by Jo Nesbo
Afterwards Aune sat deep in thought. He grunted as he alternated between nodding and shaking his head.
‘I regret to say that I am not sure I can help you much,’ he said. ‘The only thing I have to work on is the message on the mirror. It’s reminiscent of a calling card and it is quite normal for serial killers, especially after several killings when they begin to feel secure enough to want to up the ante by provoking the police.’
‘Is he a sick man, Aune?’
‘Sick is a relative concept. We’re all sick. The question is, what degree of functionality do we have with respect to the rules society sets for desirable behaviour? No actions are in themselves symptoms of sickness. You have to look at the context within which these actions are performed. Most people, for instance, are equipped with an impulse control in the midbrain which attempts to prevent us from killing our fellow creatures. This is just one of the evolutionary qualities with which we are equipped to protect our own species. But if you train long enough to overcome these inhibitions, the inhibition is weakened. As with soldiers, for example. If you or I suddenly began to kill, there is a good chance we would become sick. But that is not necessarily the case if you are a contract killer or a . . . policeman for that matter.’
‘So, if we’re talking about a soldier – someone who has been fighting for either side during a war – the threshold for killing is much lower than with someone else, assuming both are of sound mind?’
‘Yes and no. A soldier is trained to kill in a war situation, and in order for the inhibitions not to kick in, he has to feel that the action of killing is taking place in the same context.’
‘So he must feel he is still fighting a war?’
‘Put simply, yes. But supposing that is the situation, he can continue killing without being sick in a medical sense. No sicker than any normal soldier, at any rate. Then it is just a matter of a divergent sense of reality, and now we’re all skating on thin ice.’
‘Why’s that?’ Halvorsen asked.
‘Who is to say what is true or real, moral or immoral? Psychologists? Courts of law? Politicians?’
‘Right,’ said Harry. ‘But there are those who do.’
‘Exactly,’ Aune said. ‘But if you feel that those who have been invested with authority judge you high-handedly or unjustly, in your eyes they lose their moral authority. For instance, if anyone is imprisoned for being a member of a wholly legal party, you look for another judge. You appeal against the sentence to a higher authority, so to speak.’
‘“God is my judge”,’ Harry said.
Aune nodded. ‘What do you think that means, Aune?’
‘It might mean that he wants to explain his actions. Despite everything, he feels a need to be understood. Most people do, you know.’
Harry dropped in at Schrøder’s on his way to meet Fauke. It wasn’t a busy morning and Maja was sitting at the table under the TV with a cigarette and the newspaper. Harry showed her the picture of Edvard Mosken which Halvorsen had managed to produce in an impressively short time, probably via the authority which had issued an international driver’s licence to Mosken two years before.
‘I think I’ve seen that prune face before, yes,’ she said. ‘But how can I remember where or when? He must have been here a few times since I recognise him. He’s not a regular though.’
‘Could anyone else have spoken to him?’
‘Now you’re asking me tricky stuff, Harry.’
‘Somebody rang from the pay phone here at 12.30 last Monday. I’m not expecting you to remember, but could it have been this person?’
Maja shrugged.
‘Of course it could. But it could have been Father Christmas too. You know what it’s like, Harry.’
On his way to Vibes gate Harry rang Halvorsen and asked him to get hold of Edvard Mosken.
‘Should I arrest him?’
‘No, no. Check his alibis for the Brandhaug murder and Signe Juul’s disappearance today.’
Sindre Fauke’s face was grey when he opened the door to Harry.
‘A friend turned up with a bottle of whisky yesterday,’ he explained and pulled a face. My body can’t take that sort of thing any more. No, if only I were sixty again . . .’
He laughed and went to take the whistling coffee pot off the stove.
‘I read about the murder of this man from the Foreign Office,’ he shouted from the kitchen. ‘It said in the paper that the police are not ruling out the possibility of a link with what he said about Norwegians at the front. Verdens Gang reckons neo-Nazis were behind it. Do you really believe that?’
‘VG might believe that. We don’t believe anything and we don’t rule out anything either. How’s it going with the book?’
‘It’s going a bit slowly at this minute. But if I finish it, it will open a few people’s eyes. That’s what I tell myself, anyway, to get myself motivated on days like today.’
Fauke put the coffee on the table between them and sank back into the armchair. He had tied a cold cloth round the pot – an old trick he had learned at the front, he explained with a knowing smile. He was obviously hoping Harry would ask him how the trick worked, but Harry didn’t have the time.
‘Even Juul’s wife has disappeared,’ he said.
‘Jesus. Run off ?’
‘Don’t think so. Do you know her?’
‘I’ve never met her, but I know a lot about the controversy when Juul was about to get married. She was a nurse at the front and so on. What happened?’
Harry told him about the telephone call and her disappearance. ‘We don’t know any more than that. I was hoping that you knew her and could give me a lead.’
‘Sorry, but . . .’ Fauke stopped to take a sip from his cup of coffee. He seemed to be thinking about something. ‘What did you say was written on the mirror?’
‘“God is my judge”,’ Harry said.
‘Hm.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘To be frank, I’m not sure myself,’ Fauke said, rubbing his unshaven chin.
‘Come on, say it.’
‘You said that he might want to explain himself, to be understood.’
‘Yes?’
Fauke walked over to the bookcase, pulled out a thick book and began to leaf through.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Just what I thought.’
He passed the book to Harry. It was a Bible dictionary.
‘Look under Daniel.’
Harry’s eyes ran down the page until he found the name. ‘“Daniel. Hebrew. God (El) is my judge”.’
He looked up at Fauke, who had lifted the pot to pour coffee.
‘You’re looking for a ghost, Inspector Hole.’
80
Parkveien, Uranienborg. 11 May 2000.
JOHAN KROHN RECEIVED HARRY IN HIS OFFICE. THE BOOK shelves behind him were crammed with volumes of legal publications, bound in brown leather. They contrasted oddly with the lawyer’s childlike face.
‘We meet again,’ Krohn said, motioning Harry to take a seat.
‘You have a good memory,’ Harry said.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my memory. Sverre Olsen. You had a strong case there. Shame the court didn’t manage to keep to the rule book.’
‘That’s not why I’ve come,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask.’
‘Asking costs nothing,’ Krohn said, pressing the tips of his fingers together. He reminded Harry of a child actor playing an adult.
‘I’m looking for a weapon which was imported illegally and I have reason to believe that Sverre Olsen might have been involved in some capacity or other. As your client is dead you are no longer prevented by client confidentiality from providing us with information. It may help us to clear up the murder of Bernt Brandhaug, whom we are fairly positive was shot with precisely this weapon.’
Krohn gave a sour smile.
‘I would rather you let me decide the boundaries of client confidentiality, officer. There is no automatic assumption th
at it ceases upon death. And you clearly have not considered the fact that I may regard your coming here to ask for information as somewhat brazen, bearing in mind that the police shot my client?’
‘I’m trying to forget emotions and behave professionally,’ Harry said.
‘Then try a little harder, officer!’ Krohn’s voice merely became even squeakier when he raised it. ‘This is not very professional. In the same way as killing a man in his own home was not very professional.’
‘That was self defence,’ Harry said.
‘A technicality,’ Krohn said. ‘He is an experienced policeman. He should have known that Olsen was unstable and he should not have burst in as he did. The policeman should obviously have been prosecuted.’
Harry couldn’t let that go.
‘I agree with you that it’s always sad when a criminal goes free on account of a technicality.’
Krohn blinked twice before he realised what Harry meant.
‘Legal technicalities are a different kettle of fish, officer,’ he said. ‘Taking an oath in court may seem to be a detail, but without legal safeguards —’
‘My rank is inspector.’
Harry concentrated on speaking softly and slowly:
‘The legal safeguard you’re talking about cost my colleague her life. Ellen Gjelten. Tell that to that memory you’re so damn proud of. Ellen Gjelten. Twenty-eight years old. The best investigative talent in the Oslo police force. A smashed skull. A very bloody death.’
Harry stood up and leaned across Krohn’s desk, all one metre ninety of him. He could see the Adam’s apple in Krohn’s scrawny vulture neck bobbing up and down, and for two long seconds Harry allowed himself the luxury of relishing the fear in the young lawyer’s eyes. Then Harry dropped his business card on the desk.
‘Ring me when you’ve decided the extent of your client confidentiality,’ he said.
Harry was half out of the door when Krohn’s voice brought him to a halt.
‘He called me just before he died.’
Harry turned. Krohn sighed.
‘He was terrified of someone. Sverre Olsen was always frightened. Lonely and very frightened.’
‘Who isn’t?’ Harry mumbled. Then, ‘Did he say who he was frightened of ?’
‘The Prince. That was what he called him. The Prince.’
‘Did Olsen say why he was frightened?’
‘No, he just said that this Prince was a kind of superior and had ordered him to commit a crime. So he wanted to know how far following orders was a punishable offence. Poor idiot.’
‘What kind of orders?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
Krohn shook his head.
‘Ring me any time at all if you think of anything else.’
‘And one more thing, Inspector. If you believe that I will lose any sleep over having the man who killed your colleague acquitted, you are mistaken.’
But Harry had already left.
81
Herbert’s Pizza. 11 May 2000.
HARRY RANG HALVORSEN AND ASKED HIM TO GO TO Herbert’s. They had the place almost to themselves and chose a table by the window. Right in the corner there was a man dressed in a long trench coat, with a moustache that went out of fashion with Adolf Hitler and two booted legs resting on a chair seat. He looked as if he was trying to set a new world record in being bored.
Halvorsen had caught up with Edvard Mosken, but not in Drammen.
‘He didn’t answer when I tried him at home, so I got hold of his mobile phone number through directory enquiries. It turned out he was in Oslo. He has a flat in Tromsøgata in Roddeløkka where he stays when he’s at Bjerke.’
‘Bjerke?’
‘The racetrack. He must be there every Friday and Saturday. Places a few bets and has a bit of fun, he said. And he owns a quarter of a horse. I met him in the stables behind the track.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘He occasionally pops into Schrøder’s in the morning when he’s in Oslo. He has no idea who Bernt Brandhaug is and he has definitely never phoned his house. He knew who Signe Juul was – he remembered her from the Eastern Front.’
‘What about his alibi?’
Halvorsen ordered a Hawaiian Tropic with pepperoni and pineapple.
‘Mosken has been alone in his flat in Tromsøgata all week, apart from trips up to Bjerke, he said. He was there the morning Brandhaug was killed too. And this morning.’
‘Right. How do you think he answered your questions?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you believe him when you were with him?’
‘Yes, no; well, believe, hm . . .’
‘Go with your gut instinct, Halvorsen, don’t be worried. And then say what you feel. I won’t use it against you.’
Halvorsen looked down at the table and fidgeted with the menu.
‘If Mosken is lying, then he’s definitely a pretty cold fish. That much I can say.’
Harry sighed.
‘Will you see to it that we put a tag on Mosken? I want two men outside his flat day and night.’
Halvorsen nodded and rang a number on his mobile phone. Harry could hear the sound of Møller’s voice as he stole a glance at the neo-Nazi in the corner. Or whatever they called themselves. National Socialists. National Democrats. He had just been sent a copy of a sociology dissertation from the university which concluded that there were fifty-seven neo-Nazis in Norway.
The pizza arrived and Halvorsen sent Harry an enquiring look.
‘Go ahead,’ Harry said. ‘Pizzas aren’t my thing.’
The trench coat in the corner had been joined by a short, green combat jacket. They stuck their heads together and looked across at the two policemen.
‘One more thing,’ Harry said. ‘Linda in POT told me that there was an SS archive in Cologne, partly destroyed by fire in the seventies, but some information had been picked up there about Norwegians fighting with the Germans. Commands, military awards, ranks, that kind of thing. I want you to ring them and see if you can find out anything about Daniel Gudeson. And Gudbrand Johansen.’
‘Yessir,’ Halvorsen said with his mouth full of pizza. ‘When I’ve finished my pizza.’
‘I’ll have a chat with our young friends in the meantime,’ Harry said, getting up.
In a work context, Harry had always taken pains not to use his size to gain a psychological advantage. Yet even though Hitlermoustache stretched his neck to peer up at Harry, Harry knew that the cold stare concealed the same fear that he had witnessed with Krohn. Only this guy had had more training in disguising it. Harry snatched the chair Hitlermoustache was resting his boots on and his legs clattered on to the floor before he had a chance to react.
‘Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I thought this chair was free.’
‘It’s the fucking filth,’ Hitlermoustache said. The shaven skull sticking out of the combat jacket swivelled round.
‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘Or the fuzz. Or the pigs. Uncle Nabs. No, that’s a bit too cosy perhaps. What about les flics? Is that international enough?’
‘Are we bothering you or what?’ the coat asked.
‘Yes, you’re bothering me,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve been bothering me for a long time. Say hello to the Prince and tell him Harry Hole is going to bother him back. From Hole to the Prince. Did you get that?’
The combat jacket blinked and stared open-mouthed. Then the coat opened a mouth with teeth splayed out in all directions and laughed until the saliva ran.
‘Are you talking about HRH Haakon Magnus?’ he asked, and when the combat jacket finally got the joke he laughed along with him.
‘Well,’ Harry said. ‘If you’re just the footsloggers, of course, you won’t know who the Prince is. So you’ll have to pass the message on to your next-in-line. Enjoy the pizzas, boys.’
He walked back to Halvorsen and could feel their eyes on his back.
‘Eat up,’ Harry said to Halvorsen, who
was busy with an enormous piece of pizza stretching halfway round his face. ‘We have to get out before I get more shit on my record.’
82
Holmenkollen. 11 May 2000.
IT WAS THE WARMEST SPRING EVENING SO FAR. HARRY WAS driving with the car window open and the gentle breeze caressed his face and hair. From the top of Holmenkollen he could see Oslo fjord and the islands strewn around like greenish brown shells, and the first white sails of the new season were making their way towards land for the evening. A couple of red-capped school-leavers stood urinating at the edge of the road, beside a red bus with loudspeakers mounted on the roof. The music was booming out: Won’t – you – be my lover . . .
An elderly lady wearing hiking breeches, and with an anorak tied around her waist and a tired but beatific expression on her face, was ambling down the road.
Harry parked down from the house. He didn’t want to go all the way up the drive, he didn’t quite know why – perhaps because he thought it would seem less invasive to park at the bottom. Ridiculous, of course, since his visit had been unannounced and uninvited.
He was halfway up the drive when his mobile phone bleeped. It was Halvorsen ringing from the Traitors’ Archive.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘If Daniel Gudeson really is alive, he certainly wasn’t convicted after the war.’
‘And Signe Juul?’
‘She was sentenced to one year.’
‘But never went to prison. Anything else of interest?’
‘Zilch. And now they’re getting ready to chuck me out and close up.’
‘Go home and sleep – perhaps we’ll come up with something tomorrow.’
Harry had arrived at the foot of the steps and was going to take them in one jump when the door opened. He stood still. Rakel was wearing a woollen jumper and blue jeans; her hair was untidy and her face paler than usual. He searched her eyes for any indication that she was happy to see him again, but found none. But nor was there the neutral courtesy he had dreaded most. Her eyes expressed nothing, whatever that meant.
