So they were back to square one.
“He has nowhere else to hide,” said Jensen, trying to be optimistic.
They were standing outside in the neatly shoveled driveway. It had started snowing again, and soon all of Jonas Røed’s work would be in vain. Singsaker had given a brief report about his entry into the house and how he’d been assaulted by Røed, who had apparently been hiding behind the door, waiting for him. Now the police officers were considering how to proceed.
“No place to hide, and yet he’s gone,” said Singsaker.
“We’ll find him,” said Brattberg.
“But will we find the girl?”
“Let’s hope so.” Brattberg turned to look at the house.
“At least we’ve learned a few more things,” Jensen interjected. “First of all, we’ve confirmed that he actually does own a car, an old red Saab 9000. The neighbor claimed that Røed rarely used it, but apparently he drove it into town this morning.”
“I saw it. The car was parked here when I arrived,” said Singsaker, and then he described what it looked like.
“Which means that he might have taken her with him, and theoretically they could be anywhere,” said Brattberg. “We need to send out an APB to all police patrols in the whole district to be on the lookout for this car.” She got out her cell.
“To think that he was right here all along. It’s no more than fifty yards from where we found Silje Rolfsen. He’s been right under our noses the whole time. He could have strolled across the street to the woods, carrying her over his shoulder, for God’s sake,” said Jensen. “No wonder there weren’t any traces of a parked car.”
While Jensen spoke, Brattberg called headquarters and swiftly issued orders.
Singsaker sighed heavily, lost in his own thoughts, as she ended the call.
“Grongstad has also found a number of interesting documents in Heimdal,” she told her colleagues as she put away her phone. “One of them is an old broadsheet, apparently the original that was stolen from the Gunnerus Library. That might give us some insight into the way Røed thinks. Could you get your friend at the library to have a look at it so we can confirm that it’s genuine? I’ve got it in the car.”
Singsaker went with Brattberg, who gave him the broadsheet. Then he got into his own car. His head was pounding as if his brain, not his heart, was what pumped the blood through his body. He castigated himself. He should have known that Røed would be inside the house. He thought of the freshly sliced bread on the kitchen table, and the PC, which had been on.
But now the man had escaped. Once again they were one crucial step behind him. And the only hope they had now was that Julie Edvardsen wasn’t dead. Singsaker hadn’t felt a pulse, but he supposed she’d been struck by the stun gun, just as he’d been. Røed still had her, and Singsaker could only hope she was still alive.
But where was he? They’d found his two hiding places. Where would he go now? Singsaker stared blankly at the broadsheet that Brattberg had given him. He could feel his pulse hammering in his temples. It was the pulse of a hunter. His deepest instincts told him that he should get out of the car and race through the streets on foot until he found Røed and could wrap his hands around the neck of that perverse curator from the Ringve Museum. Jonas Røed had tricked the police into thinking he was an innocent professional whose only obsession was music boxes. Røed had sent Singsaker on a wild-goose chase, hunting down Høybråten. And he had stood behind the door, waiting for Singsaker, who had assumed the house was empty. Singsaker felt like running until he tasted blood in his mouth, until his throat bled dry.
There was only one thought that calmed him down. Røed had more than enough to keep him busy with Julie. The theories that had made Singsaker believe that Felicia had somehow landed in the middle of this mess had turned out to be nothing but irrational worries. There’d been no trace of her in either of the places where Røed lived. Singsaker now had to accept that Felicia had simply left him. That was a fact. Still, it was hard for him to acknowledge that he’d turned the situation into something even more gruesome. Now he understood what else Dr. Nordraak had been trying to tell him. He was a police officer with a particularly strong character trait. He was actually able to think very clearly. As this dawned on him, he began to focus his attention on the broadsheet. I don’t understand him, Singsaker thought, and I can’t go running after him. Maybe that’s what he wants. So I have to do what I’m good at. And then he realized that Brattberg was right: The broadsheet could be their key.
Felicia Stone opened her eyes and peered over the duvet. She looked around the apartment. It was good to be with family, she thought. She noticed that her headache was starting to subside, along with the dizziness. She’d been far away, but now she was finally home. Her head was clear, and she knew what she wanted to do.
She wondered whether she should phone Odd. Tell him where she was, what she’d been doing, and what she was thinking.
No. She wasn’t ready for that. She got up unsteadily.
I wonder if there’s any food in this house.
“It’s a beautiful print,” said Siri Holm, putting on a pair of white gloves before she picked up the broadsheet that Singsaker had brought her.
Singsaker hadn’t thought of it that way, but now that she mentioned it, he could see that the broadsheet was truly one of a kind. He stood behind her and read over her shoulder. The title, “The Golden Peace,” was printed in big Gothic letters and underneath were the words that made the greatest impression on him: “Dreams Re-create the World Each Night.”
What if that’s actually true? he wondered.
At the very bottom, the last line read: “I promise slumber and dreams to everyone who listens to me.”
Were these the words that had become ingrained in the insane mind of Jonas Røed?
The background was a lovely picture showing a musician holding some sort of stringed instrument in his hands. He was surrounded by a group of people, all of whom were sleeping.
“Jon Blund,” Singsaker said.
“One and the same,” Siri Holm said with a laugh. “And look at the date.”
Singsaker saw the date under the title. It said: 3 July 1767.
“What about it?” he asked.
“It’s the same date as the first published issue of Adresseavisen. The Winding print shop must have been busy that day. This print would have been expensive. And I doubt whether the publisher earned much from it.”
“Do you mean Jon Blund?” asked Singsaker.
“Yes, or whoever had it printed in Jon Blund’s name.”
“We still don’t know who he was, do we?”
“No, but the answer must be in that police log or in the letter that was stolen. Has either of them turned up at the home of the killer?”
“I’m not sure. But I’ll let you know if we find them.”
“Odd,” said Siri. She put the broadsheet down on the table and her face took on an usually serious expression. “You need to tell me where Felicia is. I haven’t been able to reach her by phone.”
Singsaker looked at her and at her belly under the pale sweater. Was she starting to show? Then he glanced around the room. He hadn’t been inside the Gunnerus Library since last fall. He wasn’t especially happy about being back here, but he could handle it.
He gathered his courage, and then told her everything. When he was finished, Siri gave him a look that was a mixture of gravity and astonishment.
“I certainly didn’t see that coming,” she said. “Did you really think you were the father?”
“I’m not?”
“No. Don’t you think I would have told you if you were?”
Singsaker paused to consider. Then he said, “Well, I really did think I was.” He knew that she was the sort of woman that took a lighthearted view of many things that others took seriously. But friendship was a different matter. “I know you would have told me. The truth is that I just couldn’t keep this idiotic secret any longer, so I guess I decided to seize the opportunity to ease my guilty conscience when we figured out you were pregnant.”
She smiled. “You would have been a good father,” she said. “A little old, maybe, but a good dad.”
“And here I thought you were such a good judge of character,” he replied.
“I am.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “The father is a university student majoring in literature in Bergen. He’s coming to see me this weekend. It was stupid of me to tell Felicia that it was my father who was visiting. I should have told both of you the truth. It’s just such a new thing for me.”
Singsaker noticed something in her tone of voice.
“Don’t tell me that you, of all people, have actually fallen in love.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. He plays the guitar, and I’m willing to give the relationship a chance. He’s talking about continuing his studies in Trondheim instead of in Bergen. We’ll see where it goes.”
He smiled, wishing he were young again.
“But what’s important right now is getting in touch with Felicia,” she went on.
“She might be back in the States, for all I know.”
“Have you tried to phone her?”
“Every free moment I’ve had. But without success, just like you.”
“That’s good. You can bet she’s watching her incoming calls. So the more often you try, the better. She really needs to think you’re desperate.”
“That doesn’t sound like very conventional advice. Shouldn’t you be telling me that I need to give her time, or something like that?”
“Bullshit. I know Felicia. She wants you to be calling her every ten minutes. I’m sure of it.”
Singsaker smiled, but he wasn’t as convinced as Siri. Then he realized that he hadn’t gleaned the information that he needed from their conversation. She was a shrewd woman, and she’d already helped him once before with this investigation.
“Jonas Røed,” he said. “I’ve told you what we know about him, and you’ve seen the broadsheet. Does it tell you anything at all about him?”
“Not the print itself. But if I were you, instead I’d be asking myself, What is it that he wants most of all?
Singsaker thought about that for a moment.
“He wants her to sing the lullaby for him. He wants to sleep.”
“Okay, let’s say it’s as simple as that. The next question is, What does he need in order to make that happen?
“Someplace where he can be left in peace, and a place to sleep,” Singsaker replied.