by Jo Nesbo
Although she didn’t give a direct answer he had intuited from her response that there was not a man on the scene.
When he rang off he was generally pleased with his gains, even though he was mildly irritated that he had said your generation and thus emphasised the age difference between them.
The next thing he did was to ring Kurt Meirik and discreetly pump him for information about Ms Fauke. The fact that he was less than discreet and Meirik smelled a rat didn’t bother him in the slightest.
Meirik was his usual, well-informed self. Rakel had worked as an interpreter in Brandhaug’s own department for two years at the Norwegian embassy in Moscow. She had married a Russian, a young professor of gene technology who had taken her by storm and had immediately converted theory into practice by making her pregnant. However, the professor had been born with a gene that predisposed him to alcoholism, combined with a predilection for physical discussion, and so their wedded bliss was brief. Rakel Fauke had not repeated the mistake of many in her sisterhood: she didn’t wait, forgive or try to understand; she marched right out of the door with Oleg in her arms the second the first blow fell. Her husband and his relatively influential family had appealed for custody of Oleg, and had it not been for her diplomatic immunity she would not have succeeded in leaving Russia with her son.
As Meirik was telling him that the husband had taken out a lawsuit against her, Brandhaug vaguely recalled a summons issued by a Russian court passing through his in-tray. But she had only been an interpreter at that time and he had delegated the whole business, without making a mental note of her name. When Meirik mentioned that the custody suit was still being chewed over by the Russian and Norwegian authorities, Brandhaug abruptly broke off the conversation and rang down to the legal department.
The next call, to Rakel, was an invitation to dinner, no pretext this time, and upon her friendly but firm refusal he dictated a letter addressed to her, signed by the head of the legal department. The letter, in brief outline, told her that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, since the business had dragged on, was now attempting to reach a compromise solution with the Russian authorities on custody ‘out of humane consideration for Oleg’s Russian family’. That would require Rakel and Oleg to appear before a Russian court and comply with the court’s ruling.
Four days later Rakel phoned Brandhaug and asked to meet him concerning a private matter. He answered that he was busy, which was true, and asked if the meeting could be postponed for a couple of weeks. When, with a hint of shrillness behind her courteous professional tones, she begged him for a meeting as soon as possible, he discovered, after lengthy reflection, that Friday at six at the bar in the Continental was the only option. Once there, he ordered gin and tonic as she elucidated her problem with what he could only assume was a mother’s biologically determined desperation. He nodded gravely, did his utmost to express his sympathy with his eyes and was finally emboldened to place a fatherly, protective hand over hers. She stiffened, but he went on as if nothing had happened, telling her that unfortunately he was not in a position to overrule a department head’s decisions. Naturally, though, he would do whatever was in his power to prevent her having to appear before the Russian court. He also stressed that, bearing in mind the political influence of her ex-husband’s family, he fully shared her concern that the Russian court’s ruling might go against her. He sat there, staring spellbound into her tear-filled brown eyes, and it seemed to him that he had never seen anything to surpass her beauty. Nevertheless, when he suggested extending the evening to include dinner in the restaurant, she thanked him and declined. The rest of the evening, spent in the company of a glass of whisky and pay-TV, was an anticlimax.
The next morning Brandhaug called the Russian ambassador, explaining that the Norwegian Foreign Ministry had had an internal discussion about Oleg Fauke-Gosev’s custody case. Would he send him an update on the Russian authorities’ wishes in the matter? The ambassador had never heard of the case, but promised to accede to the Foreign Office head’s request and also to send the letter in the form of an urgent summons. The letter in which the Russians requested Rakel and Oleg to appear before a Russian court arrived a week later. Brandhaug immediately sent a copy to the head of the legal department and one to Rakel Fauke. This time her phone call came one day later. After listening to her Brandhaug said that it would be contrary to his diplomatic code of behaviour to try to influence the matter, and in any case it was injudicious of them to discuss this on the telephone.
‘As you know, I don’t have any children myself,’ he said. ‘But from the way you describe Oleg he sounds like a wonderful boy.’
‘If you had met him, you would —’ she began.
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. By chance I saw in the correspondence that you live in Holmenkollveien, and that is only a stone’s throw from Nordberg.’
He noticed the hesitation at the quiet end of the telephone line, but he felt the momentum was with him.
‘Shall we say nine o’clock tomorrow evening?’
A long pause ensued before she answered. ‘No six-year-old is up at nine o’clock.’
So they agreed on six o’clock instead. Oleg had brown eyes like his mother and was a well-behaved boy. However, it annoyed Brandhaug that the mother would not drop the topic of the court summons or send Oleg to bed. Yes, one might almost suspect that she was keeping the boy there on the sofa as a hostage. And he did not like the boy staring at him either. Brandhaug knew, ultimately, that Rome was not going to be built in a day, but he still tried as he stood on the step to go. He looked deep into her eyes and said, ‘You are not only a beautiful woman, Rakel, you are also a very brave person. I would just like you to know that I hold you in great esteem.’
He wasn’t sure how he was to interpret her expression, but he took the risk anyway and leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek. Her reaction was ambivalent. The mouth smiled and she thanked him for the compliment, but her eyes were cold as she added, ‘I apologise for keeping you so long, herr Brandhaug. Your wife must be waiting.’
His invitation had been so unambiguous that he decided to give her a few days to reflect, but no telephone call came from Rakel Fauke. On the other hand, unexpectedly, a letter from the Russian embassy did come, requesting an answer, and Brandhaug realised that his enquiry had breathed new life into the Oleg Fauke-Gosev case. Regrettable, but now it had happened he saw no reason not to exploit the opportunity. He immediately rang Rakel in POT and acquainted her with the latest developments in the case.
Some weeks later he found himself once more in the timbered house in Holmenkollveien, which was larger and even darker than his own. Their own. This time after bedtime. She seemed a lot more relaxed in his company than before. Furthermore, he had manoeuvred the conversation on to a more personal track, which meant that it did not appear altogether too obtrusive when he mentioned how platonic the relationship between him and his wife had become and how important it was to forget the brain occasionally and listen to your body and your heart. Then the doorbell rang, providing an unwelcome interruption. Rakel went out to answer it and returned with a tall man with a close-shaven head and bloodshot eyes. She introduced him as a colleague from POT. Brandhaug had definitely heard the name before, he just couldn’t remember when and in what context. He took an immediate dislike to everything about him. He disliked the interruption, the fact that the man was drunk and that he sat down on the sofa and stared at him, like Oleg, without uttering a word. But what he disliked most was the change in Rakel, who brightened up, ran to make coffee and laughed with abandon at this man’s cryptic monosyllable answers as if they contained brilliant flashes of wit. And there was genuine concern in her voice when she refused to allow him to drive his own car home. The only redeeming feature Brandhaug could discern in the man was that he suddenly went on his way and immediately afterwards they heard his car starting up, which might of course mean that he would have the decency to kill himself. The damage he had done to the atmosphere
was irreparable, however, and not long afterwards Brandhaug was sitting in his own car on his way home. It was then that his old hypoth- esis came back to him – there are four possible causes for men deciding that they have to possess a woman. And the most crucial one is that you know she desires someone else.
When he rang Kurt Meirik the following day to ask who the tall, fair-haired policeman was, he was initially very surprised, then he started to laugh. Because it was the very person he had promoted and deployed in POT. An irony of fate, naturally, but fate is also on occasion subject to the counsel of the Royal Norwegian Ministry for Foreign Affairs. When Brandhaug put down the receiver, he was already in better spirits. He strode through the corridors to the next meeting, whistling on his way, and reached the conference room in under seventy seconds.
61
Police HQ. 27 April 2000.
HARRY STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF HIS OLD OFFICE, LOOKING at a blond-haired young man sitting in Ellen’s chair. He was concentrating so hard on the computer screen he didn’t notice Harry until he coughed.
‘So you’re Halvorsen then, are you?’
‘Yes,’ the young man said with an inquisitive expression on his face.
‘From the police station in Steinkjer?’
‘Correct.’
‘Harry Hole. I used to sit where you’re sitting now, but in the other chair.’
‘It’s knackered.’
Harry smiled. ‘It’s always been knackered. Bjarne Møller asked you to check a couple of details with regard to the Ellen Gjelten case?’
‘A couple of details?’ Halvorsen exclaimed in protest. ‘I’ve been working non-stop for three days.’
Harry sat down on his old chair, which had been shifted to Ellen’s table. It was the first time he had seen what the office looked like from her position.
‘What have you found out, Halvorsen?’
Halvorsen frowned.
‘Don’t worry,’ Harry said. ‘I was the one who asked for this information. Check it out with Møller, if you like.’
Halvorsen’s face suddenly lit up.
‘Of course! You’re Hole from POT! Sorry, I was a bit slow on the uptake.’ A big smile spread across his boyish face. ‘I remember the case in Australia. How long ago is that now?’
‘A while. As I said . . .’
‘Oh yes, the list!’ He tapped a pile of computer print-outs with his knuckles. ‘These are all the guys who have been brought in, charged with or convicted of GBH over the last ten years. There are over a thousand names. That part was easy; the problem is finding out which ones are skinheads. The info says nothing about that. This could take weeks . . .’
Harry leaned back in his chair. ‘I know. But criminal records have codes for the weapons used. Run searches for the codes for firearms and see how many you’re left with.’
‘In fact, I was going to suggest that to Møller when I saw how many names there were. Most of them used knives, guns or fists. I should have a new list ready in a few hours.’
Harry stood up.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember my internal number, but you’ll find it on the telephone list. And next time you have a good suggestion, don’t hesitate to make it. We aren’t that smart down here in Oslo.’
Halvorsen, a little unsure of himself, sniggered.
62
POT. 2 May 2000.
THE RAIN HAD BEEN LASHING DOWN ALL MORNING BEFORE the sun made an unanticipated, brash appearance, and in the blinking of an eye it burned off all the clouds in the sky. Harry was sitting with his feet on the desk and his hands behind his head, kidding himself that he was thinking about the Märklin rifle. But his thoughts had wandered outside the window, along the newly washed streets which smelled warm now, along the wet tarmac and the tramlines up to the top of Holmenkollen, to the grey smudges of snow still lying in the shadow of the spruce forest, where Rakel, Oleg and he had hopped around on the muddy paths to avoid the deepest puddles. Harry had vague memories of going on Sunday walks like that even when he was Oleg’s age. If they were long walks, and he and Sis were lagging behind, his father had put pieces of chocolate on the lowest branches. Sis was still convinced that Kvikklunsj bars grew on trees.
Oleg hadn’t said a lot to Harry the first two times he visited. But that was fine. Harry didn’t know what to say to Oleg either. Their discomfort had eased slightly when Harry discovered he had Tetris on his GameBoy. With neither mercy nor shame, Harry had played at his best and beaten the six-year-old boy by over 40,000 points. After that Oleg had begun to ask Harry about cases, and why snow was white, and all the other things that give grown men deep furrows in their foreheads and make them concentrate so hard that they forget to be embarrassed. Last Sunday Oleg had seen a hare in its winter coat and had run on ahead, leaving Harry to hold Rakel’s hand. It was cold on the outside and warm on the inside. She had twisted her head round and smiled at him as she swung her arms high, forwards and backwards, as if to say: We’re playing games, this isn’t for real. He had noticed she became tense when people approached and he had let go of her hand. Afterwards they had drunk cocoa on the Frogner slopes and Oleg had asked why it was spring.
He had invited Rakel out for a meal. This was the second time. The first time she had said she would think about it and rang back to say no. This time she had also said she would think about it, but at least she hadn’t said no. Yet.
The telephone rang. It was Halvorsen. He sounded sleepy.
‘I’ve checked 70 out of the 110 suspected of using a weapon in GBH assaults,’ he said. ‘So far, I’ve found eight skinheads.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘I rang them. It’s amazing how many of them are at home at four in the morning.’
Halvorsen laughed a little insecurely as Harry’s end went quiet.
‘You rang each one?’ Harry asked.
‘Of course,’ Halvorsen said. ‘Or their mobiles. It’s amazing how many of them have —’
Harry interrupted him.
‘And so you asked these violent criminals if they wouldn’t mind giving an up-to-date description of themselves to the police?’
‘Not exactly. I said we were looking for a suspect with long red hair and asked if they had dyed their hair recently,’ Halvorsen said.
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘If you’d shaved your head, what would you answer?’
‘Hm,’ Harry said. ‘There are obviously a few canny types up there in Steinkjer.’
The same nervous laugh.
‘Fax me up the list,’ Harry said.
‘You’ll have it as soon as I’m back.’
‘Back?’
‘One of the officers down here was waiting for me when I got in. Needed to see the case notes I’ve been working on. Must be urgent.’
‘I thought Kripos was working on the Gjelten case now,’ Harry said.
‘Obviously not.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I think he’s called Vole, or something like that,’ Halvorsen said. ‘There’s no Vole in Crime Squad. Do you mean Waaler?’
‘That’s it,’ Halvorsen said and, a little ashamed, added, ‘There are so many new names right now . . .’
Harry felt like giving the young constable a bollocking for handing over case material to people whose names he hardly knew, but this wasn’t the time to be sharp with him. The boy had been up for three nights in a row and was probably dead on his feet.
‘Good work,’ Harry said, and was about to put down the phone.
‘Wait! Your fax number?’
Harry stared out the window. The clouds had begun to draw in over Ekeberg Ridge again.
‘You’ll find it on the telephone list,’ he said.
The phone rang the second he put it down. It was Meirik, who asked him to go to his office straight away.
‘How’s it going with the report on the neo-Nazis?’ he asked as soon as he saw Harry in the doorway.
‘Badly,’ Harry said, sinking into the
chair. In the picture above Meirik’s head the Norwegian King and Queen peered down at him. ‘The E on my keyboard has got stuck,’ Harry added.
Meirik forced a smile, much like the man in the picture, and asked Harry to forget the report for the time being.
‘I need you to do something else. The Chief Information Officer from the trade unions has just called. Half the trade union leaders have been faxed death threats today. Signed 88, a short form for Heil Hitler. It’s not the first time, but this time it’s been leaked to the press. They’ve already started ringing us. We’ve managed to trace the death threats to a public fax machine in Klippan. That’s why we have to take the threat seriously.’
‘Klippan?’
‘A little place three miles east of Helsingborg. Sixteen thousand inhabitants and the worst Nazi nest in Sweden. You’ll find families there who have been Nazis in unbroken lineage since the thirties. Some Norwegian neo-Nazis go on pilgrimages there to see and learn. I want you to pack a big bag, Harry.’
Harry had an unpleasant premonition.
‘We’re sending you there to do some undercover work, Harry. You have to infiltrate the local network. Job, identity and other details we’ll sort out for you bit by bit. Be prepared to stay there for quite some time. Our Swedish colleagues have already sorted out somewhere for you to live.’
‘Undercover work,’ Harry repeated. He could hardly believe his ears. ‘I know diddle about spying, Meirik. I’m a detective. Or had you forgotten?’
Meirik’s smile had become dangerously thin.
‘You’ll learn fast, Harry. That’s not a problem. Look upon it as an interesting, useful experience.’
‘Hm. For how long?’
‘A few months. Maximum six.’
‘Six?’ Harry yelled.
‘Be positive, Harry. You’ve got no family ties, no —’
‘Who else is in the team?’
Meirik shook his head.
‘No team. You’re on your own. It seems more plausible that way. And you report directly to me.’
