Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘Not the clinical vampirist with Renfield’s syndrome. It’s actually rather unfortunate that the syndrome is named after Renfield, who of course was Count Dracula’s servant in Bram Stoker’s novel. It should be called Noll’s syndrome, after the psychiatrist who first identified it. On the other hand, Noll didn’t take vampirism seriously either: the article in which he wrote about the syndrome was intended as a parody.’

‘Is it out of the question that this individual might not actually be sick, but taking a drug that makes them thirst for human blood, in the same way that MDPV, so-called “bath salts”, made its users attack other people and eat them in Miami and New York in 2012?’

‘No. When people who take MDPV become cannibalistic they are extremely psychotic, unable to think rationally or plan, the police can catch them red-handed – pardon the pun – because they make no attempt to hide. Now, the typical vampirist is so driven by a thirst for blood that escape isn’t the first thing they think of, but in this case the planning is so thorough that he or she hasn’t left any evidence behind, if we’re to believe VG .’

‘She?’

‘I, er, was just trying to be politically correct. Vampirists are almost always men, especially when the attacks are violent, as in this instance. Female vampirists usually make do with auto-vampirism, seek out like-minded souls to swap blood with, get blood from slaughterhouses, or hang around near blood banks. I did have a female patient in Lithuania who actually ate her mother’s canaries while they were still alive …’

Katrine noticed the first yawn of the evening in the audience, and a solitary laugh that quickly fell silent.

‘At first my colleagues and I thought we were dealing with what is known as species dysphoria, which is when a patient believes they were born the wrong species and is actually something else: in this instance, a cat. That was until we realised we were looking at a case of vampirism. Unfortunately Psychology Today didn’t agree, so if you want to read the article about the case you’ll have to go to hallstein.psychologist.com.’

‘Detective Inspector Bratt, can we say that this is a serial killer?’

Katrine thought for a couple of seconds. ‘No.’

‘But VG is saying that Harry Hole, who of course isn’t exactly unknown as a specialist in serial murders, has been brought onto the case. Doesn’t that suggest that—?’

‘We sometimes consult firemen even when there isn’t a fire.’

Smith was the only person who laughed. ‘Good answer! Psychiatrists and psychologists would starve to death if we only saw patients when there was actually something wrong with them.’

That got a lot of laughs, and the presenter smiled gratefully at Smith. Katrine had a feeling that Smith was the more likely out of the pair of them to be asked back.

‘Serial killer or not, do you both consider that the vampirist is going to strike again? Or will he wait until the next full moon?’

‘I don’t want to speculate about that,’ Katrine said, and caught a glimpse of irritation in the presenter’s eyes. What the hell, did he really expect her to join in with his tabloid parlour games?

‘I’m not going to speculate either,’ Hallstein Smith said. ‘I don’t need to, because I know. A paraphile – what we rather imprecisely call a sexually perverted person – who doesn’t get treatment very rarely stops of his own accord. And a vampirist never does. But I think the fact that the most recent attempted murder took place at a full moon is a complete coincidence, and was enjoyed more by you in the media than the vampirist.’

It didn’t look like the presenter felt put out by Smith’s barb. He asked with a serious frown: ‘Herr Smith, would you say we should be critical of the police for not warning the public earlier that a vampirist was on the loose, like you yourself did in VG ?’

‘Mm.’ Smith grimaced and looked up at one of the spotlights. ‘That becomes a question about what one ought to have known, doesn’t it? Like I said, vampirism is tucked away in one of the less familiar corners of psychology, rarely troubled by the light. So, no. I’d say it was unfortunate, but they shouldn’t be criticised for it.’

‘But now the police do know. So what should they do?’

‘Find out more about the subject.’

‘And finally: how many vampirists have you met?’

Smith puffed his cheeks out and exhaled. ‘Genuine ones?’

‘Yes.’

‘Two.’

‘How do you personally react to blood?’

‘It makes me feel queasy.’

‘Yet you still research and write about it.’

Smith smiled wryly. ‘Perhaps that’s why. We’re all a bit crazy.’

‘Does that apply to you as well, Detective Inspector Bratt?’

Katrine started. For a moment she’d forgotten she wasn’t just watching but was actually on television.

‘Er, sorry?’

‘A bit crazy?’

Katrine searched for an answer. Something quick-witted and genial, like Harry had advised. She knew she’d think of something when she got into bed later that night. Which couldn’t come soon enough, seeing as she could feel her tiredness seeping through now that the adrenalin rush of being on television was starting to fade. ‘I …’ she began, then gave up and plumped for a ‘Well, who knows?’

‘Crazy enough that you could envisage meeting a vampirist? Not a murderer, as in this tragic case, but one who might just bite you a little bit?’

Katrine suspected that was a joke, possibly one alluding to her vaguely S&M-inspired outfit.

‘A little bit?’ she repeated, and raised one black, made-up eyebrow. ‘Yes, why not?’

And without actually trying, she too was rewarded with laughter this time.

‘Good luck with catching him, Detective Inspector Bratt. The last word to you, herr Smith. You didn’t answer the question about how to find vampirists. Any advice for Detective Inspector Bratt here?’

‘Vampirism is such an extreme paraphilia that it often occurs in conjunction with other psychiatric diagnoses. So I would encourage all psychologists and psychiatrists to help the police by going through their lists to see if they have patients who demonstrate behaviour that might fit the criteria for clinical vampirism. I think we can agree that a case like this has to take precedence over our oath of confidentiality.’

‘And with that, this edition of The Sunday Magazine …’

The television screen behind the counter went dark.

‘Nasty stuff,’ Mehmet said. ‘But your colleague looked good.’

‘Hm. Is it always this empty here?’

‘Oh, no.’ Mehmet looked around the bar. Cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes.’

‘I like it.’

‘Do you? You haven’t touched your beer. Look at it, going flat there.’

‘Good,’ the policeman said.

‘I could give you something with a bit more life in it.’ Mehmet nodded towards the Galatasaray banner.

Katrine was hurrying along one of the empty, labyrinthine corridors in Television Centre when she heard heavy footsteps and breathing behind her. She glanced back without stopping. It was Hallstein Smith. Katrine noted a running style that was as unorthodox as his research, unless he was just unusually knock-kneed.

‘Bratt,’ Smith called.

Katrine stopped and waited.

‘I’d like to start by apologising,’ Smith said as he caught up with her, gasping for breath.

‘What for?’

‘For talking far too much. I get a bit high from the attention, my wife’s always telling me. But much more importantly, that picture …’

‘Yes?’

‘I couldn’t say anything in there, but I think I might have had him as a patient.’