Emma was busy pinning photos on the wall in her living room, even though she felt daft doing so. As if she were in a bad movie. But there was actually a point to it. It gave her oversight, and it was what all investigators did.
The printer spat out a picture of Jeppe Sørensen in his Danish football strip. Emma hung it beside the front cover of Forever Number One, Sonja Nordstrøm’s book. She’d also found a photo from Jessica Flatebø’s blog, and she placed it beside Sørensen. And finally on the provisional timeline – a picture of Ragnar Ole Theodorsen on stage in front of the other members of the Fabulous Five.
His name had been released to the media now. The live broadcasts 137from the subway station entrance had ended, but Nyhetskanalen, the news channel, which was on in Emma’s living room, was transmitting the same images over and over again.
The phone rang. It was Blix.
‘Hi,’ she said, pleased to be speaking to him at last.
‘Hi,’ he answered.
Emma did not understand why he was helping her, especially since Wollan had trumpeted some of the information she’d received in confidence. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Didn’t want to spoil anything.
‘I spoke to the mushroom ladies,’ she said, to show him she’d discovered what linked the cases. ‘They told me about the music.’
‘Did they say anything about the book?’ Blix asked.
‘What book?’
‘Forever Number One,’ Blix explained. ‘It was in the cabin.’
‘Oh,’ was all Emma said, glancing up at the pictures on her wall. ‘Do you have any other leads on her?’
‘Not currently.’
Silence hung between them for a while.
‘What do you think’s happened to her?’ she asked.
‘I think she’s been killed too. I think she’ll turn up dead somewhere or other very soon. With a message.’
‘A message?’
Blix sighed. ‘I don’t know. What happened today, and yesterday, to some extent seems to be a very clear statement. He’s not afraid to show himself. Some of my colleagues are saying he’s a raving lunatic, and he may well be, on some level. But to me he seems ice cold and calculating. A man with loads of self-confidence.’
‘Is that his message, then? That he’s no intention of hiding away?’
‘Maybe. But I’m not thinking of that kind of message. More that it’s a new piece of the jigsaw puzzle. One tiny crumb in a long line that he wants us to spot, and follow.’
There was another pause and Emma looked up at the pictures again. Her gaze flitted from Nordstrøm to her book. Then to the photos of 138Jeppe Sørensen and Jessica Flatebø. And on to Ragnar Ole Theodorsen, who had been shot, so that he had fallen … down the stairs.
She studied each image again.
No, it couldn’t possibly be about that, she thought. But then she retraced her way through the train of thought once more.
‘OK, so please don’t interrupt what I’m about to say,’ she ventured. ‘Just listen to the whole of my reasoning. OK?’
‘OK.’
Emma moved closer to her wall of pictures.
‘Sonja Nordstrøm disappears,’ she said, pointing at the letters that formed the word ‘ONE’ on the book’s dustcover. ‘The Norwegian media go bananas, and they all follow the developments. And then – bang – Jeppe Sorensen is found on her boat.’
She moved her finger from ONE to the number seven on his football strip.
‘It’s impossible not to link Jeppe’s murder to Sonja Nordstrøm’s disappearance, which is why the whole of Norway’s media attended the press conference yesterday, where a mobile phone suddenly started to ring. It rings long enough for everyone who has ever listened to the radio in the past twenty years to realise the ringtone is “Angel”, the song by the Fabulous Five, composed by Ragnar Ole Theodorsen.’ She paused for breath, certain now of Blix’s full attention. ‘The same song was played from a cabin in the forest to entice someone to stumble upon Jessica Flatebø.’
She lifted her finger from the number seven to Flatebø’s blog and the logo at the top. Sex Y.
‘The following day the frontman in the Fabulous Five is also killed.’ Emma’s finger shifted to the drum kit and the letters that comprised the band’s name.
‘It’s a countdown,’ she said.
‘What did you say?’
‘It’s a bloody countdown.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Just think about it,’ Emma told him. ‘Forever One. Jeppe Sørensen 139always played with the number seven on his back. Jessica Flatebø was contestant number six in Paradise Hotel, and she played on sex and the number six in every possible context, including in her blog. She’d also been missing for six days before she was found. And the Fabulous Five…’
Emma did not conclude her hypothesis, certain that Blix had managed to follow her argument.
‘But that doesn’t add up,’ Blix said.
‘Why not?’
‘One-seven-six-five. That’s not a countdown.’
‘Maybe not. Unless you exclude Sonja Nordstrøm – she’s the only one who hasn’t turned up dead yet. And it all started with her. She fired the starting shot. The first. There was even a starting number hung up in her home. Number one.’
There was silence at the other end of the line.
‘You talked about messages,’ Emma ploughed on. ‘Are there any other connections between the victims apart from the ones the perpetrator has given you?’
It took time for Blix to answer.
‘So you’re saying that the next victim will be someone who has a link to the number four in some way?’ he said, his voice filled with doubt. ‘And then one with number three and number two? And then Sonja Nordstrøm will turn up dead, as forever number one, and then it’s all over? The perpetrator will have reached his target?’
Emma heard how far-fetched it sounded when he said it aloud.
‘I don’t know,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It was just a theory.’
Again the line went quiet. Emma studied the pictures again. It was all a bit too crazy to be correct.
On the TV she could see, for the third time now, a reporter having a serious conversation with Gard Fosse. The volume was already low, but now she turned the sound off. Her eyes were drawn to the strapline at the foot of the screen: BREAKING NEWS. At the same time she heard her mobile phone ping. An express message from VG Nett’s news service.140
‘Shit,’ she said.
‘What is it?’
‘Are you watching TV?’
‘Not right now. What’s going on?’
Emma walked a few steps closer to the set.
‘Calle Seeberg. The radio chat show host, you know? He’s dead.’
‘Oh fuck.’
Emma read the whole of the text running across the screen. ‘It says he collapsed during a live broadcast today,’ she said, looking up at the wall again. The pictures. The numbers.
‘Do you know what radio station he worked for?’ she asked as a cold shiver ran through her body.
‘No?’
‘Radio 4.’