The sound of sirens grew louder. At the same time, she grew weaker. Life was slowly seeping out of her.
It was pitch-black and very quiet inside the snow cave. No one was singing anymore, and the only sound was the faint breathing of another person.
In the silence she thought she could hear her own pulse.
Thud, thud, thud.
It was getting slower. Even though he hadn’t stabbed her, she wasn’t going to last much longer in the freezing cold.
She imagined that she could also hear the heartbeat of the man who had tried to save her. But she knew that she was hallucinating in between those moments of clarity when she understood what was happening to her.
I’m going to freeze to death. That’s why I feel so warm. I read about that somewhere. Dreams, hallucinations, warmth.
That is how we leave this life.
Thorvald Jensen thought mostly about Odd Singsaker.
Why was Odd always the first one to arrive and then bear the brunt of the situation? And yet he was the weakest of them all. He was the one who could least afford the stress. For a long time now, Jensen had thought that his colleague might have returned to work too soon after his illness, that maybe he ought to have been given other assignments instead of working on an active investigation. He suspected that Singsaker had been more affected by his health issues than he was willing to let on; instead he tried to cover up and trivialize what he’d been through. Jensen had never said anything to him about his concerns. He wasn’t sure if that made him a good or a bad friend. At the moment, none of that mattered. Right now the important thing was to get him to safety. He hoped that nothing serious had happened after Singsaker phoned. He hoped he was still alive.
They had assembled outside in the street. Six police vehicles, two ambulances, and a fire truck with axes and ladders and other equipment that might prove necessary. They had blocked off the entire street and started evacuating the neighbors. One of them had immediately filed a complaint that Singsaker’s car had burst through onto his property and smashed the fence. The police had wasted a lot of time trying to calm the man down, but they weren’t taking any chances in such a risky situation. The closest neighbors had to be moved to a safe area.
Jensen was in charge of the operation, and no one could tell how uneasy he actually was. He ordered the officers into position. There was no indication that Røed had a gun, which should make things easier. It was dark now, and they could use that to their advantage. He’d spoken to the chief of the firefighters and asked whether they could shut off the power in the area. They happened to have an electrician with them. Strange, thought Jensen. The firemen always seem to have someone who’s an electrician. Jensen watched as the firefighter went over to a junction box a few yards down the street, carrying a tool. Everyone waited in silence until they saw the light over the front door of Røed’s house go out. A few seconds later, all the streetlights in the area switched off.
Jensen was pleased to have darkness settle over them. It allowed him to think more clearly, although his feeling of dread was increasing. With every task they carried out, every routine move they made, and with every minute that passed, it became more and more evident that something was very wrong. It was too quiet.
Jensen slowly became convinced that the house was empty, or that at least there was no one alive inside.
“We’re sending in a team!” he shouted, pointing. “We’re going in the front door!”
A group of nine men from the SWAT team moved like soundless shadows, splitting up to take positions on either side of the door. Then they disappeared inside, stomping loudly and shouting.
Going for the shock effect, thought Jensen. These guys know what they’re doing.
Fifteen minutes later he was standing inside looking at the body of Mona Gran. The SWAT team had secured the house but hadn’t found Singsaker, Julie Edvardsen, or Jonas Røed.
Several other officers stood next to Jensen, and some of them had removed their caps. Jensen had been on the force for almost thirty-five years. It had been a long time since he’d lost a colleague in the line of duty. Why did this have to happen now? Why did she have to be so much younger than he was, her whole life ahead of her?
He couldn’t bear to stay in the room for long. Grongstad would have to handle things here.
Back outside, he paused to think, staring at the ground. Damn it, Odd, where are you?
Then he saw the trail of blood on the snow.
He used his flashlight to follow the blood through the yard and around the huge mound of snow. There he saw the opening.
He shuddered when he found the ax lying in the snow outside, blood on the blade. His pulse racing, he crouched down, then crawled along the narrow passageway, which was just big enough for him to fit through.
He aimed his flashlight straight ahead and saw a big space dug out of the snow. He could almost stand upright in it, and there was enough room for three people to lie side by side. He looked at the three lifeless bodies. In the middle was the man they’d been hunting, with a knife sticking out of his throat. Strangely enough, Jensen was fairly certain that the man had done that himself, but Grongstad and Kittelsen would have to confirm it. Blood ran from the wound, and the blood that had already landed on the snow had begun to congeal into an icy crust.
To the left of the man lay Julie Edvardsen, her eyes closed as if she were asleep.
Singsaker was lying on his stomach, his face turned away. He had a deep wound in his thigh.
Jensen leaned forward to touch Singsaker’s neck and feel for his pulse. He held his fingers there for a moment, then moved them slightly, and finally he felt it. It was weak. Weak as a fly grazing his fingertips. He pulled out his radio and quickly shouted orders to his colleagues. Then he moved over to the girl and touched her neck. Here too he felt a pulse. Very weak, but it was there.
But Jonas Røed was dead.