by Samuel Bjork
‘True, but the two drawings aren’t identical either, are they?’
She put her fingers on the two drawings.
‘But we’ve already established that he disguises himself, dresses up, or whatever it is he does.’
Her mobile rang again. She glanced quickly at the screen.
‘Mikkelson. I have to take this call.’
‘He can wait,’ Munch grunted. ‘So do you think the similarity is strong enough for us to let them take control?’
‘These are just sketches—’
‘I know.’ Munch nodded. ‘But I’ve sent Curry off.’
‘Sent him where?’
‘Off to talk to the people who actually did see him. In the flesh.’
‘The hotel in Gamlebyen?’
‘And Sagene Cleaning Services.’
‘That was a good idea,’ Goli said. ‘Although I could do with him down at police headquarters.’
‘If nothing else just to have it confirmed.’
‘That it’s the same guy?’
‘Yes.’
Anette began to smile.
‘Absolutely, Holger. That’s up to you, although I—’
‘You trust them?’
‘I see no reason not to. Why would they point us in the direction of the wrong man? Share classified information with us unless there’s a reason. I mean, you saw for yourself what they have. We don’t have a fraction of their resources. I almost had the feeling that the CIA was watching us as well when we were down there. How long did it take them to find Horowitz? Twenty minutes?’
‘True, true.’
‘This is obviously up to you, Holger. But if you want my opinion, then we’re on the right track. Remember that the photographs of Horowitz are three years old. And again—’
‘They’re just sketches, I know,’ Munch mumbled. ‘I just want to be sure.’
‘Of course,’ Anette said, and got up.
‘There’s one more thing.’ Munch gestured for her to sit down again. ‘You noticed that they didn’t let us keep the list with the fifty names?’
‘Classified.’ Anette nodded. ‘“NTK”, wasn’t that how they put it?’
‘NKT my arse.’ Munch took another piece of paper from the file.
‘You took it with you?’ Anette was shocked. ‘How?’
Munch shrugged it off.
‘Of course I did. There have to be limits. And look at this.’
He pointed to some of the names on the list.
‘What’s your point?’
‘Ann-Helen Undergård.’
‘Yes?’
‘Tom-Erik Wangseter.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘They said the names were too common, that we don’t have the capacity, didn’t they? To protect all these poor people? Or at least warn them, if nothing else.’
‘Holger,’ Anette said, shaking her head slightly.
‘I’m serious. How many people are called that? Anton Birger Lundamo. I accept that there could be many different people on the list who share the same name, but some of them are rare. How many? Why not do something for them at least?’
‘Holger,’ Anette said again.
‘I’m thinking about assigning some of my people to it.’
‘To contact them?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, no,’ Goli said.
‘Why not?’
She leaned forwards across the table towards him now, glancing furtively over her shoulder before whispering:
‘And say what? There’s a madman at large who kills random people, and your name is on his list? How long do you think it’ll be before that hits the news? It’ll be pandemonium. And anyway, it’s classified, what if it gets back to them that it was us?’
‘Yes, but for pity’s sake, Anette, what if one of your loved ones was on this list?’
‘Who would you assign to the job then? Gabriel? Ylva? Kripos are already busy. As is everyone at police headquarters. Pretty much every single traffic officer is out following up leads. This is much bigger than us now, Holger. It’s about what’s in the country’s best interests. Reassuring the public and all that. Not to mention that they’ll sack you on the spot. Before you know it, you’ll be counting polar bears on Svalbard.’
‘I don’t give a toss about that.’
‘Don’t you? What about Miriam and Marion? I’m sure they do. Anyway, you must do what you think is best,’ Anette said as her incredibly irritating mobile vibrated again. ‘I trust that they have made the right decisions. The Prime Minister’s office. The Ministry of Justice. There’s a reason they have those jobs. As for Ivan Horowitz, I’m convinced that somebody out there knows something; it’s just a question of filtering out all the crackpots. We’re close. Something has to happen soon. I can almost feel it. I have to get back now, OK?’
Anette rose and picked up her bag from the table.
‘I hope you’re right.’ Munch put the papers back in the file. ‘Will you let me know straightaway if anything happens?’
‘You’re at the top of my list, Holger.’ Goli smiled and half ran towards the exit as her mobile rang again.
Chapter 58
Curry opened the door to Sagene Cleaning Services and jumped slightly when a tinny bell announced his arrival. His nerves hadn’t settled down yet. Three beers and a small whisky last night, that was all. He had felt almost proud of himself, but his body begged to differ.
‘Yes?’ a middle-aged Vietnamese woman said as she looked up at him from behind the counter without putting down her knitting.
‘Police,’ Curry said, producing his warrant card. ‘Special unit. Can I speak to the manager, please?’
‘Already,’ the woman said, showing no signs of getting up.
‘Eh?’
‘Already been here,’ the woman said again as a young Vietnamese man appeared from the back room.
‘She says that the police have already been here.’ The young, well-dressed man smiled and placed his hands on the counter. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
‘Jon Larsen, special unit,’ Curry said, holding up his warrant card again. ‘Am I right in thinking that you had an employee called Karl Overlind?’
The Vietnamese woman rolled her eyes and mumbled something.
‘He wasn’t employed here,’ the young man said. ‘He was a casual. What’s it about this time?’
‘This,’ Curry said, and stuck his hand inside his jacket.
Three, no more.
Or was it four?
No, three. He had been pretty sober, hadn’t he?
Three beers and just the one whisky – or was it two?
He couldn’t quite remember slipping under the duvet with Luna, but at least she had smiled to him from the pillow when he woke up.
He had been pretty sober.
‘This is the drawing you produced with the sketch artist, isn’t it?’
He put the crumpled piece of paper on the counter and smoothed it out.
‘Yes, that’s correct. What about it? Has something else happened?’
‘And what about this one?’ Curry had to rummage around in his pockets before he found the photograph of Horowitz.
‘Who is this?’ the young Vietnamese man asked as he peered at the picture.
‘Is this the man who worked for you?’
‘Hmm, I’m …’
He frowned and studied the picture more closely. The woman with the knitting shook her head again and said something Curry didn’t understand.
‘What did she say?’
The young man smiled apologetically.
‘She says he’s put on weight.’
‘But is it the same man? The one who was employed … I mean … who worked here?’
‘As a casual,’ the Vietnamese man emphasized, and had another look at the picture. ‘He looks younger, but yes, this is Karl Overlind. Yes, I would say so.’
‘Are you sure?’
The knitting woman shook her head again and mumbled something
else.
‘Same person, yes, as far as I can see.’
‘That’s great, thank you.’ Curry put the pictures back in his jacket pocket.
Sagene Bar.
Wasn’t that just round the corner?
Just a small beer?
To straighten out his thoughts?
‘Let me know if there’s anything more we can do. Glad to be of help.’
‘You’ve been more than helpful. Thank you again.’ Curry opened the door more carefully this time to avoid the racket of the bell.
Ivan Horowitz.
Karl Overlind.
Same man.
Munch had been in a foul mood right from the morning. It had been a long time since Curry had last seen him so cross, but at least this had now been resolved.
A soldier.
A veteran from Afghanistan.
He had no idea how this suspect had been identified, but whatever. He had had it confirmed. It was the same man. He had been feeling like he was on the sidelines recently and thought that this would definitely help him get back on the right side of Munch. He needed it. He had struggled to explain the cut to his forehead and his absence from work.
Sagene Bar.
Just a quick one?
Call Munch first.
Give him the good news.
He took his mobile out of his pocket and was about to make the call when it started to ring.
When he saw the name on the display he was so stunned that he almost forgot to answer the call.
‘Hi, Mia?’ Curry said when he finally managed to move his fingers. ‘How are you? They’re looking for you.’
‘To your right. Fifty metres. Just by the church. Grey Subaru. Do you see it?’
‘Eh?’
‘Blue jacket. Do you see him?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Across the street. Outside the 7-Eleven. Woman on the phone. Grey coat. Brown ankle boots. Do you see her?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Curry said, turning around.
‘Act normally. Start walking.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Leave now. Don’t let them see that you have noticed them. Walk towards the park.’
Noticed them?
Curry had no idea what was going on yet he did as he was told. His feet started moving along the pavement.
‘What’s happening?’
‘The two red telephone booths, do you see them?’
‘Er, yes?’
‘The bench, do you see it?’
Curry was even more confused now. He glanced at the woman in the grey coat outside the 7-Eleven again and realized she was looking at him. Not for long. Only for a brief second before she turned her attention back to the window.
‘Mia? What’s going on?’
‘Just listen to me, Jon. And do as I say.’
‘OK?’ Curry mumbled, and let his legs carry him further down the road.
‘The bench. Take a seat on the side facing the church.’
For the third time Curry glanced at the woman in the grey coat. She had turned towards him and was watching him.
‘You’re there now. Sit down.’
The Subaru by the kerb. The man in the blue jacket was getting out of the car.
‘Feel underneath.’
He was on autopilot now. A hand under the seat where something had been attached. A piece of paper.
‘In one hour, OK?’
‘I don’t understand—’ Curry began as the woman in the grey coat calmly crossed the street, only to stop in front of another shop very close to him.
‘Go inside the 7-Eleven. Show them your warrant card. They have a back door. You found the note?’
The man in the blue jacket was heading into the park now.
‘Yes?’
‘Turn off your mobile. I’ll see you in one hour.’
And then she was gone.
Chapter 59
Dolores Di Santi was convinced that she had been possessed by the devil. She had grown up on Sardinia in the small coastal village of Portoscuso, the daughter of the local butcher and a very God-fearing woman. Her mother had started every day by making the sign of the cross and mumbling the words Non oggi né Dio; ‘Not today either, God.’ When Dolores was a little girl, she had always rolled her eyes at this, her mother’s exaggerated belief in Heaven and Hell, but she did it herself now as she sat on the cold pew in St Olav’s Cathedral. Non oggi né Dio. Although she was convinced that it was already too late.
When she was young she had dreamed of becoming an architect, but it hadn’t worked out that way. He had turned up in a sailboat and swept her off her feet. Salvatore Di Santi. The son of a rich family from Milan. After that the years had just flown by; she couldn’t even be sure where they had gone. First a daughter, then a son. Her mother had been a housewife and Dolores had promised herself never to follow suit, yet she had ended up doing exactly that.
But it was a comfortable life really; she mustn’t grumble. Both her daughter and her son had got a good education; she was a doctor now, he an engineer. Salvatore Di Santi had always had political ambitions and he had achieved them. They had spent five years in South Africa, he as Italy’s ambassador, she as the ambassador’s wife, and that was where it had happened, the episode which had now convinced her that the devil had taken over her life. An innocent affair, really. He had been young. Much younger than her. An embassy employee.
L’introduzione del diavolo.
The devil enters.
Dolores crossed herself as the congregation stood up. Mid-morning Mass was over. She looked around for Father Malley but couldn’t see him anywhere. It was another priest saying Mass today, which was a little disappointing; she had come to speak to Father Malley. She had to confess her sins. It was the only way. She would have to put an end to her wretchedness. It couldn’t go on.
South Africa had been hot. Colourful. Vibrant. This outpost they had now been sent to was the exact opposite. Italy’s ambassador to Norway. She had been so cold during the winter that she almost couldn’t bear it. The light that never came. Eternal darkness. The calendar said it was spring, but spring refused to come, to give her the warmth she so sorely needed. Il diavolo. He was everywhere around her and she had to confess her sins once and for all. Then go home to Italy. She couldn’t take any more of this icy country.
She made her way tentatively to the sacristy and approached a priest.
‘Pater Malley?’
‘We haven’t seen him for a while,’ the young man said in his broken language she didn’t understand. ‘He might be ill. We haven’t been able to contact him, I’m afraid.’
‘Pater Malley?’ she tried again, but he didn’t seem to understand her.
‘I’m sure he’ll turn up again soon.’ The priest smiled, but she didn’t understand a word of what he had said either.
That was why she had to talk to Father Malley. He spoke a little Italian. He had studied in Rome. She spoke a little English. Together they could communicate. Malley had explained to her that he had extended the hours for confession. She was welcome in the morning, midday – any time, really; it was just a question of turning up.
She walked slowly down to the confessional at the end of the church – perhaps that was what he had meant, the new priest – and sat down on a pew to wait. Twenty minutes later she had had enough. It didn’t look like he was coming. She picked up her bag from the cold floor and was about to get up when she noticed a small gap in the wooden door.
Was he there after all?
Was that what the priest had said?
Just go right in?
Dolores walked slowly towards the ornate box.
‘Scusa?
‘Pater Malley?’
Chapter 60
Curry went into Café Mistral in Majorstua and found Mia sitting at a table in the far corner.
‘So why the cloak-and-dagger stuff?’ the bulldog snapped, and flopped down heavily on the chair opposite her.
‘Did yo
u lose them?’ Mia wanted to know. Her blue eyes gave him a look he couldn’t gauge.
Mia seemed on edge. She struggled to keep her hands still, she kept drumming her fingernails on her coffee cup and she was constantly scanning the room. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said she was on something.
‘I think so,’ Curry mumbled. ‘What the hell is going on? Have you completely lost the plot?’
‘Did you turn off your phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. They track us, don’t they? GPS. They know where we are at any given moment. It occurred to me that that’s how they’ve been doing it. Watching you.’
‘Watching me? What are you talking about?’
‘Sorry.’ Mia put her hand briefly on his. ‘I should have come to you sooner. But I’m here now, all right?’
An old man was being served a beer over at the bar. Curry felt the temptation in his throat but pushed it away.
‘And who are those bloody people?’
‘Internal Investigations. Long story,’ Mia said, sweeping her hair behind her ear. ‘Whatever, I should have spoken to you immediately, and I’m sorry, OK?’
‘Internal Investigations? The police? Why are they after me? What the hell have I done?’
‘Listen,’ Mia said, leaning closer. ‘A few days ago I was contacted by an agent by the name of Wold. Do you remember the lawyer? Lorentzen?’
‘No.’
‘He owned the car that was stolen. The Mercedes that was used to take Vivian Berg to the mountains. But what Wold wanted to know was whether Lorentzen was of interest to us.’
‘Why?’
‘Heroin.’ Mia took a sip of her coffee. ‘They think they’ve found a major importer and that Lorentzen is involved.’
‘Drugs?’ Curry shook his head in exasperation. ‘But what does any of that have to do with me?’
‘They think the traffickers have someone on the inside,’ Mia said quietly.
‘What?’
‘A police officer. One of us. And they wanted me to help them prove it.’
Slowly he began to take on board what she meant. And the rage surged in him.
‘Me?’ he hissed so loudly that the old man at the bar turned around.
