Medusa (31 page)

– How would you like to wake up early tomorrow morning and read the following story in
VG
? He held an imaginary newspaper up in front of him and pointed to the screaming headline: –
Wild beast claims its fourth victim. Police helpless.

Frøen’s nostrils flared, and he started clicking the point of his Biro in and out.

– Can we pick him up tonight? Suddenly his major worry seemed to be that the arrest wouldn’t happen quickly enough.

Viken raised his hand, and for a moment it looked as though he was about to swear an oath.

– Just give us the sign, Jarle, he said warmly, – and we’ll have Dr Glenne next time he turns on his mobile phone.

T
HE WIND SWEPT
down from Slemdalsveien as he crossed the road, the little drops of rain stinging against his forehead and cheeks. He was glad it was rainy and blustery. He wished he could open his head and let the wind stream through it. He was on his way to talk to the police. And home after that. It would be late when he got there. The children would be asleep. Probably Bie too, unless she was too restless. He imagined himself sneaking into the bedroom, sitting down on the side of the bed. Waking her by placing a still-wet hand on her cheek.

He stopped on the steps up to Majorstuehuset, turned on his mobile and scrolled down to Miriam’s name. It was the fourth time in half an hour he’d called her. Even so he waited for the answering machine to come on. He had no message for her.

He heard a train come jangling into the station as he bought his ticket from the machine. He had no small change, used his credit card. Didn’t hurry, ambled down on to the platform as the last carriage disappeared into the tunnel. If he never went home again, what would he miss? Sitting on the terrace with a glass of cognac. Looking up into the bright, fathomless sky above the fjord. Or sitting with Marlen at the kitchen table. She’s telling a story she’s made up, a journey somewhere, out beyond the Milky Way. She’s drawn the fabulous creatures she encountered there … Standing outside Tom’s room, hearing him play on his electric guitar. All he said when he got it was
Thanks
, sullen as ever, but Axel could see how thrilled he was, and understood that this guitar would bring them closer together.

After the next train had arrived and he was settled in a window seat, he looked up and saw flashing blue lights on the street outside. Two or three cars pulled up on to the pavement. It reminded him with a jolt of where he was going. Now that he was actually on his way, the feeling of repugnance at the thought of handing himself in for interrogation grew even stronger . But he couldn’t put it off any longer.

The train stopped in the middle of the tunnel, stayed there. There was no announcement. He looked around the half-full carriage. At an angle to one side of him a boy of about Daniel’s age was reading a magazine and listening to music through earphones, the leg on the seat shaking, possibly in time to the music. Maybe Daniel would be the one who would feel most betrayed, even if he had left home. Daniel had always reached out to him. Three seats further down, two girls of African appearance were tapping in messages on their mobiles. On the seat behind them was a woman in a hijab. She was looking out of the window into the dark tunnel wall. Bie and the children. To be with them and feel no shame. The way things used to be. It sounded like something from another time zone altogether. From the time before Brede reappeared in his thoughts. Axel had kept him at bay all these years. Locked him in a dark room and ignored the shouts coming from inside. Discovered a kind of peace in not hearing them any more. But Brede had managed to get out anyway. The day his mother mistook Axel for him. The train set off again. He knew it wasn’t possible to close that door again. Could no longer rid himself of the thought of what had happened that summer.

Police on the platform at the National Theatre station. He counted four or five. One of them with a dog. He still hadn’t realised why they were there. Not even when a couple of them burst into the carriage and ordered everyone to stay in their seats. Not until one of them stopped in front of him and yelled at him to hold out his hands did it dawn on him. But he had never been able to relate to orders screamed into his face, so he did nothing. At the same moment he felt a violent tugging at his shoulders, his arms were pinioned behind his back and he was pushed forward head first, his forehead and nose thudding on to the floor. A knee was forced into his neck, his wrists manacled together.

– Stay completely still! a voice bellowed into his ear.

He twisted in order to be able to breathe and was hit on the jaw. Heard another voice, further away: – Suspect apprehended at National Theatre station. Situation under control.

A response through a crackling transmitter: – Definite identification?

– Driver’s licence and Visa card. It’s him.

He couldn’t tell how long he lay there. Five minutes, maybe ten. The other passengers were told to leave. At last the pressure on his neck was relieved.

– On your feet.

He stood up, blood in his mouth. One of them at least was wearing a holstered pistol, he noticed. Am I
that
dangerous?

Outside, by the fountain, a car was waiting. He was led towards it. Halfway across the square a figure jumped out in front of him. The flash cut through the semi-darkness and tore it wide open. Twice, three times, until he was pushed in through the passenger door.

In his student days Axel had made a bit of pocket money at the weekend by doing blood tests on suspected drunk-drivers. He knew what a holding cell looked like. But he had never been inside one behind a locked door. He sat with his head resting against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him across the floor. His neck was aching, over the shoulder and down the ribcage on one side. He was certain at least one rib was broken. He had a swelling above his right eye and was still bleeding inside his mouth. An eye tooth had come loose.

A little earlier, he had heard sounds from one of the neighbouring cells. An elderly man, it sounded like. Pretty drunk, but sober enough to reel off a few verses:
If you’ve sunshine in your heart, then the whole wide world is yours.
And
When the chestnuts bloom on Bygdøy Allé …
It helped, hearing him sing out his joy like that. Axel could imagine what he looked like. See the days when the old man had first learned the songs, of which only these carefree fragments now remained. Think of some explanation for why he had ended up under arrest. That way he could keep the other thoughts at bay. But at some point the old man had been let out. It must have been an hour ago, maybe two. Naturally they’d taken his watch, along with his mobile phone, his wallet, belt and shoes. Now all was silent in the other cells. He was left at the mercy of his own thoughts between the sallow green stone walls, under the bright strips of neon lighting. These were the thoughts he would be living with for every moment that was left to him.

Bie had once shown him a picture in a magazine. A Buddhist monk walking through a valley flushed with red and gold leaves, sunlight streaming down through the branches. Beneath the picture it said:
Not one single thought disrupts this walk
. But the monk hadn’t got where he was by pushing thoughts away. He must have accepted them so completely that there was nothing left of them at all. Suddenly Axel thought of how he used to imagine his old age would be. Strolling along a beach. Sitting on a rock and looking out over the sea. A feeling of everything being calm and settled, of everything having been done, and now all that remained was to wait. Lying in that cell, staring into the wall, he knew he would never reach that beach.

T
HE RECTANGULAR ROOM
he was taken to was inward facing. It had no windows and was lit by strips of neon lighting in the ceiling. The walls were grey, as was the wall-to-wall carpet. A video camera was suspended above the door, and he realised that the interview was going to be filmed, that someone would perhaps be sitting and following the proceedings on a screen.

A table and three armchairs by the further wall. He at once recognised the men sitting there. They were the same two who had interviewed him about a week earlier. It felt more like a month to him, maybe longer.

The younger one stood up. He was about the same height as Axel, powerfully built, with dark eyes beneath his light fringe.

– Sit down, Axel, he said and pointed to the vacant chair.

Axel understood that he was being addressed by his first name for a reason. But this man seemed a sympathetic type, and he was relieved to think that he would be present throughout the questioning.

– As you might remember, my name is Norbakk. And this is Detective Chief Inspector Viken.

The chief inspector directed his cold gaze on Axel and gave not the slightest sign of recognition. He was wearing a white shirt, obviously freshly ironed.

Norbakk said: – We’ve decided to charge you with the murders of three people. Hilde Sophie Paulsen, Cecilie Davidsen and Anita Elvestrand. This gives you certain legal rights. Among other things you have the right to see all documents relating to the case. And within twenty-four hours at the latest, a lawyer of your own choosing will be appointed to defend you, or else we can choose one for you. You have the right to have your lawyer with you during all questioning, but it may take some time for him or her to arrive. So we propose to make a start now. It means we can cut down on the amount of time you spend in the holding cell. Not a very cosy place to spend a night.

This was said with a sort of empathic undertone. Evidently the two men were to play different roles. This Norbakk was to be the friendly, understanding one. Axel hadn’t the slightest idea what his own role was supposed to be. He recalled suddenly a dream he had had several times. Stepping out on to a large stage, glimpsing a room full of people, the sense of their anticipation. Silence falls, everyone awaits his opening line. That’s when he realises he hasn’t learnt a single one of them.

– Fair enough, he heard himself say. – Let’s begin.

Down in the cell he had wondered whether he should ask for a lawyer, but had decided that the arrest was a misunderstanding he would quickly manage to clear up on his own. Not even the words
charge you with the murders of three people
altered his view. He had been on his way here to hand himself in. Voluntarily submit to questioning. Had given a blood sample without protesting.

– That’s good, said Norbakk as he sat down again. – You’re a cooperative type of person, we appreciate that.

Axel looked over at Viken, who had still not yet said a word, and who had kept his gaze on Axel’s face throughout. It looked as though he were scrutinising his every pore. Below the bushy grey eyebrows the detective chief inspector’s eyes were red rimmed, Axel noted. Lack of sleep, or an allergy maybe. He met the gaze, couldn’t face holding it, fixed instead on a point on the wall while he waited for Viken to speak. A long time passed, maybe as much as a minute, before he did so.

– Have you ever paid for sex with a prostitute?

Axel was startled. The voice was low and intense. But it was the content of the question that surprised him. On his way from the cell, in the lift, he had thought about what they might ask him. His whereabouts. Why he hadn’t handed himself in. His relationship to the dead women. But this was something else.

– I’ll repeat my question. Ever had sex with a whore?

In that instant he knew he shouldn’t say anything else without his lawyer being present. But this was not the time to show weakness. He had nothing to hide. Bought sex? He’d been to a brothel once, in Amsterdam. In his second year as a student, a trip abroad with the so-called Brass Band Orchestra, in which he did his feeble best with a tuba. He was the only one with the lungs for it, and his lack of musical ability was of no consequence to the orchestra. The visit to the brothel had been the result of a bet made over an almost empty bottle of whisky.

– We note that it is taking some time for the question to be answered, Viken commented tonelessly.

Axel pulled himself together. – No, I’ve never done that.

He saw a tightening at the corner of the detective chief inspector’s mouth, as though he were registering a small victory, and it struck Axel that they had information about what had happened that night in Amsterdam over twenty years ago.

– Have you ever had a homosexual relationship?

Abruptly it felt as though the floor his chair was standing on was uneven. He knew he shouldn’t ask what the question had to do with the case. Or what was meant by a homosexual relationship. Whether nudity and intimate touching among teenagers counted. He must not on any account get involved in a sort of struggle over limits with the dour man on the other side of the table.

– No.

– Children?

– What are you asking about?

– I’m asking if you’ve ever had sex with children or minors?

– Of course not.

– Have you ever felt any attraction in that direction?

– No.

– Sadomasochistic sex?

Not once had the chief inspector’s voice deviated from that same low and intense delivery. Axel shook his head.

– Does that mean no?

– Yes … it means no.

He glanced across at the other man. Norbakk nodded to him with something that might have been an encouraging smile playing around his lips.

– And yet, Viken continued, lowering his head a fraction, – and yet we found, in the bedroom you share with your wife, at the back of a cupboard, a certain item.

Axel knew at once what he was talking about. Suddenly in all its enormity it dawned on him that his status as the accused gave the law the right to enter his home, trample through his bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, through his children’s rooms. He felt himself stripped naked, exposed to public view in the marketplace. Felt an urge to ask for a towel to hold in front of him.