motive? Most of the speculation centred on a crazy police-hater or an extreme anarchist. Some mentioned foreign terrorism, but terrorists usually claimed the honour of a successful action, and no one had come forward. No one doubted that the two murders were connected – the dates and the crime scenes saw to that – and for a while the police had searched for a criminal both Vennesla and Nilsen had arrested, questioned or offended in some way. But no such connection could be found. So in the interim they had worked on a theory that Vennesla’s murder was one individual’s revenge after an arrest, a bout of jealousy, an inheritance or any of the standard motives. And Nilsen’s murder was another individual with a different motive, but he had been clever enough to copy Vennesla’s murder to fool the police into thinking a serial killer was at work and stop them looking in the obvious places. But then the police had done exactly that, searched in the obvious places as though these were two separate murders. And they didn’t find anything there either.
So the police had gone back to square one. A police murderer. And the press had done the same and kept nagging: why can’t the police catch the person who has killed two of their own?
Truls felt both satisfaction and anger when he saw these headlines. Mikael had probably been hoping that by Christmas and New Year the press would have forgotten the murders and started focusing on other things, allowing them to work in peace. Letting him continue to be the sexy new sheriff in town, the whizz-kid, the town’s guardian. And not someone who failed, who messed up, who sat in front of the flashing cameras with a loser’s face radiating dejected Norwegian Rail-style incompetence.
Truls didn’t need to look at the papers, he had read them at home. He had laughed out loud at Mikael’s feeble statement about where the investigation stood. ‘At this moment in time it’s not possible to say . . .’ and ‘There is no information regarding . . .’ They were sentences taken directly from the chapter about handling the press in Bjerknes and Hoff Johansen’s Investigative Methods , which had been a set text at Police College and in which it said police officers should use these generic quasi-sentences because journalists got so frustrated with ‘no comment’. And also that they should avoid adjectives.
Truls had checked the photos for traces of desperation on Mikael’s face, the expression he used to wear when the big boys in Manglerud reckoned it was time to shut the poncy upstart’s gob, and Mikael needed help. Truls’s help. And of course Truls stepped up. And he was the one who went home with black eyes and thick lips, not Mikael. No, his good looks were spared. For Ulla.
‘Don’t cut off too much,’ Truls said. He watched his hair falling from his pale, slightly protruding forehead in the mirror. The forehead and the sturdy underbite often led people to assume he was stupid. Which on occasion was an advantage. On occasion. He closed his eyes. Trying to decide whether Mikael’s desperate expression was there in the press conference photos or if he saw it only because he wanted to see it.
Suspension. Expulsion. Rejection.
He was still getting his salary. Mikael had been apologetic. Placed a hand on his shoulder and said it was in everyone’s best interest, Truls’s too. Until it was decided what the consequences would be for a policeman who had received money he couldn’t or wouldn’t account for. Mikael had even made sure that Truls was entitled to keep some allowances. So it wasn’t as if he had to go to cheap hairdressers. He had always come here. But he liked it even better now. He liked having exactly the same haircut as the Arab in the next chair. The terrorist cut.
‘What are you laughing at, pal?’
Truls stopped abruptly when he heard his own grunted guffaws. Those which had given him the sobriquet Beavis. No, Mikael had given it to him. During
So the police had gone back to square one. A police murderer. And the press had done the same and kept nagging: why can’t the police catch the person who has killed two of their own?
Truls felt both satisfaction and anger when he saw these headlines. Mikael had probably been hoping that by Christmas and New Year the press would have forgotten the murders and started focusing on other things, allowing them to work in peace. Letting him continue to be the sexy new sheriff in town, the whizz-kid, the town’s guardian. And not someone who failed, who messed up, who sat in front of the flashing cameras with a loser’s face radiating dejected Norwegian Rail-style incompetence.
Truls didn’t need to look at the papers, he had read them at home. He had laughed out loud at Mikael’s feeble statement about where the investigation stood. ‘At this moment in time it’s not possible to say . . .’ and ‘There is no information regarding . . .’ They were sentences taken directly from the chapter about handling the press in Bjerknes and Hoff Johansen’s Investigative Methods , which had been a set text at Police College and in which it said police officers should use these generic quasi-sentences because journalists got so frustrated with ‘no comment’. And also that they should avoid adjectives.
Truls had checked the photos for traces of desperation on Mikael’s face, the expression he used to wear when the big boys in Manglerud reckoned it was time to shut the poncy upstart’s gob, and Mikael needed help. Truls’s help. And of course Truls stepped up. And he was the one who went home with black eyes and thick lips, not Mikael. No, his good looks were spared. For Ulla.
‘Don’t cut off too much,’ Truls said. He watched his hair falling from his pale, slightly protruding forehead in the mirror. The forehead and the sturdy underbite often led people to assume he was stupid. Which on occasion was an advantage. On occasion. He closed his eyes. Trying to decide whether Mikael’s desperate expression was there in the press conference photos or if he saw it only because he wanted to see it.
Suspension. Expulsion. Rejection.
He was still getting his salary. Mikael had been apologetic. Placed a hand on his shoulder and said it was in everyone’s best interest, Truls’s too. Until it was decided what the consequences would be for a policeman who had received money he couldn’t or wouldn’t account for. Mikael had even made sure that Truls was entitled to keep some allowances. So it wasn’t as if he had to go to cheap hairdressers. He had always come here. But he liked it even better now. He liked having exactly the same haircut as the Arab in the next chair. The terrorist cut.
‘What are you laughing at, pal?’
Truls stopped abruptly when he heard his own grunted guffaws. Those which had given him the sobriquet Beavis. No, Mikael had given it to him. During
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