Smoke Screen Read online

  Emma felt the lump in her throat return.

  ‘How did you get hold of that?’ she asked.

  ‘My neighbour,’ she said. ‘He’s always in Denmark. And I think he might fancy me a bit.’

  Irene winked. Emma stared at her sister.

  ‘That’s not hard to believe,’ she said tenderly.

  ‘Ha,’ Irene exclaimed, rolling her eyes and calling her daughter through for dinner.

  ‘God, I’m bloody starving,’ Irene said.

  Martine came into the kitchen. As if she were an adult, she placed her hands precociously on her tiny hips, and said:

  ‘You shouldn’t swear, Mummy.’

  16

  The windshield was frozen solid. Blix started the car, turned the heating on full blast and let the engine run, while he got out and started to scrape the layer of ice away.

  He had just finished the passenger side, when a noise coming from his jacket pocket made him pause. Kovic had set up a new alert on his phone for when the operations centre sent out internal bulletins. He dropped the ice scraper and fumbled with his jacket pocket until he managed to pull his phone out.

  Explosion in a rubbish bin in Frogner Park. Stand-by plan Golf Bravo initiated. All operational units subject to U-05.

  Blix hastily scraped away the patch of ice obscuring the view from the driver’s seat before he threw himself behind the wheel and reversed out onto the street. He had no need to be there – he didn’t have an official operational role in the emergency response to such events, but he headed to Frogner Park regardless. A second explosion would directly interfere with the ongoing investigation he was pursuing. Kovic was now on board with the theory that Ruth-Kristine was not just a random victim. Another bomb would suggest otherwise. Either way, there would be a need for investigative assistance at the scene.

  Blue lights appeared in his rear-view mirror. He pulled over, let the ambulance pass and then followed it.

  The mobilisation of the emergency services was already under way.

  Fire engines, police cars and ambulances had gathered at the main gate. Blix pulled up behind them and rushed into the park. Smoke was still billowing into the heavy, grey sky.

  He manoeuvred through the crowd that had gathered by the gate, flashed his police ID when he arrived at the barriers and ducked under the tape. He made his way quickly to the site of the explosion, and stood close to the inner cordon. The rubbish bin looked as if it had been blown into four pieces, and the explosion had blasted a crater into the ground. Chunks of grass, soil and gravel from the footpath had been scattered across the snow and the surrounding area, but no one appeared to have been injured. The paramedics were standing around, waiting. The police officers who were already at the scene didn’t seem to be particularly busy either.

  Blix walked over to the incident commander, who was stood next to one of the specialists from the fire department, and requested a progress report.

  ‘One minor injury,’ the commander explained. ‘A broken leg which, strictly speaking, was not directly caused by the explosion.’ He slid his right boot back and forth across the icy path to demonstrate how slippery it was. ‘We’re currently waiting for the bomb-disposal technicians to secure and clear the area,’ he continued. ‘The bomb was significantly less powerful than the one from New Year’s Eve, but its placement may indicate a connection.’

  ‘Do we have any witnesses?’ Blix asked, looking around.

  ‘None as far as I know,’ the incident commander answered.

  Police had started to usher people away from the perimeter they’d set up, back towards the gates. An older police officer with an automatic pistol strapped to his chest waved Blix over. He was standing with a young woman around Iselin’s age.

  ‘I think I saw him,’ she said as Blix arrived.

  ‘Saw who?’ he asked.

  ‘The man with the shopping bag, the Kiwi bag.’ Her breath sent plumes into the chilly morning air.

  Blix stared at her for a moment before guiding her to the side of the path. She introduced herself as Gøril Kittelsen. She explained that she had seen a man while she was out jogging about an hour earlier. She lived nearby, and had run back when she heard the explosion.

  ‘A lot of people carry those shopping bags though,’ she said. ‘So that wasn’t weird. But last night you released that statement saying you were looking for a man who had put a bomb in a shopping bag, so I thought maybe it could be the same guy.’

  She seemed pleased with her own reasoning. It could have been a random passer-by, Blix thought. There were probably hundreds of Kiwi shops in Oslo.

  He looked at her sceptically. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘A little shorter than you, I think. Wearing a dark beanie. Black gloves. Black coat as well. Or it could have been a jacket, I’m not entirely sure.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  She thought about it for a moment.

  ‘Forty, maybe fifty? Hard to say.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘No, he had a scarf pulled up over his mouth and nose.’

  He could have done that because he was cold, Blix thought, yet the description did seem to match that of the man with the shopping bag they had seen by the harbour. But she would have seen pictures of him too. Her description could be influenced by them.

  ‘Did you notice anything else?’ Blix continued. ‘Any other details you remember?’

  She thought about it.

  ‘He was wearing brown walking boots,’ she said. ‘The shoelaces on one of his boots was undone. And the laces were blue.’

  ‘Blue?’

  The girl nodded. ‘They were hard to miss.’

  Blue shoelaces, Blix thought, taking out his notebook. That was something.

  17

  It had just gone half past nine when Emma walked into the offices of news.no. Anita Grønvold was stood beside the coffee machine, talking on the phone. The TV on the wall behind her showed a live broadcast from Frogner Park.

  Henrik Wollan’s eyes widened when he noticed Emma. She walked past, taking off her bike helmet.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, removing her jacket. ‘How’s it going?’

  Wollan span around in his chair to face her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Working,’ she said, pressing her hands to her cheeks to get some warmth back into them. It had been a cold bike ride. ‘Have you been to Frogner Park?’

  Wollan stared at her for a few seconds before answering:

  ‘I just got back. There wasn’t much to do there, seeing as everything was blocked off. But I took a few photos of people who certainly won’t be throwing their rubbish into any old public bin anytime soon.’

  He rolled his eyes, as if he thought they’d been overreacting.

  ‘But I’m sure that’s exactly what he wants,’ he added. ‘Make people scared to go about their daily lives.’

  ‘That’s terrorism for you,’ Emma commented, chucking her jacket onto the back of her chair.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Anita was still busy on the phone, but that she was gesturing for her to go over. Emma grabbed a cup that had DON’T MESS WITH EMMA printed across it – a gift from Wollan after the countdown murders last autumn – and walked over.

  ‘As soon as possible,’ she heard her boss say to whoever was on the other end of the phone. ‘And by that I mean half an hour ago,’ she finished, pressing her finger firmly on the screen to hang up.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ she said, exhaling heavily.

  A whiff of stale coffee and smoke hit Emma’s nostrils. Anita was staring at her inquisitively. She turned away, busying herself with the coffee machine. She found a purple capsule, put it into the machine and pressed the button for the largest cup.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you were going to show up today,’ Anita said.

  ‘Me neither. But I had to do something. Keep myself busy.’

  An image of the man who the police were searching for flashed onto the screen
behind Anita. It was the same blurry image every media outlet had been showing over the last twenty-four hours.

  ‘The police will be keeping their cards close to their chests,’ Anita shouted over the noise from the machine. ‘And there’s not much we can do other than run after them with a microphone. Have you got anything else? Preferably something we can set today’s agenda with?’

  Emma’s coffee was ready. She waited for the machine to release the last few drops before lifting the cup to her mouth and blowing lightly on the surface.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said.

  Anita looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate. Emma took a careful sip.

  ‘The first bomb,’ she said, ‘wasn’t particularly effective, not as a terrorist attack anyway. It was effective enough, but if the goal was to cause the greatest possible damage, then they pretty much chose the worst rubbish bin in the entire area. Most of the explosion blew out over the fjord. So, if the first attack was carried out by terrorists, then I would say they were pretty amateur.’

  Emma raised her gaze towards the TV screen. A grave-looking reporter was interviewing Raymond Rafto of PST, who was emphasising that they were still in the early stages of the investigation.

  ‘The bomb this morning was even less powerful,’ she continued. ‘And it was detonated at a time when there weren’t many people in the park. And yet everyone is still talking about terrorism and ISIS, when no one’s even taken responsibility for either the first or the second attack.’

  Anita frowned.

  ‘It may very well just be a teenager who’s been on the internet and wanted to test out their own DIY bombs. I don’t think it would be particularly difficult.’

  Anita looked at her doubtfully. ‘Can you find an expert or someone who can prove that?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m getting at,’ Emma said.

  ‘So what’s your point?’

  ‘That this might be about something else.’

  Emma hesitated a moment, before asking: ‘Do you know who Ruth-Kristine Smeplass is?’

  Anita snorted. ‘Every journalist knows who Ruth-Kristine is. It…’

  She stopped herself and suddenly looked up at the TV. The names of the casualties were being released, with their ages and places of residence.

  Kasper’s name was third on the list. Black letters on a grey background.

  ‘She was the woman Blix rescued from the harbour,’ Emma explained, blinking rapidly and looking away.

  Anita seemed to disappear into her thoughts for a while.

  ‘Wow,’ she breathed finally. ‘Why didn’t you mention that in the article you wrote about Blix yesterday?’

  ‘Because they weren’t sure if she was even going to survive yesterday,’ Emma explained. ‘And because they haven’t officially identified her yet.’

  Anita raised her cup to her mouth and took a small sip.

  ‘Get someone to confirm that it’s her, and that her relatives have been informed, then we’ve got ourselves a story.’

  18

  The box containing the Patricia case had been relocated to one of the filing cabinets in the office. Blix searched through it and found the photo of Patricia. She was smiling at the camera, only a year and four months old. He held it next to a copy of the photo Christer Storm Isaksen had received in prison. The original had been sent off for a fingerprint examination, and another copy had been forwarded to a specialist investigator who tracked images of abuse posted online. They could work out when the photo had been taken and could interpret the surroundings and background of the picture to work out where it had been taken.

  He looked from one face to the other. There were a few similarities. The corner of the mouth, around the eyes, maybe, but nothing conclusive. Yet he still couldn’t rule out that both pictures were of Patricia.

  On the TV at the other end of the room, the faces of the four casualties were just in the process of being released. Blix moved closer. The sound was muted, but the name, age and place of residence had been provided below the photos. He stared at the third image. Kasper Bjerringbo.

  The only other face he recognised was that of a blond man with ice-blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose. The body they had found on the mooring post. His details appeared on the screen: Adam Hanssen from Fredrikstad.

  Blix looked around the room. The spacious office had been set up for that day’s investigative tasks. Each investigator had their own workstation, but none of those sitting there now seemed to be watching the TV.

  The broadcast switched to a report from Frogner Park. Blix picked up the remote, turned it off and walked back to his desk. Kovic looked up from her computer screen. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her face was pale.

  ‘He came from the northern district,’ she said before Blix had the chance to ask her if she had slept at all.

  ‘Who?’ he said instead.

  ‘The bomber.’

  Blix sat down. Kovic angled the screen towards him, showing him a map of central Oslo – it had been marked with three red spots and two blue ones. She covered her mouth with her hand as she stifled a yawn.

  ‘The analysts at PST found him on CCTV camera footage from some of the side streets,’ she explained, clicking on the red marker positioned closest to Oslo City Hall. ‘He took the same route, there and back.’

  She opened an image from a recording that had come, by the look of it, from a camera inside the lobby of a business with premises on one of the streets. The analysts had labelled the marker: Haakon VII’s gate 2 at 00:01:17. Through the glass doors, they could see a man wearing a dark beanie, black gloves and a black duffle coat, head bowed, walking away from City Hall.

  ‘That could be him,’ Blix said. ‘Which would mean he left as soon as he detonated the bomb.’

  Kovic clicked on the next marker, this time a blue one. The picture was of the same man, in the same place. This time he was on his way towards the harbour, a green shopping bag from Kiwi in his hand. The time on the image read 23:27:18.

  ‘There we go,’ Blix said. ‘It is him.’

  Kovic explained that the blue markers plotted the man on his way to the scene, the red markers showed the route he took after the explosion.

  ‘None of the images are particularly good,’ she added.

  The next photo came from the CCTV camera at a bank on Munkedamsveien, about three hundred metres further north. After that, all they had were the images from the GP practice at the Stortingsgata crossroads. The blue lights of a police car could be seen in the background.

  ‘Could he have taken the tram?’ Blix suggested, pointing to the tram stop over the road, by the National Theatre. ‘If it was even running on New Year’s Eve that is, and after midnight.’

  Kovic shook her head doubtfully. ‘He’d have been spotted in that case,’ she said. ‘They have a good CCTV system.’

  A notification popped up in the right-hand corner of the screen, informing her that she had just received the records from Ruth-Kristine Smeplass’s phone.

  ‘If the same man is responsible for both bombs, then there would be little evidence to suggest that Ruth-Kristine has anything to do with this,’ Kovic noted. ‘Which would mean that we’re probably on the wrong track.’

  Blix couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘I still want to know what she was doing outside City Hall that night,’ he said. ‘Why she happened to be right there, at that exact moment.’

  Kovic opened the attachment. The list detailing Ruth-Kristine’s phone usage was difficult to decipher, as it contained every single type of data that had passed through the telecommunication networks. She spent some time filtering through it so that they were left with just dates and times, who Ruth-Kristine had called or messaged, who had contacted her, and where she had been when her phone was active. The last time the phone had been used was in the Holmlia area. An outgoing call to Oslo Taxi at 22:58.

  ‘She took a taxi into town,’ Kovic said. ‘We have to talk to the driver.’

  Blix nodded.
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  ‘Her boyfriend mentioned she was arguing with someone on the phone two days before New Year’s Eve,’ he remembered. ‘See if you can find that.’

  Kovic scrolled down to the 29th of December. A total of eighteen numbers were listed. Some came up a few times. One of them belonged to Svein-Erik Haugseth. They had exchanged some text messages and had spoken three times. Another frequently used number belonged to Nina Ballangrud, her closest friend.

  ‘I’ve tried to call her, but she’s not answering,’ Kovic said.

  ‘Well they certainly had a lot to talk about,’ Blix observed, pointing to a call at 16:43 that had lasted nineteen minutes.

  ‘Have you looked her up on the database?’

  Kovic nodded. ‘A couple of minor drug violations,’ she said.

  Blix looked at the next number in the phone log. One call at 17:02, lasting four minutes and thirty-four seconds. Over the next half hour, Ruth-Kristine had tried to call the same number six more times. Each time, she had let the phone ring until it went through to voicemail, as if the person she was calling wasn’t picking up. The name of the recipient was listed in a column on the right of the page: Sophus Ahlander.

  The same pattern occurred the next day. Ruth-Kristine had called Ahlander five times, until he had finally picked up. The conversation had lasted twelve seconds. She had then tried several more times throughout the day, each time letting the phone ring out.

  ‘Who is Sophus Ahlander?’ Blix asked.

  Kovic was already in the process of typing his name into the criminal-records database. Several results appeared on the screen. Mainly violations for drugs and betting. A few car thefts and burglaries, a couple of charges for fraud. No domestic violence cases, as far as Blix could tell.

  ‘Petty crime,’ Kovic noted. ‘Most of these are old cases.’

  ‘Had they been in contact before then?’

  Kovic copied Ahlander’s phone number and pasted it into the search box, checking the entire call log. Nothing at all from the last three months, which was the extent of what they had requested. On both the 30th and 31st of December, however, Ruth-Kristine had tried to call him several more times, all of which had gone straight to voicemail.