with the timber houses, the puddles of melted ice, the blue light slowly turning, two inquisitive children on bicycles- it was like a repetition of the scene outside Sverre Olsen's house. Harry prayed the similarities would stop there.
He parked, got out of the Escort and walked slowly towards the house. As he closed the door behind him he heard someone come out on to the stairs.
'Weber,' Harry said in surprise. 'Our paths cross again.'
'Indeed they do.'
'I didn't know you were on patrol duty too.'
'You know bloody well I'm not. But Brandhaug lives nearby and we had only just got into the car when the message came through on the radio.'
'What's going on?'
'Your guess is as good as mine. There's no one at home. But the door was open.'
'Have you had a look around?’
‘From cellar to loft.'
'Strange. The dog isn't here, either, as far as I can see.'
'Dogs and people, all gone. But it looks as if someone has been in the cellar because the window in the door there is smashed.'
'Right,' Harry said, looking across Irisveien. He caught sight of a tennis court between the houses.
'She may have gone to one of the neighbours,' Harry said. 'I asked her to.'
Weber followed Harry into the hallway where a young police officer was standing looking at the mirror above the telephone table.
'Well, Moen, can you see any signs of intelligent life?' Weber asked sarcastically.
Moen turned and gave Harry a brief nod.
'Well,' Moen said. 'I don't know if it's intelligent or merely weird.' He pointed to the mirror. The other two came closer. 'Well, I'll be blowed,' Weber said.
The large red letters appeared to have been written with lipstick.
GOD IS MY JUDGE.
Harry's mouth felt like the inside of orange peel. The glass in the front door rattled as it was torn open. 'What are you doing here?' asked the silhouette standing in front of them with his back to the light. 'And where's Burre?' It was Even Juul.
Harry sat at the kitchen table with a clearly very worried Even Juul. Moen did the rounds of the neighbours, searching for Signe Juul and asking if anyone had seen anything. Weber had pressing things to do on the Brandhaug case and had to go off in the patrol car, but Harry promised Moen a lift.
'She usually told me when she was going out,' Even Juul said. 'Tells me, I mean.'
'Is that her writing on the mirror in the hall?'
'No,' he said. 'I don't think so, anyway'
'Is it her lipstick?'
Juul looked at Harry without answering.
'She was terrified when I talked to her on the phone,' Harry said. 'She kept saying someone was trying to kill her. Have you any idea who that could have been?'
'Kill?'
'That's what she said.'
'But no one wants to kill Signe.'
'No?'
'Are you crazy, man?'
'Well, in that case, I'm sure you'll understand that I have to ask you if your wife was unstable. Hysterical.'
Harry wasn't sure that Juul had heard him when Juul shook his head.
'Fine,' Harry said, getting up. 'You'll have to rack your brains for anything at all that might help us. And you should call all your friends and relatives to see if she has gone there for protection. I have started a search-Moen and I will check the immediate vicinity. For the time being, there's not a lot else we can do.'
As Harry closed the door behind him, Moen came walking towards him. He was shaking his head.
'No one even saw a car?' Harry asked.
At this time of day there are only pensioners and mothers with small children at home.'
'Pensioners are good at noticing things.'
'Not this time, apparently. If there was anything remotely worth noticing, that is.'
Worth noticing. Harry didn't know why, but there was something about Moen's phrasing that resonated at the back of his brain. The children on the bicycles had vanished. He sighed.
'Let's be off.'
79
Police HQ. 11 May 2000.
Halvorsen was on the telephone when Harry went into the office. He put a finger against his lips to show someone was talking. Harry guessed he was still trying to trace the woman at the Continental, and that could only mean he hadn't had any luck at the Foreign Office. Apart from a pile of case notes on Halvorsen's desk, the office was free of paper. Everything but the Marklin case had been cleared away.
'No,' Halvorsen said. 'Let me know if you hear anything, OK?' He put down the receiver.
'Did you get hold of Aune?' Harry asked, dropping down on to his chair.
Halvorsen nodded and raised two fingers. Two o'clock. Harry consulted his watch. Aune would be there in twenty minutes.
'Get me a picture of Edvard Mosken,' Harry said, picking up the receiver. He tapped in Sindre Fauke's number and they agreed to meet at three. Then he told Halvorsen about Signe Juul's disappearance.
'Do you think it has anything to do with the Brandhaug case?' Halvorsen asked.
'I don't know, but it makes it all the more important that we talk to Aune.'
'Why's that?'
'Because this is beginning to look more and more like the work of someone unhinged. So we need an expert.'
Aune was a big man in many ways. Overweight, almost two metres tall, and he was considered to be the best psychologist in his field. This field was not abnormal psychology, but Aune was a clever man and he had helped Harry on other cases.
He had a friendly, open face and it had often struck Harry that Aune was actually too human, too vulnerable, too alright to be able to operate on the battlefield of the human psyche without being damaged by it. When Harry asked him about this, Aune had replied that of course he was affected, but then who wasn't?
Now he was listening attentively to Harry as he spoke. About the slitting of Hallgrim Dale's throat, the murder of Ellen Gjelten and the assassination of Bernt Brandhaug. Harry told him about Even Juul, who thought they should be looking for a soldier who had fought on the Russian Front, a theory which may have been strengthened by Brandhaug being killed after the report in Dagbladet. Finally, he told him about Signe Juul's disappearance.
Afterwards Aune sat deep in thought. He grunted as he alternated between nodding and shaking his head.
'I regret to say that I am not sure I can help you much,' he said. 'The only thing I have to work on is the message on the mirror. It's reminiscent of a calling card and it is quite normal for serial killers, especially after several killings when they begin to feel secure enough to want to up the ante by provoking the police.'
