Hi, this is Siri Holm at the Gunnerus Library. I talked to you earlier about borrowing a police log from the 1700s. It’s rather urgent that I see it, but I understand if you feel uneasy about sending such an old document over here by messenger. If it suits you better, would it be possible for me to stop by the Dora to have a look at it there?”
Siri was sitting in her office on her day off. She yawned, partly because she was bored by her own formal tone of voice, and partly because it was now afternoon and she’d had only two cups of tea and nothing to eat all day.
“Ah, Miss Holm. I was actually just about to call you,” said a polite and gentle-sounding male voice on the phone. An archivist named Erik Nilsen was on the line.
The man she was talking to was sitting somewhere in the Dora. The building itself was a monstrous submarine bunker that the Germans had constructed during the war. With a roof and walls made of armored concrete more than ten feet thick, the structure was so massive that when the war ended, it proved impossible to demolish. It was said that blasting it apart would require so much dynamite that the whole town would be put at risk. And besides, it would be too costly. Instead, the building had been sold for one single krone. By now this investment had paid off, to put it mildly. The Dora was a protected landmark in the harbor area, and it was fully occupied. The enormous building housed, among other things, the National Archives of Trondheim and the University Library. Every time Siri talked to the people at Dora on the phone, it was like hearing a voice from the deep.
“I just talked to the police about it,” Nilsen replied.
“The police?” she repeated. “Don’t tell me. Has it been stolen?”
“It has. It was usually kept in a box in the archives. When I went to get it yesterday, I discovered that someone had taken it.”
“I thought this might happen,” she said. “Who has access to the archives?”
“Generally we allow access to anyone who wishes to use them. Mostly researchers, historians, and an author or two. Innocent people. But they all have to sign the register before they can gain access to our materials.”
“And of course you’ve already looked at this list of names to see who visited the archives lately, right?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Was there any particular name that struck you as—how should I say it?—a bit odd?”
“Yes, when you put it like that, there actually was one that I noticed.”
“Let me guess. Could it be Grälmakar Löfberg?”
“How did you know? Yes—he entered his name in the register several months ago. He may have been the one who took the logbook. There haven’t been many visitors since then, and none of them was interested in the police logs. I wasn’t working here when this guy arrived. But I think he might have been someone that the archivist on duty at the time knew, at least by sight, someone she trusted, and so she didn’t look at what name he wrote down. Nor did she check whether the contents were still in the box when he turned it in. So how do you know about the name?”
“We’ve had a visit from him over here too,” explained Siri Holm.
After finishing her conversation with Nilsen at the National Archives, she sat at her desk and pondered what she’d learned. I wonder if there’s a facsimile, she thought, or a secondary source. Now she wanted more than ever to find out what that police log said.
Gunnar Berg looked up with a start from his book when Siri opened his office door without knocking.
“Siri? What can I help you with?” he asked after collecting himself.
“I wanted to ask you about something, Gunnar.”
“Will it take long?”
“That depends. It has to do with a ballad and old police logbooks.”
Berg thought for a moment.
“This is definitely going to take a while,” he concluded. “I’m just about to pack up for the day. If you like, you could come along and we can talk on the way.”
She accepted the offer. This way she wouldn’t have to walk up the hills to get home from town.
Half an hour after Gran left the interview room with Professor Høybråten, she informed the investigative team that they no longer had a primary suspect in the case. Jan Høybråten had no gunshot wounds or any other injuries on his body that had punctured the skin.
“So that rules him out, right?” she asked her colleagues.
“We agree with Ivar Edvardsen that it’s almost certain that he confronted the man with the music box last night. And it’s just as certain that the man with the music box is our perpetrator. That’s the only thing that makes sense,” said Jensen.
After a brief meeting, Singsaker and Mona Gran were the only ones left, standing together in the corridor.
“Back to the drawing board,” he said with a sigh.
“I’m afraid so,” she replied.
“Did you put that potted plant in the interview room? You do know that there’s no natural light in there, and it’s going to die faster than you can say greenhouse, right?” he asked.
“Then it’s a good thing I bought it at the dollar store. It’s plastic.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. Take a closer look next time, Chief Inspector.”
Gran headed for her office, while Singsaker decided to go outside. As he made his way downstairs, he realized that he was feeling pretty good. He was glad they had Gran on the team. They needed someone like her who could keep their spirits up. But when he stepped out into the sunlight, his good mood evaporated as he headed toward the canal bridge in Brattøra. Even though he’d tried not to get his hopes up, he had to admit that he’d been convinced there was a link between Høybråten and the killer. But now that theory had fallen apart, and they really had no leads whatsoever.
When he reached the canal on the other side of the street, he sat down on a bench. He started thinking about Felicia again. Is it irrevocable, what happened between us? It can’t be. Can it? He was immersed in these thoughts when his cell rang.
“You said I could call you if there was anything,” said a voice, which despite its deep timbre lacked any hint of authority.
“Who is this?” Singsaker asked.
“It’s Fredrik.”
“Fredrik?”
Singsaker dug through his memory. It felt as if the rest of his life was stored on some computer server in a distant country.
“Fredrik Alm?” he ventured after a moment. “What is it?”
“You said I could call you if there was anything.”
“I did. And is there something?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” said Singsaker, “that’s precisely what you’re doing right now.”
“Not on the phone.”
“I see.” Singsaker sighed heavily and did his best to pull himself together. He’d already been dealt a few good blows today, but there was no reason he should take his frustration out on the boy. “Where are you right now?”
“I stayed home from school today. I’m not feeling well.”
“Okay, give me your address and I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“The Swedes have an incredibly strong and ancient ballad tradition. Lots of people think that it began with Bellman, but there were many great troubadours before him. My favorite is Lasse Lucidor,” said Gunnar Berg as he turned onto Prinsens Gate near the Trøndelag Theater.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you where you live,” said Siri.
“I actually live in Tiller,” he replied. “But I need to stop by a place that I’m renting. Lasse Lucidor wrote a number of beautiful ballads in the 1600s. He’s best known for a number of so-called occasional ballads.” Gunnar was unstoppable once he got started talking about these kinds of songs. Siri hadn’t yet had a chance to ask him about the police log, which was why she’d wanted to talk to him in the first place.
“Wedding songs and funeral ballads were his specialty. He was once arrested for writing a wedding poem titled ‘The Suitor’s Anguish.’ It was intended for Konrad Gyllenstjärna’s wedding. The song was so offensive that it was banned by King Karl X Gustav himself. Lucidor defended his work, saying that he had simply listened to his muse. He managed to win the case against him by acting as his own defense counsel, and so the case is considered an important victory for free speech in Sweden.”
They had now reached the premises of the Student Association. He switched lanes to take the exit toward Singsaker and Rosenborg.
“What’s interesting about Lasse Lucidor is that after being found not guilty of slander, he ended up dying in a duel at a tavern in Stockholm in 1676. It happened after a heated exchange of words with the officer Arvid Christian Storm. After killing Lucidor, Storm fled to Norway and soon afterward became the commandant in Fredrikstad. His descendants became very prosperous and eventually married into the well-known Wedel Jarlsberg family. That’s how things were, back in those days.”
They had reached the Fortress Park and were approaching the Rosenborg School.
“It’s not far now,” he said.
The Alm family lived in a big apartment building that had a sweeping view.
Fredrik opened the door when Singsaker rang the bell.
“Home alone?” he asked as the boy led the way into the living room. Fredrik nodded mutely. They sat down near the big picture window that looked out over the fjord. Fredrik looked ill at ease. Singsaker suspected that he was the type of person that didn’t really feel at home anywhere.
“What is it you want to tell me?” he asked, having taken a seat on the sofa.
The magnificent view of the fjord made him think about Siri Holm’s apartment. What he remembered most from that hour of dalliance with her was that he’d felt dizzy the whole time. Now he wondered if it had been because of the view. Or maybe it was the nagging suspicion he’d had even then that he was doing something that would have far-reaching consequences. But at the time he didn’t know what those consequences would be. If he’d known, would he have done it anyway? No, he thought. No, no, no. Or maybe he would have.
Would he be able to get out of this without being honest with himself? He’d never had an experience like that. He and Siri had put everything, and yet nothing, into it. It was that impossible combination of joy and vertigo, of feeling completely free and yet knowing there could be unanticipated consequences that had made their encounter something he would never forget. What he couldn’t explain to himself, much less to Felicia, was that it took nothing away from his feelings for her.
“She’s pregnant,” said Fredrik Alm, his voice sounding as it came from far away.
Singsaker was just about to say, I know, damn it all. But then he realized who Fredrik meant.
“Julie? Julie’s pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the father?”
“Yes.”
“So the last time she came over, it wasn’t to look at pictures, was it? She came here to tell you about the baby. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Do your parents know about this?”
“No. Just Julie and I, and her doctor, of course. Now you know about it too.”
“Did you talk about whether she should keep the child?”
“Yeah, we talked about it.”
“And?”
“We couldn’t decide. We couldn’t make up our minds.”
What a fucking mess, thought Singsaker, looking at Fredrik Alm. He was too skinny. At the same time, there was a new self-confidence in his gaze. This wasn’t the way to become a grown-up. Yet this was what had happened. A mentally disturbed man had kidnapped his girlfriend and his unborn baby. In that situation, no one could remain a child.
“You realize that I’m going to have to phone your parents, right?”
The boy nodded.
“And Julie’s parents need to know about this too.”
Again he nodded.
“You did the right thing, telling me,” he said, and then took out his cell.
As Singsaker punched in Brattberg’s number, Fredrik said, “It all seems so unreal. I know it’s true, but her stomach was still so flat. I couldn’t believe there was anything inside there.”
After Singsaker filled Brattberg in, he got ready to leave.
“How much did you tell each other?” he then asked Fredrik as they stood in the hall and he was putting on his coat.
“What do you mean?”
“If somebody had treated her badly, would she have told you about it?”
“Maybe. What are you getting at?”
“Did Julie ever tell you about anything that happened at choir practice?”
“Like what?”
“Did she complain about any of the choir directors?”
“No, not really. But she said something about a man she thought was disgusting, someone at the practices for the Bellman concert.”
“Did she tell you what he did?”
“No, just that he was staring at her in a creepy way.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No. We didn’t really talk about it. It was just something she happened to mention. I think she likes saying that sort of thing, just to bug me.”
Singsaker thanked Fredrik for his help and then left. By now it was late afternoon, and he headed home for dinner.
The man Julie had described as disgusting was probably Høybråten. He was clearly the sort of man that had more than one reason for working with a girls choir. But that didn’t bring them any closer to the killer.
On his way home, Singsaker realized how much he was hoping that Felicia would be there, and that she’d calmed down by now. He tried to phone her, but she didn’t pick up. As he passed the Rosenborg School, he happened to think of his notebook. He recalled that he’d jotted down quite a bit of information, and it might be important for him to follow up on some of it. But once again, the school was closed and deserted.
When they reached Rosenborg, they stopped in front of a huge old building.
“This is where I rent a place,” said Gunnar Berg. They both got out of the car. “Do you want to come in, or do you need to get home?”
“Well,” said Siri, feeling a cool breeze ruffle her curls, “I haven’t even asked you about what I wanted to discuss.”
“Can you stand it if things are a mess?” he asked.
“Can’t live any other way,” she replied with a smile.
“Then come on in.”
She followed him to the entrance, where he unlocked an old, worn door and ushered her inside. From the front hall they proceeded downstairs to the basement.
“This is the room I’m renting,” he said and paused outside the door. Then he insisted, a bit bashfully, that she cover her eyes as he opened the door and led her in.
Then he told her to take her hand away from her eyes, and what she saw did not match the image she’d had of him up until now. There were dirty dishes piled up all over the floor, pages of notes were spread out on a table, and behind that stood something that looked like a big mixing console, with the top removed so that wires stuck out in all directions. The whole place smelled moldy, and she noticed that she was standing on something sticky, but she didn’t want to know what it was. She almost felt like she was back in her own apartment a week ago, before she’d decided to clean up.
She turned around and took a step back, slipping on something underfoot. She saw Gunnar Berg coming toward her a second before she regained her balance, and then she fell backward, with him on top of her. Something struck the back of her head. And then everything went black.