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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Police officer Alexander Blix and celebrity blogger Emma Ramm join forces to track down a serial killer with a thirst for attention and high-profile murders, in the first episode of a gripping new Nordic Noir series… 'Grim, gory and filled with plenty of dark twists … There's definitely a Scandinavian chill in the air with this fascinating read that loses none of its terror and fun in translation' Sun 'An exercise in literary tag-teaming from two of Norway's biggest crime writers with a bold new take on the serial-killer-as-twisted-artist … the start of a series with potential' Sunday Times –––––––––––––––––––––––– Oslo, 2018. Former long-distance runner Sonja Nordstrøm never shows at the launch of her controversial autobiography, Always Number One. When celebrity blogger Emma Ramm visits Nordstrøm's home later that day, she finds the door unlocked and signs of a struggle inside. A bib with the number 'one' has been pinned to the TV. Police officer Alexander Blix is appointed to head up the missing-persons investigation, but he still bears the emotional scars of a hostage situation nineteen years earlier, when he killed the father of a five-year-old girl. Traces of Nordstrøm soon show up at different locations, but the appearance of the clues appear to be carefully calculated … evidence of a bigger picture that he's just not seeing… Blix and Ramm soon join forces, determined to find and stop a merciless killer with a flare for the dramatic, and thirst for attention. Trouble is, he's just got his first taste of it… –––––––––––––––––––––––– 'This tale often surprises or shifts in subtle ways that are pleasing and avoid cliché. As the opener for a new series this is a cracker, long live the marriage of Horst and Enger' New Books Magazine 'Death Deserved is a fast-moving, punchy, serial killer investigative novel with a whammy of an ending. If this is the first in the Blix and Ramm series, then here's to many more!' LoveReading 'A stunningly excellent collaboration from Thomas Enger and Jorn Lier Horst …. It's a brutal tale of fame, murder, and reality TV that gets the pulse racing' Russel McLean 'Now — what happens when you put two of the most distinguished writers of Nordic noir in tandem? Death Deserved by Thomas Enger and Jørn Lier Horst suggests it was a propitious publishing move; a ruthless killer is pursued by a tenacious celebrity blogger and a damaged detective' Financial Times 'A clever, gripping crime novel with personality, flair, and heart' Crime by the Book
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Seitenzahl: 525
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
PRAISE FOR DEATH DESERVED
‘A fast-moving, punchy, serial killer investigative novel with a whammy of an ending’ LoveReading
‘A clever, gripping crime novel with personality, flair, and heart’ Crime by the Book
‘Thrilling, intense, full of curveballs and with a high-stakes, full-on jeopardy ending that I loved, this book made me smile in a very big way’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews
‘The book starts off with a bang and the storyline is fluid till the end. No dull moments … It’s a winner. And the translation was excellent’ Mrs Loves to Read
‘One of the most gripping crime novels I’ve read … Enger and Horst deliver with a high-tension, action-packed read that will keep your eyes glued to the page’ Hooked from Page One
‘The book certainly kept me hooked right to the very end … I can’t wait for the next instalment of what looks to be a truly interesting and exciting partnership’ Good Reads
‘This is the first crime thriller I have read this year and I tell you the rest will have a lot to live up to … A gripping read, highly recommended’ Not Another Book Blogger
‘Brilliant new Nordic Noir … creepy, complex’ The Book Trail
‘Powerfully thrilling … one of this year’s best’ Fyens Stiftstidende, Denmark
‘There’s breakneck action, intriguing characters and a tender morality in Horst and Enger’s first joint work’ Jyllands-Posten, Denmark
‘A novel you won’t forget … well written and thrilling, with an up-to-minute, socially relevant theme’ Krimifan, Denmark
‘A solid crime novel’ Bogblogger, Denmark
‘A classic crime novel that makes a great start to an exciting new partnership’ Bogfidusen, Denmark
‘An excellent, high-powered crime novel … difficult to put down’ Tvedestrandsposten, Norway
‘A crime novel told at breakneck pace … A wonderful mix of British crime and Nordic Noir’ Østlands-Posten, Norway
‘Striking and thrilling’ Verdens Gang, Norway
‘A successful criminal partnership … there’s great momentum and wonderful suspense’ Adresseavisen, Norway
iii
DEATH DESERVED
JØRN LIER HORST & THOMAS ENGER
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN BY ANNE BRUCE
v
‘Let’s do it.’
(Gary Gilmore’s last words before he was executed.)vi
CONTENTS
SUNDAY 9 MAY 1999
The police radio crackled.
‘0-1 seeking all available units for Agmund Bolts vei in Teisen.’
Alexander Blix glanced across at Gard Fosse. ‘That’s just round the corner,’ he said.
Blix slammed his foot on the accelerator as Fosse picked up the mic from the dashboard.
‘0-1, this is Fox 2-1,’ Fosse relayed. ‘We’re in Tvetenveien, about one minute away.’
Blix switched on the blue light and sirens just as more crackling noises filled the car: ‘Fox 2-1, 0-1 reading you. This is a possible shooting incident. There have previously been reports of domestic violence at the address.’
Domestic violence, Blix thought. He’d been called out on a number of similar cases, but none where a shot had been fired.
He swung into Agmund Bolts vei at the end of the Østre Gravlund graveyard, stepped on the gas again and swept past several blocks of flats with balconies facing the street. Cars were parked on both sides of the road. Birch trees at regular intervals.
This was what they had trained for.
It was what they had been looking forward to – being first to arrive at a real crime scene. For a year they had been rookies, sitting in the back seats of patrol cars. Now they were in charge. Blix’s hands clenched the steering wheel.
‘Looks like it’s up ahead,’ Fosse said, pointing to a huddle of bystanders.
Blix braked sharply and stopped the car at an angle across the road. He turned off the engine and sirens, but left the blue light on.
‘It came from in there,’ a woman cried as Blix and Fosse leapt out of the car. She pointed at a small white house.
‘Sounded like a high-calibre gun,’ a man added.2
‘Has anyone come out since you heard the shots?’ Blix asked. ‘Or gone in?’
The woman shook her head.
‘How many people live there?’ Fosse asked.
‘Four,’ another woman answered. ‘They’ve got two little girls, but I think only one’s at home.’
Blix swore under his breath. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Go home and stay inside. And lock your doors.’
As the small crowd dispersed, Blix pushed the garden gate open. ‘You take that side of the house, and I’ll take the other one,’ he told Fosse, pointing in both directions.
‘You’re not thinking of going in?’ Fosse protested.
‘A shot’s been fired,’ Blix replied. ‘And there could be a little kid in there.’
‘Safety first,’ Fosse said, repeating their police college instructors’ mantra. ‘We have to wait for backup.’
Blix was familiar with the directive. The situation called for them to isolate and observe while waiting for reinforcements. But this was no college assignment.
‘Backup could take ten minutes,’ he said. ‘And we don’t know if we even have ten minutes.’
Moving to the car, he opened the boot, unlocked the gun safe and took out his service weapon, then loaded it with six cartridges and clicked the barrel into place.
‘Seriously, we really have to—’
‘Help the kid,’ Blix interrupted, pushing past his colleague. ‘If she’s in there.’
He walked up to the front door and squinted through the thick glass window that occupied the top half of the door. Saw nothing.
He wheeled around to face Fosse. ‘Are you just going to stand there?’
Fosse shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said.
‘Neither do I,’ Blix replied. ‘But we have to do something.’3
He moved around to the side of the house, where he stood on tiptoe, trying to peer in through the only window on the gable wall, but it was too high. He continued on, emerging into a small garden where snow was still piled up. The bushes were brown and scraggly. He spotted a rusty swing frame and a ramshackle veranda. Armchairs dotted with cushions. Empty, brown beer bottles on the veranda floor, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
Blix stepped warily, fearing the sound of footsteps would signal his presence. The living room had picture windows, but the reflection made it difficult to see inside; he knew, though, that the huge expanse of glass left him exposed.
He turned around and made his way back to the front door. Fosse was now sitting in the car; Blix could hear that he was talking to the operations centre. Blix inserted his earphone and caught the operator saying that the nearest patrol car was twelve minutes away.
Blix took a breath, settled his shoulders. Tried the door.
It creaked as it swung open. Blix took two steps inside. Stopped. Listened. Heard nothing.
Or…
Was that a whimper? A sniffle? Someone saying ‘shhh’?
He moved forwards, gun raised, leaving the door wide open behind him, hoping that Fosse would change his mind and follow.
A passageway led him further into the house. The floorboards were noisy. He peeked into the nearest room and quickly withdrew his head. A small toilet with a wash basin. He repeated the manoeuvre at the next room. No one there either. His breath quivered as he inhaled. He struggled to listen again, but could near nothing.
Bad sign.
The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar. Blix slowly nudged it open. It also creaked.
He let it swing wide.
A woman lay flat on her back, lifeless, her head turned to one side, so he could see her blank, staring eyes. A large pool of blood had collected on the floor beside her, a rag rug nearby beginning to soak it up.4
He swallowed. Felt an insistent throbbing in his throat and chest. He held his breath for a few seconds, then raised his gun and stepped inside the room, making sure to avoid treading in the blood. Crouching down, he checked the body for a pulse but found none. He stood up and spoke as softly as he could into the radio attached to his lapel.
‘0-1, this is Fox 2-1 Alpha. A woman is dead, shot. I repeat: a woman is dead, shot.’
The radio made a slight crackling noise. As Blix stepped away from the woman, he caught a glimpse of the gaping hole in the centre of her ribcage.
‘Copy 0-1.’
‘Don’t come any closer.’
The voice, hoarse and strained, came from further inside the house. Blix halted. He stretched out, trying to see around the doorframe and into the living room.
There, in front of a glass table, was a man with a gun in his hand. It was pointing at the blonde head of a girl who could not have been more than five years old. She was weeping silently. Sobbing. Shaking.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ the man repeated. ‘I’ll shoot. I’ll shoot both of you.’ He shoved the pistol into the little girl’s hair.
Blix hoped she hadn’t seen the body in the kitchen. Hoped she hadn’t seen the woman die.
‘Relax,’ Blix said – he could hear the tremble in his voice.
‘Put the gun down,’ the man said.
‘Please, don’t…’
‘Put. The gun. Down.’
The man was probably in his late thirties, bearded, sweaty, with a shock of short, straggly hair. He took the gun away from the girl’s head and turned it on Blix. No tremor. No nervousness. Just desperation.
The girl closed her eyes. Tears ran down her face.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Blix said – he was trying to call upon everything he had learned at college, what he should say, what he should do in a situation like this. But now he was in one, he could 5think of no sensible strategy. He was forced to improvise. Make an attempt to talk some sense into the man.
His mind drifted to Merete, waiting for him at home. She had never liked his choice of profession. She’d always warned him of the dangers he would have to confront.
He thought of Iselin, barely three months old.
Blix lowered his gun.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked as he fought to control his breathing.
The man made no response.
‘In only a couple of minutes, the whole house will be surrounded,’ Blix went on. ‘You won’t get out of here.’
‘They’re mine!’ the man wailed suddenly. ‘Mine!’
‘Yes, and you’ll get to see them grow up,’ Blix said, nodding. His eyes searched for a second child, but he only saw the girl.
‘No one is going to take them from me,’ the man said. ‘Do you hear?’
‘I hear you, but please – don’t make things any worse than they are.’
‘Put down your gun,’ the man repeated with even more desperation in his voice. ‘I won’t tell you again. Get out of here! This is my home.’
Blix listened out for sirens. For Fosse.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said, looking at the little girl again and trying hard to thrust aside thoughts of his own daughter. ‘I can’t leave,’ he said. ‘Not now when you—’
‘You’ve got five seconds,’ the man broke in.
Blix raised his eyes to look at him. Grubby white singlet, sweat stains on the stomach, curly chest hairs poking out.
‘Please…’
‘Five.’
He was not going to do it. These were just empty threats.
‘Can’t we just sit down and—’
‘Four.’6
Blix took a deep breath. Gulped.
‘Let’s talk about this…’
‘Three.’
Blix gripped his gun even harder. ‘Think of your daughter, think of what you’re taking away from her.’
‘Two.’
The guy looked completely mad, Blix thought. He raised his gun again.
‘She’s only, what, five years old?’ Blix flexed his finger on the trigger.
‘One.’
The guy is going to do it, Blix thought. Bloody hell, he’s really going to do it.
And then a shot rang out.
1
There was a slight chill in the air. Blix tugged the lapels of his jacket together over his neck and trudged towards the police headquarters building. He glanced up at the nine floors of glass and steel, feeling his usual sense of humility. He swiped his pass, keyed in his code and went inside the building, which was already buzzing with life.
He reached the lift, thankful that he hadn’t had to chat to any of his colleagues. On the sixth floor, he grabbed a cup of coffee before sitting down at his desk at the far corner of the spacious open-plan office.
As always he was the first one to arrive. Since turning forty, Blix had found that he’d started to wake up earlier and earlier – even before his alarm rang. But there was nothing to fill his time at home in his flat, and at the office at least he was sure of finding some coffee.
He slung his jacket over the back of his chair, stacked four used plates from the canteen, one on top of the other, and set them down 7on the empty desk next to his. Then he logged on and took a swig from his cup while waiting for his computer to fire up.
It had become a kind of ritual: every morning he visited the web pages for the Worthy Winner show. Today the faces of most of the contestants were crossed out. There were only four left in the house.
One of them was Iselin.
Everyone at the police station knew, but no one mentioned it. At least not to him.
Blix had been strongly against her participating in the programme, even though he hadn’t actually been sure what it was all about. He’d wanted her to find a job or a place at college instead. Their argument had ended with Iselin making it clear that she didn’t want to see him in the studio during the live transmissions.
He hadn’t spoken to her since.
He clicked on the live feeds. Iselin was still asleep. The camera was in night mode and the greenish screen image had poor contrast, but he could see that she had thrown off her quilt during the night. In some strange way he felt closer to her now, looking at her through a camera lens, than he had done for many years.
For the first few weeks of the series, he’d remained unhappy about her being on TV and was pleased that she’d decided to use Merete’s surname rather than his. But in the past few days he couldn’t help feeling a certain pride that his daughter was regarded as someone worthy of winning the million-kroner prize money.
He clicked into the comments, where he found the usual smuttiness. Things he’d warned her about: viewers discussing her physical appearance, the things she said and the way she behaved. Most of these contributions were negative, but there were also a few cheering her on and giving her words of encouragement.
A movement nearby made Blix turn his head. Gard Fosse was standing on the other side of the desk with a folder tucked under his arm.
‘A bit early in the morning for porn sites, isn’t it?’ he said, smirking.
Blix looked up at his superintendent lazily, before clicking on to the criminal records system and lifting his cup to his mouth.8
‘Good morning, boss,’ he said, unsure whether or not his irony was obvious.
‘I want you to look after the new start,’ Fosse continued in a more formal tone.
Blix glanced up at him again. ‘Me?’
‘She’ll be here at nine o’clock,’ Fosse replied, darting a look at the pile of dirty plates on the empty desk beside Blix; clearly that was where she was meant to sit. He opened the folder he was carrying. ‘Sofia Kovic; twenty-six years old,’ he read. ‘Half Croatian. Graduated from police college five years ago as one of the best in her year. She’s spent two years in Majorstua and three at Crime Prevention.’
Fosse held out the sheet containing these personal details; Blix reluctantly took it from him.
‘Has she been brought in on a quota basis or something?’ he asked.
‘Best-qualified applicant,’ Fosse told him. ‘I expect you to give her a good reception. And another thing,’ Fosse went on, leafing through the folder. ‘I’ve arranged for you to go to the shooting range on Thursday.’
‘Fine,’ Blix muttered.
‘You can’t keep postponing it,’ Fosse added. ‘Your permit runs out next week.’
‘I said it’s fine.’
Fosse lingered for a few moments, gazing at Blix, before turning on his heel and heading into the corridor, in the direction of his grand office.
Blix followed him with his eyes. What different paths they had taken, he thought. They’d once been classmates and were then patrol partners. Best friends too, at one time.
He couldn’t stop the film that now began playing inside his head. The call-out to Teisen. The blue light. The sirens. Everything that had gone wrong afterwards.
2
Emma Ramm let herself in, stowed her bike in the hallway and slipped off her shoes. She was exhausted from her ride, but she still managed to complete her exercise routine with some pushups. She went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water, taking a long sip as she picked up her phone and checked the American celebrity websites to see if anything noteworthy had happened overnight. TMZ had a story about a break-in at Mariah Carey’s house in Bel Air. People magazine was reporting an apparent quarrel between Pink and Christina Aguilera; this was coverage she could lift. Before she put down her phone, she checked news.no and saw that her story about Vendela Kirsebom had pride of place on the front page.
Yet another day with people who’d gained fame for a variety of reasons. Some valid, others not.
How long could she bear working on all this? She dreamed of having something more substantial to sink her teeth into. Something that would show that she really was a competent journalist, not simply a celebrity blogger.
It was eight o’clock. She gulped down another glass of water and switched on the TV. The news headlines rolled across the screen. There had been another suicide bombing in Kabul. A gang fight in Malmö had ended with fatal consequences. New statistics showed unemployment in Spain was at an all-time high. And the weather forecast predicted a cold, clear day in Norway’s capital city.
While Emma did some stretches, the hosts of Good Morning, Norway welcomed viewers back to another twenty minutes of easily digested output. One of them – a man with a round face, glasses and curly hair – leaned forwards restlessly. He glanced at his colleague before adjusting his glasses and saying: ‘Well, viewers, this is what we should have been discussing for the next few minutes.’ He held up a book Emma recognised immediately: Forever Number One by Sonja 10Nordstrøm. ‘But the author, who should have been with us in the studio, seems to have been delayed.’
Emma smiled. This was typical of Nordstrøm: she always did exactly what suited her. Not for nothing did Anita Grønvold, Emma’s boss at news.no, consistently call Nordstrøm a superbitch.
‘So we’ll have to wait a while before we hear more about the autobiography that is already the talk of the town before it’s even been published – even though no one has any idea exactly which beans Nordstrøm has chosen to spill.’
The other presenter now took over – a woman with long blonde hair, looking incredibly sharp and alert despite the early hour.
‘Yes, there’s been a great deal of secrecy surrounding this publication,’ she said, her eyes searching for the right camera. ‘There’s no doubt that Sonja Nordstrøm has lived an exciting life. She’s won everything that’s possible to win in … when you … have done all the things she’s done.’
Emma sniggered at the presenter’s obvious ignorance, and filled her glass again.
‘This is indeed a very special day for Sonja Nordstrøm,’ the other presenter interjected. ‘It’s her fiftieth birthday, and she’s decided to mark this milestone by publishing a book.’
‘We can only hope she turns up,’ the female presenter said with an exaggerated smile. ‘In the meantime, we can welcome into the studio Petter Due-Eriksen, producer of this channel’s hottest show – Worthy Winner.’
A burly man in his fifties sat down on the sofa, a microphone attached to a shirt that was rather too tight.
‘Petter, we’re nearing the end of the show now, aren’t we? There are only four contestants left, and this evening they’ll be whittled down to three, is that right?’
‘Yes, now it really starts to get interesting.’
Emma turned down the volume and took off her training jacket. She had written about this new reality-show concept nearly every day, and was sick of the whole thing. Ten contestants were locked 11inside a house together with cameras everywhere. There was really nothing new to say about it.
She picked up her mobile and wondered whether to call Nordstrøm, but instantly gave up on the idea. The superbitch would never answer so early in the day. Anyway, Emma had an appointment with the woman’s publisher in an hour.
Stripping off the rest of her clothes, she headed for the bathroom, carefully locking the door behind her, even though she lived on her own.
3
Soleane Publishing was located in Kristian Augusts gate, across from Café Amsterdam. There was no enormous, flamboyant sign above the entrance, just a small nameplate on the door that said the office opened at nine o’clock.
Emma checked the time on her mobile and sent a text message to Amund Zimmer, the head of the publishing house, saying she was waiting outside as arranged. Two minutes later, the door opened and an overweight man in his sixties appeared, a copy of Forever Number One in one hand and a phone in the other.
‘Emma?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Apologies,’ Zimmer said, waving his mobile as if it explained his tardiness.
‘It’s OK,’ Emma assured him. ‘I’m just glad to get my hands on a copy before it reaches the bookstores.’
‘Here,’ Zimmer said, handing her the book. ‘Write something nice about it.’
‘Do you know what she’s up to today?’ Emma asked, as he turned to go back inside. She pointed at the photo of Sonja Nordstrøm on the front of the book.12
While Zimmer did seem prepared for the question, at the same time it clearly made him uncomfortable – as if he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. He ran his hand through the wisps of blond hair on his head and made a face. His mobile buzzed, and he checked it quickly, before saying: ‘No.’
‘No?’
He shook his head.
‘You’ve no idea why Sonja Nordstrøm didn’t show up on Good Morning, Norway today?’
‘No. I haven’t managed to get hold of her yet.’
‘Is it … normal for her not to turn up to appearances like that?’
Zimmer hoisted his shoulders and immediately let them drop again. ‘Sonja Nordstrøm has always been something of a prima donna,’ he said, ‘but I can really only answer for what she’s been like when we’ve had meetings with her. We’ve found her to be one hundred per cent professional. So it’s a bit … odd that she didn’t appear for the broadcast earlier today. She’s not the type to oversleep.’
Zimmer’s phone started ringing again. He checked the screen, but once again decided to ignore it.
‘What else do you have planned for her today?’
‘Well…’ he began, ‘she should really be all over the place. TV in the morning, and then radio. There’s a press conference here scheduled for noon’ – he used his thumb to indicate over his shoulder – ‘and we’ve got almost all the newspapers in the country signed up for that. And if I know the media, there’ll probably be more radio or TV in the afternoon and evening, even though they haven’t asked yet. We’ve requested she keep the whole day free, more or less, and she was OK with that; she was prepared to do it.’
His mobile stopped vibrating.
‘She’ll probably turn up eventually,’ Emma said.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Zimmer said, with a fleeting smile. ‘No doubt she will.’
His phone rang again.13
‘I have to dash inside again. It…’ He raised his mobile in the air.
‘Thanks for the book,’ Emma said. ‘I’m looking forward to reading it.’
‘My pleasure.’
Zimmer let himself in, answering the call at the same time.
Emma stood deep in thought for several seconds. Then she located Sonja Nordstrøm’s number and phoned her.
‘Hello, you’ve reached Sonja Nordstrøm. I can’t take your call right n—’
Emma hung up and spent a few moments pondering the situation: should she sit in her regular café and race through the book, or…?
A tram came jangling past. Number eighteen. Emma knew it went up to Ekeberg, where Sonja Nordstrøm lived. She broke into a run and caught up with it at the courthouse.
4
The brittle plastic splintered as Blix crushed the end of his pen between his teeth. He leaned back in his chair and looked down towards the other end of the room, where Gard Fosse stood with the new investigator, introducing her to Tine Abelvik and Nicolai Wibe – like him, two of the department’s longest-serving detectives.
Blix found it unfathomable that Fosse had managed to manoeuvre his way to the top of the Violent Crime Unit without having a single genuine investigative gene in his body. Or maybe, he thought, spitting out a sliver of plastic, that was exactly why.
Sofia Kovic’s southern European origins were easy to spot. She had brown, mid-length hair and dark eyes, and her skin tone was several shades darker than anyone else’s in the department. Ten years ago she would have been unable to fulfil the minimum height requirement for entry to police college.
Fosse pointed across at Blix. Kovic tossed her head as they approached him, making her loose hair sit better. Blix put down his 14pen and picked some flakes of plastic from his tongue before getting to his feet to shake hands.
They exchanged pleasantries and Sofia Kovic smiled, revealing white teeth. ‘I’ve heard about you,’ she said.
Blix hadn’t expected anything else. For ages now what had happened at Teisen nineteen years ago had been part of the police college syllabus. The episode had even been given a special name: The Teisen Tragedy.
‘Blix is going to show you how we work in here,’ Fosse told her. ‘This will be your workstation.’
Kovic looked around. Blix said good morning to Abelvik and Wibe, then drew some case papers over to his side of the desk and moved the pile of dirty plates to the top of the filing cabinet.
Fosse exchanged a quick look with Blix. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, turning on his heel.
With a stiff grin, Blix watched him exchange nods and pleasantries with people just arriving in the office.
‘So,’ he said, turning to Kovic, ‘what made you want to work here?’
Kovic sat down. ‘I think I can excel here,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘Do what I’m good at.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Collecting information, analysing cases, building appropriate hypotheses, thinking creatively, turning accepted truths on their head and finding alternative solutions.’ Kovic paused. ‘Investigate, in other words.’
Blix looked at her as he twirled his pen between his fingers. Her short speech sounded like something straight from a textbook. Something that would have impressed Fosse.
‘It would be good if you managed to solve some cases too.’ Blix put his pen back in his mouth.
Kovic put down the slim, transparent folder she’d received from the ICT department and switched on her computer. Waiting for it to start up, she checked her mobile, but immediately set it aside again.15
‘So what’s it like having Fosse as your boss?’ she asked.
Forthright, Blix thought. He swallowed the answer that was burning the tip of his tongue, and said instead: ‘It’s OK, no problems.’
‘OK?’
‘Yes,’ Blix nodded, but did not deign to elaborate.
The truth was that he and Fosse had completely different approaches to police work. The simplest way to describe it was theory and practice. He followed his gut instinct, Fosse the book.
‘He wants me to show you how we work here,’ Blix said, reaching out to the papers on his desk and picking up a random bundle of case folders. He deposited them on her desk with a thump. ‘This is how we work here,’ he said, with an apologetic smile. ‘One case at a time. Welcome to the madhouse.’
5
Emma got off at the stop near Jomfrubråten. She’d made good use of her tram ride, making a few phone calls to people she knew in the TV 2 building. She’d learned that a taxi had been ordered to collect Sonja Nordstrøm at 7.20 a.m. With a little determined digging, she’d even managed to find out the driver’s name and phone number. Daniel Kvam. She’d called him straight away, but had only reached his voicemail.
For the last ten minutes of the tram journey, she’d thumbed through the first few chapters of Forever Number One, which had left her in no doubt that it would be explosive. Athletes, coaches and family members were told a few home truths, and Nordstrøm more or less accused one of her coaches of having sexually abused her.
Her phone rang just as she crossed Kongsveien.
‘Hi, it’s Daniel Kvam. You just phoned me?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and explained who she was. ‘Thanks for returning 16my call. It’s about a trip you had arranged for earlier today. You were to pick up Sonja Nordstrøm in Ekeberg at 7.20 a.m., is that right?’
‘That’s right enough,’ Kvam said. ‘But nothing came of it.’
Emma frowned.
‘I waited outside her house for fifteen minutes, at least, but she never came out.’
‘Didn’t you phone her?’
‘Yes, but it went straight to voicemail. I got out and rang her doorbell, but she still didn’t appear, so in the end I drove off.’
Emma said thanks and hung up.
She was now standing outside Nordstrøm’s magnificent villa, a house situated close to Kongsveien. It had to be at least 400 square metres of real estate, she reckoned, with a massive garage, painted white, adjacent. Building materials wrapped in plastic and remnants of packaging from renovation work were piled up in front of one garage door. Brown, compacted cardboard boxes.
The gate was open, which made Emma think Nordstrøm might have driven off somewhere earlier that day or the previous evening – that basically she’d done a bunk. A media circus such as Amund Zimmer had described would take the wind out of most people’s sails, even if you were totally used to it.
Emma stepped on to the tarmac driveway leading down to the house. Stopping at the front door, she rang the doorbell and heard it chime inside.
No answer.
She tried one more time with the same result: no one came to open the door. Taking a few paces back, she peered at the windows on the upper storey, but there was no face peeking back at her from behind the curtains. She couldn’t hear anything either.
She tried the doorbell once again. Still no sound from anyone inside. A flash of inspiration made her try the door handle, and she was taken aback to find the door unlocked. Emma let go of the handle but the door continued to glide slowly open. She took a step forwards. Poked her head ever so slightly into a spacious hallway with dark tiles on the floor.17
Something on the floor further inside caused her to knit her brows. A coat stand lying on its side. She saw some shards of glass as well, scattered in front of a frame that must once have held a full-length mirror.
Emma stood still and called out: ‘Sonja Nordstrøm?’
She listened, but there was no response.
The sound of her shoes on the tiled floor in the outer hallway resonated through the house.
‘Hello!’ she shouted again, noticing how shaky her voice had become. Her trepidation did not prevent her from venturing further inside, though, into a huge hall with floor tiles in a checkerboard pattern. She made sure not to trample on the fragments of glass from the full-length mirror.
A high ceiling, with the lights switched on, and a glittering chandelier. A staircase led to the upper storey.
Emma continued to call out to Nordstrøm, but still received no answer.
She looked into the kitchen, where everything was elegant – bright surfaces, cooker and fridge in brushed stainless steel. The dark tiles also covered the floor in here. A cupboard full of wine bottles. Fresh flowers on a colossal table. Two wine glasses on the worktop, just beside a copy of Forever Number One. Emma shouted Nordstrøm’s name again, but heard nothing.
Or…
Yes, she did hear something.
She followed the sound out of the kitchen and into what appeared to be a living room. The TV was on, tuned into some sports channel or other. In the centre of the TV screen, a starting number was attached with a piece of tape. Number one.
Emma stood looking at it for a few seconds. That’s odd, she thought, as she picked up the remote control to switch off the TV. Then, in a split second, felt how deathly still everything had become.
‘Nordstrøm?’
Her voice hardly carried.18
She made one more attempt, louder this time. Still no answer.
All of a sudden she did not want to be there. She had to get out. Fast.
She moved quickly. Her foot slid on the loose carpet in the hallway, but she managed to stay on her feet. She had to fight the urge to look back to see if anyone was watching or chasing her.
Once outside, she was able to breathe normally again. Closing the door behind her, she stood puzzling what to do next. A cat emerged from under a bush and disappeared around the corner of the house. Emma took out her phone and called Kasper.
Kasper Bjerringbo was a Danish journalist she had met at a seminar on digital journalism in Gothenburg a few months earlier. He had worked on Ritzau’s crime reporting unit for years.
‘Well, wonders will never cease,’ Kasper said in a thick Danish accent.
‘Hi, Kasper,’ Emma said. ‘Are you tied up?’
‘Yes, at least I am now.’
Emma smiled, and felt her cheeks grow warm.
‘Nice to hear from you,’ Kasper said. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Yes, it has.’
‘It … we had fun, didn’t we?’
She pictured his black curls, his captivating smile. His very fit, naked body.
‘Yes we did,’ she said. Until early in the morning, when tiredness had overcome her and she felt the urge to sneak back to her own bed.
‘I need some help,’ she said. ‘Some advice.’
‘What about?’
‘Do you have any experience of … disappearances?’
‘Well, we have a pretty big case going in Denmark right now, in fact.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, a footballer who’s been missing for just over a week – maybe you’ve read about him?’
Emma hadn’t. She didn’t pay much attention to football.19
‘Why were you wondering?’ Kasper added.
Emma wasn’t sure how much detail she should give him, so, without mentioning Nordstrøm by name, she told him about the missed appointment at TV 2 and about the house being empty, with the front door open.
‘I think something might have happened to her,’ she concluded.
Kasper was quiet for a few seconds. Emma pictured him sitting in his office, playing with his curls.
‘Then you really have no choice. You have to contact the police,’ he said. ‘And you have to tell them you’ve been inside. If you withhold that kind of information, it might cause problems for you later.’
Emma looked up at the house, hoping she would see Nordstrøm’s face in one of the windows. Kasper was right, of course.
‘The police will almost certainly take it seriously, especially if we’re talking about a famous person,’ Kasper added.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I knew I could count on you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, then paused for a moment. ‘How are things with you otherwise?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ Emma said.
‘You’re not thinking of coming to Copenhagen anytime soon?’ he added.
Emma smiled. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘That’s a pity,’ Kasper said.
Yes, Emma said to herself. Maybe it was.
‘I have to go now,’ she said, thanking him again for his help.
For a brief moment, after the call ended, she closed her eyes and shook her head. My God. Stupid, crazy behaviour. Copenhagen and Kasper could actually be really enjoyable. At least until the question of where she should sleep arose.
The steady rumble of traffic from Kongsveien made her brush those thoughts away.
‘OK,’ she told herself, taking a deep breath. Then she dialled the number for the police.
6
The phone vibrated in Blix’s pocket, and he fished it out. The display showed a number he had saved as ‘TV-Eckhoff’. Eckhoff worked at the production company behind Worthy Winner and had been involved in developing the programme concept. During filming, he acted as a link between the participants and their families.
‘Blix here,’ he answered.
‘It’s Even Eckhoff,’ the man at the other end said. ‘Enter Entertainment.’
Blix pushed his chair out from his desk and turned away slightly. It was not often he felt uncomfortable talking to people, but there was something about Eckhoff’s whole manner. His voice. As if he were absolutely determined to try to sell Blix something he didn’t want.
‘It’s about the live broadcast tonight,’ Eckhoff continued.
Blix pictured Iselin on the sofa with the programme presenter, and how the camera sometimes zoomed in on Merete and her new boyfriend. The two of them had been there for every live show. The production company was keen for the participants’ family and friends to be present; they wanted to capture their reactions and emotions, but also have them there to console the competitors when they were voted off.
‘I’ve spoken to Iselin,’ Eckhoff continued. ‘She’d really appreciate seeing you in the audience.’
‘Has she said that?’ Blix asked.
‘Well, she said it was OK for me to ask you,’ Eckhoff replied.
Blix felt touched. Of course, he was ready to take the hand Iselin was holding out to him, but he really didn’t want to sit next to Merete and Jan-Egil.
‘I’ll see,’ he said.
‘We have to reserve seats in the auditorium, so it would be helpful if you could let me know as soon as possible.’
‘OK,’ Blix said. ‘But I have to go now.’21
He ended the call, pulled his chair up to his desk again and glanced at Kovic before busying himself with something on the computer.
A moment later, Gard Fosse appeared with a scrap of paper torn from a notebook in his hand and made a beeline across the office for Kovic and Blix. Blix could see how important he felt, and it irritated him.
‘I want you to take a look at a missing person case,’ Fosse said.
‘Can’t Crime Prevention take care of that?’ Blix asked.
‘They’ve asked us to look into it,’ Fosse explained. ‘They’re working flat out on other things.’
‘What about uniformed patrols?’
‘The current response time for them is ninety minutes.’
He waved the paper in the air. ‘A journalist phoned it in. The person who’s gone missing is none other than Sonja Nordstrøm.’ He paused. ‘It won’t look good if we sit on it.’
Kovic stood up and took the scrap of paper. ‘Stupendous Sonja,’ she remarked, looking enthusiastic.
‘A journalist?’ Blix protested. ‘Shouldn’t we receive a report from a family member before we rush out?’
‘Nordstrøm has failed to turn up for both radio and TV interviews today, without notice,’ Fosse said. ‘The journalist is at her home now. She says the house is unlocked and she can’t make contact with anyone inside. Off you go – check it out, and take it from there.’
Kovic had already slipped on her jacket. Fosse smiled ingratiatingly at her before wheeling around and moving on to the next delegated task of the day. Blix slowly rose to his feet – with a heavy sigh.
7
The police had told her to wait. At first Emma sat on the steps, but she felt ill at ease with her back to the empty house, so she moved to the wrought-iron bench beside the entrance.22
She took her laptop from her bag and checked the online newspapers. They all carried something on the Nordstrøm autobiography.
‘Took Drugs’, was the title of the headline story in VG. It referred to Nordstrøm’s worst rival throughout her career, Cecilie Krogsæther. The article was illustrated with a photo of her at the top of the podium at the Berlin Marathon, one year when Nordstrøm had not taken part. Nordstrøm’s claims were elaborated upon in the article below: she had seen Krogsæther use hypodermic needles several times, and also cited her competitor’s Czech doctor, who had apparently insinuated that Krogsæther didn’t have clean blood in her veins.
Dagbladet’s story was similar, but they had contacted Krogsæther’s lawyer, who insisted that the allegations were absurd, and threatened consequences.
Cutting a little from both articles, Emma did a rewrite and edit. It was rare for her to take such shortcuts, but she knew Anita Grønvold was waiting for her to publish something.
It took her only a few minutes. At the end of the piece she added a promise that she would share with her readers more sensational snippets from Nordstrøm’s autobiography as the day wore on. She pressed the publish button, then began to jot down the most important points in the sexual abuse accusations, at the same time reminding herself that she needed to talk to someone from the athletics world about who these might be levelled at, since the name of the coach was not given. The alleged assault had happened when Nordstrøm was only fifteen years old.
After that, Emma clicked onto her publisher’s home page, where there was a video designed to attract readers. Following a series of cobbled-together images from Nordstrøm’s career, accompanied by Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire, a deep, histrionic male voice began to speak:
‘At the age of four, Sonja Nordstrøm’s father asked her a question: Do you want to be the best in the world? Yes, Sonja replied. Then you must listen to me, her father said. Yes, Sonja answered. Fourteen years later, Sonja Nordstrøm won her very first World Championship medal. A23further twelve of these would follow, but success did not come without a price. In this outspoken autobiography, she tells of victory and loss, of friends and foes, and not least of difficult relationships with everyone who came close to her.’
New film clips followed – of Nordstrøm at the top of various podiums, celebrating, waving, but always with some reservation apparent in her face, as if she couldn’t let herself really jump for joy.
None of the online newspapers had yet mentioned Nordstrøm’s disappearance.
Emma cast a glance at the house before opening her desktop publishing program again and starting to draft a new article. The headline was a single word: ‘Missing’.
8
The wrought-iron gate facing the street was open and banging back and forth in the wind. Blix swung on to the pavement and parked alongside the fence.
Kovic checked the notes she had received from Fosse. ‘The journalist’s name is Emma Ramm,’ she told him. ‘She works at news.no.’
Blix’s diaphragm contracted sharply. ‘What did you say?’ he asked in a cracked voice.
Kovic repeated the journalist’s name and workplace.
Blix swallowed. Hard, several times over.
‘Is something wrong?’ Kovic asked.
Blix couldn’t reply, and even found it difficult to meet Kovic’s quizzical gaze.
‘Hm?’ was all he managed.
‘I was just wondering if anything was up. You went pale all of a sudden.’
Blix was still unable to speak, instead gesturing that they should get out of the car.24
He took some time to lever himself out of his seat. He had become hot, and once he’d finally emerged from the car, it was a relief to have the wind blowing in his face. He had to take a sidelong step to steady himself, grabbing the figurine on top of the gate, closing his hand around it so tightly that his knuckles blanched. At last he fixed his eyes on the girl seated on a bench outside the front entrance.
Blix felt his heart hammering inside his chest, and his armpits were sweating.
‘Why don’t you take the lead on this one?’ he mumbled to Kovic, letting her go through the gate first.
Emma Ramm stood up and greeted Kovic, who then moved aside and introduced Blix.
He held out his hand, hoping Emma wouldn’t notice how clammy it was.
‘When did you get here?’ Kovic asked.
‘Forty minutes ago,’ Emma answered. ‘The door’s unlocked, but she’s not at home.’
Blix gazed at her. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair was arranged nicely. Her blue eyes were alert, her nose narrow and her cheekbones pronounced. She had very even, white teeth.
‘Have you been inside?’ asked Kovic.
‘I looked in, yes,’ Emma explained. ‘There’s a shattered mirror in the hallway.’
Kovic and Blix exchanged glances.
‘So you can’t be sure that she’s not still here? Not one hundred per cent?’ Kovic queried.
Emma’s answer was slightly shamefaced: ‘Not one hundred per cent, no.’
Blix cleared his throat. ‘We’ll go in.’
‘Wait here,’ Kovic said to Emma as she followed him.
Blix threw back his shoulders and tried to focus his thoughts on the job. Once inside the tiled hallway, he called out: ‘Hello … this is the police.’25
Kovic pointed at the toppled coat stand and the broken mirror on the floor.
‘Room by room,’ Blix said.
They began to search the house. At every doorway they passed through, he was prepared to find Nordstrøm. In the bathroom with slit arteries; hanging by a rope from the chandelier in the living room; with an empty pill bottle by her side in the bed. But she was not there. Not on the ground floor nor the upper storey, and not in the basement either. Her car was still parked in the garage.
Blix went to check the tool shed while Kovic spoke to Emma Ramm in more detail. He made a circuit of the garden too, then took out his phone. He knew he should call Fosse, but couldn’t bear to speak to him right now. Instead he keyed in Tine Abelvik’s number and explained where he was and what they had seen.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this one,’ he said. ‘Can you ask Ann-Mari Sara to come out here to take care of the technical side of things?’ And before Abelvik managed to answer: ‘And I’d like you and Wibe to start work internally. Trace Nordstrøm’s phone, contact family members, do a survey of her circle of friends – the usual.’
‘I’ll see what I can manage,’ Abelvik promised.
Blix rounded off the conversation and walked back to the front of the house.
‘She wants an official comment,’ Kovic said, nodding at Emma, who stood writing something on a notepad a few steps away.
She turned and approached them. ‘For the article I’m writing,’ Emma said waving the pad.
Blix stared at her. His thoughts crisscrossed, pressing forwards from the back of his head. It was difficult to grasp a single one. Instead he tried to push them away and concentrate on what was happening in the here and now.
‘What’s your assessment of the missing person case?’ Emma asked.
‘It’s a bit early to say anything.’ He cleared his throat and added: ‘But we’re making some preliminary inquiries.’26
‘What kind of inquiries?’
‘Routine procedures,’ he replied, unwilling to get embroiled in details.
‘Investigations, then.’
Blix nodded.
‘What was your name again?’ she asked. ‘Sorry, you told me earlier, but I didn’t take it in properly.’
Blix hesitated. ‘Alexander Blix,’ he finally said.
Emma made a note of it. Nothing suggested that she recognised his name.
‘With a k or an x?’ she asked.
‘With an x,’ he said. ‘Both names: Alexander and Blix.’
‘I can quote you on that, then – that you’ve initiated an investigation?’ she asked.
Blix met her gaze and noticed that it was full of life and dedication. Nothing more. Nothing to indicate that she knew who he was.
‘Here,’ he said, taking out his own notebook. He scribbled down his phone number and handed it to her. ‘You can call me or … make contact if you think of anything else.’
She thanked him, turned around and walked away. Blix stood watching her leave. When she was gone, he closed his eyes for a few seconds and focused on breathing. His cheeks were flushed and he felt sweat between his shoulder blades.
‘What do we do now?’ Kovic asked.
‘Stay here until the technicians arrive,’ he replied, without turning to face her. ‘In the meantime we can make a few house-to-house inquiries in the neighbourhood. Ask if anyone has seen anything.’
9
Emma had almost reached the end of Forever Number One. After visiting Sonja Nordstrøm’s home she had headed straight for her 27regular haunt – Kalle’s Choice– a tiny little café on the corner of Sofies plass and Frydenlundgata. Many of the stories she had published had been written at the table in the far corner of the upper floor.
What struck her as she read was how Nordstrøm almost actively sought to destroy her own reputation. She scattered allegations here, there and everywhere, many of them crass and defamatory, which would certainly have personal consequences for her. Emma hoped Nordstrøm had proof of all the allegations she was making, and that the publishing house had performed a thorough legal risk assessment. If not, it could all end in court action.
Several media outlets had now got wind of Nordstrøm’s disappearing act. Some of them had used Emma’s quote from Alexander Blix, fortunately referring to her as the original source. The story was growing arms and legs, almost minute by minute: Emma spotted it on social media too. A lot of people were worried about what had happened to Nordstrøm, the national icon.
The question was: what now?
Emma leafed back to the beginning of the book. It had been written in collaboration with the sports journalist Stian Josefson – a man Emma knew had taken a severance package from Aftenposten a couple of years earlier, when even they had to slim down their workforce.
She decided to call him, glad that no one was sitting at the nearest tables.
The voice that answered sounded morose.
‘I’m going to switch off my phone soon,’ Josefson said. ‘No, I haven’t the foggiest where she is, and I’ve absolutely no comment to make about what’s in the book. Got it?’
Emma realised he was about to hang up. ‘I like the book,’ she said swiftly. ‘It’s well written. I assume it was you rather than Nordstrøm who actually wrote it?’
Silence fell, momentarily.
‘Well, yes. Thanks.’28
Emma fiddled with the phone and switched on the recorder function.
‘It must have been an interesting job?’ she said, trying to pour as much sugar as possible into her voice. Her experience of celebrity journalism had taught her that flattery could make even the most buttoned-up person relax.
When Josefson did not reply immediately, she said: ‘Can I ask you how you got the assignment? Was it the publishing house that contacted you, or did you already know Sonja Nordstrøm so well that you…?’
‘It was my suggestion, in fact,’ he said. ‘My idea.’
‘So you went to the publishing company and…’
‘No, I worked on Sonja for months before she finally agreed. It was actually…’ He suddenly seemed discouraged. ‘What was it you wanted?’
‘It almost sounds as if you regret it now?’ Emma asked.
She heard him falter.
‘A little,’ he admitted. ‘Mainly because of all the fuss. I hadn’t expected that…’ He paused again.
‘That what?’
‘Nothing,’ he said in the end.
‘Have you heard from Sonja today?’ Emma asked after a few seconds.
‘No.’
‘You’ve no idea where she might be?’
‘Not a scooby.’
‘When did you speak to her last?’
‘Last night.’
‘How did she seem to you?’
‘She was exactly the same as always. Apart from…’
He stopped again.
‘Apart from what?’
‘No, nothing.’
Emma heard noises in the background. Voices, a tumult. Josefson was outdoors.29
‘Did you discuss PR strategy in advance of the book launch?’
Josefson snorted. ‘Do you think I had anything to do with that?’
He clearly intended to answer his own question, so she didn’t reply.
‘I was just a tool for her, like all the other people she used,’ he went on. ‘And for the publisher. They don’t give a shit about my opinion.’
Emma doodled on her notepad hoping he would go on.
But he didn’t.
‘So you’ve absolutely no idea where she could be, then?’
‘No. And it’s no odds to me. I’ve done what I had to do. Now I don’t have time to talk to you anymore.’
And he ended the call.
Emma sat staring at the phone for a few moments before putting it down. Stian Josefson was angry, she thought. Offended. It wasn’t unusual for a co-writer with a role such as his to be overlooked once a book reached public attention.
Josefson’s story was now her fourth instalment about Nordstrøm, though everything to do with the book was starting to pale into insignificance. What both she and her readers wanted answers to was the mystery surrounding her disappearance.
She took out the piece of paper with Alexander Blix’s phone number on it and sat fiddling with it as she pondered whether it was too early to make contact. But he had given her carte blanche to do so, hadn’t he?
She decided to send him a text message to start with, to avoid seeming too desperate or tiresome. She could call him later.
10
The house-to-house inquiries among the neighbours on the north side of the street didn’t yield much. Most of them were not at home, but an elderly lady who lived two houses away was sure she had seen 30a man in a black car visit Nordstrøm on a number of occasions. Her grandchild, who ran a car showroom, drove the same kind of vehicle – a Volkswagen Tiguan. This was the only thing Blix had on his notepad when he returned to the house to meet Ann-Mari Sara.
The crime-scene technician reversed the large delivery van in through the gate and up towards the entrance. While her team kitted themselves out, he related what he and Kovic had observed during their superficial examination of the house.
‘To me, it looks like an abduction,’ he concluded.
Sara answered with a nod before she too donned one of the team’s white, all-encompassing protective suits. She was known for being taciturn, but also thorough, systematic and focused. Blix enjoyed working with her.
His phone rang. It was a number he had stored as ‘Journalist’. As Blix dismissed the call, Kovic arrived back from her own tour of the neighbourhood.
‘We may have something,’ she said with a nod in the direction of the nearest house. ‘There was a car outside Nordstrøm’s house late last night.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘The neighbour I spoke to only heard it – it was after he’d gone to bed. It arrived, the engine ran for a couple of minutes, and then it drove off.’
Blix’s phone rang again. ‘Journalist’. He switched off the ringer and left his phone to vibrate in his pocket.
‘What time?’ he asked.
‘He was watching TV before he went to bed, and says it must have been just after the evening news on NRK.’
‘What does that tell us?’
‘I checked. The news ended at half past ten last night.’
Blix pivoted around, looked towards the gate and saw that two inquisitive onlookers had turned up.
‘Are there any toll booths in the vicinity?’31
‘I’ll check that out,’ Kovic said, making a note. ‘Is there anything else for us here?’
‘One thing,’ Blix said.
He ascended the steps and called out to Ann-Mari Sara. She walked towards him, pulling down her mask.
‘There’s a copy of her book lying in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘I need it.’
Sara fixed her eyes on him. ‘You want me to remove it from the crime scene?’
‘I don’t think anyone has smacked her on the head with it,’ Blix answered.
Sara considered this for a second or two. ‘Let me take some photos first,’ she said, as she disappeared into the house again.
The phone in his jacket pocket vibrated again. Blix took it out and saw that he had received a number of messages as well. One of them was from ‘TV-Eckhoff’, wondering whether Blix had made up his mind about that evening’s broadcast. He had. He would be there, but Sonja Nordstrøm might make it difficult.
He was about to send Eckhoff a reply when Ann-Mari Sara reappeared with Nordstrøm’s book in an evidence bag.
‘You could have driven by a bookshop and bought one on your way back,’ she said, handing him the bag.
‘Well, now we’ve saved the force a few kroner,’ Blix said with a smile as he took it from her.
The phone was relentless. ‘Gard Fosse’ this time. With a sigh, Blix slid his thumb towards the right.
‘I hear you’ve initiated a full investigation,’ his boss said.
‘That’s a privilege I still have in this job,’ Blix replied sourly. For once there was no response.
‘Sara has just arrived,’ Blix informed him, glancing again at the gate where he now recognised the face of a journalist from Dagsavisen. ‘Can you send a patrol car here too, to help us keep the rubberneckers away?’
A few seconds elapsed before Fosse answered: ‘I’ll see if we have 32anyone available,’ he said, before coming up with what Blix knew was the real reason for his call. ‘As far as the press is concerned, I’ll take care of all that.’
