by Jo Nesbo
Torhus read the fax once more before putting it down.
Atle Molnes, former Christian Democrat politician, former chairman of the Finance Committee, was now a former everything else as well. It was so incredible that he was forced to glance over at Aker Hotel to see if anyone was standing behind the curtains. Reasonably enough, the sender was the Norwegian Embassy in Bangkok. Torhus swore. Why did this have to happen now of all times, in Bangkok of all places? Should he inform Secretary of State Askildsen first? No, he would find out soon enough. Torhus looked at his watch and lifted the telephone receiver to call the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Bjarne Møller tapped gently on the door and opened it. The voices in the meeting room fell quiet, and the faces turned toward him.
“This is Bjarne Møller, head of Crime Squad,” said the Police Commissioner, motioning him to take a seat. “Møller, this is Secretary of State Bjørn Askildsen from the Prime Minister’s office and HR Director Dagfinn Torhus from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
Møller nodded, pulled out a chair and tried to maneuver his unbelievably long legs under the large, oval oak table. He thought he had seen Askildsen’s sleek young face on TV. The Prime Minister’s office? It had to be serious trouble.
“Great you could make it at such short notice,” the Secretary of State said, rolling his rrrs and drumming the table nervously with his fingers. “Commissioner, could you give a brief résumé of what we’ve been discussing.”
Møller had received a call from the Police Commissioner twenty minutes before. Without any explanation, she had given him fifteen minutes to make his way to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
“Atle Molnes has been found dead, probably murdered, in Bangkok,” the Police Commissioner began.
Møller saw Director Torhus roll his eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses, and after he had been given the rest of the story he understood his reaction. You would definitely have to be a policeman to state that a man who had been found with a knife protruding from one side of his spine, through a lung and into the heart, had “probably” been murdered.
“He was found in a hotel room by a woman—”
“In a brothel,” the man with the steel glasses interrupted. “By a prostitute.”
“I’ve had a chat with my colleague in Bangkok,” the Police Commissioner said. “A fair-minded man. He’s promised to keep a lid on the matter for a while.”
Møller’s first instinct had been to ask why they should wait before going public with the murder. Immediate press coverage often produced tip-offs for the police, as people’s memories were clear and the evidence was still fresh. But something told him this question would be regarded as very naive. Instead he asked how long they counted on being able to keep a lid on this sort of matter.
“Long enough for us to establish a palatable version of events, I hope,” the Secretary of State said. “The present one won’t do, you see.”
The present one? So the real version had been considered and rejected. As a relatively new politiavdelingssjef—or PAS—Møller had so far been spared any dealings with politicians, but he knew the higher up the service you went, the harder it was to keep them at arm’s length.
“I appreciate that the present version is uncomfortable, but what do you mean by it ‘won’t do’?”
The Police Commissioner gave Møller an admonitory look.
The Secretary of State looked unimpressed. “We haven’t got much time, Møller, but let me give you a swift course in practical politics. Everything I say now is of course strictly confidential.”
Askildsen instinctively adjusted the knot of his tie, a movement Møller recognized from his television interviews. “Well, for the first time in postwar history we have a center party with a reasonable chance of survival. Not because there is any parliamentary basis for it, but because the Prime Minister happens to be on the way to becoming one of the country’s least unpopular politicians.”
The Police Commissioner and the Director from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs smiled.
“However, his popularity rests on the same fragile foundation that is the stock-in-trade for all politicians: trust. The most important thing is not to be likeable or charismatic, it is to enjoy trust. Do you know why Gro Harlem Brundtland was such a popular prime minister, Møller?”
Møller had no idea.
“Not because she was a charmer, but because people were confident that she was the person she claimed to be. Trust, that’s the key word.”
The others around the table nodded. This was clearly part of the core curriculum.
“Now, Ambassador Molnes and our current Prime Minister were closely connected, through friendship as well as their political careers. They studied together, rose up through the party ranks together, battled through the modernization of the youth movement and even shared a flat when they were both elected to Storting at a very young age. Molnes voluntarily stepped out of the limelight when they were joint heirs apparent in the party. He gave the Prime Minister his full support and hence we were spared an agonizing party duel. All this obviously means that the Prime Minister owed Molnes a debt of gratitude.”
Askildsen moistened his lips and looked out of the window.
“In other words, Ambassador Molnes didn’t have any diplomatic training and wouldn’t have got to Bangkok if the Prime Minister hadn’t pulled strings. Perhaps this sounds like cronyism, but it’s an acceptable form of it, introduced and given general currency by the Socialist Party. Reiulf Steen didn’t have any Foreign Office experience when he was made ambassador in Chile.”
The eyes refocused on Møller, a playful glint dancing inside somewhere.
“I’m sure I don’t need to emphasize how this could damage trust in the Prime Minister if it comes out that a friend and party comrade, whom he appointed himself, was caught in flagrante in a brothel. And murdered into the bargain.”
The Secretary of State motioned to the Police Commissioner to continue, but Møller couldn’t restrain himself.
“Who hasn’t got a pal who’s been to a brothel?”
Askildsen’s smile curled at the edges.
The Foreign Office Director with the steel glasses coughed. “You’ve been told what you need to know, Møller. Please leave the judgments to us. What we need is someone to ensure that the investigation of this matter does not take … an unfortunate turn. Naturally, we all want the murderer, or murderers, to be apprehended, but the circumstances surrounding the murder should remain under wraps until further notice. For the good of the country. Do you understand?”
Møller looked down at his hands. For the good of the country. Bloody hell. They had never been much good at doing what they were told in his family. His father had never risen through the police ranks.
“Experience tells us that the truth tends to be hard to conceal, herr Torhus.”
“Indeed. I’ll take responsibility for this operation on behalf of the Foreign Office. As you appreciate, this is a somewhat delicate matter which will demand close cooperation with the Thai police. As the embassy is involved we have some leeway—diplomatic immunity and all that—but we’re walking a tightrope here. Therefore, we wish to send someone with honed investigative skills and experience of international police work and who can produce results.”
He stopped and looked at Møller, who was wondering why he felt an instinctive lack of goodwill toward the diplomat with the aggressive chin.
“We could put together a team with—”
“No team, Møller. Too conspicuous. Besides, your Commissioner thinks that a whole division would hardly be conducive to good relations with the local police. One man.”
“One man?”
“The Commissioner has already suggested a name, and we consider it a good suggestion. Now we’d like to hear your opinion of him. According to conversations the Police Commissioner has had with his colleague in Sydney, he did remarkable work down there last winter in connection with the Inger Holter murder.”
�
�I read the story in the papers,” Askildsen said. “Impressive stuff. Surely he has to be our man?”
Bjarne Møller swallowed. So the Police Commissioner had suggested they should send Harry Hole to Bangkok. He had been summoned to assure them that Hole was the best the force had to offer, the perfect man for the job.
He glanced around the table. Politics, power and influence. This was a game he couldn’t begin to understand, but he realized that in some way or other it would work out in his favor, that whatever he said now would have consequences for his career. The Police Commissioner had stuck her neck out by suggesting a name. Probably one of the others had then asked to have Hole’s qualifications endorsed by his immediate superiors. He looked at his boss and tried to interpret her expression. Of course, everything might turn out fine with Hole. And if he advised them not to send him, would that not cast the Commissioner in an unfortunate light? He would be asked to suggest an alternative and then his head would be the one on the block if the officer concerned messed up.
Møller looked at the painting above the Police Commissioner: Trygve Lie, the UN Secretary General, gazed down at him imperiously. A politician as well. Through the windows he saw the roofs of the apartment buildings in the low winter light, Akershus fortress and a weathercock shivering in the icy gusts on top of the Continental Hotel.
Bjarne Møller knew he was a competent police officer, but this was a different game, and he didn’t know the rules. What would his father have advised him to do? Well, Officer Møller had never had to deal with politics, but he had known what was important if he was to be taken at all seriously and had forbidden his son to start Police College until he had completed the first part of a law course. He had done as his father said, and after the graduation ceremony his father had kept clearing his throat, overcome with emotion, while slapping his son on the back until he’d had to ask him to stop.
“A great suggestion,” Bjarne Møller heard himself say in a loud, clear voice.
“Good,” Torhus said. “The reason we wanted an opinion so quickly is that, of course, all this is urgent. He’ll have to drop everything he’s working on; he’s leaving tomorrow.”
Well, perhaps it’s just the sort of job Harry needs right now, Møller hoped.
“Sorry we have to deprive you of such an important man,” Askildsen said.
PAS Bjarne Møller had to stop himself bursting into laughter.
3
Wednesday, January 8
They found him at Schrøder’s in Waldemar Thranes gate, a venerable old watering hole located at the crossroads where Oslo East meets Oslo West. It was more old than venerable, to be honest. The venerable part was largely down to the authorities’ decision to put a preservation order on the smoke-filled brown rooms. But the order did not include the clientele: old boozers, a hunted and extinction-threatened bunch; eternal students; and jaded charmers long past their sell-by date.
The two officers spotted their man sitting under a painting of Aker Church as the draft from the door allowed a brief glimpse through the curtain of smoke. His blond hair was cropped so short the bristles stood up straight and the three-day beard on the lean, marked face had a streak of gray even though he could hardly be older than his mid-thirties. He sat alone, straight-backed, wearing his reefer jacket, as if about to leave any minute. As if the beer in front of him on the table was not a source of pleasure but a job that had to be done.
“They said we would find you here,” said the older of the two and sat down opposite him. “I’m Waaler.”
“See the guy sitting in the corner?” Hole said without looking up.
Waaler turned and saw a scrawny old man gazing into his glass of red wine while rocking backward and forward. He seemed to be freezing cold.
“They call him the last Mohican.”
Hole raised his head and beamed. His eyes were like blue-and-white marbles behind a network of red veins, and they focused on Waaler’s shirt.
“Merchant seaman,” he said, his diction meticulous. “Used to be lots of them here a few years back apparently, but now there are hardly any left. He was torpedoed twice during the war. He thinks he’s immortal. Last week, after closing time, I found him sleeping in a snowdrift down in Glückstadsgata. The streets were empty, it was pitch-black and minus eighteen. When I’d shaken some life into him he just looked at me and told me to go to hell.” He laughed.
“Listen, Hole—”
“I went over to his table last night and asked if he remembered what had happened—I mean, that I’d saved him from freezing to death. Do you know what he said?”
“Møller wants to see you, Hole.”
“He said he was immortal. ‘I can put up with being an unwanted merchant seaman in this shit country,’ he said. ‘But it’s a sorry business when even St. Peter doesn’t want anything to do with me.’ Did you hear? ‘Even St. Peter’—”
“We’ve got orders to take you to the station.”
Another beer landed on the table in front of Hole with a thud.
“Let’s settle up now, Rita,” he said.
“Two hundred and eighty,” she answered without needing to check her slips of paper.
“Jesus Christ,” mumbled the younger officer.
“That’s fine, Rita.”
“Oh, thanks.” She was gone.
“Best service in town,” Harry explained. “Sometimes she can spot you even when you haven’t been waving both arms in the air.”
The skin on Waaler’s forehead tightened and a blood vessel appeared, like a blue, knobbly worm.
“We haven’t got the time to sit here and listen to your drunken ramblings, Hole. I suggest you give the last beer a miss …”
Hole had already put the glass carefully to his lips and started drinking.
Waaler leaned forward and tried to keep his voice low. “I know about you, Hole. And I don’t like you. I think you should have been booted out of the force years ago. Guys like you make people lose respect for the police. But that’s not why we’re here now. We’ve come to take you with us. The PAS is a nice man. Perhaps he’ll give you another chance.”
Hole belched and Waaler leaned back.
“Another chance to do what?”
“To show what you can do,” the younger officer said with a boyish smile.
“I’ll show you what I can do.” Hole smiled, put the glass to his mouth and tipped his head back.
“Pack it in, Hole!” Waaler’s cheeks flushed as they watched Hole’s Adam’s apple rise and fall beneath his unshaven chin.
“Happy?” Hole asked, putting the empty glass down in front of him.
“Our job—”
“I couldn’t give a shit about your job.” Hole buttoned up his reefer jacket. “If Møller wants something he can ring me or wait until I’m at work tomorrow. Now I’m going home and I hope I won’t see your faces for the next twelve hours. Gentlemen …” Harry raised himself to his full 192 centimeters and lurched to the side.
“You arrogant prick,” Waaler said, rocking back in his chair. “You bloody loser. If only the reporters who wrote about you after Australia had known you haven’t got the balls—”
“The balls to do what, Waaler?” Hole was still smiling. “Lock up drunken sixteen-year-olds because they’ve got Mohicans?”
The younger officer glanced at Waaler. Rumors had been doing the rounds at Police College last year that some young punks had been hauled in for drinking beer in public places and beaten in the cells with oranges packed in wet towels.
“You’ve never understood esprit de corps, Hole,” Waaler said. “You just think about yourself. Everyone knows who was driving the car in Vinderen and why a good policeman smashed his skull against a fence post. Because you’re a drunk, Hole, and you drove while under the influence. You should be bloody glad the force swept the facts under the carpet. Had they not been concerned about the family and the force’s reputation—”
The younger officer accompanying Waaler was learning something new
every day. This afternoon, for example, he learned it was very stupid to rock on a chair while insulting someone, because you are totally defenseless if the insulted party steps over and lands a straight right between the eyes. As customers often fell over at Schrøder’s there was no more than a couple of seconds’ silence before the buzz of conversation resumed.
He helped Waaler to his feet as he glimpsed the tails of Hole’s jacket disappearing through the door. “Wow, not bad after eight beers, eh?” he said, but shut up when he met Waaler’s gaze.
Harry’s legs strode out casually along the icy pavement of Dovregata. His knuckles didn’t hurt; it would be early tomorrow morning before either pain or regret came knocking.
He didn’t drink during working hours. Though he had done it before, and Dr. Aune contended that every new relapse started where the old one finished.
The white-haired, roly-poly Peter Ustinov clone had laughed so much his double chin shook as Harry explained to him that he was keeping away from his old foe Jim Beam and confining himself to beer. Because he didn’t like beer much.
“You’ve been in a mess, and the moment you open the bottle you’re there again. There’s no halfway house, Harry.”
Well. He was struggling home on two legs, generally managing to undress himself and getting himself to work the next day. It hadn’t always been like that. Harry called it a halfway house. He just needed a few knockout drops to sleep, that was all.
A woman said hello from under a black fur hat as she passed. Was it someone he knew? Last year lots of people had said hello, particularly after the interview on TV when Anne Grosvold had asked him how it felt to shoot a serial killer.
“Well, better than sitting here and answering questions like that one,” he had said with a crooked smile, and it had been the hit of the spring, the most repeated quote this side of one politician’s defense of an agricultural policy: “Sheep are nice animals.”
Harry inserted the key into the lock of his flat in Sofies gate. Why he had moved to Bislett escaped him. Perhaps it had been because his neighbors in Tøyen had started looking at him strangely and keeping their distance, which at first he had construed as showing respect.
