His cell phone rang just as he was pulling away.
It was Brattberg. “Professor Høybråten is on his way into the station,” she said. “We’d like you to be here when he arrives.”
Singsaker cleared his throat and said he’d get there as soon as he could.
“Jon Blund,” said Singsaker, giving Jan Høybråten his most penetrating stare.
Next to the professor sat Terje Bjugn, an older defense attorney. Singsaker knew him. Bjugn had once joined him and Jensen on a hunt. But he didn’t like to shoot, so he’d hadn’t gone again. He seemed cautious, always relaxed, and there was a sleepy glaze to his eyes, as if he spent too much time staring off into space. Yet Singsaker knew that the man had a sharp tongue, which he saved for appropriate occasions.
“Jon Blund?” Høybråten looked genuinely surprised by the way this interview was starting. He was sitting on a chair that was clearly not as comfortable as the one he was accustomed to. The interview room had sterile white walls and plain furniture. The table, with Singsaker on one side and the professor and his lawyer on the other, was from IKEA. Singsaker was startled to see a green potted plant standing in the corner behind Høybråten. It was new. Who had put it there? He had his suspicions, but then he started wondering how long it would last without any natural sunlight. The next instant the door next to the plant opened and Mona Gran came into the room.
“Yes, Jon Blund,” Singsaker repeated as his colleague sat down beside him. He was annoyed to see that she leaned forward to make sure that the tape recorder on the table was switched on. Which of course it was. He’d gotten more forgetful, but he wasn’t completely senile yet. He continued with his line of questioning.
“The ballad the music box plays was written by a composer who called himself Jon Blund.”
Høybråten stared at him. Singsaker stared back. He’d already noted that there was no sign of a bullet wound in the skin that was visible on Høybråten’s body. But the professor might still have a bandage somewhere under his clothing.
“Oh, of course. That’s why it sounded familiar. The ballad collection in the Gunnerus Library, right? Now I remember. How silly of me. Forgive me, but it’s been years since I last looked at the ballads, so I’ve forgotten the tune. Of course. Jon Blund. Sure. And I was correct about it being a lullaby, wasn’t I?”
“So it seems.”
“‘The Golden Peace.’ Isn’t that what it’s called? I remember it now. It’s a lovely ballad.”
“And apparently lethal,” said Singsaker.
Høybråten looked at him, and it was clear that he now recalled the poorly disguised accusations that Singsaker had voiced the last time they’d met.
Singsaker went on. “Isn’t it a little odd that you remember the tune only now?”
“Not really. I’ve never worked with the ballads in the Gunnerus Library. That’s mainly because very few of them have ever been set to music. The one you mention is an exception. I did see it several decades ago. But the tune didn’t stay with me. Not even a professor can remember everything.”
Singsaker studied him carefully and realized that he might be telling the truth.
“Don’t think that we’re just going to forget about your relationship with the girls in the choir, Professor Høybråten,” said Singsaker. “But we’re aware that you’ve come here voluntarily, and at this stage we are treating you as a witness. And I assume that your attorney has no objection to that. Am I right?”
Attorney Bjugn nodded a bit warily.
“Now that you evidently do remember certain things about the ballad, let’s follow that for a while. Can you tell us anything we don’t already know about Jon Blund?”
“Jon Blund is a pseudonym,” replied Høybråten.
“That much we do know,” said Gran. And Singsaker was relieved that she had chimed in. “What we want to know is whether you know anything about the man behind the name.”
“Not much, I’m afraid. But according to an old police log, someone with that name was murdered in Trondheim sometime in the 1760s. That’s why we believe that ‘The Golden Peace’ was written close to that time.”
“Is that the only source of information we have about Jon Blund?” asked Gran.
“Yes and no,” replied Høybråten.
“What do you mean by that?”
“A few years ago a letter was found in the wall of Ringve Manor when the section from the eighteenth century was being renovated. This letter was stolen almost immediately after it was discovered, and so no one has been able to study it properly. But it was said to be about Jon Blund.”
“And no one knows who stole the letter?”
“Not to my knowledge. But you police officers would know more than I do,” said Høybråten spitefully.
Singsaker stood up, having decided they’d followed the Jon Blund lead as far as they could go. There were other, more pressing reasons why they wished to speak to Høybråten.
“I don’t know whether you realize it, but as of last night we’re investigating the murder at Kuhaugen and the disappearance of Julie Edvardsen as one and the same case.”
“I see,” said Høybråten, displaying no sign of emotion.
“May I ask why?” asked Attorney Bjugn, clearing his throat.
“For the time being, we can’t divulge much information. What I can tell you is that last night there was a confrontation between the perpetrator and Julie’s parents, during which a wound of unknown severity was inflicted on the suspect. As a result, we now have an opportunity to check witnesses who are associated in some way with the case. We have DNA evidence from the perp, and we also know that he has a wound somewhere on his body. What we are hoping, professor, is that you will agree to see a doctor, who will examine you for wounds. It would be in your best interest, and it would greatly help us with the investigation,” Singsaker concluded, amused with his own diplomatic formulation of the request.
Høybråten cast an uncertain glance at Bjugn, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“All right,” the professor said with a sigh. “If that’s all you need.”
Gran stood up and escorted Jan Høybråten to the doctor while Singsaker went back to his office.