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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Blix & Ramm
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Incarcerated in a high-security prison, a broken Alexander Blix joins forces with Emma Ramm to find a ruthless killer who has escaped from a German jail and is making his way to Norway. Pulse-pounding Nordic Noir. `Blix suffers a series of vicious assaults in Stigma, the new novel by the stellar Norwegian crime-writing duo Jorn Lier Horst and Thomas Enger … tense, brutal and fast-moving´ Sunday Times BOOK OF THE MONTH `Darkly twisty´ Crime Monthly `Superb Nordic noir. Dark, intricate and extremely compelling. Contemporary Scandinavian fiction at its best´ Will Dean _______ Alexander Blix is a broken man. Convicted for avenging his daughter's death, he is now being held in one of Norway's high-security prisons. Inside, the other prisoners take every opportunity to challenge and humiliate the former police investigator. On the outside, Blix's former colleagues have begun the hunt for a terrifying killer. Walter Kroos has escaped from prison in Germany and is making his way north. The only lead established by the police is that Kroos has a friend in Blix's prison ward. And now they need Blix's help. Journalist Emma Ramm is one of Blix's few visitors, and she becomes his ally as he struggles to connect the link between past and present, between the world inside and outside the prison walls. And as he begins to piece things together, he identifies a woodland community in Norway where deeply scarred inhabitants foster deadly secrets... secrets that maybe the unravelling of everyone involved… Two of Nordic Noir's finest writers return with the emotive, breath-holdingly intense and searingly tense fourth book in the number-one bestselling Blix & Ramm series. _______ Praise for the Blix & Ramm series: `If you're a fan of writers like Lars Kepler, Stefan Ahnhem or Søren Sveistrup, you won't want to miss this´ Crime by the Book`Two of the most distinguished writers of Nordic Noir´ Financial Times `An international sensation´ Vogue `The most exciting yet´ The Times `Devilishly complex´ Publishers Weekly `Fascinating´ Sun`Completely nerve-wracking´ Tvedestrandsposten `Everything I want in a book – mystery, tension and action´ Jen Med's Book Reviews `Masterly´ NB Magazine `An absolute MUST for thriller fans … in a class of its own´ Krimi Couch
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Alexander Blix is a broken man. Convicted for avenging his daughter’s death, he is now being held in one of Norway’s high-security prisons. Inside, the other prisoners take every opportunity to challenge and humiliate the former police investigator.
On the outside, Blix’s former colleagues have begun the hunt for a terrifying killer. Walter Kroos has escaped from prison in Germany and is making his way north. The only lead established by the police is that Kroos has a friend in Blix’s prison ward. And now they need Blix’s help.
Journalist Emma Ramm is one of Blix’s few visitors, and she becomes his ally as he struggles to make connections between past and present, between the worlds inside and outside the prison walls. And as he begins to piece things together, he identifies a woodland community in Norway where deeply scarred inhabitants foster deadly secrets … secrets that may be the unravelling of everyone involved.
STIGMA
THOMAS ENGER & JØRN LIER HORST
TRANSLATED BY MEGAN TURNEY
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Walter Kroos looked down at his watch.
01:14.
The house was silent.
His mother had gone to bed hours ago, but he hadn’t heard his father come in from the shed. So he must’ve fallen asleep out there. Again.
This was just the opportunity Walter had been waiting for.
It was time.
His hatred had stewed for long enough.
After they had returned home from Norway, he had started hearing voices in his head, yelling, barking at him, and they’d only grown louder.
Now they were screaming.
Walter pushed himself up from the bed and lowered his feet to the cold floor. He swiftly headed into the kitchen and opened the drawer where they kept the knives. Took out the sharpest one he could find.
It felt heavy in his hand.
And suddenly, everything felt foreign. His hands, legs, heart. As if he had taken up residence in another body.
Walter didn’t bother putting on his coat, even though it was cold and snowing outside. He simply shoved his feet into a pair of tatty old trainers. The rubber soles squeaked as they crossed the stark white yard, over to the shed. His breath hung in the cold air like a cloud. The voices urged him forward.
The door to his father’s woodworking shed was stuck in the frame as always. For a moment, Walter was afraid that the jerk it took to open it would wake his father, but he found him sitting there in the chair, fast asleep, his head slumped to one side, chin resting on his chest.
As always, the cramped little room smelled of sawdust and alcohol. But there was another scent this time, one Walter couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He didn’t close the door behind him, just pulled it to. He stood there for a few moments, in the shed, staring down at his father’s greying hair, his bulging stomach. His clothes were filthy. Shoes coated in white sawdust. A sad excuse for a human being. You’d actually be doing him a favour, Walter thought. And that was almost reason enough not to go through with it.
On the table next to his father were sheets of fine sandpaper and a butter knife he had almost finished carving, as well as a small bottle of gun oil.
That was what he could smell.
His father would often take out his service weapons, polish them, oil them. The rifle was propped up behind him. His pistol on the workbench. Walter tightened his grip around the kitchen knife.
Then again, it was possible to shoot yourself. And suicide was such a pitiful way out. His father deserved to be humiliated – he who had always been a man, a soldier, always so proud and strong.
Walter went to take a step round him, but one of the floorboards creaked, so he stopped. His father let out a snort. Made some movements with his mouth, but his eyes remained closed.
Walter waited a long time before moving again. He put the knife on the workbench. Grabbed the gun instead. Felt the weight of it.
A few years ago he had asked if he could try it. His father had just scoffed at him and laughed. ‘You’ll only end up shooting yourself,’ he had said.
Walter now turned to his father, face to face, raised the gun, and slowly moved his index finger to the trigger.
Aimed the barrel at his head. Closed one eye and focused.
His hands began to tremble.
Walter pressed down a little more firmly, but the trigger refused to budge. He studied the weapon more closely. Realised that he had to take the safety off first. He had no idea if the gun was even loaded, but there was an open box of cartridges on the table.
Maybe the bastard had actually intended to take his own life, Walter thought, and aimed the gun at his head again. Took a step closer this time and held the muzzle almost right up to his forehead. Closer now, he could see how his father’s beard was speckled black and grey. How his flabby skin sat in folds under his chin.
Walter gritted his teeth, tried to get his heartbeat and his hands under control. Pulled even harder on the trigger, and felt it start to obey. His whole body shook, his hands shook, and in that moment, he felt the rage erupt like an inferno inside him.
And then, his father opened his eyes.
He needed to take a moment. He had never spoken about this to anyone before.
‘And then…?’
The voice on the other end was impatient.
‘And then … it went off.’
‘You shot him?’
Walter raised his head. Heard someone knocking on a cell door further down the hallway.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Wow,’ she said.
Walter thought that was a strange thing to say, but didn’t comment on it.
‘How did it feel?’
‘At the time?’ Walter said, thinking about it. ‘A bit … weird. I mean, just before I pulled the trigger I felt…’ He couldn’t find the right words.
‘Powerful?’ she suggested.
Walter considered the word. Powerful was probably about right.
‘What happened after that?’
Walter took a deep breath in.
‘He just slid off the chair and crumpled into a heap on the floor. His eyes were open, as if he were still alive. It was like … I couldn’t quite believe what I’d done. And the bang … it was so loud. So, so loud. Inside that tiny shed … My ears were ringing.’
He had to pause again.
‘Did it help?’ she asked.
‘Huh?’
‘Killing him. Did you feel better, afterwards?’
Walter wasn’t sure how to answer that. He thought for a moment.
‘No. They didn’t stop. In my head. But it’s not like someone’s in there now, talking to me, like, on a daily basis. There’s just more … noise.’
‘And you didn’t try to make the police believe he’d just shot himself instead?’
‘No. I didn’t care enough to bother. At that point I’d just thought, like, come and get me. I wanted people to know what a piece of shit Kurt Kroos was. I didn’t say anything about what he did to you though. Mentioning that felt unnecessary, but —’
‘Wait, what do you mean?’
‘Hm?’
‘What he did to me, you said. What are you talking about?’
Walter swallowed.
‘That summer,’ he said. ‘When you…’
He couldn’t finish the sentence.
It took a long time before she said:
‘Walter, it wasn’t your father who —’ She stopped herself.
‘What are you saying?’ he asked.
As she continued, the nausea rose from the depths of his stomach. It felt like a tight fist had its grip around his chest.
‘Oh my God,’ he heard in his ear. ‘Did you think … is that why you killed your father?’
Walter didn’t answer.
Just hung up.
1
Blix put his head in his hands and listened as the door to the visiting room slammed shut.
It was over for today.
The footsteps disappeared down the corridor. He waited until it was all quiet, then he stood up, walked over to the window and leant his forehead against the plexiglass. The visiting room faced out onto the rear courtyard. There was a newly planted tree in the yard, frail with feeble branches and a thin trunk. Grey, almost leafless. He wondered how tall it would be in twelve years.
Sounds reached him from somewhere in the large building: shouting, in a foreign language. The man persisted for a short while, repeating the same thing over and over. Then there was silence.
A bird landed on one of the tree’s young branches. It cocked its head to the side and jumped onto another branch. A new set of footsteps could be heard out in the corridor. Keys rattling in sync with the steps.
Blix turned his back to the window and stood waiting in the middle of the room. The door opened. It was Kathrin. Young, insecure. She walked into the room, and glanced around to make sure everything was as it should be, then beckoned Blix out of the room.
He walked ahead of her, down the underground passage that connected the administrative building with the rest of the prison. The sound of shoes scuffing against the worn linoleum. At every door they approached, he had to step aside and wait until it was unlocked. Five, in total.
The other prisoners looked up as Blix entered the common room. One of them made a snorting sound, mimicking the grunting of a pig. The others laughed and returned to whatever card game they were playing.
‘Don’t go straight to your cell,’ Kathrin ordered. ‘Do as the principal officer said. Try spending at least half an hour out in circulation today.’
Blix didn’t answer.
Jakobsen was clearly on shift. He usually brought a copy of Aftenposten with him to work and left it out for the inmates. It had been a long time since Blix cared about what was going on in the news, but reading the daily newspaper was just about the only thing that reminded him of the life he had had on the outside.
The newspaper was on the table closest to the TV. He tried not to get in the way of those watching. The man who had grunted when Blix came in now followed him with his gaze. He put his hands together as if to make a gun with his fingers and imitated the sound of gunshots. Four in quick succession. The others laughed, drowning out the sound of the TV. Blix remained standing where he was, attempting to appear unfazed.
The news anchor was reporting on a story from Germany, something about how the German police had launched a major manhunt for an escaped prisoner who had been serving time for the murder of his father, and who had now also killed his mother. Blix pretended to follow along, standing there, watching the TV until the bulletin ended. He then bent down to pick up the newspaper.
The sound of a chair suddenly scraping back. The man on the other side of the table had quickly launched himself at him, and now had a firm grasp of his arm.
The room went silent. Only the reporter on the TV continued to speak.
Blix lowered his gaze. On the front page of the newspaper: a headline about a wave of youth robberies across Oslo. The grip around his wrist tightened.
‘I didn’t hear you say please,’ a voice said.
Jarl Inge Ree had positioned himself at the top of the prison hierarchy, dominating everyday life within its walls. He had snarled the words, just low enough for none of the officers to catch them.
Blix looked up, fixed his eyes on Ree’s. The eyes that met his were dark and showed no signs of backing down. Physically, Jarl Inge Ree had the upper hand, but unfortunately for him, he was sitting in a chair; he’d simply lurched forward to grab hold of Blix’s arm, and was now teetering on the edge of the seat. Blix stood over him and so had the advantage. He could easily wriggle free, grab Ree’s arm with both hands, yank him out of the chair, hurl him on the floor and twist his arms behind his back, shove his knee into his neck. He felt his heart beat faster at the thought.
The consequences – being excluded by the inmates or put in isolation – meant nothing to him. Blix clenched his fist, but immediately released it again.
‘Sorry,’ he said, just loud enough for only those around the nearby tables to hear.
Jarl Inge Ree slowly let go.
Mortgage interest rates were on the way up, Blix read. It wasn’t even that interesting. He left the newspaper and went to his cell.
2
The late-afternoon sun soaked the tired apartment buildings in a bright light, which also bore down on the people waiting for the city-centre tram at Holbergs Plass. On the rare occasions they looked up from their mobile phones, they had to shield their eyes and squint around at their surroundings.
Emma Ramm jogged on the spot, wondering whether her lungs and legs would do as they were told today. Yesterday, she almost made it all the way up to Blindern, but unlike today, she hadn’t eaten before that run, nor had she been to the prison beforehand.
Blix had become even thinner. Paler. Had lost some hair too. When she asked about his life behind bars, what it was like to be a former police officer among that many criminals, he had answered evasively. The only thing she had managed to get out of him was something about someone called Jarl Inge Ree, who’d been paying him a little ‘extra attention’. She knew him well enough now to realise that he internalised the concerns he didn’t want to share, or, at least, he kept to himself anything he thought she couldn’t help him with.
Regardless, the visits always had an effect on her. The sight of his tortured expression, the heavy silence. She could only imagine what it was like for Blix, having to carry the loss of his own daughter in addition to the prison sentence for taking the life of the man who killed her.
Emma felt her chest tighten.
She was not without blame for what had happened, even if Blix insisted otherwise. Emma felt like she owed him … well, what, exactly? She just wished there was something she could do to make his life better. A little easier.
Emma pulled one of her earbuds out for a moment. Amid the noise of the passing cars, she had heard, and felt through her feet, the approaching rumble of the light-blue tram now gliding up from the city centre.
She put her earbud back in, pulled the zipper of her running jacket up her neck a little further, and took a few deep breaths. She adjusted her leggings slightly and checked that her phone was secure on her upper arm. The tram stopped. People got off, others got on.
Emma pressed play.
All Shall Fall. Immortal’s best album – ever so slightly better than Sons of Northern Darkness. If she was going to work out, there was nothing better to do it to than Norwegian black metal. The tram slid away as the intro to the title track ended. The pale-blue colossus gradually picked up speed.
As did Emma.
She jogged right behind it, in the middle of the track, matching its speed until, eventually, it was too fast, and she watched it gradually put metres and metres between them. She knew she didn’t have to push too hard at this point, however, as it wasn’t that far up to Dalsbergstien, where the tram would stop for at least twenty seconds – enough time for her to catch up with it again.
She thought about Jarl Inge Ree.
Who was he, exactly?
The passengers poured out. Emma jogged on the spot until the doors eased shut and the tram continued onward. She concentrated on keeping her forefoot running form, landing on the ball of each foot and maintaining minimal contact with the ground. The tram ended up trundling behind a few cars this time, so it was easy to keep up. It drifted calmly across the roundabout outside Bislett Stadium.
Information was power, she thought. Maybe she could find out more about Ree? Something Blix could take advantage of?
Thereses Gate was a long road, all uphill. The tram sailed ten metres ahead, then twenty, evading her even though she was running almost at maximum speed. At the entrance to the next intersection, she took a moment to catch her breath, getting seven, maybe eight seconds of rest on Stensgata before continuing up towards Adamstuen. It was impossible to maintain that high a speed over a long distance. The lactic acid burned her calves, making her muscles tense up. Emma started lifting her shoulders as high as she could to create more room for oxygen in her lungs.
The traffic wasn’t on her side though – at the intersection on Ullevålsveien she had to stop and wait for passing cars. She barely managed to catch up with the tram before it continued up towards Ullevål Hospital, but very quickly realised that she wouldn’t be setting any kind of personal best today. She simply didn’t have the same burst of energy as yesterday.
At John Colletts Plass, she stopped and bent over, resting her hands on her knees. Breathing hard as the enormous rectangle rattled ahead. Almost nine minutes, she registered on her sports watch.
Not good enough. She turned and calmly jogged home.
Instead of showering straight away, she sat down with her laptop and commenced a few online searches on Jarl Inge Ree. Soon found a photo of him in a local newspaper from when he turned thirty. A fair-haired man with close-set eyes.
He was from Osen, which turned out to be a small inland village about two hundred kilometres or so north of Oslo, and a favourite destination – apparently – among camping tourists, Norwegian and foreign alike. All Blix had said about him was that he was in jail for attempted murder after hitting a man on the head with a bat. In an article about the case, it was stated that he had previously been convicted of three other instances of violence, including against a policeman who had arrested him outside a nightclub in Grünerløkka. On top of that, he had a conviction for drug trafficking.
Emma returned to the photo from the local newspaper and examined it more closely. The picture was accompanied by a simple message, just a statement that he had turned thirty, with congratulations from his mother, father, Boffa and the rest of the family. Almost as if those closest to him didn’t want their full names published.
There was something about his expression that she didn’t like. As if he had some unfinished business with the photographer, or the world itself. She stood up and took off her sweaty running clothes. Before turning on the shower, she removed her wig and ran a hand over her completely smooth scalp.
She needed to find out more about Ree. She needed something else.
3
The numbers on the digital clock on his bookshelf ticked over to 07:14. Blix counted the seconds that followed. He closed his eyes and forced himself to lie still for at least one more minute.
Footsteps approached in the corridor. They stopped outside.
He glanced at the clock again.
07:14.
He listened as the key was inserted into the lock and rotated firmly, before the door was pulled open.
The bright light from the prison block flooded the room.
Nyberget stood in the doorway in his wrinkled uniform and dirty shoes.
‘Urine test,’ he said.
Blix sat up. It was the third time in a relatively short period that he’d been randomly selected. He grabbed his T-shirt from the back of the chair and pulled it over his head. Yanked on his trousers, slid his feet into the rubber sandals by the bed and followed the officer out into the hall.
Two others from his wing had also been selected. The large Polish man known as Grubben, staggered out of his cell, squinting at the light. Further down the hall, another officer was waiting outside cell six. Ree appeared in the doorway. His hair stood on end, sticking out in every direction. He tightened the drawstring at the waist of his joggers and then looked over at Grubben, then at Blix.
Nyberget led them down the tunnel and across the long corridor. Blix walked in the middle, with Ree shuffling along behind him.
Grubben was taken in first. Blix raised his head towards the surveillance camera outside the testing room. Ree leant back against the wall.
‘S’been a long time since there were any rats down here,’ he said.
Blix didn’t respond, but understood what he was implying: that it was Blix who must have notified the officers about drug use on the wing, and he’d only been brought along for a sample so the others wouldn’t suspect him of ratting them out. A kind of reverse psychology that had long since been sussed out by the inmates.
Grubben came out. Blix was called in.
He took one of the test tubes from the box on the table, went behind the shower curtain and positioned himself in front of the urinal. He filled the glass and corked it without spilling a drop, then let the rest of the stream hit the porcelain, before heading back round the curtain with the vial. Nyberget marked it with his name and number, and gave Blix a nod as a sign that he could go.
The rest of the wing had sprung to life. Eighteen men, all needing their breakfast. Blix headed to the kitchen but hung back until there was space, before taking out a bowl and filling it with cereal and milk.
His place was at the end of one long table, with his back to the rest of the room. It was uncomfortable not knowing what was going on behind him. Over his many years in the police, he had developed a habit of always sitting with his back to a wall, so he’d have an overview of who came and went. In here, he had no choice. Or rather, he could try, but it wouldn’t be particularly wise.
Blix sat down. Around him, low, mumbling chatter in a number of different languages.
A short man from the Netherlands would usually sit across from him. Blix took it for granted that he was serving a drug sentence. Most inmates from the Netherlands were.
This time, however, Jarl Inge Ree cut in front of the little Dutchman and took his place. A large stack of toast swayed perilously as he dropped the overloaded plate on the table.
The chatter around the table died down. Everyone turned their attention to them.
Blix took a spoonful from his bowl and calmly chewed the cereal. Clenched his jaw with each chew, trying to prepare himself mentally for whatever was about to come.
Jarl Inge Ree just stared at him, a wide grin on his face. He leant back a little in his chair, digging his right hand into his pocket.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.
Blix swallowed the mouthful.
Ree fished out a test tube full of urine, unscrewed the cap and leant across the table. Waited until he was sure he had everyone’s attention, then poured the pungent contents into Blix’s breakfast.
Laughter erupted around them. Applause and whistling.
Blix’s gut instinct was to just get up and go. Empty the bowl into the sink, put it in the dishwasher and retire to his cell. But he’d been challenged so many times now – and still hadn’t retaliated in any way.
He took the spoon and stirred the yellow liquid into the milk and cereal before helping himself to another mouthful.
The laughter stopped.
Blix chewed. The salty addition to his breakfast was overpowering.
He fixed his gaze on Ree, slowly pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.
Then he leant forward and spat the contents into Ree’s face.
The reaction was instantaneous. Ree threw himself across the table, like a spring that had been stretched and stretched, just waiting to recoil. Plates, glasses and cutlery flew off the table. Blix took advantage of the momentum and power of the attack. He dodged to the side, grabbed hold of Ree’s wrist with one hand and grasped onto his shoulder with the other, hurling him in the same direction as his attack, then slammed him onto the floor. Twisted his arm behind his back and knelt over him, as he would if he were handcuffing him.
He felt a kick in his back. A boot hit him square between the shoulder blades. The blow sent him into an overturned chair. Ree scrambled up and lunged at Blix, hammering his fists into his face before seizing hold of a chair leg and pressing it against his throat.
The man above Blix snarled. Ree’s lip had burst, and blood-stained saliva ran down his chin. Blix managed to get a hand in between his throat and the chair leg to prevent his larynx from being crushed.
The prison officers were on their way. Blix could hear them close by, but none of the inmates who had now formed a ring around them did anything to let the officers through.
The pressure bearing down on his throat increased. Ree had now placed his left forearm on the chair leg, putting the full weight of his body on top of him. With his right hand he had managed to get hold of a fork. He grinned as he let Blix see it. He then rammed the four prongs into his cheek. Blix felt his skin puncture.
And then the officers were there, dragging Jarl Inge Ree off him. Blix was helped to his feet. He took a few deep breaths and scowled at Ree, who was now wiping the bloody saliva off his chin with the sleeve of his jumper as he was hauled away, a smile on his face. His teeth were stained red with blood.
More officers arrived, running through from the other wings. A cacophony of rattling keys. The inmates were all ordered into their cells.
Blix touched his cheek, felt the warm blood.
‘What the hell was all that?’ Nyberget asked.
Blix shrugged. There was no point explaining.
4
The wing went into lockdown.
After an hour, some of the inmates started banging on the doors. Some shouted, some complained that they hadn’t finished their breakfast.
Blix was sitting on the edge of the bed when his cell door was unlocked. Nyberget beckoned him over.
‘The doctor wants to give you the once-over,’ he said.
Blix stood up and checked his face in the mirror. The blood around the wounds from the fork had congealed. His throat was swollen. It hurt when he swallowed.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said.
‘Now,’ Nyberget commanded and turned, ready to go.
Blix sighed and followed, through the tunnel and over to the medical wing.
The female doctor was in her thirties. Blix liked her but couldn’t remember her name. She told him to sit and pulled her chair close to his. It stung as she washed the wounds.
‘I thought you usually stayed out of trouble,’ she said.
‘Usually,’ Blix replied.
‘I suppose you’ll be sent to isolation?’
Blix wasn’t actually sure what would happen next, but reckoned that either he or Ree would be transferred to another wing.
The doctor gently felt around his neck.
‘If you could take your top off, please,’ she said, as she inserted the tips of a stethoscope into her ears. Blix unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. He knew she was looking for internal bleeding or signs of any other injuries. Then she listened to his breathing.
‘It probably looks worse than it is,’ she commented. ‘I’ll just take a photo and then you can put your shirt back on.’
Blix closed his eyes as she took the photographs.
It suddenly came to him that her name was Mette.
‘I think we’ll be fine just putting a bandage on this one,’ she said, examining the fork wounds again. ‘But it’ll probably leave a scar.’
She applied some ointment and covered the laceration with a small wound closure strip. Blix put his shirt back on.
‘Could you step on the scales for me as well?’ the doctor asked, pointing towards the corner of the examination room.
She followed him and watched the arrow on the display move as he stepped on.
78.2 kilograms.
‘Still within the normal range,’ she said and sat back down in front of the computer screen. ‘But you need to make sure you’re eating. You’ve lost almost five kilos since your last weigh-in.’
Blix had noticed that his clothes were looser.
‘How are things otherwise?’ the doctor continued. ‘Have the medicines been helping? Have you been able to sleep?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Blix replied. ‘Things are fine.’
The doctor finished updating his file and said he was good to go.
Nyberget was waiting for him outside.
‘I’ve been told you need to pack,’ he said.
‘So what does that mean?’ Blix asked.
‘Not sure,’ Nyberget replied. ‘But it seems like your time’s up on this wing.’
When they reached the end of the tunnel, Nyberget’s radio crackled.
He stopped in front of the door, removed the radio from his belt and responded. The echo from the radio reverberating around the brick walls meant that Blix wasn’t able to catch any of what was being said.
‘Now?’ Nyberget asked.
He seemed surprised.
‘Yes,’ Blix heard through a crackle of the radio. ‘You can go straight there.’
‘Copy,’ Nyberget confirmed.
He turned and pointed back in the same direction they came from.
‘Where are we going?’ Blix asked.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ Nyberget answered.
‘Who?’
Nyberget shrugged and led him back through the two sets of metal doors. Stopped outside the visiting room.
Blix only had two names on his visitor list. Merete and Emma. Merete had visited him three times. The first two times had mainly been to discuss practical things in connection with Iselin’s death. Papers for various public agencies that had to be signed. The third time, Blix had learned that it was over with the man she had met after their divorce, and that she had found herself an apartment in Majorstua.
Part of him hoped that she was the one who had come to visit unannounced, even though he knew it was unlikely.
Nyberget fiddled with the keys and pulled the door open. A man was standing on the right-hand side of the room, his back to them, looking out the window. Blix recognised the man before he’d even turned round.
Gard Fosse. Once Blix’s fellow student and best friend, later head of the department and Blix’s immediate superior in the Oslo police. It was unusual seeing him in civilian clothes.
‘Ring the intercom when you’re done,’ Nyberget said to Fosse, pointing to the device on the wall.
Then the door slammed shut, and they were alone.
Fosse lowered his gaze. Went to say something, as if he had already planned out how he was going to start the conversation, but stopped mid-sentence.
‘What happened?’ he asked instead, moving his hand up to touch his own cheek.
Blix ran two fingers over his bandage.
‘Nothing,’ he replied.
They stood on either side of the low table, on which a plastic folder lay; Fosse had clearly placed it there in advance.
He cleared his throat and said: ‘Abelvik and Wibe send their regards.’
Blix nodded, not bothering to ask Fosse to send his back.
‘Shall we sit?’ Fosse suggested.
Blix took his seat.
‘How are things going with the appeal?’ Fosse asked.
‘I’m seeing my lawyer on Friday,’ Blix answered.
‘You’ll have a better chance in the Court of Appeal,’ Fosse stated. ‘A greater number of judges, so there’s a better chance of someone assessing the case differently.’
‘I killed a man,’ Blix said. ‘Because he killed Iselin.’
‘You acted in self-defence,’ Fosse tried to argue. ‘He would have killed Emma Ramm too. It was him or her. You know that.’
Blix didn’t answer, but knew Fosse would never have done the same.
‘What are you doing here?’ Blix asked instead, looking at the folder on the table.
Fosse pulled it back towards him, but didn’t open it.
‘Have you heard of Walter Kroos?’ he asked.
Blix shook his head.
‘A German citizen who shot and killed his father a number of years ago,’ Fosse began. ‘He was serving a custodial sentence at the Billwerder correctional facility in Hamburg, until two days ago when he escaped during a dental appointment, went home and killed his mother. Then fled with her car and some cash.’
Fosse opened the folder and took out Kroos’s prisoner ID photos. A young face seen from the front and side, with dark-blond hair, cut in military style, blue eyes and a severe gash across one cheek.
‘It’s an old picture,’ he said. ‘Taken right after he was arrested.’
Blix recognised him. The manhunt for Walter Kroos had been covered on the news the day before.
‘Seems as if the escape had been planned,’ Fosse continued. ‘Looks like he’d been chewing on a soup spoon in prison and broke a molar, likely on purpose.’
He looked inside the folder and referred to what looked like a note with a list of key words.
‘Before the police realised what was going on, he had managed to get across the border to Denmark. His mother’s car was then found abandoned outside Copenhagen.’
Blix shifted in his seat slightly. ‘And what does any of this have to do with me?’ he asked.
‘German police believe he may be on his way to Norway,’ Fosse said, choosing not to acknowledge the question. ‘By bus, train, or a stolen car.’
‘Why do they think that?’
‘Scraps of paper were found in the toilet in his cell. A document that had been torn to pieces. The police put it together and managed to decipher a Norwegian name.’
Fosse pulled out another piece of paper and showed him a photocopy of the torn-up sheet. The pieces appeared to have been crumpled up, then smoothed out again. Some of the ink had run, and a few pieces were missing. But it wasn’t difficult making out the name written there.
Jarl Inge Ree.
5
His father kept an eye on him in the rear-view mirror. Walter stared out of the side window. Hopefully, this was the last summer he would have to spend on holiday with his parents. Next year he would be seventeen, soon eighteen.
Walter readjusted his headphones so they sat over his ears more comfortably. Rammstein’s heavy riff drowned out the noise coming from the car. It also meant he could avoid listening to his parents’ idle chit-chat.
After far too a long a drive through the mountains and forest and sheep, his father finally pointed to a road sign that read: OSEN. Only a few hundred metres further down the road, they pulled into a campsite where the grass was brown. A sign outside the reception building welcomed them in Norwegian, German and English. Beyond that were caravans, tents and small cabins, all packed in one beside the other.
His father headed into the building.
It took forever for him to come back out. He shook his head as he got in the car and slammed the door shut so hard behind him that Walter heard it even through the bass drums of Reise, Reise. His father waved and gesticulated towards the campsite reception. Not long after, the car lurched off in the opposite direction.
Walter changed the song.
Within a few minutes, they were parked up at a small cabin right next to the edge of the forest. It began to dawn on Walter what the problem must have been – they couldn’t see the water from there. Father always had to see the water when they were on holiday. If he didn’t, it wasn’t a proper holiday.
Walter felt stiff after the long journey. He followed his parents into the tiny wooden cabin. Without any warning, he felt a smack on the back of his head – his father had knocked off his headphones. He barely managed to grab them before they fell to the floor.
‘And you,’ his father began. ‘Just clocking out with your damn headphones on.’
He turned to his wife, who was setting down a cool-box next to the fridge. ‘Stupidest thing we ever did giving him those,’ his father continued. ‘Besides becoming parents.’ He turned to Walter. ‘Have you done your reading today?’
Walter lowered his gaze.
His father snorted. ‘No shit,’ he scoffed. ‘Go help your mother unpack, then you’ll read.’
‘We have to eat first,’ his mother said, with her back to them. ‘Walter must be hungry.’
‘After we eat then,’ he barked at her. ‘You’ll sit down and read,’ he demanded, turning back to Walter. ‘Half an hour. Minimum.’
They ate dinner at a plastic table set up on the dry grass outside the cabin. Walter poked at the food. Tinned stew. The air was warm, close. The sun burned.
‘We must remember to wear our sunscreen,’ his mother said. She had changed into a bikini. One leg crossed over the other.
‘Sunscreen,’ his father repeated contemptuously. ‘A little sun never hurt anyone.’
Walter thought his father was looking a little red already, at the top of his chest. Fortunately, he had calmed down. He usually did after some food and a few cans of beer.
After dinner, his mother cleared away the plates and went back into the cabin. His father followed her with his gaze.
He took a sip of his beer and slurped. ‘Go for a walk, boy.’
‘Huh?’ Walter responded.
‘Go and explore the area a bit.’
‘Shouldn’t I be reading?’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’
His father’s stern gaze shot right through him. He thrust his hand deep into his shorts pocket. ‘Your mother and I need to … relax a bit.’
His father stared at his mother as she emerged from the cabin and started collecting the jars and spices. Walter had seen that look in his eyes before.
‘Go on,’ his father commanded. ‘Get out of here. And take your time.’
Walter didn’t feel like going for a walk, but did it anyway. He followed a trail that turned into a path, that wove into the forest. It was warm, everything smelled dry. Walter regretted not changing into his shorts first.
There was an abundance of bird activity in the forest. Walter liked birds. Maybe because he had dreamed of flying once. Becoming a pilot. But that was before they found out that the letters got all jumbled up in his head. You couldn’t fly a plane if you couldn’t keep your words from jumping around the page.
Walter cried the day he realised his dream had been crushed. His father had come into his room, wondering why he was bawling like that. ‘You never would have made it anyway. You should follow in your father’s footsteps. Become a soldier.’
A little further on, he could see the glistening of water just beyond the trees. There were people along the water’s edge. A jetty stretched out into the lake. At the far end, a group of young people. The girls lay on their stomachs, the boys resting on their elbows. Walter heard music coming from somewhere.
He moved a little closer and followed a girl with his eyes as she jumped in the water with a squeal. The smile spread across her face made Walter smile too, on the inside. The girl turned onto her back and swam out.
Emerging from the lake, she walked over to a long-haired boy who was lying on his back with his eyes closed, and squeezed a few drops of water from her ponytail so that they landed on his stomach. The boy howled and jumped up. Everyone laughed.
The girl fetched a towel and dried herself off. As she did, she met Walter’s gaze, and held it. Then she smiled. Smiled at him. It was a smile that made Walter smile too. For real this time.
Walter remembered that hot summer day as if it were yesterday. That’s when this all started. That summer. That day.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Without realising it, he had clenched his fists.
The bus veered round a bend. Walter let his body follow the movement. According to the bus timetable, he was supposed to arrive at 20:15. He regretted having not sat further forward, so he could keep a better eye on the road.
The Osen sign suddenly came into view, illuminated by the bus headlights. Walter pressed the stop button and grabbed the small backpack and shopping bag from the seat beside him. Six beers, a loaf of bread, butter and some sliced meat. Only what was absolutely necessary. A minute later the driver pulled into the side of the road. Walter got off and was left on the pavement in a hot cloud of oil and diesel.
He could see the Osen campsite diagonally across from the bus stop on the other side of the road, just as he remembered. The reception building and the small kiosk lay in darkness. There were a couple of cars parked outside. The lights were on inside one of the cabins, but he couldn’t see anyone.
Walter looked around. Caravan after caravan. Some nice little fences had been erected outside some of them. The cabins stood in a row, stretching down the length of the campsite.
He walked towards the edge of the forest.
The same cabin as the one back in 2004. The sign by the door – K1492 – was the only thing that was new.
Walter took another quick look around and walked over to the deck. He lowered one knee to the ground and fumbled around with his hand underneath. It didn’t take long until he found the nail. With the key.
6
‘Enjoy yourselves.’
Emma hadn’t seen this officer before. A man with a big moustache. His eyes darted over to the sofa, where someone had placed a clean bedsheet and towel.
‘He’ll be here soon,’ he added with a wink.
Emma felt like making it clear that this certainly was not a conjugal visit. She was half Blix’s age, and more importantly, she saw him as a father figure. But she said nothing.
The heavy door locked shut behind the officer.
It was the second time in two days she had been here. She did not like being in the visiting room. She saw that some attempts had been made to create a pleasant atmosphere – a tablecloth draped over the table, a green plant in the corner, a box of toys for children – but the walls around her were metres thick. It was impossible to shake off the feeling of being trapped.
Emma, who hadn’t even done anything illegal, felt uncomfortable here. It was as if the walls edged closer and closer with every minute she sat there, waiting.
Then the door opened. Blix was escorted inside.
Emma gasped.
He had a bandage on one cheek. His neck was swollen, covered in bruises.
‘What happened?’ she exclaimed.
Blix smiled, as if to say that it wasn’t anything to worry about.
She wasn’t sure if she could or should give him a hug. Ended up doing it anyway, carefully, on the non-bandaged side. He smelled strongly of sweat. His hair seemed unwashed.
She pushed herself away from him and surveyed the damage.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she pleaded.
The officer retreated from the room.
‘Got into a fight,’ Blix replied when they were alone.
‘With Jarl Inge Ree?’ she asked.
They sat down. Blix nodded.
‘Did you know that he was convicted of having sex with a minor?’ Emma asked.
Blix raised his eyebrows slightly.
‘I got hold of his court documents a few hours ago,’ she continued, retrieving the print-outs she’d brought. ‘See for yourself.’ She slid the old district court verdict over the table to him.
Blix began to read as she recited the contents:
‘Ree was nineteen years old at the time. Lived in Oslo, where he was selling drugs and had amassed a circle of regular customers. A girl who had escaped child welfare ended up in his clutches. Nina. Fifteen years old. She’d run away from one foster family after another. Ree kept her hidden and had sex with her.’
Blix didn’t seem convinced.
‘The other inmates should know that he’s a paedophile.’
‘This isn’t paedophilia,’ Blix responded. ‘It is a legal technicality. She was just a couple of weeks away from turning sixteen.’
Emma felt a wave of disappointment. She had thought Blix would’ve appreciated what she’d dug up.
‘But you get the point?’ she asked. ‘This is hardly something he’s bragging about in public, is it?’ She pointed to the nearest wall, unsure whereabouts the prison’s common room was. ‘You can use it,’ she said, her voice now raised slightly.
Blix put the papers down. ‘I understand that you’re trying to help,’ he said with a meek smile. ‘But the problem will sort itself out soon enough. Ree’s being released on Monday. If I’m going to use that time for anything, it’ll be in trying to find out more about him. Get closer to him.’
Emma shook her head, gesturing as if she didn’t understand.
‘I had a visitor yesterday,’ Blix said with a nod to the chair Emma was sitting in. ‘Came to talk to me about that German killer currently on the run.’
Emma had been following the news story.
‘All signs indicate that he is probably on his way to Norway, and that he has some connection to Jarl Inge Ree. Gard Fosse…’ Blix hesitated a moment and then shook his head ‘…wants me to try to figure out what that is. But there’s no point even trying. Ree would rather pull his own teeth out than open up to me.’
‘Why can’t Fosse just question him himself?’
‘Ree isn’t exactly a fan of the police,’ Blix explained. ‘According to Fosse, he’s never said a thing when he’s been questioned. Not a peep. Never confessed or admitted to anything. There’s no reason why he would start now.’
Emma grabbed a pen and started fiddling with it.
‘But can’t you try?’
‘It’s got nothing to do with whether I can or want to try or not. It simply won’t work.’
‘But the German might be dangerous,’ Emma objected. ‘He’s killed before. Who’s to say he won’t kill again when he gets to Norway? What if you could have prevented it?’
Blix lowered his gaze, but didn’t have an answer.
They sat in silence until they heard footsteps outside. Keys rattling. A new officer appeared.
‘Time’s almost up,’ he said, locking eyes with Blix. ‘You’re wanted elsewhere.’
7
Jakobsen was one of the more pleasant prison officers. A northerner of Blix’s age who trained horses for harness racing in his spare time. He didn’t want to say what Blix had been sent for, just that he was taking him over to the medical wing. Once there, he let him into a sparsely furnished meeting room and then left. Light streamed in through a barred window that couldn’t be opened. The air was clammy, stagnant.
A man in a checked flannel shirt with long, curly hair tied back in a ponytail stood up from a chair and adjusted his glasses. He met Blix with a dry, outstretched hand. ‘Otto Myran,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Blix estimated that Myran was in his mid-thirties. With a wave of his hand, he gestured for Blix to sit in one of the three chairs in the room, two of which were placed far apart, both facing the third, which Myran now sat back down on.
Myran placed one leg over the other. Folded his hands on his lap but otherwise said nothing, just stared at Blix with a gentle, friendly smile.
‘Are we waiting for someone?’ Blix asked.
‘He should be here any minute,’ Myran replied.
Blix felt a throbbing in his temples. The wounds had slowly begun to heal, but it still felt like someone had inflated his cheek. In fact, his whole face felt numb.
The door opened.
Jakobsen had returned. He remained standing out in the hall, however, and made a motion with his hand to usher someone else into the room.
Jarl Inge Ree appeared around the doorframe. He took in the sight that met him for a moment or two, then stopped abruptly.
‘What the hell…?’
Blix returned the same surprised and contemptuous look. Under the bandage, the wound twinged.
Jakobsen followed Ree inside and led him over to the vacant chair, positioning himself between Ree and Blix.
‘What the hell is this?’ Ree barked.
Myran said nothing, just motioned for Ree to sit in the chair.
Jakobsen leant against the nearest wall, not too close, but not so far away that he couldn’t, if necessary, react quickly and intervene.
Ree squirmed, seemingly unable to find a comfortable position in his seat. Blix was waiting for Myran to get started. Finally, Ree seemed to settle down.
‘I’m a social worker,’ Myran began. ‘You may have already seen me around the corridors here.’
Neither Blix nor Ree answered.
‘As you know, the aim of correctional services is to rehabilitate convicts and prepare them for a future life of freedom. We – social workers – like to act as a link between correctional services and the outside world. Our aim is for you to feel a sense of belonging in society, for you to want to partake in activities that are for the greater good of the community.’
Ree snorted.
Blix said nothing.
‘And that,’ continued Myran, ‘is always difficult when…’ He weighed his words carefully. ‘When there are elements in your everyday life that challenge that willingness to contribute. Elements that introduce unfavourable conditions for your successful rehabilitation. And you two —’ Myran looked from one to the other. ‘Well, it doesn’t exactly seem like you bring out the best in each other. And that’s just how it is sometimes. You don’t get along. And there can be plenty of reasons why that is.’ Myran brought his hands together. ‘So, rather than separating the two of you in isolation, we here at Ullersmo felt that … we – the three of us – should sit down and see what we can do to improve the situation.’
Ree moved his gaze to Jakobsen, who placed his thumbs on the inside of his belt.
‘Improve the situation,’ Ree mimicked, a big grin on his face. ‘You mean, like, sit here and talk about our feelings and stuff?’
Myran said nothing.
‘What the fuck is this – some kumbaya, mindfulness bullshit?’ The smile disappeared. ‘I’m out of here in five days.’
‘The way I see it, that’s all the more reason to do this,’ Myran said. ‘Give yourself the best possible start in your new life out there.’
‘But I won’t have anything to do with him on the outside,’ Ree continued. ‘He’s here for years.’
Blix spoke up. ‘I can just stay in my cell until he’s out. It’s fine.’
‘That is some constructive input, Alexander,’ Myran said, addressing Blix. ‘And thank you for that. But see it as an exercise in being less conflict-oriented.’
Ree scoffed again. ‘I’m not conflict-oriented in the slightest.’ He stood up. ‘Nah, I’m not doing this.’
Jakobsen removed his thumbs from his belt.
Ree noticed and stopped. ‘We’re meant to be here for another…?’
Myran conferred with his wristwatch. ‘Hour and twenty-five minutes.’
‘You’re shitting me.’
The social worker shook his head. A bead of sweat broke loose from his forehead and slid down his cheek.
Ree groaned. ‘Jesus Christ.’
Blix said nothing. He looked over to Jakobsen and back at the social worker. It felt like he was taking part in some absurd performance.
‘Of course, we could just sit here,’ Myran insisted. ‘And stare into space. But that would be terribly boring.’
‘What are you on about?’ Ree barked.
‘This,’ Myran answered. ‘This process. Ordered by the management. It’s mandatory.’
‘Jesus H. Christ.’ Ree sat back down and crossed his arms.
After a long, heavy silence, Myran started:
‘I want you to think of three questions to ask each other.’
Blix barely lifted his head.
‘Three questions that aren’t related to your lives in here,’ Myran elaborated.
Ree snorted.
‘It could be anything,’ the social worker continued. ‘Something private, if you’re curious about something of a more personal nature, and if the other is comfortable answering it. Or it could be about the first thing you’re planning on doing when you get out of here, for example. Anything,’ he repeated. ‘But try to avoid disrespectful questions or hate speech.’
Ree leant back. ‘I’d rather keep my mouth shut.’
Myran adjusted his glasses a little. ‘What about you, Alexander? Do you perhaps have a question you would like to ask Jarl Inge?’
Blix was not used to being addressed by his first name. ‘Me? No.’
He did the same as Ree and leant back in his chair. Crossed one leg over the other and put one hand on top of the other on his lap. The room went silent.
It stayed silent.
Jakobsen shuffled a little, his shoes rubbing against the floor. Myran moved his gaze from Ree to Blix, and back to Ree again. One minute turned into two, which turned into four. Blix turned to look at Ree, who seemed to be staring at something on the ceiling, occasionally moving his gaze to something or other on the wall.
‘Jarl Inge, what do you plan on doing when you get out?’ Myran asked.
‘Get to fuck.’
‘What about you, Alexander?’
Blix met his gaze. ‘Me? No idea. Can’t bear to think about it.’
Again, silence.
‘I have a question,’ Ree said, smiling. He turned to Blix. ‘How old were you the first time you got spanked?’ He laughed to himself, a raw laugh.
Blix didn’t answer.
Ree seemed to suddenly be enjoying himself.
Myran looked at him rather sternly and then said to Blix: ‘You don’t have to answer that.’
‘But that counts as a question, right?’ Ree said, surprisingly eager. ‘It has to. That was a question.’
‘If you can ask a slightly more serious one next time, I’ll consider it.’
‘How kind of you,’ Ree said ironically. ‘Because I really do feel like I have to do everything you say.’
Myran did not respond.
Ree continued to chuckle a little to himself.
Blix just stared ahead. ‘How old were you?’
Ree stopped smiling. The next moment, he was out of the chair and standing up as if to launch himself on Blix, but Jakobsen was beside him before Ree could do anything. Blix just stared straight ahead. Barely bat an eyelid.
Ree took a moment to compose himself. ‘Alright, alright,’ he said to Jakobsen. ‘I’ll sit down.’
‘Great idea, this,’ Blix said to Myran.
The social worker did not answer this time either.
Ree dropped heavily back into his chair. Stared sullenly ahead for the next few minutes. Jakobsen, who never said anything just for the sake of saying something, cleared his throat:
‘Well, that’s one all,’ he said. ‘Two more questions from each of you, then I’m sure the social worker will be so kind as to end class a little earlier than planned?’
Myran returned Jakobsen’s gaze with one of disapproval.
‘Who wants to start?’ the social worker asked, carrying on regardless, looking from one to the other again.
Neither answered. Ree scoffed, shook his head. Myran kept his eyes fixed on him. Ree took a deep breath and exhaled hard. Then it was like he just gave up, to end it, get it over and done with.
‘Where…?’ He stopped himself, as if he hated even having to open his mouth and talk to Blix. ‘Where are you from?’
The words seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth.
‘Oslo,’ Blix answered. ‘You?’
‘Osen,’ he answered immediately.
‘Almost the same,’ Myran interjected. ‘Oslo, Osen.’ He was the only one laughing. ‘But there are certainly some rather large differences between the two. Jarl Inge – what was it like growing up there?’
‘Get to fuck.’
Myran ignored him. ‘That was two questions anyway. Let’s try one more – preferably one that encourages you to talk a bit more, say something about yourselves a little more freely, and then I think that’ll be good enough for this time.’
‘This time?’ Ree bristled. ‘Are you saying we have to come back here more than once?’
‘Like I said, it’s a priority project ordered from the higher-ups.’
‘Project…’ Ree shook his head.
‘And it’s a process where we’ll work on understanding, relationships and curiosity. The faster we make progress, the sooner we can finish.’
Ree grimaced.
Again, silence.
‘I have a question,’ Blix said, after a while, still staring straight ahead. ‘Who’s your best friend and why?’
‘That’s two questions,’ Ree argued.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Myran said. ‘But those are two good questions, thank you for that, Alexander.’
Myran shifted his gaze to Ree and held it there.
Ree snorted and shook his head again. ‘No one in here, that’s for sure,’ he began, contempt in his voice. ‘There are only losers in here.’
Blix saw that Myran was itching to ask what he meant by that, but didn’t.
Ree sighed. ‘She – yes, she
