His voice made her think of the sound of the wheels of her grandfather’s tractor driving along a gravel track out in Sotra.
“So things might be a little unclear for me,” Finne said.
Katrine stopped writing.Unclear?She detected something metallic at the back of her throat, the taste of panic. Was he planning to withdraw his confession?
“Unless perhaps it’s just because I always get a bit confused when I get horny.”
Katrine looked up. Svein Finne caught her gaze. It felt like something was drilling into her head.
He moistened his lips. Smiled. Lowered his voice. “But I always remember the most important things. That’s why we do it, isn’t it? For the memories we can take away and use in lonely moments?”
Katrine caught sight of his right hand painting the picture for her as it moved up and down before she looked back at her notes again.
Skarre had argued that they should cuff Finne, but Katrine had objected. She said it would give him a mental advantage if he thought they were that frightened of him. That it might tempt him to toy with them. And now, one minute into the interview, that was precisely what he was doing.
Katrine leafed through the files in front of her. “If your memory isn’t great, perhaps we could talk about the three rape files I’ve got here instead. With witness statements that might help prompt your memory.”
“Touché,” Finne said, and without looking up she knew he was still smiling. “Like I said, I remember the most important details.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“I arrived at about nine o’clock in the evening. She had a stomach ache and was rather pale.”
“Hang on. How did you get in?”
“The door was open, so I went straight in. She screamed and screamed. She was so frightened. So I h-held her.”
“A stranglehold? Or by locking her arms to her sides?”
“I don’t remember.”
She knew they were proceeding too quickly, that she needed more details, but this was first and foremost about getting a confession out of him before he changed his mind. “Then what?”
“She was in so much pain. Blood was pouring out of her. I used a kn-knife…”
“Your own?”
“No, a sharper one, from a knife block.”
“Where on her body did you use it?”
“H-here.”
“The interviewee is pointing at his stomach,” Katrine said.
“Her belly button,” Finne said in an affected, childlike voice. “Her belly button.”
“Her belly button,” Katrine repeated, swallowing a surge of nausea. Swallowing the feeling of triumph. They had the confession. The rest was all icing on the cake.
“Can you describe Rakel Fauke? And the kitchen?”
“Rakel? Beautiful. Like you, K-Katrine. You’re very similar.”
“What was she wearing?”
“I don’t remember. Has anyone ever told you how similar you are? Like s-sisters.”
“Describe the kitchen.”
