of skin between two of the teeth in Bertine’s skull. And then you ensured the evidence landed in the hands of the police. But I expected that sooner or later it would be discovered that the bodies had a variant of the gondii parasite. And if someone understood the connection, they would begin to hunt for the primary host. Could I make Kevin appear to be both the killer and the primary host? Apologies if I sound a little smug, but the solution was as ingenious as it was simple. I prepared a mixture of green cocaine and gondii, a dose guaranteed to be lethal, put it into Bertine’s snuff bullet and went down to Kevin at Jernbanetorget to make the trade I had agreed to at the party. He was thrilled, especially when I gave him the snuff bullet into the bargain. I can only imagine the pains he must have had in his stomach before he died, I don’t doubt I would have butted my head against a wall to render myself unconscious as well.’
Prim drained the rest of his beer glass.
‘That was a long monologue, so enough about me, Terry. How are you doing?’ Prim leaned across the table. ‘Like, really. Are you feeling... paralysed? Because it happens very quickly when you drink a beer containing such a strong concentration of gondii. Even stronger than Kevin got. After a few minutes you’re simply unable to lift a finger. Not make a sound either. But I can see you’re still breathing. Heart and respiratory failure are actually the last things to occur. Well, the brain ceases to function too, of course. So I know you can hear this. I’m going to take your house keys and collect your PC. Throw it and your phone in the fjord.’
Prim looked outside. The daylight was beginning to dwindle.
‘Look, there’s a light on in my stepfather’s apartment. He’ll be on his own now. Do you think he’d fancy a visitor?’
The time was a little past half six when Markus Røed heard a ring at the door.
‘You expecting anyone?’ asked the older of the two bodyguards.
Røed shook his head. The bodyguard walked from the living room towards the hallway and the intercom.
Once he had left the room, Røed made use of the opportunity.
‘And what do you want to do after you finish working as a bodyguard?’
The young man looked at him. He had long eyelashes and soft brown eyes. The unnecessarily large muscles were compensated by the naive, childish mien. If you added some goodwill and imagination, he could pass for five or six years younger than he was.
‘Dunno,’ he said, letting his gaze sweep around the living room. Probably something they were taught on the courses: no unnecessary conversation with the client and constantly check the surroundings, even when sitting behind locked doors in the cosy cocoon of a home.
‘You could come and work for me, you know?’
The young man eyed Røed briefly, and Røed saw something resembling contempt, disgust. Then, without responding, the young man began to scan the room again. Røed cursed to himself. Fucking pup, didn’t he understand what he was being offered?
‘It’s a guy who says he knows you,’ the guard called from the hallway.
‘Krohn?’ Røed called back.
‘No.’
Røed frowned. He couldn’t think of anyone who would just call at his place unannounced.
He went out to the hall, where the bodyguard had assumed a wide stance and was pointing at the video screen. There was a young man staring up at the camera above the entrance door down on the street. Røed shook his head.
‘I’ll ask him to leave,’ the bodyguard said.
Røed peered at the screen. Hadn’t he seen the guy before, just a while back? And hadn’t he recognised something then as well, from long ago, but dismissed it as just another face that brought back memories? But now when he was standing out there, might it...
‘Wait,’ Røed said and held out his hand.
The bodyguard gave him the handset.
‘Go back inside,’ Røed said.
The bodyguard hesitated for a moment before doing as he was instructed.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ Røed said into the intercom. It sounded more negative than he’d intended.
‘Hi, Dad. It’s your stepson. And I just wanted to talk to you.’
Røed gasped for breath. There was no doubt. The boy from so many dreams, the fear from so many nightmares about being found out. No, it wasn’t the boy, but it was him. After all these years. Talk? That didn’t bode well.
‘I’m a bit busy,’ Røed said. ‘You should have called ahead.’
