by Jo Nesbo
“There must have been a leak,” the chief had said, looking at Rafto, who hadn’t answered, or formed the grin that yearned to surface. They were sitting out there now, ready to file their reports. And soon Gert Rafto would be king of the Bergen Police HQ again.
He turned down the radio from which Whitney Houston had insisted all autumn that she would always love you, but before he could lift the telephone, it rang.
“Rafto,” he said with irritation, impatient to get going.
“It’s me you’re looking for.”
The voice was what immediately told the discredited detective that this was not just a hoax or a crank. It was cool and controlled with clear, businesslike diction, which excluded the usual nuts and drunks. But there was something else about the voice, too, which he couldn’t quite place.
Rafto coughed aloud, twice. Took his time, as if to show that he had not been taken aback. “Who am I talking to?”
“You know.”
Rafto closed his eyes and cursed silently and roundly. Damn, damn, damn, the killer was going to turn himself in. And that would not have anywhere near the same impact as if he, Rafto, arrested the perpetrator.
“What makes you think I’m looking for you?” the policeman asked between clenched teeth.
“I just know,” said the voice. “And if we can do this my way, you’ll get what you want.”
“And what do I want?”
“You want to arrest me. And you’ll be able to. Alone. Are you listening now, Rafto?”
The officer nodded before he could gather himself to say yes.
“Meet me by the totem pole in Nordnes Park,” the voice said. “In exactly ten minutes.”
Rafto tried to think. Nordnes Park was by the aquarium; he could get there in under ten minutes. But why meet there, of all places, in a park at the end of a headland?
“So that I can see if you come alone,” the voice said, as if in answer to his thoughts. “If I see any other police or you’re late, I’ll be gone. Forever.”
Rafto’s brain processed, calculated and drew a conclusion. He would not be able to organize an arrest team in time. He would have to explain in his written report why he had been forced to undertake the arrest on his own. It was perfect.
“OK,” said Rafto. “What happens now?”
“I’ll tell you everything and give you the conditions for my surrender.”
“What sort of conditions?”
“I don’t want to wear handcuffs at the trial. The press will not be allowed in. And I serve my time somewhere where I don’t have to mix with other prisoners.”
Rafto almost choked. “OK,” he said, looking at his watch.
“Wait, there are more conditions. TV in my room, all the books I might wish for.”
“We’ll arrange that,” Rafto said.
“When you’ve signed the deal with my conditions, I’ll go with you.”
“What about—?” Rafto began, but an accelerated beep-beep-beep told him that the other person had hung up.
Rafto parked his car by the Bergen shipyard. It wasn’t the shortest route, but it meant he would have a better view of Nordnes when he went in. The big park was on undulating terrain with well-trodden paths and hillocks of yellow withered grass. The trees pointed with black gnarled fingers to heavy clouds sweeping in from the sea behind the island of Askøy. A man hurried away behind a nervous Rottweiler on a taut lead. Rafto felt the Smith & Wesson revolver in his coat pocket as he strode past the Nordnes seawater pool; the empty white basin looked like an oversize bath by the water’s edge.
Beyond the bend he could make out the thirty-three-foot-high totem pole, a two-ton gift from Seattle on the occasion of Bergen’s nine hundredth anniversary. He could hear his own breathing and the squelch of wet leaves beneath his shoes. It started to rain. Small, pinlike droplets drove into his face.
A solitary figure stood by the totem pole, facing Rafto as if the person had known that Rafto would come from that direction and not the other end.
Rafto squeezed the revolver as he walked the last few steps. Six feet away, he stopped. Pinched his eyes against the rain. It could not be true.
“Surprised?” said the voice he could place only now.
Rafto didn’t answer. His brain had started processing again.
“You thought you knew me,” the voice said. “But it was just me who knew you. That was how I guessed you would try to do this alone.”
Rafto stared.
“It’s a game,” the voice said.
Rafto cleared his throat. “A game?”
“Yes. You like playing games.”
Rafto closed his hand around the stock of the revolver, held it in such a way he could be sure it would not snag on his pocket if he had to draw quickly.
“Why me, particularly?” he asked.
“Because you were the best. I only play against the best.”
“You’re crazy,” Rafto whispered, regretting it immediately.
“Of that,” the other said with a tiny smile, “there is little doubt. But you’re also crazy, my man. We’re all crazy. We’re restless spirits that cannot find their way home. It’s always been like that. Do you know why the Indians made these?”
The person in front of Rafto banged the knuckle of a gloved index finger against the tree; the carved figures perched on top of one another stared across the fjord with large, blind, black eyes.
“To watch over the souls,” the person continued. “So that they don’t get lost. But a totem pole rots. And it should rot—that’s part of the point. And when it’s gone, the soul has to find a new home. Perhaps in a mask. Perhaps in a mirror. Or perhaps in a newborn child.”
The sound of hoarse cries came from the penguin run at the aquarium.
“Will you tell me why you killed her?” Rafto said, and noticed that he, too, had gone hoarse.
“Shame the game’s over, Rafto. It’s been fun.”
“And how did you find out that I was on your trail?”
The other person raised a hand, and Rafto automatically stepped back a pace. There was something hanging from it. A necklace. At the end there was a green tear-shaped stone with a black crack. Rafto felt his heart pounding.
“In fact, Onny Hetland wouldn’t say anything at first. But she allowed herself … how shall I say it? … to be persuaded.”
“You’re lying.” Rafto said it without breathing and without conviction.
“She said you instructed her not to tell your colleagues. That was when I knew you would accept my offer and come here alone. Because you thought this would be the new home for your soul, your resurrection. Didn’t you.”
The cold, thin rain lay like sweat on Rafto’s face. He had placed his finger on the trigger of his revolver and concentrated on speaking slowly and with restraint.
“You chose the wrong place. You’re standing with your back to the sea and there are police cars on all the roads out of here. No one can escape.”
The person facing him sniffed the air. “Can you smell it, Gert?”
“What?”
“Fear. Adrenaline has quite a distinctive smell. But you know all about that. I’m sure you smelled it on the prisoners you beat up. Laila smelled like that, too. Especially when she saw the tools I would use. And Onny even more. Probably because you told her about Laila, so she knew what would happen to her. It’s quite a stimulating smell, don’t you think? I’ve read that it’s the smell some carnivores use to find their prey. Imagine the trembling victim trying to hide, but knowing that the smell of its own fear will kill it.”
Rafto saw the other’s gloved hands hanging down, empty. It was broad daylight, close to the center of Norway’s second-largest city. Despite his age, after the last years without alcohol he was in good physical shape. His reflexes were fast, and his combat techniques were more or less intact. Drawing the revolver would take a fraction of a second. So why was he so frightened that his teeth were chattering in his mouth?
6
; DAY 2
Cellular Phone
Police Officer Magnus Skarre leaned back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. And the image that immediately appeared to him wore a suit and stood facing the other way. He opened his eyes again in a flash, and checked his watch. Six. He decided that he deserved a break since he had been through the standard procedure for locating missing persons. He had called all the hospitals to hear if they had admitted a Birte Becker. Called two taxi firms, Norgestaxi and Oslo Taxi, and checked the trips they had made near the Hoff address the previous night. Spoken to her bank and received confirmation that she had not taken out large amounts from her account before disappearing, nor were there withdrawals registered for the previous evening or today. The police at Gardermoen Airport had been allowed to see passenger lists for last night, but the only passenger named Becker they found was her husband, Filip, on the Bergen flight. Skarre had also spoken to the ferry companies sailing to Denmark and England, although she could hardly have gone to England if her husband kept her passport and had shown it to them. The ambitious officer had sent the usual security fax to all the hotels in Oslo and Akershus, and finally instructed all operational units, including the patrol cars, in Oslo to keep their eyes peeled.
The only thing left was the question of the mobile phone.
Magnus called Harry and informed him of the situation. The inspector was out of breath, and in the background he heard the shrill twittering of birds. Harry asked a couple of questions about the mobile before hanging up. Then Skarre got up and went into the corridor. The door to Katrine Bratt’s office was open and the light was on, but no one was there. He climbed the stairs to the cafeteria on the floor above.
No food was being served, but there was warmish coffee in a thermos and crispbread and jam on a cart by the door. Only four people were sitting in the room, but one of them was Katrine Bratt, at a table by the wall. She was reading documents in a ring binder. In front of her was a glass of water and a lunch box containing two open sandwiches. She was wearing glasses. Thin frames, thin glass—you could hardly see them against her face.
Skarre poured himself some coffee and went over to her table.
“Planned to do some overtime, did you?” he asked, taking a seat.
Magnus Skarre thought he heard a sigh before she looked up from the sheet.
“How I guessed?” He smiled. “Homemade sandwiches. You knew before you left home that our cafeteria would close at five and you would be working late. Sorry, but that’s how you get when you’re a detective.”
“Do you?” she said, without batting an eyelid, as she sought to return to the pages in her file.
“Yep,” Skarre said, slurping his coffee and using the occasion to get a good look at her. She was leaning forward and he could see the lace trim of her bra down the front of her blouse. “Take this missing-persons case today. I don’t have any information that anyone else hasn’t got. Yet I’m sitting here and thinking that she might still be in Hoff. Perhaps she’s lying under snow or foliage somewhere. Or perhaps in one of the many small lakes or streams there.”
Katrine Bratt didn’t answer.
“And do you know why I think that?”
“No,” she answered in a monotone, without raising her eyes from the file.
Skarre stretched across the table and placed a mobile phone directly in front of her. Katrine raised her face with a resigned expression.
“This is a mobile phone,” he said. “You think, I assume, it’s a pretty new invention. But back in April 1973 the father of the mobile phone, Martin Cooper, had the first conversation on one, with his wife at home. And, of course, he had no idea that this invention would become one of the most important ways in which we in the police force can find missing persons. If you want to become an OK detective, you have to listen and learn these things, Bratt.”
Katrine removed her glasses and looked at Skarre with a small smile that he liked, but couldn’t quite interpret. “I’m all ears.”
“Good,” said Skarre. “Because Birte Becker is the owner of a mobile phone. And a mobile phone sends out signals that can be picked up by base stations in the area where it is located. Not only when you ring, but in fact when you carry a phone on you. That’s why the Americans called it a cellular phone from the very start. Because it is covered by base stations in small areas—in other words, cells. I’ve checked with Telenor, and the base station covering Hoff is still receiving signals from Birte’s phone. But we’ve been through the whole house, and there’s no phone. And she could hardly have lost it by the house—that would be too much of a coincidence. Ergo”—Skarre raised his hands like a conjurer after pulling off a trick—“after this coffee I’m going to contact the Incident Room and send out a search party.”
“Good luck,” Katrine said, passing him the mobile phone and turning the page.
“That’s one of Hole’s old cases, isn’t it?” Skarre said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“He thought a serial killer was on the rampage.”
“I know.”
“Do you? So perhaps you know that he was wrong as well? And it wasn’t the first time. He’s morbidly obsessed with serial killers, Hole is. He thinks this is the U.S.A. But he still hasn’t found his serial killer in this country.”
“There have been several serial killers in Sweden. Thomas Quick. John Ausonius. Tore Hedin …”
Magnus Skarre laughed. “You’ve done your homework. But if you’d like to learn a couple of things about proper crime detection, I suggest you and I go for a beer.”
“Thank you, I’m not—”
“And maybe a bite to eat. It wasn’t a big lunch box.” Skarre finally caught her eye and kept it. Her gaze had a strange gleam, as if deep inside there was a fire smoldering. He had never seen a gleam like that before. And he thought he was responsible for it; he had lit the fire and through the conversation he had moved up into her league.
“You could view it as …,” he began, and pretended to be searching for the right word. “Training.”
She smiled. A broad smile.
Skarre felt his pulse racing; he was hot, thinking he could already feel her body against his, a stockinged knee against his fingertips, the crackle as his hand slid upward.
“What do you want, Skarre? To check out the new skirt in the unit?” Her smile became even broader and the gleam even fiercer. “To fuck her as soon as you can, the way boys spit on the biggest slices of birthday cake so they can enjoy them in peace before the others?”
Magnus Skarre had a feeling his jaw had dropped.
“Let me give you a few well-intentioned tips, Skarre. Keep away from women at work. Don’t waste your time drinking coffee in the cafeteria if you think you’ve got a hot lead. And don’t try to tell me you can call the Incident Room. You call Inspector Hole, and he’s the one who decides whether a search party will be set up. And then he’ll call the Emergency Operations Center, where there are people ready, not just a team from here.”
Katrine scrunched up the waxed paper from her sandwiches and lobbed it toward the garbage can behind Skarre. He didn’t even need to turn to know that she hadn’t missed. She packed her file and stood up, but by then Skarre had managed to collect himself to some degree.
“I don’t know what you’re imagining, Bratt. You’re a married slut who maybe doesn’t get enough at home and so you’re hoping a guy like me can be bothered … can be bothered to …” He couldn’t find the words. Shit, he couldn’t find the words. “I’m just offering to teach you a thing or two, you whore.”
Something happened to her face—it was like a curtain being drawn aside to allow him to see into the flames. For a moment he was convinced that she would hit him. But nothing happened. And when she spoke again, he realized that everything had happened in her eyes alone; she hadn’t lifted a finger and her voice was totally under control.
“I beg your pardon if I’ve misunderstood you,” she said, although her facial expression suggested she con
sidered that highly improbable. “By the way, Martin Cooper did not call his wife; he called his rival, Joel Engel at Bell Laboratories. Do you think that was to teach him a thing or two, Skarre? Or to brag?”
Skarre watched her leave, watched her suit rubbing against her backside as she wiggled toward the cafeteria door. Shit, the woman was off her rocker! He felt like getting up and throwing something at her. But he knew he would miss. Besides, he didn’t want to move; he was afraid his erection was still visible.
Harry felt his lungs pressing against the inside of his ribs. His breathing was beginning to settle. But not his heart, which was running like a hare in his chest. His training clothes were heavy with sweat as he stood at the edge of the forest by the Ekeberg restaurant. The functionalist restaurant built between the wars had once been Oslo’s pride and joy, towering above the town on the precipitous ridge face in the east. But as customers had stopped taking the long trip up from the city center to the forest, the place had become unprofitable; it had declined and become a peeling shack for over-the-hill dance fiends, middle-aged drinkers and lonely souls on the lookout for other lonely souls. In the end, they had closed the restaurant. Harry had always liked driving up here above the town’s layer of yellow exhaust fumes and running along the network of paths on the steep terrain that provided a challenge and caused the lactic acid to burn in his muscles. He had liked to stop by the crumbling beauty of a restaurant, sitting on the rain-wet, overgrown terrace overlooking the town that had once been his, but which was now emotionally bankrupt, all assets transferred, an ex-lover with new affections.
The town lay below in a hollow with ridges on all sides and a sole retreat via the fjord. Geologists said that Oslo was a dead volcanic crater. And on evenings like this Harry could imagine that the town’s lights were perforations in the earth’s surface with the glowing lava shining through. From Holmenkollen ski jump, which lay like an illuminated white comma on the ridge on the opposite side of the town, he tried to work out where Rakel’s house was.
