troll will sweat to death. I’m going to start counting now.”
“Don’t,” shrieked Kristiane with delight as she buried herself under the duvet.
“One,” he started. “Two, three. The magic is working now. Tiddly the Tadpole is fast asleep.”
Then he pulled the door shut and shrugged his shoulders. “There!”
Johanne stood with a blank face and Ragnhild over her shoulder.
“That’s what we usually do when you’re not here,” he excused himself. “Fast and effective. Do you think there’s a connection? Between Fiona Helle’s and Victoria Heinerback’s murders?”
“That’s how you put the girl to bed?” Johanne looked at him in disbelief.
“So what! Forget it! She’s asleep now. Magic. Come on.” He padded into the living room and started to clear the dinner table. Leftovers were thrown out, apart from the fried potatoes, which he ate as he cleared. The grease ran down his fingers, and when he tried to pour himself more wine, the bottle nearly slid out of his hand.
“Oops . . . do you want any? You don’t need to worry anymore, you know. I’m sure a small glass won’t hurt Ragnhild.”
“No thanks. Actually . . .”
Gently, she lay Ragnhild down in her crib, which Adam had eventually agreed could be moved in and out of the living room, depending on where they were themselves. It was by the end of the sofa now.
“Maybe a small glass,” she said and sat down at the empty table.
“Can you wipe the table with the cloth, please?”
With an everyday, almost casual expression on her face, she grabbed the papers that Adam had thrown down when he came home. It was a thin file. This time there were no pictures. A couple of police reports, two handwritten memorandums, and a map of Lørenskog with a red cross over Victoria Heinerback’s address were stapled together. Johanne couldn’t figure out any system to it.
“I see that you haven’t much to go on here, either.”
“The murder was only discovered this morning.”
“And you’ve censored the file. Did you want to spare me the photographs?”
“No.” He seemed to be sincere and sat down and scratched his head. “They haven’t made enough copies yet,” he added, yawning. “But you’re not missing anything. Horrible sight. Especially the . . .”
“Enough, thank you.” She shook her head and put up her hand. “You gave me enough details on the phone. And there are certainly similarities. Brutal murders. Both bodies have been mutilated.”
Adam knitted his brow. He cocked his head and his mouth moved, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know quite what.
“Mutilated,” he repeated in the end. “Cutting out someone’s tongue definitely qualifies as mutilation. But Victoria Heinerback . . .”
Again, his expression was one of doubt. He narrowed his eyes, blinked, and almost imperceptibly shook his head, as if the scenario of a killer on a deadly hunt for female celebrities was too much to take in. He glanced over at the crib.
“Do you think she can understand any of this?”
“She’s only three weeks old.”
“Yes, but the brain’s like a sponge, you know. Maybe she’s subconsciously taking it all in and storing it. And it will affect her, later I mean.”
“Don’t be a fool.” She stretched her hand over the table and stroked his cheek. “You’re scared that the press is right, aren’t you?” she said. “Have you seen the special editions?”
He shook his head. She cupped his jaw with her hand.
“They’re having a field day. It must be annoying for them that the murder wasn’t discovered until this morning and only announced later on in the day. The special editions are botch jobs. Full of inaccuracies, incredible speculation, incorrect facts, from what I can see. They’re calling him the celebrity killer.”
“Or her,” said Adam and grabbed her hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it.
“Or her. Okay. Don’t be such a pedant. Fortunately they were more reserved on the TV
“Don’t,” shrieked Kristiane with delight as she buried herself under the duvet.
“One,” he started. “Two, three. The magic is working now. Tiddly the Tadpole is fast asleep.”
Then he pulled the door shut and shrugged his shoulders. “There!”
Johanne stood with a blank face and Ragnhild over her shoulder.
“That’s what we usually do when you’re not here,” he excused himself. “Fast and effective. Do you think there’s a connection? Between Fiona Helle’s and Victoria Heinerback’s murders?”
“That’s how you put the girl to bed?” Johanne looked at him in disbelief.
“So what! Forget it! She’s asleep now. Magic. Come on.” He padded into the living room and started to clear the dinner table. Leftovers were thrown out, apart from the fried potatoes, which he ate as he cleared. The grease ran down his fingers, and when he tried to pour himself more wine, the bottle nearly slid out of his hand.
“Oops . . . do you want any? You don’t need to worry anymore, you know. I’m sure a small glass won’t hurt Ragnhild.”
“No thanks. Actually . . .”
Gently, she lay Ragnhild down in her crib, which Adam had eventually agreed could be moved in and out of the living room, depending on where they were themselves. It was by the end of the sofa now.
“Maybe a small glass,” she said and sat down at the empty table.
“Can you wipe the table with the cloth, please?”
With an everyday, almost casual expression on her face, she grabbed the papers that Adam had thrown down when he came home. It was a thin file. This time there were no pictures. A couple of police reports, two handwritten memorandums, and a map of Lørenskog with a red cross over Victoria Heinerback’s address were stapled together. Johanne couldn’t figure out any system to it.
“I see that you haven’t much to go on here, either.”
“The murder was only discovered this morning.”
“And you’ve censored the file. Did you want to spare me the photographs?”
“No.” He seemed to be sincere and sat down and scratched his head. “They haven’t made enough copies yet,” he added, yawning. “But you’re not missing anything. Horrible sight. Especially the . . .”
“Enough, thank you.” She shook her head and put up her hand. “You gave me enough details on the phone. And there are certainly similarities. Brutal murders. Both bodies have been mutilated.”
Adam knitted his brow. He cocked his head and his mouth moved, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know quite what.
“Mutilated,” he repeated in the end. “Cutting out someone’s tongue definitely qualifies as mutilation. But Victoria Heinerback . . .”
Again, his expression was one of doubt. He narrowed his eyes, blinked, and almost imperceptibly shook his head, as if the scenario of a killer on a deadly hunt for female celebrities was too much to take in. He glanced over at the crib.
“Do you think she can understand any of this?”
“She’s only three weeks old.”
“Yes, but the brain’s like a sponge, you know. Maybe she’s subconsciously taking it all in and storing it. And it will affect her, later I mean.”
“Don’t be a fool.” She stretched her hand over the table and stroked his cheek. “You’re scared that the press is right, aren’t you?” she said. “Have you seen the special editions?”
He shook his head. She cupped his jaw with her hand.
“They’re having a field day. It must be annoying for them that the murder wasn’t discovered until this morning and only announced later on in the day. The special editions are botch jobs. Full of inaccuracies, incredible speculation, incorrect facts, from what I can see. They’re calling him the celebrity killer.”
“Or her,” said Adam and grabbed her hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it.
“Or her. Okay. Don’t be such a pedant. Fortunately they were more reserved on the TV
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