The Final Murder by Anne Holt Page A

managed to get a well-known
    psychologist to outline a profile of a sexually frustrated woman hater with a disability who was rejected by his mother.’ She laughed quietly and took a sip from her glass. ‘You know, it’s only now that I realize how good this actually is. Having not tasted wine for ten months, that is.’
    ‘You are…’
    ‘Lovely,’ she concluded for him and her smile broadened.
    ‘What do you think?’
    ‘About you?’
    ‘About there being a link. You must have given it some
    thought. You and Sigmund and several others are working on both cases. Both murders …’
    ‘Took place in L0renskog, both victims are women, both are
    well known, both are high-profile celebrities, both …’
    ‘… Are good-looking. Were, at least.’ She swivelled the glass in her hand and continued: ‘And in both cases, the killer left a message, a highly symbolic abuse of the body.’
    She was talking more slowly now, and her voice was not so loud, as if she was alarmed by her own reasoning.
    ‘The press don’t know about the book yet,’ he said. ‘About the Koran. It was actually taped between her legs. It would appear that the intention was to stuff it up her cunt, but…’
    ‘Don’t use that word!’
    ‘Sorry, vagina. The book was taped to her thighs, right up by the vagina.’
    ‘Or anus.’
    ‘Or anus,’ he repeated, somewhat surprised. ‘Hmm, that’s probably what he meant. Up yours, or something like that.’
    ‘Maybe. You want some more?’
    He nodded and she poured the rest of the bottle into his glass.
    She had only taken a sip from her own.
    ‘If you were to look for similarities, apart from the obvious ones, which could be pure coincidence, I think the power of the symbolism is one of the most striking features,’ she said. ‘Cutting out someone’s tongue and splitting it in two is such an unambiguous statement, such obvious symbolism, that you could almost imagine that the killer read too many Red Indian books as a boy. The Muslim bible up your bum is hardly a divine message.’
    ‘I don’t think our new compatriots would appreciate you calling the Koran a bible,’ said Adam, massaging his neck. ‘Would you mind?’
    With an exasperated smile she got up and stood behind him.
    She leant back against the island unit and took a firm grip of Adam’s neck muscles.
    He was so broad. So big. She could feel his muscles were knotted under the surprisingly soft skin. It was his size that had first attracted her, she was captivated by a man who must have
    weighed 115 kilos without actually appearing to be fat. Just after they moved in together, she had tried to put him on a diet. ‘Just thinking of your health,’ she said, and gave up after three weeks.
    Adam didn’t get irritable when he ate less, he got desperate. She had stopped her project one afternoon when he wiped away something that could have been tears when faced with a plate of boiled cod, not a trace of fat, one potato and a spoonful of steamed carrots.
    Then he disappeared into the bathroom and stayed there for
    the rest of the meal. He had butter with everything, sauces and gravy with most things, and believed that a proper meal should always be rounded off with a dessert.
    ‘Obviously, it’s too early to say,’ Johanne said, and pressed her thumbs into the muscles between his shoulder blades and spine.
    ‘But I would advise against assuming it’s the same killer.’
    ‘Of course we’re not assuming anything,’ he groaned. ‘More. A bit further up. But the truth is, just the thought is enough to frighten the life out of me. I mean … Ow! There, right there.’
    ‘You mean if there really is only one murderer, you can expect more,’ Johanne said. ‘Victims, that is. More murders.’
    His muscles stiffened under her fingers. Adam straightened his back, pushed her gently away and rearranged his shirt. Ragnhild’s light breathing and snuffles could be heard from the sitting room.
    A cat was obviously courting outside