What Never Happens (33 page)

“At least it’s a round number,” Sigmund tried.

Johanne moved the FH sheet to one side. Then pulled it back.

“Something’s not right,” she said. “There’s something that just doesn’t fit.”

“Can’t we try to base our discussion on the assumption that someone is behind it all?” Adam suggested impatiently and pushed the sheet over. “Imagine that Mats Bohus has been influenced by someone. The same person who’s manipulated someone to kill Victoria Heinerback and Vegard Krogh. Let’s—”

Johanne wrinkled her nose.

“But that’s completely crazy,” she said. “I don’t understand—”

“Let’s just try,” Adam insisted. “What does that conjure up? What sort of person could—”

“It has to be someone with an incredible insight into the human psyche,” she started. Again, she seemed to be talking to herself. “A psychiatrist or a psychologist. Maybe an experienced policeman. An insane priest? No . . .”

Her fingers drummed on the sheet with Fiona Helle’s initials. She bit her lip. Blinked and straightened her glasses.

“I’m afraid I just can’t,” she said in a whisper. “I can’t see what the connection is. Not unless . . . what if . . .”

She stood up abruptly. A file of notes lay on the shelf by the TV. She flicked eagerly through it as she came back across the floor and found the photo of Fiona Helle. When she sat back down, she put the picture directly above the sheet of paper with the victim’s initials on it.

“This case is actually completely clear-cut,” she said. “Fiona Helle let down her son. She can hardly be blamed for what happened in 1978, when Mats was born and her mother made a decision that would affect the fate of three generations. But I’m sure that I’m not the only one who has some kind of understanding of Mats Bohus’s extreme reaction to what happened. You can think what you like about some people’s strange desire to discover their biological origins, but . . .”

Her eyes did not leave the photograph. Johanne took off her glasses, picked up the photo, and studied it.

“It’s all about dreams and great expectations,” she said in a quiet voice. “Often, at least. When things go wrong and life is difficult, it must be tempting to think that there’s something else out there, your true self, your real life. A kind of comfort. A dream that can sometimes become an obsession. Mats Bohus has had a harder life than most. His mother’s final and absolute rejection must have been . . . crushing. This time she had everything to offer, but nothing to give. Mats had a motive for killing her. He killed her.”

Deep in thought, she put the photo on top of the sheet of paper and bound them together with a paper clip. She sat in silence as if the others were no longer there and stared at the photograph of the beautiful TV star with fascinating eyes, a straight nose, and a provocative, sensual mouth.

Sigmund stole a look at the bottle by the window. Adam nodded.

“What if,” Johanne began again; they could hear the enthusiasm in her voice. “What if we assume that it’s not three cases in a series?”

“Sorry?”

“Huh?” uttered Sigmund as he filled his glass.

“We should perhaps—” Adam started.

“Wait,” Johanne said sharply.

She placed the sheets in a triangle, with her hand over Fiona Helle’s face.

“This case has been solved,” she said. “A murder. An investigation. A suspect. The suspect has a motive. He confesses. The confession is confirmed by other facts in the case. Case closed.”

“I have no idea where you’re going,” Adam admitted. “Are we back to square one? Do you think it’s just coincidence and that we’re talking about three unconnected—”

“But what about the symbolism?” Sigmund interjected. “What about the lecture you heard thirteen years ago that—”

“Hang on a minute! Wait!”

Johanne stood up. She walked in circles around the floor. Every now and then she stopped by the window and looked aimlessly out at the street, as if she had no expectation of seeing anyone there.

“It’s the tongue,” she said. “The severed tongue is the key. The starting point.”

She turned toward the two men. Two bright circles were growing on her cheeks, touching her glasses, which were steamed up. Adam and Sigmund sat still, in deep concentration, as if they were spectators about to watch a dangerous stunt.

“We had it already on day one,” Johanne said, excited. “The very first day, when Fiona was found with her tongue cut off and all wrapped up. It was there. We said that it was so banal. Such simple, obvious symbolism that it could almost have been taken from a cheap book about Red Indians. You said it yourself, Adam, just the other day . . . you said that there must be countless examples of bodies with dismembered tongues throughout history. You were right. You’re absolutely right. Fiona Helle’s murder had nothing to do with the lecture I heard on that hot summer’s day in an auditorium in Quantico. It’s so”—she put her hands to her face and swayed slightly from side to side—“clear,” she said, half stifled, “so obvious. Jesus.”

Adam stared at her, bewildered.

“Don’t touch me,” Johanne warned. “Let me go on.”

Sigmund didn’t drink. He was staring, his moist pink lips slightly open. His eyes moved from Johanne to Adam and back. Jack, the King of America, had come in from the living room. Even the dog stood stock-still, with his mouth shut and a twitching nose.

“These three cases,” Johanne finally said and dropped her hands, “have a number of common features. But rather than looking for more, perhaps we should ask ourselves, what are the differences? What makes them different from each other? What makes the Fiona Helle case so different from the others?”

Adam hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she started to wander around the room. Only now did he dare reach out for the bottle of water. His hands were shaking slightly as he unscrewed the top.

“It’s been solved,” he quipped.

“Exactly!”

Johanne pointed at him with both hands.

“Exactly! It’s been solved!”

Jack wagged his tail, and it hit her legs when he came close. She stepped on his paw by accident as she hurried back to the counter. The dog howled.

“You found the answer in the Fiona Helle case,” she said, picking up the photograph and paying no attention to the dog. “You struggled, fumbled around, and were lost for a while. But the answer was there. The postmortem revealed details that led back to an old, sad story, which in turn led to Mats Bohus. To the murderer. Motive and opportunity. Everything was there, Adam. And it normally is. Murders are usually solved in this country.”

Sigmund grabbed his glass and took a drink.

“Hello, I’m here too,” he complained.

“But now take the other two cases,” Johanne continued and slid the photograph down to the end of the counter, before grasping the other two sheets marked with the big letters VH and VK. “Have you ever in all your working life come across cases so devoid of suspects? So chaotic and full of false leads and distractions? Trond Arnesen . . .”

She spat the name out over the counter.

“A boy. He certainly had things to hide, just like everyone else. But he obviously didn’t kill her. His alibi is airtight, even with a one-and-a-half hour interlude for a lovers’ tryst.”

“Rudolf Fjord is a name that still interests me,” objected Sigmund.

“Rudolf Fjord,” she sighed. “God, I’m sure he’s no angel, either. Angels don’t exist. So overall . . .”

Adam put his hand on hers; she was leaning against the counter, clutching a sheet of paper in each hand. He stroked the taut skin.

“In these two cases,” she said and pulled away, “you will never achieve anything, except upsetting people’s lives, standing on their toes with spiked shoes. As the police never give up, you will turn people’s lives upside down, in ever-increasing circles around the victims. And before you give up, before you finally admit that you will never find the murderer, you will have destroyed, derailed so many, so many lives . . .”

“Okay, calm down now, Johanne. Sit down. I assume you want us to understand what you’re trying to say, so you’ll have to take it slower around the corners.”

She forced herself to sit down and unsuccessfully tried to tuck her hair back behind her ears. It kept falling forward because her bangs were far too long.

“You need a drink,” Sigmund declared. “That’s what you need.”

“No thanks.”

“Wine would be better,” Adam said. “I’m definitely going to have a glass.”

A car rattled past outside. Jack lifted his head and growled. Adam took a bottle out of the corner cabinet, held it at arm’s length, and nodded in satisfaction. He calmly put three glasses on the table, without comment, and opened the bottle. Then he poured a glass for himself and one for Johanne.

“I agree with the distinction you’re making,” he said, nodding. “The Fiona Helle case is a more . . . normal case, you might say. Than the other two.”

“Normal and normal,” Sigmund said and filled his own glass to the brim. “There’s nothing very normal about cutting tongues out of people’s mouths.”

Adam ignored him, took a sip, put down his glass, and crossed his arms.

“I just don’t understand the connection you’re making . . .”

He gave her a friendly smile, as if he was frightened he might annoy her. It annoyed her.

“Listen,” she said in a voice that was higher than normal, with a mixture of fear, enthusiasm, and anger. “The first case triggered the other two. That’s the only way it works.”

“Triggered,” Adam repeated the word.

“Triggered?” Sigmund was more alert now and pushed his glass away a touch.

“It doesn’t make sense any other way,” Johanne said. “As I see it, the first murder happened more or less as we think it did. Fiona Helle destroyed Mats Bohus’s dreams. He killed her and cut out her tongue, split it in two as a symbol of how he felt. She had lied about the most important things in life. Outwardly, she appeared to be a fixer of dreams, a savior to those with difficulties. When her own son needed her, he discovered it was all a show. A huge lie. How could he feel otherwise?”

Jack barked. At the same time, as if he’d caused it, the kitchen window slid open. A cold draft blew out the candle. Adam swore and got up.

“We’ve got to get these windows replaced,” he said and bashed the frame into place before taking a match and relighting the candle.

“So there has to be someone out there,” Johanne said, as if nothing had happened. Her eyes were fixed somewhere on the wall. “Someone who’s heard Warren’s lecture on proportional retribution. And who then decides to copy it. And is doing just that.”

An angel passed through the room.

The silence was prolonged.

The candle was still flickering in the draft. Jack had gone back to sleep. Sigmund was breathing through his mouth. The pleasant smell of cognac swathed the three people around the kitchen table.

“That has to be the case,” Johanne thought to herself. “Someone was . . . inspired. Someone seized the moment when they read about a murder where the victim’s tongue had been cut out and wrapped up. The first piece was in place. Mats Bohus was an ignorant, arbitrary trigger.”

Still no one said a word.

“I’ve never heard anything like it,” Adam was thinking. “In all my years on the job, with all my experience, and everything I’ve studied and read, I’ve never, ever heard of a case like that. It can’t be right. It just can’t be true.”

The silence continued.

“She’s a fantastic lady,” Sigmund thought. “But she’s lost it this time.”

“Okay,” Adam said, finally. “And what would the motive be for doing something like that?”

“I don’t know,” replied Johanne.

“Try,” Sigmund encouraged her.

“I don’t know the motive.”

“But what sort of—”

“He has to have above-average intelligence. With more knowledge than most. He has . . .” She moved imperceptibly nearer to the table, closer to the others. “It has to be someone who has unusual insight into police work. Investigations, both technical and tactical, procedures and routines. So far you haven’t found a single biological trace of any significance. And my guess is that you won’t. Tactically, you’re at a loss. This is obviously a man with no . . .”

She had a faraway look in her eyes when she took off her glasses.

“A man with no empathy,” she concluded. “A damaged person, in some way. Personality disorder. But probably well adjusted. He won’t necessarily have a criminal record. But I can’t help—”

The look she sent Adam, unclear and searching, was one of growing desperation.

“He has to be a policeman,” she said in despair. “Or at least someone who . . . How can he know so much? He must have heard Warren’s lecture. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s using the same symbolism.”

She held her breath. Then slowly she let it out again through clamped teeth.

“We’re looking for someone who works with crime professionally,” she said without expression or tone. “A twisted, clever, and knowledgeable mind.”

“So he hasn’t influenced others, made them kill?” Sigmund ventured. “Have we dropped that theory now?”

“He’s done it himself. Definitely.”

Johanne held onto Adam’s eyes.

“He doesn’t trust anyone,” she continued. “He despises other people. He probably lives what we would call a lonely life, but without being a loner. People don’t interest him. His actions are in themselves grotesque, and copying the symbolism is so sick that . . .”

She ran her hand slowly over the counter and looked away.

“He doesn’t necessarily have anything in particular against Victoria Heinerback or Vegard Krogh.”

“That would make him the only one,” muttered Adam, “regarding Vegard Krogh. If he has nothing against him, that is. But if you’re right, what would the motive be? What the hell would the motive be for someone to—”

“Wait!”

Johanne gripped Adam’s hand and crushed it.

“The motive doesn’t need to have anything to do with Victoria or Vegard,” she said with renewed enthusiasm and vigor, as if catching a thought that had slipped away. “They may have been chosen simply because they were famous. The killer wants the murders to attract attention, like the first one did, Fiona Helle’s murder. This case has—”