‘It seems he might know what we’re looking for,’ one of the forensics officers said. ‘Either he’s cleaned up after himself or he’s just been very lucky.’

The only concrete evidence they had were shoeprints on the soft ground from two people, one matching the shoes Susanne was wearing, the other made by a heavier individual wearing a size 42, probably a male. The tracks indicated they had been walking close to one another.

‘As though he’s forced Susanne with him into the woods?’ asked Magnus Skarre, one of the veterans of Crime Squad.

‘Could be, yes,’ the forensics expert confirmed.

‘The Forensic Medical Institute carried out a preliminary post-mortem over the weekend,’ Katrine said, ‘and there’s good and bad news. The good news is that they found a tiny amount of residue from spit or mucus on one of Susanne’s breasts. The bad news is we can’t be certain it came from the killer, given that Susanne’s upper body was clothed when we found her. So if he did assault her, he must have dressed her again, which would be unusual. Anyway, Sturdza was kind enough to run an express DNA analysis on the residue, and the even worse news is that there was no match with any profile in the database of known offenders. So if it didn’t come from the killer, we’re talking...’

‘A needle in a haystack,’ Skarre said.

No one laughed. No one groaned. Just silence. After three weeks in the proverbial wilderness, late nights, threatened cancellation of autumn breaks and friction on domestic fronts, the discovery of a body had extinguished one hope and sparked another. Of leads. Of solving the case. This was now officially a murder investigation, and it was Monday, a new week, with new opportunities. But the faces staring back at Katrine were drained, drawn and tired.

She had been expecting that. And had therefore saved the last slide in order to wake them up.

‘This was discovered when they were concluding the preliminary post-mortem,’ she said, as the next photo came up on the screen. When she had received it from Alexandra on Saturday, Katrine’s first association had been with the monster from the film Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Everyone in the room stared in silence at the head with the rough stitches. That was the extent of the reaction. Katrine cleared her throat.

‘Sturdza writes that it appears as though Susanne Andersen has recently received a cut to the head from just above the hairline over the forehead all the way around. And that the wound has been sewn shut again. We don’t know if that might have occurred prior to her disappearance, but Sung-min spoke to Susanne’s parents yesterday.’

‘As well as to a friend who met Susanne the night before she went missing,’ Sung-min said. ‘None of them had any knowledge of her having received stitches to her head.’

‘So we can assume this is the work of her killer. The pathologist will be performing a full clinical autopsy today, so hopefully we’ll find out more.’ She checked the time. ‘Anyone want to add something before we get started on today’s assignments?’

A female detective spoke up. ‘Now we know that one of the girls was forced off the path and into the forest, shouldn’t we intensify our search for Bertine in the woody areas along the footpaths around Grefsenkollen?’

‘Yes,’ Katrine said. ‘That’s already under way. Anything else?’

The faces looking back at her resembled those of fed-up schoolkids just looking forward to break time. If that. Last year someone had suggested they hire a former world champion cross-country skier who gave so-called inspirational speeches aimed at the business sector, about how to get over the mental hump everyone meets sooner or later in a 50-kilometre race. For his services, the national hero in question quoted a fee only a private sector company could pay. Katrine had said they could just as well have a single mother in full-time employment give the talk, and that it was the worst suggestion she had heard about how to use the departmental budget. Now she wasn’t quite so sure.

10

Monday

Horses

The young taxi driver looked in confusion at the pieces of paper Harry was holding out.

‘It’s called money,’ Harry said.

The taxi driver took the notes and studied the numbers on them. ‘I don’t have... like... eh...’

‘Change.’ Harry sighed. ‘That’s all right.’

Harry began making his way towards the entrance of Bjerke Racecourse as he stuffed the receipt in his back pocket. The twenty minutes from the Radium Hospital had cost as much as a plane ticket to Málaga. He needed a car, preferably one with a driver, as soon as possible. But first and foremost he needed a policeman. A corrupt one.