The Devil's Star

by Jo Nesbo

  That was four years ago.

  The reason she accepted was primarily because she had discovered that at the offices of Halle, Thune & Wetterlid time went slower than anywhere else she had ever been. The tardy advance of time started the moment you entered the redbrick building and pressed number 5 in the lift. Half of eternity passed before the doors glided back into place and the lift rose slowly towards a heaven where time was even slower to pass. Well ensconced behind the counter, Barbara was able to record the movement of the second hand on the clock over the entrance and the snaillike, reluctant ticking of seconds, minutes and hours. Some days she could almost make time stop completely, it was just a question of concentration. The strange thing was that time seemed to go much faster for the other people around her, as if they existed in parallel, but different, time dimensions. The telephone in front of her rang continuously and people flew in and out like in silent movies, but it was all as if it were happening separate from her, as if she were a robot with mechanical parts moving as fast as everyone else while her inner life proceeded in slow motion.

  Only last week was a case in point. A fairly large debt collection office had suddenly gone bankrupt and at this everyone had started running around and making telephone calls as if demented. Wetterlid told her that it was open season for vultures to gobble up new shares on the market, and a golden opportunity to move up among the elite market leaders. This morning he asked Barbara if she could stay on a bit longer today. He said there were meetings with customers of the bankrupt company until 6.00, and they did want to give the impression that everything was in order at Halle, Thune & Wetterlid, didn’t they. As usual Wetterlid stared at her boobs while talking to her, and as usual she smiled, automatically pulling her shoulders back as Petter had told her when she was working at Head On. It had become a reflex action. Everyone flaunted what they had. At least, that was what Barbara Svendsen had learned. The courier who had just that moment walked in was an example. She would have bet anything that he was nothing to look at under the helmet, racing goggles and the handkerchief tied round his mouth. That was probably why he kept them on. Instead he said that he knew which office the parcel was for and walked slowly down the corridor in his tight cycling shorts so that she could have a really good look at his muscular buttocks. The cleaning lady who was due soon was another example. She was a Buddhist or a Hinduist, or whatever you call them, and Allah said that she had to conceal her body beneath a pile of bed linen, but she had excellent teeth, so what did she do? Yes, she went round smiling like a crocodile on E. Flaunt, flaunt, flaunt.

  Barbara was watching the second hand on the clock when the door opened.

  The man who walked in was fairly short and plump. He was breathing heavily and his glasses were steamed up, so Barbara assumed that he had walked up the stairs. When she had begun four years ago, she couldn’t tell the difference between a two-thousand kroner dress from Dressman and a Prada, but bit by bit she had put in the training and now she could not only judge dresses, but ties too and – the surest determiner of what level of service she should offer – shoes.

  The new arrival didn’t seem particularly impressive as he stood there cleaning his glasses. In fact, he reminded her of the fatso in Seinfeld whose name she didn’t know because she didn’t actually watch Seinfeld. However, if clothes were anything to go by – and they were – the light pinstriped suit, the silk tie and the hand-sewn shoes gave cause for optimism that Halle, Thune & Wetterlid would soon have an interesting customer.

  ‘Good evening. May I help you?’ she said, smiling her next best smile. Her best smile she kept in reserve for the day when the man walked in whom she would have as her own.

  ‘I hope so,’ the man smiled back, taking a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and pressing it against his forehead. ‘I have a meeting, but perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch me a glass of water first?’

  Barbara thought she could detect a foreign accent, but she couldn’t quite place it. Nevertheless, the courteous yet commanding way he asked strengthened her conviction that this customer was a big cheese.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘One moment.’

  As she walked down the corridor she remembered that Wetterlid had mentioned something about a possible bonus for all employees if their annual figures came up to scratch this year. Perhaps then the firm could also afford to think about getting a water cooler like those she had seen in other places. Then, completely out of the blue, something odd happened. Time accelerated. It jerked forward. It only lasted a few seconds and then time went back to being slow again, but it felt as if, quite unaccountably, the seconds had been taken from her.

  She went into the ladies’ lavatory and turned on the tap above one of the three basins. She pulled a plastic beaker out of the container and waited as she held her finger under the water. Lukewarm. The man outside would just have to be patient. They said on the radio today that sea temperatures in Nordmarka would be around 22 degrees. Yet, if you let the water run for long enough, the drinking water that came from Lake Maridal was wonderfully cold. While staring at her finger, she wondered how that could be. When the water was really cold, her finger would go white and almost completely lose feeling. The ring finger on her left hand. When would she wear a wedding ring? She hoped before her heart went white and lost feeling. She felt a current of air and then it was gone, so she didn’t bother to turn round. The water was still lukewarm. And time was passing. Running out, just as the water was. Nonsense. She wouldn’t be 30 for another 20 months. She had plenty of time.

  A sound made her look up. In the mirror she saw two white cubicle doors. Had someone come in without her noticing?

  She almost gave a start when the water suddenly went ice cold. Deep cavities under the earth. That’s what it was, that’s why it was so cold. She put the beaker under the tap and it was soon full to the brim. She felt an urge to hurry, to get out. She turned and dropped the beaker on the floor.

  ‘Did I frighten you?’

  The voice appeared to be genuinely concerned.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, forgetting to pull her shoulders back. ‘I’m a bit jittery today.’ She bent down to pick up the beaker and added: ‘Actually, you’re in the ladies’ lavatory.’

  The beaker had whirled around and stopped in an upright position. There was still some water left in it, and as she reached out towards it, she could see her own face reflected in the circular white surface. Beside her face, on the outer edge of the narrow reflection, she saw something move. Again time seemed to pass slowly. Unendingly slowly. Once more she caught herself thinking that time was ticking away.

  15

  Monday. Vena Amoris.

  Harry’s rusty red-and-white Ford Escort pulled up in front of the television shop. Two police cars and Waaler’s red sports supercar looked as if they had been strewn randomly across the pavements around the crossroads with the flattering name of Carl Berners plass.

  Harry parked, took the green chisel out of his jacket pocket and put it on the passenger seat. As he hadn’t been able to find his car keys in his flat he had taken some wire and the chisel with him while he trawled the neighbourhood. He found his beloved car again in Stensberggata. And, sure enough, with the car keys in the ignition. The green chisel was perfect for bending the car door so that he could flip up the locking device with the wire.

  Harry crossed the pedestrian crossing on red. He walked slowly; his body wouldn’t allow high speeds. His stomach and head ached, and his sweaty shirt was stuck to his back. It was 5.55 and he had managed without his medicine so far, but he wasn’t making any promises to himself.

  The board in the hallway said the solicitors’ firm of Halle, Thune & Wetterlid was on the fifth floor. Harry groaned. He cast a glance at the lift. Sliding doors. No grille.

  The lift was manufactured by KONE and when the shiny metal doors closed, he had the feeling he was inside a welded tin can. Harry tried not to listen to the lift machinery as they rose. He closed his eyes, but opened t
hem again in a hurry when images of Sis appeared on the inside of his eyelids.

  One of the uniformed regulars opened the door to the office area.

  ‘She’s in there,’ he said, pointing down the corridor to the left of the reception desk.

  ‘Any uniformed officers here?’

  ‘On their way.’

  ‘They’d certainly appreciate it if you closed off the lift and the door downstairs.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Anyone here from Forensics?’

  ‘Li and Hansen. They’ve gathered together all the people who were still here when she was found. They’re questioning them now in one of the conference rooms.’

  Harry walked down the corridor. The carpets were worn and the reproductions of national romantic treasures faded. It was a firm that had seen better days. Or perhaps it hadn’t.

  The door to the ladies’ lavatory was ajar and the carpets muffled the sound of Harry’s steps as he approached. He could hear the sound of Tom Waaler’s voice. Harry stopped outside. It sounded as if Waaler was talking on his mobile.

  ‘If it’s one of his, he’s obviously not going through us any more. OK, leave it with me.’

  Harry pushed open the door and saw Waaler in a squat position. He looked up.

  ‘Hi, Harry. Be with you in a minute.’

  Harry stood on the threshold, absorbing the scene and the sound of a distant crackling voice on Waaler’s phone in the background.

  The room was surprisingly big, roughly four metres by five, with two white lavatory cubicles and three white basins placed below a long mirror. The neon lights in the ceiling cast a harsh glare on the white walls and white floor tiles. The absence of colour was almost conspicuous. Perhaps it was this background that made the body look like a small work of art, a carefully arranged exhibition. The woman was young and slim. She was kneeling with her forehead on the ground, like a Muslim at prayer, except that her arms were beneath her body. Her suit skirt had ridden up over her underwear, revealing a cream-yellow G-string. A narrow, dark red stream of blood ran in the grouting between the woman’s head and the drain. It looked almost painted on to achieve maximum effect.

  The body was in balance, supported at five points: the two feet, the knees and the forehead. The suit, the bizarre position and the bared posterior made Harry think of a secretary preparing herself to be penetrated by the boss. Stereotypes again. For all he knew, she could be the boss.

  ‘OK, but we can’t deal with that now,’ Waaler said. ‘Call me this evening.’

  The detective inspector put the phone back in his inside pocket, but remained in a squat position. Harry noticed that his other hand was on the woman’s white skin, just below the edge of her underwear. To support himself, he supposed.

  ‘They’ll be good photos, won’t they,’ Waaler said as if he had been reading Harry’s thoughts.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Barbara Svendsen, twenty-eight years old from Bestum. She was the receptionist here.’

  Harry squatted down beside Waaler.

  ‘She was shot through the back of her head, as you can see,’ Waaler said. ‘Must have been with the gun under the basin over there. It still smells of cordite.’

  Harry looked at the black gun on the floor in the corner of the room. There was a large, black lump of metal attached to the end of the barrel.

  ‘A Ceská Zbrojovka,’ Waaler said. ‘Czech, with a specially made silencer.’

  Harry nodded. He was tempted to ask if the gun was one of the items that Waaler imported. Or if that was what he had been talking about on the phone.

  ‘Unusual position,’ Harry said.

  ‘Yes, it’s my guess that she was bending down or kneeling and fell forwards.’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘One of the solicitors, a woman. Control room got the call at eleven minutes past five.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘No-one we’ve talked to so far saw anything. Nothing untoward, no suspicious persons coming or going in the last hour. A visitor due to meet one of the solicitors says that Barbara left the reception desk to get a glass of water for him at five to five and never came back.’

  ‘And she came here?’

  ‘I suppose so. The kitchen’s quite a walk from reception.’

  ‘But no-one else saw her on her way over here from reception?’

  ‘The two people with offices between reception and the toilets had both gone home for the day. And those who were still here were either in their offices or in one of the conference rooms.’

  ‘What did this visitor do when she didn’t return?’

  ‘He had a meeting at five and when the receptionist didn’t return he became impatient and walked on through until he found the office of the solicitor he was due to meet.’

  ‘So he knew his way around?’

  ‘No, he said it was the first time he’d ever been here.’

  ‘Mm. And he’s the last person we know of to see her alive?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Harry noticed that Waaler had not moved his hand.

  ‘So it must have happened somewhere between five to five and eleven minutes past.’

  ‘It seems so, yes.’

  Harry looked down at his notepad.

  ‘Do you have to do that?’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Touch her.’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  Harry didn’t answer. Waaler leaned closer.

  ‘Are you implying that you’ve never touched them, Harry?’

  Harry tried to write, but his pen didn’t work.

  Waaler chuckled.

  ‘You don’t have to answer. I can see it in your face. There’s nothing wrong with being curious, Harry. That’s one of the reasons we joined the police force, isn’t it? Curiosity and excitement. Like finding out what skin feels like when they’ve just died, when they’re neither very warm nor very cold.’

  ‘I . . .’

  Harry dropped his pen when Waaler grabbed his hand.

  ‘Feel.’

  Waaler pressed Harry’s hand against the dead woman’s thigh. Harry was breathing hard through his nose. His first reaction had been to withdraw his hand, but he didn’t. Waaler’s hand on his was warm and dry, but his skin didn’t feel like human skin. It was like holding rubber. Lightly warm rubber.

  ‘Can you feel it? It’s the excitement, Harry. It’s got you too, hasn’t it. But how will you find it when this job’s over? Will you do the same as the other poor guys? Look for it in video shops or at the bottom of one of your bottles? Or do you want it in real life? Feel, Harry. This is what we’re offering you. A real life. Yes or no?’

  Harry cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m just saying that forensics will want to examine the evidence before we touch anything.’

  Waaler kept his eyes on Harry for a long time. Then he blinked cheerily and let go of Harry’s hand.

  ‘You’re right. My mistake.’

  Waaler stood up and walked out.

  Harry’s stomach pains continued to overpower him, but he tried to take deep breaths and stay calm. Beate would never forgive him if he threw up over her crime scene.

  He rested his cheek against the cool floor tiles and lifted up Barbara’s jacket so that he could see what was underneath her. Between her knees and beneath the smooth curve of her upper body he saw a white beaker. What really caught his attention though was her hand.

  ‘Fuck,’ Harry whispered. ‘Fuck.’

  At 6.20 Beate came rushing into the offices of Halle, Thune & Wetterlid. Harry was sitting on the floor and leaning up against the wall outside the ladies’ lavatory, drinking from a white plastic cup.

  Beate pulled up in front of him, put down her metal cases and drew the back of her hand across her moist, bright red forehead.

  ‘Sorry. I was lying on the beach in Ingierstrand. Had to go home first and change and then drive to Kjølberggata to pick up the equipment. Some idiot gave orders to clos
e off the lift, so I had to take the stairs up here.’

  ‘Hmm. The person in question probably did that to protect the evidence. Has the press stuck its snout in yet?’

  ‘There are a few reporters making themselves comfortable in the sun outside. Not many. Holidays.’

  ‘I’m afraid the holidays are over.’

  Beate grimaced.

  ‘Do you mean . . . ?’

  ‘Come here.’

  Harry went into the lavatory ahead of her and crouched down.

  ‘Look underneath her, her left hand. Her ring finger has been cut off.’

  Beate groaned.

  ‘Not much blood,’ Harry said. ‘So it happened after she was dead. And then we’ve got this.’

  He lifted the hair up over Barbara’s left ear.

  Beate screwed up her nose: ‘An earring?’

  ‘In the shape of a heart. Quite unlike the silver earring she has in her other ear. I found the other earring on the floor in one of the cubicles. So the killer put this earring in her ear. The funny thing is that you can open it. Like this. Unusual contents or what?’

  Beate nodded.

  ‘A red diamond in the shape of a five-pointed star,’ she said.

  ‘And so what have we got?’

  Beate looked at him.

  ‘Can we say the words aloud now?’ she asked.

  ‘Serial killer?’

  Bjarne Møller was speaking in such a low whisper that Harry instinctively pressed his mobile phone harder against his ear.

  ‘We’re at the scene of the crime and it is the same pattern,’ Harry said. ‘You’ll have to get things moving and cancel holidays, boss. We’re going to need everyone you can muster.’

  ‘Is it a copycat killing?’

  ‘Out of the question. We’re the only ones who know about the mutilation and the diamonds.’

  ‘This is very inconvenient, Harry.’