Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘He’s got a lot of different MOs, Harry.’

‘He likes pain, and he likes their fear. Not blood.’

‘You said the killer put lemon in the blood because he didn’t like it.’

‘Katrine, it wouldn’t even help us to know that it is him. How long have you and Interpol been looking for him now?’

‘Getting on for four years.’

‘That’s why I think it would be counterproductive to tell the others about my suspicions and risk the investigation narrowing down to focus on just one person.’

‘Or else you want to catch him yourself.’

‘What?’

‘He’s the reason you’re back, isn’t he, Harry? You got his scent right from the start. Oleg was just an excuse.’

‘We’re dropping this conversation now, Katrine.’

‘Because Bellman would never have gone public about Oleg’s past – the fact that he hadn’t done anything before now would bounce back and hit him.’

Harry turned the radio up. ‘Heard this one? Aurora Aksnes, it’s pretty …’

‘You hate synth-pop, Harry.’

‘I like it more than this conversation.’

Katrine sighed. They pulled up at a red light. She leaned forward towards the windscreen.

‘Look. It’s a full moon.’

‘It’s a full moon,’ Mona Daa said, looking out of the kitchen window at the rolling fields. The moonlight made it look like they were shimmering, as if they were covered with fresh snow. ‘Does that increase the likelihood of him striking for a third time as early as tonight, do you think?’

Hallstein Smith smiled. ‘Hardly. From what you’ve told me about the two murders, this vampirist’s paraphilias are necrophilia and sadism rather than mythomania or any delusion that he’s a supernatural being. But he will strike again, that much is certain.’

‘Interesting.’ Mona Daa was writing in her notebook, which was lying on the kitchen table next to the cup of freshly brewed green chilli tea. ‘And where and when will that happen, do you think?’

‘You said the second woman had also been on a Tinder date?’

Mona Daa nodded as she continued to take notes. Most of her colleagues used recording devices, but – even though she was the youngest of the crime reporters – she preferred to do it the old-fashioned way. Her official explanation was that in the race to be first with the news, she saved time in comparison to the others because she edited her stories while taking notes. That was a particular advantage when she was covering press conferences. Although this afternoon at Police HQ you could have managed without a Dictaphone or notebook. Katrine Bratt’s refrain of ‘We can’t comment’ had eventually managed to provoke even the most experienced crime reporters.

‘We haven’t printed anything about it being a Tinder date in the paper yet, but we’ve received a tip-off from a source in the police saying that Ewa Dolmen had sent a text message to a friend telling her that she was on a Tinder date at Dicky’s in Grünerløkka.’

‘Right.’ Smith adjusted his glasses. ‘I’m pretty sure he’ll stick to the method that’s proved successful for him so far.’

‘So what would you say to people who are thinking of meeting new men via Tinder over the next few days?’

‘That they ought to wait until the vampirist is caught.’

‘But do you think he’ll go on using Tinder himself after he’s read this and realised that everyone knows that’s his method?’

‘This is a psychosis, he won’t let himself be stopped by rational considerations when it comes to risk. This isn’t a classic serial killer, calmly planning what he does, a cold-blooded psychopath who doesn’t leave any evidence, who hides in corners spinning his web and taking his time between murders.’

‘Our source says the detectives leading the investigation believe he is a classic serial killer.’

‘This is a different sort of madness. The murder is less important to him than the biting, the blood – that’s what’s driving him. And all he wants is to carry on, he’s on a roll now, his psychosis is fully developed. The hope is that he – unlike the classic serial killer – actually wants to be identified and caught because he’s so out of control, so indifferent to being found. The classic serial killer and the vampirist are both natural disasters in the sense that they are perfectly ordinary people who happen to be mentally ill. But while the serial killer is a storm that can rage and rage and you don’t know when it’s over, the vampirist is like a landslide. It’s over after a very short time. But in that time he could have wiped out an entire community, OK?’

‘OK,’ Mona said, scribbling away. Wipe out an entire community . ‘Well, thanks very much, I’ve got all I need.’

‘Don’t mention it. I’m actually surprised that you came out here for so little.’

Mona Daa opened her iPad. ‘We had to come anyway, to get a picture, so I came along as well. Will?’

‘I was thinking of taking a picture out on the field,’ the photographer said, having sat quietly and listened to the interview. ‘You, the open landscape and the light of the moon.’

Mona knew exactly what the photographer was thinking, of course. Man alone outside in the dark, full moon, vampire. She nodded almost imperceptibly to him. Sometimes it was best not to tell the subject of a photograph what your ideas were, because then you only ran the risk of them objecting.

‘Any chance my wife can be in the picture too?’ Smith wondered, looking rather taken aback. ‘ VG … this is a pretty big deal for us.’

Mona Daa couldn’t help smiling. Sweet. For a moment an idea flashed through her head, of them taking a picture of the psychologist biting his wife’s neck to illustrate the case, but that would obviously be taking it too far, too much slapstick for a serious murder story.

‘My editor would probably prefer to have you on your own,’ she said.

‘I understand, I just had to ask.’

‘I’ll stay here and write, then maybe we can get it up on the website before we leave. Have you got Wi-Fi?’

She got the password, freudundgammen , and was already halfway through by the time she saw the camera flash out on the field.

The unofficial explanation of why she avoided recordings was that they were incontrovertible evidence of what had really been said. Not that Mona Daa ever consciously wrote anything that contradicted what she believed her interviewee had meant. But it gave her the freedom to emphasise certain points. Translating quotes into a tabloid form that the readers would understand. And would click to read.

PSYCHOLOGIST: VAMPIRIST CAN WIPE OUT WHOLE CITIES!

She glanced at the time. Truls Berntsen had said he’d call at ten o’clock if anything new had cropped up.

‘I don’t like science-fiction films,’ said the man sitting opposite Penelope Rasch. ‘The most irritating thing is the sound as the spaceship passes the camera.’ He pursed his lips and made a quick whooshing sound. ‘There’s no air in space, there’s no sound, just complete silence. We’re being lied to.’

‘Amen,’ Penelope said, and raised her glass of mineral water.

‘I like Alejandro González Iñárritu,’ the man said, raising his own glass of water. ‘I prefer Biutiful and Babel to Birdman and The Revenant . I’m afraid he’s getting a bit mainstream now.’

Penelope felt a little shiver of pleasure. Not so much because he had just mentioned both her favourite films, but because he had included Iñárritu’s rarely used middle name. And he had already mentioned her favourite author (Cormac McCarthy) and city (Florence).

The door opened. They had been the only customers in the neglected little restaurant he had suggested, but now another couple walked in. He turned round. Not towards the door to look, but away from it. And she got a couple of seconds in which to study him unobserved. She had already noted that he was slim, about the same height as her, well mannered, nicely dressed. But was he attractive? It was hard to say. He certainly wasn’t ugly, but there was something slippery about him. And something made her doubt he was as young as the forty years he claimed to be. His skin looked tight around his eyes and neck, as if he’d had a facelift.