by Jo Nesbo
‘Did you find out anything about the names I gave you?’ he asked.
Harry summarised what he had discovered.
‘However, there are a few new elements,’ he said. ‘A policewoman has been murdered.’
‘I read something about it in the paper.’
‘That case has been solved. We’re waiting for the results of a DNA test. Do you believe in coincidences, herr Fauke?’
‘Not really.’
‘Neither do I. That’s why I ask myself questions when the same people keep cropping up in cases which are apparently unrelated. On the same evening Ellen Gjelten was murdered, she left a message on my answer-phone saying “We’ve got him now”. She was helping me to search for the person who had ordered the Märklin gun from Johannesburg. Of course, there doesn’t have to be any connection between this person and the killer, but they are adjacent thoughts. Especially since she was clearly very concerned to get hold of me. This was a case I had been dealing with for weeks, yet she tried to contact me several times that night. And she sounded very agitated. That may suggest that she felt threatened.’
Harry placed his forefinger on the coffee table.
‘One of the people on your list, Hallgrim Dale, was murdered last autumn. In the alley where he was found there were also, among other things, the remains of vomit. A link was not made immediately since the blood group didn’t match that of the victim, and the image of an extremely cold-blooded professional murderer didn’t square with someone who throws up at the scene of a crime. Kripos, however, did not exclude the possibility that the vomit belonged to the murderer and sent off a saliva sample for DNA testing. Earlier today one of my colleagues compared these results with the tests done on the cap we found by the murdered policewoman. They are identical.’
Harry paused and looked at the other man.
‘I see,’ Fauke said. ‘You think the perpetrators could be one and the same.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I just think there may be a connection between the murders and it is no chance that Sverre Olsen was close by both times.’
‘Why couldn’t he have killed both of them?’
‘He might have done that, of course, but there is a crucial difference between the kind of violence Sverre Olsen used and the murder of Hallgrim Dale. Have you ever seen the physical damage that a baseball bat can do? The soft wood smashes bones and causes internal organs like the liver and kidneys to burst. The skin’s often as not unscathed and the victim generally dies of internal bleeding. In the case of Hallgrim Dale the carotid artery was severed. As a result of this kind of killing, blood gushes out. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but I don’t see where you’re going.’
‘Sverre Olsen’s mother told one of the officers that Sverre couldn’t stand the sight of blood.’
Fauke’s cup of coffee stopped on its way to his mouth. He put it down again.
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘I know what you’re thinking – that he could still have done it and the fact that he couldn’t stand the sight of blood may explain why he threw up. But the point is that the killer wasn’t using a knife for the first time. According to the pathologist’s report, it was a perfect surgical cut, which only someone who knew what he was doing could have carried out.’
Fauke nodded slowly.
‘I understand what you mean,’ he said.
‘You look pensive,’ Harry said.
‘I think I know why you’re here. You’re wondering if one of the soldiers from Sennheim was capable of executing such a killing.’
‘Right. Was there anyone?’
‘Yes, there was.’ Fauke grasped his mug with both hands and his eyes wandered into the distance. ‘The one you didn’t find. Gudbrand Johansen. I told you we called him the redbreast, didn’t I?’
‘Can you tell me any more about him?’
‘Yes, but we’ll have to have more coffee first.’
69
Irisveien. 8 May 2000.
‘WHO’S THAT?’ CAME A SHOUT FROM INSIDE THE DOOR. THE voice was small and frightened. Harry could see her outline through the frosted glass.
‘Harry Hole. We spoke on the phone.’
The door was opened a fraction.
‘Sorry, I . . .’
‘That’s alright.’
Signe Juul opened the door wide and Harry walked into the hallway.
‘Even’s out,’ she said with an apologetic smile.
‘Yes, you said on the phone,’ Harry said. ‘It was actually you I wanted to talk to.’
‘Me?’
‘If that’s OK, fru Juul?’
The elderly lady led the way in. Her hair, thick and steely grey, was twisted into a knot and held in place with an old-fashioned hairslide. And her round, swaying body was the kind that made you think of a soft embrace and good food.
Burre raised his head when they came into the sitting room.
‘So, your husband has gone for a walk on his own?’ Harry asked.
‘Yes, he can’t take Burre into the café,’ she said. ‘Please, do sit down.’
‘The café?’
‘Something he’s started doing recently,’ she smiled. ‘To read the papers. He says he thinks better when he’s not sitting at home.’
‘There’s probably something in that.’
‘Absolutely. And you can daydream too, I suppose.’
‘What kind of daydreams, do you think?’
‘Well, I’ve no idea. You can perhaps imagine you’re young again, drinking coffee at a pavement café in Paris or Vienna.’ Again that same quick, apologetic smile. ‘Enough of that. Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
Harry studied the walls while Signe Juul went into the kitchen. Above the fireplace was a portrait of a young man wearing a black cloak. Harry hadn’t noticed the picture when he had been here previously. The cloak-clad man was standing in a dramatic pose, apparently scanning distant horizons beyond the painter’s view. Harry walked over to the picture. A little framed copper plaque read: Overlege Kornelius Juul, 1885–1969. Medical consultant.
‘That’s Even’s grandfather,’ Signe Juul said, arriving with a tray of coffee things.
‘Right. You have a lot of portraits here.’
‘Yes,’ she said, putting down the tray. ‘The picture beside it is Even’s maternal grandfather, Dr Werner Schumann. He was one of the founders of Ullevål Hospital in 1885.’
‘And this?’
‘Jonas Schumann. Consultant at the Rikshospital.’
‘And your relatives?’
She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Where are your relatives?’
‘They . . . are elsewhere. Cream in your coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
Harry sat down. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the war,’ he said.
‘Oh no,’ she burst out.
‘I understand, but this is important. Is it alright to ask?’
‘We’ll see,’ she said, pouring herself coffee.
‘You were a nurse during the war . . .’
‘At the Eastern Front, yes. A traitor.’
Harry looked up. Her eyes watched him calmly.
‘There were around four hundred of us. We were all sentenced to imprisonment afterwards. Despite the fact that the international Red Cross sent in an appeal to the Norwegian authorities to stop all criminal proceedings. The Norwegian Red Cross didn’t apologise until 1990. Even’s father, in the picture over there, had connections and managed to get my sentence commuted . . . partly because I had helped two injured Resistance men in the spring of 1945. And because I was never a member of the Nasjonal Samling. Is there anything else you would like to know?’
Harry stared into his coffee cup. It struck him how quiet it could be in some of Oslo’s better residential areas.
‘It’s not your past I’m after, fru Juul. Do you remember a Norwegian soldier at the front called Gudbrand Johansen?’
Signe Juul fl
inched, and Harry knew he had stumbled on to something.
‘What is it you actually want to know?’ she asked, her face taut. ‘Hasn’t your husband told you?’
‘Even never tells me anything.’
‘Right. I’m trying to identify the Norwegian soldiers who went through Sennheim on the way to the front.’
‘Sennheim,’ she repeated softly. ‘Daniel was there.’
‘Yes, I know you were engaged to Daniel Gudeson. Sindre Fauke told me that.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A veteran of the front and the Resistance whom your husband knows. It was Fauke who suggested I talk to you about Gudbrand Johansen. Fauke deserted, so he doesn’t know what happened to Gudbrand afterwards. But another soldier from the front, Edvard Mosken, told me about a hand-grenade exploding in the trenches. Mosken wasn’t able to account for all the events following the explosion, but if Johansen survived it would be natural to assume that he ended up in the field hospital.’
Signe Juul made a smacking noise with her lips. Burre ambled over and she buried her fingers in the dog’s thick, wiry coat.
‘Yes, I can remember Gudbrand Johansen,’ she said. ‘Daniel occasionally wrote about him, in the letters from Sennheim and in the notes I got from him at the field hospital. They were very different. I think Gudbrand Johansen became like a younger brother to him.’ She smiled. ‘Most men in Daniel’s presence tended to behave like younger brothers.’
‘Do you know what happened to Gudbrand?’
‘He ended up in the hospital with us, as you said. This was at the time when our section of the front was falling into Russian hands and there was a full-scale retreat. We couldn’t get any medicine to the front because all the roads were blocked by traffic coming from the other direction. Johansen was badly injured with, among other things, a shell splinter in his thigh, just above the knee. Gangrene was spreading in his foot and there was a risk we might have to amputate. So, instead of waiting for medicine which wasn’t coming, he was sent with the stream of traffic to the west. The last I saw of him was a bearded face sticking up from under a blanket at the back of a lorry. The spring mud was up to the middle of the wheels and it took them an hour to move round the first bend and out of sight.’
The dog had rested its head in her lap and looked up at her with sad eyes.
‘And that was the last you saw or heard of him?’
She slowly raised the delicate porcelain cup to her lips, took a tiny sip and put it down. Her hand didn’t shake much, but it was trembling.
‘I received a card from him a few months later,’ she said. ‘He wrote that he had some of Daniel’s personal effects, a Russian cap that I understood to be some kind of trophy of war. The writing was rather confused, but that is not at all unusual among recent war casualties.’
‘The card, do you . . . ?’
She shook her head.
‘Do you remember where it was sent from?’
‘No. I can only remember that the name made me think it was somewhere green and rural and that he was well.’
Harry stood up.
‘How did this Fauke know about me?’ she asked.
‘Well —’ Harry didn’t quite know how to put it, but she broke in. ‘All the soldiers at the front have heard of me,’ she said and her mouth smiled. ‘The woman who sold her soul to the Devil for a shorter sentence. Is that what they think?’
‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. He knew he had to get out. They were only two blocks away from the circular road round Oslo, but it was so quiet they could have been by a lake in the mountains.
‘You know I never saw him again,’ she said. ‘Daniel. After they told me he was dead.’
She had focused on an imaginary point in front of her.
‘I received a New Year’s greeting from him via an orderly and three days later I saw Daniel’s name on a list of the fallen. I didn’t believe it was true. I told them I would refuse to believe it until they showed me his body. So they took me to the mass grave in the Northern Sector where they were burning the dead. I went down into the grave, trod over dead bodies as I searched, going from one burned corpse to the next, staring into the blackened, empty eye sockets. But none of them was Daniel. They said it would be impossible for me to recognise him, but I told them they were wrong. Then they said that he might have been put in one of the graves that had been covered over. I don’t know, but I never saw him again.’
She started when Harry cleared his throat.
‘Thank you for the coffee, fru Juul.’
She followed him out to the hall. As he stood by the wardrobe, buttoning up his coat, he couldn’t help looking for her features in the faces peering out of the framed photographs hanging on the wall, but in vain.
‘Do we have to tell Even any of this?’ she asked, opening the door for him.
Harry looked at her in surprise.
‘I mean, does he have to know that we talked about this?’ she added hurriedly. ‘About the war and . . . Daniel?’
‘Well, not if you don’t want him to, of course.’
‘He’ll see that you’ve been here. But can’t we just say that you waited for him and you had to go to another appointment?’
Her eyes were imploring, but there was something else there too.
Harry couldn’t put his finger on what it was until he was in Ringveien and had opened the window to let in the liberating, deafening roar of cars, which blew the silence out of his head. It was horror. Signe Juul was terrifed of something.
70
Brandhaug’s House, Nordberg. 8 May 2000.
BERNT BRANDHAUG TAPPED THE EDGE OF THE CRYSTAL GLASS with his knife, pushed his chair back and dabbed his mouth with his napkin while gently clearing his throat. A tiny smile flitted across his lips, as if he were already amused by the points he was going to make in this speech to his guests: Chief Constable Størksen with husband and Kurt Meirik with wife.
‘Dear friends and colleagues.’
Out of the corner of his eye he could see his wife smiling stiffly to the others as if to say: Sorry we have to go through this, but it is beyond my control.
This evening Brandhaug talked about friendship and collegiality. About the importance of loyalty and summoning positive energy as a defence against the scope democracy will always allow for mediocrity, the abrogation of responsibility and incompetence at leadership level. Of course you couldn’t expect politically elected housewives and farmers to understand the complexity of the areas of responsibility they were designated to manage.
‘Democracy is its own reward,’ Brandhaug said, a formulation he had plagiarised and made his own. ‘But that doesn’t mean that democracy doesn’t come at a price. When we make a sheet-metal worker a minister of finance . . .’
At regular intervals he checked that the Chief Constable was listening and interjected a witticism about the democratisation process in various ex-colonies in Africa where he had once been an ambassador himself. But the speech, which he had given several times before in other forums, did not inspire him this evening. His mind was somewhere else, where it had been for the last few weeks: with Rakel Fauke.
She had become an obsession with him and he had on occasion considered forgetting her. He had been trying too hard to have her.
He thought about his recent manipulations. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Kurt Meirik was the head of POT, it would never have worked. The first thing he’d had to do was get this Harry Hole off the scene, out of the way, out of the city, to some place where he couldn’t be contacted by Rakel or anyone else.
Brandhaug had rung Kurt and said that his contact at Dagbladet had told him that there were rumours doing the rounds in press circles about ‘something’ having happened during the presidential visit in the autumn. They had to act before it was too late, hide Harry somewhere the press couldn’t get hold of him. Didn’t Kurt think so too?
Kurt had humm-ed and haa-ed. At least until it all blew over, Brandhaug had insisted. To tell the tru
th, Brandhaug doubted that Meirik had believed what he said for one moment. Not that he was unduly worried. A few days later Kurt called him to say that Harry Hole had been sent to the front, to some God-forsaken place in Sweden. Brandhaug had literally rubbed his hands with glee. Nothing could upset the plans he had made for Rakel and him now.
‘Our democracy is like a beautiful, smiling, but slightly naive daughter. The fact that the powers for good in a society stick together has nothing to do with elitism or power games; it is simply the only guarantee we have that our daughter, Democracy, will not be violated and that the government will not be taken over by undesirable forces. Hence loyalty, this almost forgotten virtue, between people like us is not only desirable but also absolutely vital. Yes, it is a duty which . . .’
They had moved to the deep armchairs in the sitting room and Brandhaug had passed round his box of Cuban cigars, a gift from the Norwegian consulate in Havana.
‘Rolled on the inside of Cuban women’s thighs,’ he had whispered to Anne Størksen’s husband and winked, but he didn’t appear to have understood the point. He made a dry, stiff impression, this husband of hers, what was his name again? A double name – my God, had he forgotten? Tor Erik! That was it, Tor Erik.
‘More cognac, Tor Erik?’
Tor Erik smiled a thin, compressed smile and shook his head. Probably the ascetic type who jogs fifty kilometres a week, Brandhaug thought. Everything about the man was thin – the body, the face, the hair. He had seen the look he had exchanged with his wife during the speech, as if reminding her of a private joke. It didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the speech.
‘Sensible,’ Brandhaug said sourly. ‘Better safe than sorry?’
Elsa appeared in the door to the sitting room.
‘There’s a telephone call for you, Bernt.’
‘We have guests, Elsa.’
‘It’s someone from Dagbladet.’
‘I’ll take it up in my office.’
It was from the newsdesk, some woman whose name he didn’t know. She sounded young and he tried to picture her. It was about the demonstration that evening outside the Austrian embassy in Thomas Heftyes gate, against Jörg Haider and the extreme right Freedom Party, who had been elected to help form the government. She only wanted a few brief comments for the morning paper.
