Blix glanced up at the green light as they passed the toll station on the ring road near Ullevål stadium.
‘Is this one of the ones he clocked in at?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Kovic replied at his side and peered down at her papers. ‘His car was first recorded at Sandstuveien, not far from Sonja Nordstrøm’s address. Time: twenty-two forty-seven. Then he passed through here a quarter of an hour later. The next day, that is Monday night, he passed the toll booth we’ve just driven through, at one oh five – before he was tracked on the E6 on the other side of the city seventeen minutes later. And then he was at Kråkerøy almost exactly an hour later.’205
She thumbed through the pages. ‘It takes no more than twenty to twenty-five minutes to drive on out to Hvaler, where Nordstrøm has a summer cottage, in the middle of the night at least. Then he takes the same route back again towards the city around one hour and twenty minutes later.’
‘More than enough time to dump Jeppe Sørensen in Nordstrøm’s boat and make his way back.’
‘Exactly.’
Kovic’s phone rang, and she put an earphone in her ear and answered. All she said was ‘yes’ and ‘no’ while taking notes. Blix manoeuvred speedily through the traffic.
‘OK, thanks very much.’ Kovic pressed a button on the dangling hands-free set. ‘Thor Willy Opsahl is forty-two,’ she told him, looking down at her notes. ‘Originally from Asker. No family. Clean sheet, apart from six points on his driving licence.’
‘Any connection to Dahlmann?’ Blix asked.
‘No, but it’s possible this is about something else,’ Kovic replied hesitantly. ‘Thor Willy Opsahl is better known by the name Viking Willy.’
Blix turned off from Sørkedalsveien and accelerated up Holmenkollveien, checking all the while in his mirror that Wibe and Abelvik were directly behind them.
‘He won a hundred and eighty-four million kroner in the Viking lottery last year,’ Kovic continued. ‘He was the only ticket holder with six correct numbers.’
Blix remembered the newspaper reports. Usually lottery millionaires tried to remain anonymous, but Opsahl had not shunned publicity.
‘It’s over there,’ Kovic told him, indicating the direction.
Blix turned into a one-way street flanked by old houses with extensive gardens. Opsahl’s villa was situated almost at the very end of the cul-de-sac. Painted white, it had a black tiled roof that glinted in the lights from the neighbouring houses. A garage as large as a normal house had been built beside it, with a silver Audi Q8 parked outside. 206Blix pointed at the registration number, a personalised number plate with a specially chosen combination of letters and numbers.
‘AFTER 8,’ he read aloud. ‘Does that match the lists from the toll company?’
‘It’s automatically converted to the ordinary registration number on the list,’ Kovic explained, but she then stopped abruptly, as if something important had suddenly occurred to her. ‘Eight was the decisive number when he won,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘Six other people had exactly the same numbers, minus the eight. So that was the number that made him wealthy. I remember it now.’
They stepped out of the car and peered up at the house. An exterior lamp lit up the façade around the entrance.
‘He refused to share the jackpot with anyone,’ Kovic said. ‘One or two newspapers dubbed him the greedy bastard of the year.’
Blix’s phone rang. He saw it was Emma calling, but he had no time to speak to her now.
‘Number eight,’ he said as he approached the Audi.
Wibe and Abelvik had now parked and were already beside him. Wibe switched on a flashlight and directed the beam in through the side window.
A copy of Forever Number One lay on the driving seat.
‘Get hold of Ann-Mari Sara,’ Blix said, glancing up at the house again. ‘This is a crime scene.’
Wibe skirted around the car, shining the flashlight inside. ‘It’s empty,’ he said. ‘But there’s something on the seat beside the book.’
‘Is it locked?’ Kovic asked.
Blix produced a pair of disposable gloves before touching the driver’s door. It opened easily.
‘It’s a garage door opener,’ he said, picking up the tiny remote control from the seat.
He looked at the others before pointing it at the garage door and pressing the button. Slowly the garage door began to slide open. The light inside came on automatically.
Thor Willy Opsahl was hanging from one of the beams on the 207ceiling in the middle of the garage. His feet only just touched the floor. There was nothing nearby he could have climbed on to manage this by himself. Suicide was out of the question.
The four detectives hovered outside the open door.
‘How long do you think he’s been hanging there?’ Blix asked, staring at the blue-black face.
‘More than a week,’ Wibe reckoned. ‘The body’s about to detach from the head.’
Blix nodded. More than a week placed the homicide chronologically prior to the murder of the Danish footballer.
‘His car was last used early on Tuesday morning,’ Kovic pointed out. ‘At any rate, it’s not recorded at any toll station after that.’
‘Dahlmann must have been driving around in it,’ Wibe said. ‘While Viking Willy’s been hanging in the garage.’
‘So he’s been strung up here for more than a week, and no one’s missed him?’ Abelvik asked.
‘He had no job or family,’ Kovic explained. ‘No one who would miss him.’
‘It’s so fucking devious,’ Wibe said. ‘Calculated and cunning.’
Blix nodded, but this description did not fit the Dahlmann he knew, which only reinforced his suspicion that Dahlmann, too, was a pawn in this game.
His phone rang again. It was Emma, for the second time.
‘I have to take this,’ he said brusquely and drew back slightly.
The others stood talking among themselves. When Blix was sure no one could overhear him, he answered the call.
‘She’s alive!’ Emma shouted.
‘Alive?’
‘Sonja Nordstrøm,’ Emma clarified. Her voice was shaking at the other end. ‘I’ve received an email with a link to a web camera that shows live footage. I’m sitting here watching her right now!’
‘What the hell are you telling me?’ He couldn’t help raising his voice, and he saw Kovic look over.
‘She’s alive, Blix. Sonja Nordstrøm.’208
Blix shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘Describe what you can see.’
‘She’s sitting on the floor,’ Emma told him. ‘A concrete floor, I think – it’s not easy to make it out. She’s in a small room. It looks like a dungeon or a cell or … I don’t really know. In any case, she’s alive.’
‘What’s she doing?’ Blix asked.
‘Nothing,’ Emma replied. ‘She’s just sitting there. There’s a plate of food on the floor. Slices of bread. She’s only eaten half of one.’
Blix used his free hand to rub his face. He watched Kovic approach with a quizzical look on her face.
‘That email you received – does it say it’s from Dahlmann?’
‘No, it’s not signed … but … wait a minute.’
‘Wait for what?’
‘Just … wait a minute. I’ve got another email from the same sender.’
‘What? What does it say?’
Emma did not answer immediately.
‘Who…?’
‘My computer screen’s frozen,’ she said. ‘It’s running a bit slow.’
Blix waited. And waited.
‘Oh bloody hell,’ Emma said. ‘This is just not happening.’
‘What is it?’
He heard Emma take a deep breath. Then she said: ‘He says that I have to publish the link on news.no. And that I must do it before twelve noon tomorrow, Saturday. If not…’
‘If not what?’
‘If not, Sonja Nordstrøm will die.’