by Jo Nesbo
“Where was it?”
“I’m not allowed to tell anyone. Not even Dad.” Jonas leaned over the paper and drew hair on the snowman’s head. Long hair.
“I’m a policeman, Jonas. I’m trying to find your mother.”
The pencil scratched harder and harder, and the hair became blacker and blacker.
“I don’t know what the place’s called.”
“Do you remember anything nearby?”
“The king’s cows.”
“The king’s cows?”
Jonas nodded. “The woman sitting behind the window is called Borghild. I got a lollipop because I let her take blood with one of those needles.”
“Are you drawing anything in particular?” Harry asked.
“No,” Jonas said, concentrating on the eyelashes.
Filip Becker stood by the window watching Harry Hole cross the parking lot. Lost in thought, he slapped the small black notebook against the palm of his hand. He was wondering whether Hole had believed him when he pretended not to know that the policeman had attended his lecture. Or when he said he had been working on an article the previous evening. Or that he hadn’t found anything among Birte’s things. The black notebook had been in her desk drawer; she hadn’t even made an attempt to conceal it. And what was written there …
He almost had to laugh. The simpleton had believed she could trick him.
11
DAY 4
Death Mask
Katrine Bratt was bent over her computer when Harry poked his head in.
“Find any matches?”
“Nothing much,” Katrine said. “All the women had blue eyes. Apart from that they’re all quite different in appearance. They all had husbands and children.”
“I have somewhere we can begin,” Harry said. “Birte Becker took Jonas to a doctor close to the ‘king’s cows.’ That has to be the royal Kongsgården estate in Bygdøy. And you said the twins were at the Kon-Tiki Museum after a visit to the doctor’s. Also Bygdøy. Filip Becker didn’t know anything about the doctor, but Rolf Ottersen might.”
“I’ll call him.”
“Then come and see me.”
In his office Harry picked up the handcuffs, put one around his wrist and smacked the other against the table leg while listening to his voice mail. Rakel said Oleg was bringing a pal along to the skating rink Valle Hovin. The message was unnecessary. He knew it was a reminder in disguise, in case Harry had forgotten the whole thing. To date, Harry had never forgotten an arrangement with Oleg, but he accepted these little nudges that others might have taken as a declaration of mistrust. Indeed, what was more, he liked them. Because it said something about what kind of mother she was. And because she disguised the reminder so as not to offend him.
Katrine walked in without knocking.
“Kinky,” she said, nodding toward the table leg Harry was cuffed to. “But I like it.”
“Single-handed speed-cuffing.” Harry smiled. “Some crap I picked up in the States.”
“You should try the new Hiatt speed cuffs. You don’t even need to think whether you’re going to approach from the left or the right—the cuff arm will close around your wrist or whatever, so long as you get a clean hit. And then you practice with two sets of cuffs, one around each wrist, so that you have two attempts at hitting.”
“Mm.” Harry unlocked the handcuffs. “What’s on your mind?”
“Rolf Ottersen hasn’t heard of any doctor’s appointment or any doctor in Bygdøy. In fact, they have their own doctor in Bærum. I can ask the twins if either of them remembers the doctor, or we can call the doctors in Bygdøy and check ourselves. There are only four of them. Here.”
She put a yellow Post-it on his desk.
“They aren’t allowed to disclose names of patients,” he said.
“I’ll talk to the twins when they’re back from school.”
“Wait,” Harry said, lifting the telephone and dialing the first number.
A nasal voice answered with the name of the practice.
“Is Borghild there?” Harry asked.
No Borghild.
At the second number an equally nasal answering machine said that the office received calls only during a restricted two-hour period, and this had passed some time ago.
Finally, at the fourth attempt, a chirpy, almost laughing voice gave him what he had been hoping for.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Hello, Borghild, this is Inspector Harry Hole, Oslo Police.”
“Date of birth?”
“Sometime in spring. I’m calling about a murder case. I assume you’ve read the papers today. What I want to know is whether you saw Sylvia Ottersen last week?”
There was silence at the other end of the line.
“One moment,” she said.
Harry heard her getting up, and waited. Then she was back. “I’m sorry, Herr Hole. Information about patients is confidential. And I think the police know that.”
“We do. But if I’m not mistaken, it’s the daughters who are patients, not Sylvia.”
“Nevertheless. You’re asking for information that indirectly might reveal the identities of our patients.”
“I would remind you that this is a murder investigation.”
“I would remind you that you can come back to us with a search warrant. We might perhaps be more guarded with patient information than most, but that’s the nature of our work.”
“Nature of your work?”
“Our areas of expertise.”
“Which are?”
“Plastic surgery and specialist operations. See our Web site—www.kirklinikk.no.”
“Thank you, but I think I’ve learned enough for the time being.”
“If you say so.”
She put down the phone.
“Well?” Katrine asked.
“Jonas and the twins have been to the same doctor,” Harry said, leaning back in the chair. “And that means we’re in business.”
Harry could feel the adrenaline rush, the trembling that always came when he got the first scent of the brute. And after the rush came the Great Obsession. Which was everything at once: love and intoxication, blindness and clear-sightedness, meaning and madness. Colleagues spoke now and then about excitement, but this was something else, something special. He had never told anyone about the Obsession or made any attempt to analyze it. He hadn’t dared. All he knew was that it helped him, drove him, fueled the job he was appointed to perform. He didn’t want to know any more. He really didn’t.
“And now?” Katrine asked.
Harry opened his eyes and leapt off his seat. “Now we’re going shopping.”
The shop Taste of Africa was situated close to the busiest street in Majorstuen, Bogstadveien. But unfortunately its location fifty feet down a side street meant that it was still on the periphery.
A bell rang as Harry and Katrine entered. In the muted lighting—or, to be more precise, the lack of lighting—Harry saw brightly colored coarse-weave rugs, sarong-like materials, large cushions with West African patterns, small coffee tables that looked as if they had been carved straight out of the rainforest and tall, thin wooden figures representing Masai tribesmen and a selection of the savannah’s best-known animals. Everything seemed carefully planned and executed: There were no visible price tags, the colors complemented one another and the products were placed in pairs as if in Noah’s ark. In short, it looked more like an exhibition than a shop. A somewhat dusty exhibition. This impression was reinforced by the almost unnatural stillness after the door closed behind them and the bell stopped ringing.
“Hello?” called a voice from inside the shop.
Harry followed the sound. In the darkness at the back of the room, behind an enormous wooden giraffe and illuminated only by a single spotlight, he saw the back of a woman who was standing on a chair. She was hanging up a grinning wooden black mask on the wall.
“What is it?” she said without turning.
She gave the impre
ssion she was conditioned to expect the unexpected, but not customers.
“We’re from the police.”
“Oh, yes.” The woman turned and the spotlight fell on her face. Harry felt his heart stop, and he automatically took a step back. It was Sylvia Ottersen.
“Something wrong?” she asked with a frown between the lenses of her glasses.
“Who … are you?”
“Ane Pedersen,” she said, instantly understanding the reason for Harry’s perplexed expression. “I’m Sylvia’s sister. We’re twins.”
Harry began to cough.
“This is Inspector Harry Hole,” he heard Katrine say behind him. “And I’m Katrine Bratt. We were hoping to find Rolf here.”
“He’s at the funeral parlor.” Ane Pedersen paused, and at that moment all three of them knew what the others were thinking: How do you actually bury a head?
“And you’ve stepped into the breach?” Katrine said, rallying.
Ane Pedersen smiled briefly. “Yes.” She stepped down from the chair with care, still holding the wooden mask.
“Ceremonial or spiritual mask?” Katrine asked.
“Ceremonial,” she said. “Hutu. Eastern Congo.”
Harry looked at his watch. “When will he be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any guesses?”
“As I said, I don’t—”
“That really is a beautiful mask,” Katrine interrupted. “You’ve been to the Congo, and you bought it yourself, didn’t you?”
Ane gave her a look of amazement. “How did you know?”
“I can see by the way you’re holding it, not covering the eyes or mouth. You respect the spirits.”
“Are you interested in masks?”
“Sort of,” Katrine said, pointing to a black mask with small arms at the side and legs hanging underneath. The face was half human, half animal. “That’s a Kpelie mask, isn’t it?”
“Yes, from the Ivory Coast. Senufo.”
“A power mask?” Katrine ran a hand over the stiff, greasy animal hair hanging off the coconut shell at the top of the mask.
“Wow, you do know a lot,” Ane said.
“What’s a power mask?” Harry asked.
“What it says,” Ane answered. “In Africa masks like these are not just empty symbols. A person wearing this type of mask in the Lo community automatically has all executive and judicial power bestowed upon him. No one questions the authority of the wearer; the mask confers power.”
“I saw two death masks hanging by the door,” Katrine said. “Very beautiful.”
Ane smiled in response. “I have several of them. They’re from Lesotho.”
“Can I have a look?”
“Of course. Wait here a moment.”
She was gone, and Harry looked at Katrine.
“I just thought it might be useful to have a chat with her,” she said, to answer his unspoken question. “To check if there were any family secrets, you understand?”
“I understand. And you’d do that best on your own.”
“You’ve got something to do?”
“I’ll be in my office. If Rolf Ottersen turns up, remember to get a written statement waiving patient confidentiality.”
By the door, as he left, Harry cast a glance at the human faces, leathery, shrunken and frozen in a scream. He assumed they were imitations.
Eli Kvale trundled her shopping cart between the shelves of the ICA supermarket at Ullevål Stadium. It was huge. A bit more expensive than other supermarkets, but with a much better selection. She didn’t come here every day, only when she wanted to make something nice. And tonight her son, Trygve, was coming home from the States. He was in his third year of economics at a university in Montana, but didn’t have any exams this autumn and was going to study at home until January. Andreas would drive straight from the church office to pick him up at Gardermoen Airport. And she knew that by the time they were home they would be deep in conversation about fly-fishing and canoe trips.
She leaned over the freezer and felt the cold rise as a shadow passed her. And without looking up she knew it was the same one. The same shadow that had passed her when she was standing by the fresh-food counter, and in the parking lot when she was locking the car. It meant nothing. It was just the old stuff surfacing. She had come to terms with the fact that her fears would never quite let go, even though it was half a human lifetime away now. At the checkout she chose the longest line; her experience was that this was generally the quickest. Or at least she thought it was her experience. Andreas believed she was mistaken. Someone joined the line behind her. So there were more mistaken people, she noted. She didn’t turn around, just thought the person must have been carrying a load of frozen goods: She could feel the cold on her back.
But when she did turn around, there was no longer anyone there. Her eyes wanted to scour the other lines. Don’t start, she thought. Don’t start this again.
Once outside, she forced herself to walk slowly to the car, not to look around, to unlock the car, put in the groceries, sit down and drive off. And as the Toyota slowly crawled up the long hills to the duplex apartment in Nordberg, her mind was on Trygve and the dinner that had to be ready the moment he and Andreas came in through the door.
Harry was listening to Espen Lepsvik on the telephone and gazing up at the photographs of his dead colleagues. Lepsvik already had his group assembled and was asking Harry for access to all the relevant information.
“You’ll get a password from our IT boss,” Harry said. “Then you go into the folder labeled ‘The Snowman’ on the Crime Squad network.”
“The Snowman?”
“Got to be called something.”
“OK. Thanks, Hole. How often do you want reports from me?”
“Just when you’ve got something. And, Lepsvik?”
“Yes?”
“Keep off our turf.”
“And what exactly is your turf?”
“You concentrate on tips, witnesses and ex-cons who might be possible serial killers. That’s where the brunt of the work lies.”
Harry knew what the experienced Kripos detective was thinking: the shit jobs.
Lepsvik cleared his throat. “So we agree there is a connection between the disappearances?”
“We don’t have to agree. You follow your instincts.”
“Fine.”
Harry hung up and looked at the screen in front of him. He had gone onto the Web site Borghild had recommended and seen pictures of female beauties and male-model types with dotted lines on their faces and bodies suggesting where their perfect appearance could still—if desired—be adjusted. The doctor, Idar Vetlesen, himself was smiling at Harry from a photograph, indistinguishable from his male models.
Under the picture of Vetlesen there was a résumé listing diplomas and courses with long names in French and English that, for all Harry knew, could have been completed in two months, but still gave you the right to add new Latin abbreviations to your doctorate. He had Googled Idar Vetlesen and come up with a list of results from what he thought were curling competitions, as well as an old Web site from one of his previous employers, the Marienlyst Clinic. It was when he saw the name beside Idar Vetlesen’s that he thought it was probably true what people said: Norway is such a small country that everyone is, at most, two acquaintances from knowing everyone else.
Katrine Bratt came in and plumped down onto the chair across from Harry with a deep sigh. She crossed her legs.
“Do you think it’s true that beautiful people are more preoccupied with beauty than ugly people?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know,” Katrine said. “But there’s a kind of logic to it, I suppose. People with high IQs are so fixated on IQs that they have founded their own club, haven’t they? I suppose you focus on what you have. I would guess you’re fairly proud of your investigative talent.”
“You mean the rat-catching gene? The innate ability to lock up people with mental illnesses, addiction proble
ms, well-under-average intellects and well-above-average childhood deprivations?”
“So we’re just rat-catchers, then?”
“Yep. And that’s why we’re so happy when once in a blue moon a case like this lands on our table. A chance to go big-game hunting, to shoot a lion, an elephant, a fucking dinosaur.”
Katrine didn’t laugh. On the contrary, she nodded her head gravely.
“What did Sylvia’s twin sister have to say?”
“I was in danger of becoming her best friend.” Katrine sighed, folding her hands over a stockinged knee.
“Tell me.”
“Well,” she began, and Harry noticed his “well” in her mouth, “Ane told me that both Sylvia and Rolf thought that Rolf had been the lucky one when they got together. While everyone else thought the opposite. Rolf had just finished qualifying as an engineer at the Technical University in Bergen and had moved to Oslo and a job with Kværner Engineering. Sylvia was apparently the type who wakes up every morning with a new idea about what she’s going to do with her life. She had half a dozen different majors at the university and had never been in the same job for more than six months. She was stubborn, hotheaded, spoiled, a declared socialist and attracted by ideologies that preached the obliteration of the ego. The few girlfriends she had she manipulated, and the men she was involved with left her after a short while because they couldn’t take it. Her sister thought that Rolf was so deeply in love with her because she represented his absolute opposite. You see, he had followed in his father’s footsteps and become an engineer. He came from a family that believed in the unseen charitable hand of capitalism and middle-class happiness. Sylvia thought that we in the Western world were materialistic and corrupt as human beings, that we had lost touch with our real identity and the source of happiness. And that some king in Ethiopia was the reincarnated Messiah.”
“Haile Selassie,” Harry said. “Rastafarian beliefs.”
“No flies on you.”
“Bob Marley records. Well, that may explain the link with Africa.”
“Maybe.” Katrine shifted position in her chair, her left leg crossing her right now, and Harry directed his gaze elsewhere. “Anyway, Rolf and Sylvia took a year off and traveled around West Africa. It turned out to be a road to Damascus for them both. Rolf discovered that his vocation was to help Africa get back on its feet. Sylvia, who had a big Ethiopian flag tattooed on her back, discovered that everyone looked out for himself, even in Africa. So they started up Taste of Africa. Rolf to help a poor continent, Sylvia because the combination of cheap imports and government support seemed like easy money. She had the same motive when she was caught with a backpack full of marijuana at customs, returning from Lagos.”
