Читаем Killing Moon полностью

He touched the sheath of the knife in his jacket pocket again before swinging the strap of the camera over his shoulder, hopping over the ditch and making his way in among the trees. It was pine forest, and the space between the trees meant he could move through without great effort and be afforded some visibility. The paint had been applied at eye level at ten- to fifteen-metre intervals on selected tree trunks. The terrain grew gradually steeper. At one spot he paused to catch his breath and ran a finger over the blotch on the tree. Looked at his finger. Fresh paint. He was standing on a carpet of pine needles in a cluster of mighty pines. The rustle from the treetops was distant, but that only served to make the cracking and creaking from the almost imperceptible swaying of the trunks all the more present. The sounds were coming from all around, as though a conversation were taking place, as though they were discussing among themselves what to do with their nocturnal guest.

Våge continued.

The forest grew more dense, visibility poorer and the distance between the smudges of paint less, and now the ground was so rugged and steep that there was no point in counting steps any longer.

Then — suddenly — he made it to a plateau and the forest opened up. The beam from his torch shone into a small clearing and had to search before it found more paint. This time it wasn’t just a patch, it was a T-shape. He went closer. No, it was a cross. In the centre of the clearing he raised the torch. He couldn’t see any more reflective patches beyond the cross. He was at journey’s end. He held his breath. A sound could be heard, like when you hit two wooden sticks against one another, but he couldn’t see anything.

Then, as if to help him, the moon appeared between the scudding clouds, bathing the clearing in a soft, yellow light. And he saw them.

He shuddered. The first thing he thought of was an old number Billie Holiday sang, ‘Strange Fruit’. Because that was what they looked like, the two human heads hanging from the branch of the birch tree. The long hair on both heads swaying in the wind, and when they knocked against each other, they made a hollow sound.

It struck him at once that it must be Bertine Bertilsen and Helene Røed. Not because he recognised the stiff, mask-like faces, but because one was dark and the other blonde.

His pulse was racing as he swung the camera off his back and began to count again. Not steps this time but seconds. He pressed the shutter release again and again, the flash went off and continued going off as the moon disappeared back behind the clouds. He had counted to fifty, moved closer, refocused and continued taking pictures. More excited than terror-struck, he no longer thought of the two heads as people who had been alive not too long ago, but as proof. Proof that Markus Røed was innocent. Proof that he — Terry Våge — wasn’t a fraud, but had spoken to the killer. Proof that he was Norway’s best crime journalist, a person demanding of everyone’s respect, his family’s, Solstad’s, Genie’s and that crappy band of hers. And — most important of all — the respect and admiration of Mona Daa. He had pushed the thought from his mind after being fired, how he must have fallen in her esteem. But now that would be turned on its head, everybody loves a comeback kid. He couldn’t wait for them to meet again. No, he literally couldn’t wait, so he would have to ensure that they did meet, and he promised himself it would happen as soon as Dagnija left for Latvia.

Ninety. He had thirty seconds left.

Then I’ll come for you.

Like a troll in a folk tale.

Våge lowered the camera and filmed with his phone. Turned the camera towards himself so he had proof he was the one who had been there and taken pictures.

Time to reap your reward, the guy had said. Was that why Våge had picked up on the association with the Billie Holiday song when he saw the heads in the trees? That was about the lynching of black Americans in the South, not about... this. By reap, had he meant he could take the heads with him? Våge took a step closer to the birch tree. Stopped. Had he lost his mind? These were the killer’s trophies. And time was up. Våge slung the camera behind his back and held his hands up in the air to show any watching eyes in the forest that he had finished and was leaving.

The return journey was more difficult, given that he didn’t have any reflective paint to navigate by, and even though he hurried, it took nearly twenty minutes before he found the forest trail again. When he was back in the car and had started the engine, a thought occurred to him.