Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘Tord has also checked out this Vidar’s Facebook profile,’ Katrine said. ‘Not surprisingly, it’s fake, set up recently on a device that we haven’t managed to trace. Tord believes this suggests that he must have a reasonable level of IT skills.’

‘Or else he had help,’ Harry said. ‘But we do at least have one person who saw and spoke to Valentin Gjertsen, just before he disappeared off the radar three years ago. Ståle has retired from his job as a consultant to Crime Squad, but he’s agreed to come here today.’

Ståle Aune stood up, fastening a button on his tweed jacket.

‘For a short time I had the questionable pleasure of seeing a patient who called himself Paul Stavnes. He was unusual as a schizophrenic psychopath insofar as he was aware of his own illness, at least to a certain extent. He also succeeded in manipulating me so that I didn’t realise who he was or what he was doing. Until the day when he let his cover slip quite by chance, then tried to kill me before disappearing for good.’

‘Ståle’s description formed the basis for this photofit picture.’ Harry tapped the computer. ‘So this is also fairly old now, but at least it’s better than the surveillance picture from the football match.’

Katrine tilted her head. The drawing showed that his hair, nose and the shape of his eyes were different, and the shape of his face was more angular than in the photograph. But the look of contentment was still there. Presumed contentment. Like the way you think a crocodile is grinning.

‘How did he become a vampirist?’ a voice by the window asked.

‘To start with, I’m not convinced that there’s any such thing as vampirists,’ Aune said. ‘But of course there could be plenty of reasons why Valentin Gjertsen drinks blood, without me being able to give an answer here and now.’

A long silence followed.

Harry cleared his throat. ‘We haven’t seen any sign of biting or drinking blood in any previous case that can be linked to Gjertsen. And yes, perpetrators do usually stick to a specific pattern, revisiting the same fantasies again and again.’

‘How certain are we that this really is Valentin Gjertsen?’ Skarre asked. ‘And not just someone trying to make us think that it’s him?’

‘Eighty-nine per cent.’ This from Bjørn Holm.

Skarre laughed. ‘Exactly eighty-nine?’

‘Yes. We found strands of body hair on the handcuffs he used on Penelope Rasch, possibly from the back of his hand. With DNA analysis it doesn’t take too long to confirm a match with eighty-nine per cent probability. It’s the last ten per cent that takes time. We’ll get the final answer in two days. The handcuffs are a type that are available online, by the way, a replica of handcuffs from the Middle Ages. Hence the iron, rather than steel. Apparently popular with people who like to do up their love nests to make them look like medieval dungeons.’

A single grunt of laughter.

‘What about the iron teeth?’ one of the female detectives asked. ‘Where could he have got those from?’

‘That’s more difficult,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘We haven’t found anyone who manufactures teeth like this, at least not out of iron. He must have commissioned them specially from a blacksmith. Or made them himself. It’s certainly something new – we haven’t seen anyone use a weapon like this before.’

‘New behaviour,’ Aune said, undoing his jacket to free his stomach. ‘Fundamental changes of behaviour hardly ever happen. Human beings are notorious, they insist on making the same mistakes over and over again, even after they’ve received new information. That’s my opinion, anyway, and it’s become so contentious among psychologists that it’s even been given its own name, Aune’s Thesis. When we see individuals change their behaviour, it usually relates to a change in their surroundings, something the individual is adapting to. While the individual’s underlying motivation for that behaviour remains the same. It’s by no means unique for a sex offender to discover new fantasies and pleasures, but that’s because his taste gradually develops, not because the individual undergoes a fundamental change. When I was a teenager my father said that when I was older I would start to appreciate Beethoven. At the time I hated Beethoven and was convinced he was wrong. Even at a young age, Valentin Gjertsen had a wide-ranging appetite when it came to sexuality. He raped both young and old women, possibly boys, no adult men that we know of, but that could be for practical reasons, seeing as they’re more likely to be able to defend themselves. Paedophilia, necrophilia, sadism, all this was on Valentin Gjertsen’s menu. The Oslo Police have been able to link him to more sexually motivated crimes than anyone apart from Svein Finne, “the Fiancé”. The fact that he’s now acquiring a taste for blood merely means that he scores highly on what we call “openness”, and is willing to try new experiences. I say “acquiring” because certain observations, such as the fact that he added lemon, suggest that Valentin Gjertsen is experimenting with blood rather than being obsessed with it.’

‘Not obsessed?’ Skarre called. ‘He’s up to a victim a day now! While we’re sitting here he’s probably out on the hunt again. Wouldn’t you say, Professor?’ He pronounced the title without trying to conceal his sarcasm.

Aune threw his short arms out. ‘Once again, I don’t know. We don’t know. No one knows.’

‘Valentin Gjertsen,’ Mikael Bellman said. ‘Are we completely sure about that, Bratt? If so, give me ten minutes to think it over. Yes, I can see that it’s urgent.’

Bellman ended the call and put his mobile down on the glass table. Isabelle had just told him it was made of mouth-blown glass from ClassiCon, more than fifty thousand kroner. That she would rather have a few quality pieces than fill her new apartment with rubbish. From where he was sitting he could see an artificial beach and the ferries gliding back and forth across the Oslo Fjord. Strong winds lashed the almost violet water further out.

‘Well?’ Isabelle asked from the bed behind him.

‘The lead detective wants to know if she should agree to take part in The Sunday Magazine this evening. The subject is the vampirist murders, obviously. We know who the perpetrator is, but not where he is.’

‘Simple,’ Isabelle Skøyen said. ‘If you already had the guy, you should do it yourself. But seeing as it’s only a partial success, you should send a representative. Remind her to say “we” rather than “I”. And it wouldn’t do any harm if she were to suggest that the perpetrator may have managed to get across the border.’

‘The border? Why?’

Isabelle Skøyen sighed. ‘Don’t pretend to be more stupid than you are, darling, that’s just irritating.’

Bellman went over to the door to the veranda. He stood there, looking down at the Sunday tourists streaming towards Tjuvholmen. Some to visit the Astrup Fearnley Museum of Contemporary Art, some to look at the hyper-modern architecture and drink overpriced cappuccino. And some to dream about one of the laughably expensive apartments that hadn’t yet been sold. He had heard that the museum had exhibited a Mercedes with a big, brown human turd in place of the Mercedes star on the bonnet. OK, so for some people solid excrement was a status symbol. Others needed the most expensive apartment, the latest car or the biggest yacht to feel good. And then you had people – like Isabelle and he himself – who wanted absolutely everything: power, but without any suffocating obligations. Admiration and respect, but enough anonymity to be able to move freely. Family, to provide a stable framework and help their genes survive, but also free access to sex outside the four walls of the home. The apartment and the car. And solid shit.