by Jo Nesbo
‘You mean Villa Valle,’ Aune said. ‘The station master’s house. It’s very well known. I suppose they’re offices now.’
Harry shook his head and informed them that the National Registry Office had a record of one person living there, an elderly lady, Olaug Sivertsen.
‘There’s no fifth floor in the student building or in the station master’s house,’ Harry said.
‘Will that stop him?’ Waaler asked, turning to Aune.
Aune shrugged his shoulders.
‘I don’t believe so. But now we’re talking about predicting features of individual behaviour and here your guess is as good as mine.’
‘OK,’ Waaler said. ‘We can take it that he’s going to strike in the student building tomorrow, and our best chance is to organise a carefully planned operation. Are we agreed?’
Everyone round the table nodded.
‘Good,’ Waaler said. ‘I’ll get in touch with Sivert Falkeid of Special Forces and start working on the detail right away.’
Harry could see the spark of flint in Tom Waaler’s eyes. He understood him. Action. The arrest. The felling of the prey. The tenderloin of police work.
‘I’ll go with Beate to Schweigaards gate to see if we can meet up with Sivertsen,’ Harry said.
‘Be careful,’ Møller shouted to drown the sound of scraping chairs. ‘There mustn’t be any leaks. Remember what Aune said about these Special Forces guys sniffing around close to the investigation.’
The sun was sinking. The temperature was rising.
24
Friday. Otto Tangen.
Otto Tangen rolled over onto his side. He was soaking with sweat after another tropical night, but that was not what had woken him. He stretched out for the telephone and the broken bed creaked ominously. It had sunk in the middle one night more than a year ago when Otto had been humping Aud-Rita, from the bakery, across the bed. Now, Aud-Rita was only a slip of a girl, but Otto had passed the 110 kilo mark that spring, and it was pitch black in the room when they discovered that beds were built for movement along their length, not across it. Aud-Rita had been underneath him, and Otto had had to drive her to casualty in Hønefoss with a fractured collarbone. She was furious, and in her ranting and raving threatened to tell Nils, her partner and Otto’s best, and for that matter only, pal. At that time Nils weighed 115 kilos and was well known for his fiery temperament. Otto had laughed so much that he could hardly breathe and since then Aud-Rita just scowled angrily at him every time he went into the bakery. This saddened him because that night was, despite everything, a very dear memory to him. It was also the last time he had got laid.
‘Harry Sounds,’ he puffed into the phone.
He had named the company after the role Gene Hackman played in the film which had in many ways determined Otto’s professional and future life: The Conversation, a Francis Ford Coppola film from 1974 about a bugging expert. No-one in Otto’s limited circle of acquaintances had seen it. As for himself, he had seen it 38 times. When he realised what insights into other people’s lives a little technical equipment gave you, at the age of 15 he had bought his first microphone and discovered what his mother and father talked about in the bedroom. The following day, he began saving for his first camera.
Now he was 35 years old and had around 100 microphones, 24 cameras and a son of eleven from a woman he had spent the night with in his detector bus in Geilo one damp autumn night. At least he had managed to persuade her to christen the boy Gene. Nevertheless, he would still have said, without batting an eyelid, that emotionally speaking he was closer to his microphones. But then his collection did include Neuman boom microphones from the ’50s and Offscreen directional microphones. The latter were specially designed to be used with military cameras and he had had to go to America to buy them under the counter, but now he bought them off the Net, no trouble at all. Pride of place in his collection, however, went to three Russian espionage microphones the size of pinheads. There was no brand name on them and he had got hold of them at a trade fair in Vienna.
In addition, Harry Sounds was the owner of one of Norway’s only two mobile professional surveillance studios. This meant that he was contacted on the odd occasion by the police, POT and, more rarely, by the intelligence service working at the Ministry of Defence. He wished it were more often; he was sick and tired of setting up surveillance cameras in 7-Eleven shops and Videonova and training the staff who had no understanding of the more sophisticated elements involved in monitoring unsuspecting customers. As far as surveillance work was concerned, it was easier to find kindred spirits in the police force and at the Ministry of Defence, but Harry Sounds’ high-quality equipment cost money and to Otto’s mind he was getting the same old story about budgetary cuts more and more often. They said it was cheaper for them to set up their own equipment in a flat or a house near the surveillance target, and of course they were right. However, occasionally there was not a house in reasonable condition nearby, or the job required quality equipment they didn’t have. Then they would ring Harry Sounds. As they were doing now.
Otto listened. It sounded like a terrific assignment. Since there were obviously a lot of flats near the target, he suspected that they were after a big fish. And at this moment in time there was only one fish that big in the water.
‘Is this the courier case?’ he asked, sitting up carefully in bed so that it didn’t sink in the middle. He should have bought another bed. He wasn’t sure whether his constant procrastination was due primarily to his economic circumstances or to sentimentality. Whatever the reason, if this conversation fulfilled the promise it held, he would soon be able to afford a decent, solid, bespoke bed. One of those round ones perhaps. And then maybe he would try a fresh assault on Aud-Rita. Nils weighed 135 kilos now, and he looked revolting.
‘It’s urgent,’ Waaler said without answering his question, which was a good enough answer for Otto. ‘I want everything set up tonight.’
Otto laughed out loud.
‘You want the stairwell, the lift and various corridors running through a building of four floors covered for sound and image set up in one night? Sorry, chum, that’s not on.’
‘This is a high-priority special case and we have set aside –’
‘N-O-T-O-N. Capisce?’
The thought made Otto chortle and the bed began to sway.
‘If it’s so urgent we can start tonight, Waaler. Then I can promise you that it’ll be finished by Monday morning.’
‘I see,’ Waaler said. ‘Apologies for my naivety.’
Had Otto been as skilful at interpreting voices as he was at recording them, he would perhaps have detected from Waaler’s intonation that his spelling things out had not gone down well with the inspector. However, right now he was more preoccupied with talking down the urgency and talking up the number of hours the job would take.
‘Fine, now we’re more or less on the same wavelength,’ Otto said, looking for his socks under the bed. But all he could see were dustballs and empty beer cans.
‘I’ll have to add on an extra fee for working evenings. And the weekend, of course.’
Beer! Perhaps he should buy a crate and invite Aud-Rita to celebrate getting the job? Or – if she couldn’t – Nils.
‘And a little advance for the equipment I’ll have to hire. I don’t have all of this on tap.’
‘No,’ Waaler said. ‘It’s probably in Stein Astrup’s barn in Asker.’
Otto Tangen almost dropped the receiver.
‘Oh dear,’ Waaler said softly and sarcastically. ‘Did I touch a raw nerve? Something you forgot to declare? Some equipment sent by boat from Rotterdam?’
The bed collapsed on the floor with a crash.
‘You can have a few of our guys to help you set up,’ Waaler said. ‘Tuck your gut into a pair of trousers, get your superbus into gear and meet me at my office for a briefing and a run-through of the drawings.’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘. . . am overwhelmed with gratitu
de. It’s great that good friends can work together, isn’t it, Tangen. Just be smart, keep mum and make this the best job you’ve ever done and everything will be fine.’
25
Friday. Speaking In Tongues.
‘Do you live here?’ Harry asked, stunned.
He was stunned because the likeness was so striking that it startled him when she opened the door. He focused on the pale, elderly face. It was her eyes. There was exactly the same calm, the same warmth in them. Above all it was her eyes. But also her voice when she confirmed that she was indeed Olaug Sivertsen.
‘Police,’ he said, holding up his ID.
‘Really? I hope there’s nothing wrong?’
An expression of concern crossed the network of fine lines and wrinkles on her face. Harry wondered if her concern was on someone else’s behalf. Perhaps he thought that because of the similarity, because her concern had always been for others.
‘Not at all,’ he said automatically and repeated the lie with a shake of the head. ‘May we come in?’
‘Naturally.’
She opened the door and made way for them. Harry and Beate stepped inside. Harry closed his eyes. It smelled of soft soap and old clothes. Of course. When he opened them she was looking at him with a questioning smile playing around her lips. Harry smiled in return. She could not possibly guess that he had been expecting a hug, a pat on the head and a few whispered words to tell him that Grandad was waiting for him and Sis with a nice surprise.
She led them into a sitting room, but no-one was there. The sitting room – or rooms, because there were three of them one after the other – had circular mouldings in the ceiling capped with glass crowns and was furnished with elegant antiques. Both the furniture and the carpets were worn, but it was as spotlessly clean and tidy as only a house with a single occupant can be.
Harry wondered why he had asked if she lived there. Was there something about the way she opened the door? Or let them in? At any rate, he had half expected to see a man, the man of the house, but it seemed that the National Registry Office was right. She was the only occupant.
‘Do sit down,’ she said. ‘Coffee?’
It sounded more like an entreaty than an offer. Harry, ill at ease, cleared his throat, unsure whether he should tell her why they were there at the beginning or at the end of their conversation.
‘Sounds lovely,’ Beate said with a smile.
The old lady returned the smile and shuffled out to the kitchen. Harry passed Beate a look of gratitude.
‘She reminds me of . . .’ he began to say.
‘I know,’ Beate said. ‘I could see it in your face. My grandmother was a bit like her too.’
‘Mm,’ Harry said, looking around.
There were not many family photos. Just earnest faces on two faded black-and-white images which must have been taken before the war and four pictures of a boy taken at different ages. In the teenage photograph he had spots, an early ’60s mod haircut, the teddy-bear eyes that had met them in the doorway and a smile which was exactly that – a smile. Not the pained face that Harry, with more than a little difficulty, had managed to pull in front of a camera at that age.
The elderly lady returned with a tray, sat down, poured coffee and passed round a plate of Maryland cookies. Harry waited until Beate had finished complimenting her on the coffee.
‘Have you read about the young women who have been recently murdered in Oslo, fru Sivertsen?’
She shook her head.
‘I caught the headlines. They were on the front page of Aftenposten. You couldn’t miss them. But I never read about that sort of thing.’
The wrinkles around her eyes pointed downwards when she smiled.
‘And I’m afraid I’m just an old frøken, not a fru.’
‘I apologise. I thought . . .’ Harry glanced at the photos.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s my boy.’
It went quiet. The wind brought with it the distant barking of dogs and a metallic voice announcing that the train for Halden was about to depart from platform 17. It barely moved the curtains at the balcony doors.
‘Right.’ Harry raised his coffee cup, but decided he’d rather speak and put it down again. ‘We have reason to believe that the person who killed the girls is a serial killer and that one of his next two targets is –’
‘Wonderful biscuits, fru Sivertsen,’ Beate suddenly interrupted, with her mouth full. Harry looked at her, bewildered. From the balcony doors came the hissing sound of a train arriving at the station.
The old lady smiled, somewhat confused.
‘Oh, they’re just bought biscuits,’ she said.
‘Let me start again, fru Sivertsen,’ Harry said. ‘First of all, I would like to say that there is no reason for concern, that we have the situation completely under control. Next . . .’
‘Thanks,’ Harry said as they walked down Schweigaards gate past the sheds and the low factory buildings. They stood in sharp contrast to the detached house with the garden which was like a green oasis amid the black gravel.
Beate smiled without a blush.
‘Thought we should avoid the mental equivalent of a fractured thigh bone. We are allowed to beat around the bush a little, present things in a somewhat gentler way, as it were.’
‘Yes, I have heard that said.’
He lit a cigarette.
‘I’ve never been much good at talking to people. I’m better at listening. And perhaps . . .’
He broke off.
‘What?’ Beate asked.
‘Perhaps I’ve become a little insensitive. Perhaps I don’t care so much any more. Perhaps it’s time I . . . did something else. Are you OK to drive?’
He threw the keys over the car roof.
She caught them and looked down at them with a concerned frown.
At 8.00 the four detectives heading the investigation, plus Aune, were sitting together in the conference room again.
Harry reported back on the meeting in Ville Valle and said that Olaug Sivertsen had taken the news calmly. She was obviously frightened, but far from panic-stricken at the thought that she might be on a serial killer’s death list.
‘Beate suggested that she might move in with her son for a while,’ Harry said. ‘I think that would be a good idea –’
Waaler shook his head.
‘No?’ Harry said, surprised.
‘The killer may be keeping a lookout for future murder scenes. If unusual things begin to happen, we may scare him away.’
‘You mean that we should use an innocent old lady as . . . as . . . as . . .’ Beate tried to hide her anger, but managed to stutter out, with a red face, ‘bait?’
Waaler held Beate’s stare. And for once she held his. In the end the silence became so oppressive that Møller opened his mouth to say something, anything, any random selection of words, but Waaler beat him to it.
‘I just want to be sure that we catch the guy so that we can all sleep soundly at night. And as I understand it, it isn’t the old dear’s turn until next week.’
Møller laughed a loud, strained laugh. And it became even louder when he noticed that the tense atmosphere had not been smoothed over.
‘Anyway,’ Harry said. ‘She stays put. The son lives too far away, abroad somewhere.’
‘Good,’ Waaler said. ‘As for the students’ building, it’s pretty empty now because of the holiday, but all of the occupants we’ve talked to have been told in no uncertain terms that they have to stay in their rooms tomorrow. Other than that, they’ve been given minimal information. We told them all this was to do with a burglar we were trying to catch red-handed. We’re going to put in the surveillance equipment tonight while the killer’s asleep, we hope.’
‘And the Special Forces?’
Waaler smiled. ‘They’re happy.’
Harry gazed out of the window. He tried to remember what it was like to be happy.
Møller concluded the meeting and Harry noticed that the patches of sweat fo
rming on both sides of Aune’s shirt were shaped like Somalia.
The three of them sat down again.
Møller produced four Carlsbergs from the kitchen fridge.
Aune nodded, with a happy expression on his face. Harry shook his head.
‘But why?’ Møller asked as he opened the bottles of beer. ‘Why is he voluntarily giving us the key to the code and thus to his next moves?’
‘He’s trying to tell us how we can catch him,’ Harry said, pushing up the window.
In flooded the sounds of city life on a summer’s night: the desperate life cycle of the mayfly, music from a cruising cabriolet, exaggerated laughter, high heels clicking frenetically against tarmac. People enjoying themselves.
Møller stared at Harry in disbelief and cast Aune a glance in the hope that he would receive confirmation that Harry had lost his senses.
The psychologist placed his fingertips together in front of his floppy bow tie.
‘Harry may be right,’ he said. ‘It’s not unusual for a serial killer to court and assist the police because he wants, deep down, to be stopped. There’s a psychologist called Sam Vaknin who maintains that serial killers want to be caught and punished to satisfy their sadistic superego. I incline more to the theory that they need help to stop the monster in them. I put their desire to be caught down to a degree of objective understanding of their illness.’
‘Do they know they’re insane?’
Aune nodded.
‘It must be hell,’ Møller said softly, raising his bottle of beer.
Møller went off to return a call to a journalist on Aftenposten who wanted to know whether the police supported the Children’s Council’s appeal for children to be kept indoors.
Harry and Aune stayed where they were, listening to the distant sounds of a party, the indistinct shouting and the Strokes, broken by a call to prayer which for some reason or other suddenly reverberated metallically and probably blasphemously, yet in a strangely beautiful way, from the same open window.
