by Jo Nesbo
The police work he had been looking forward to when he took the job, leading investigations, had become a subsidiary matter. And still he hadn’t got to grips with hidden agendas, reading between the lines or career games. Now and then he wondered if he should still be there, but he knew Trine appreciated the higher salary band. And the boys wanted jump skis. Perhaps it was time they had the computers they had been asking for as well. Tiny snowflakes swirled against the windowpane. He had been such a good policeman.
The telephone rang.
“Møller.”
“Hole. Did you know all the time?”
“Hello? Harry, is that you?”
“Did you know I was chosen especially so that this investigation wouldn’t get off the ground?”
Møller lowered his voice. He had forgotten about jump skis and computers. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I just want to hear you say you didn’t know people in Oslo suspected who the murderer was from the word go.”
“OK, Harry. I didn’t know … By which I mean I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about.”
“The Police Commissioner and Dagfinn Torhus from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs have known all along that the ambassador and a Norwegian by the name of Ove Klipra drove off in the same car from Klipra’s home half an hour before the ambassador arrived at the motel. They also know Klipra had a damn good motive for killing the ambassador.”
Møller sat down heavily. “And that is?”
“Klipra is one of the richest men in Bangkok. The ambassador was in severe financial difficulties, and he had even taken the initiative to start a highly illegal investigation of Klipra for child abuse. When the ambassador was found dead he had photos in his briefcase of Klipra with a boy. It’s not that hard to imagine the reason for his visit to Klipra. Molnes must have managed to convince Klipra that he was solo on this and he had taken the photos himself. Then he must have given him a price for ‘all copies.’ Isn’t that what they say? Of course it’s impossible to check how many copies Molnes had made, but Klipra probably realized that a blackmailer who is also an incurable gambler, like the ambassador, was bound to come knocking again. And again. So Klipra suggested a drive, got out at the bank and told Molnes to go to the motel and wait, he would follow with the money. When Klipra arrived he didn’t even have to look for the room, he could see the ambassador’s car parked outside, couldn’t he. Shit, the guy even managed to trace the knife back to Klipra.”
“Which guy?”
“Løken. Ivar Løken. An old intelligence officer who’s been operating here for several years. Employed by the UN, worked with refugees, he says, but what the hell do I know? I reckon he got most of his wages from NATO or something like that. He’s been spying on Klipra for months.”
“Didn’t the ambassador know that? I thought you said he initiated the investigation?”
“What do you mean?”
“You maintain the ambassador went there to blackmail Klipra even though he knew the intelligence guy was watching them.”
“Of course he knew. He got the copies of the photos from Løken, didn’t he. So? There’s nothing suspicious about the Norwegian ambassador paying a courtesy visit to Bangkok’s richest Norwegian, is there.”
“Maybe not. What else did this Løken say?”
“He told me the real reason I was chosen for this job.”
“Which is?”
“The guys who knew about the investigation into Klipra took a risk. If they were caught all hell would break loose; there would be a political outcry, heads would roll, et cetera. So when the ambassador was found murdered and they had a pretty good idea who was responsible they had to ensure the murder inquiry didn’t cast any light on their investigations. They had to find a happy medium, do something, but not so much that their cover was blown. By sending a Norwegian police officer they couldn’t be accused of doing nothing. I was told that they couldn’t send a team of officers because the Thai force would take offense.”
Harry’s laughter merged with another conversation hurtling somewhere between earth and a satellite.
“Instead they picked a man they reckoned was the least likely to uncover anything at all. Dagfinn Torhus had done his research and found the perfect candidate, someone who definitely wouldn’t cause them any problems. Because he would probably spend his nights bent over a crate of beer and his days sleeping off a hangover. Harry Hole was perfect because he barely functions. They could justify the choice, if the question came up, by saying the officer in question had received enthusiastic recommendations after a similar job in Australia. If that wasn’t enough PAS Møller had vouched for him, and he should be the best person to judge, shouldn’t he.”
Møller didn’t like what he heard. Even less because he could see it clearly now, the Police Commissioner’s gaze across the table when the question was posed, the imperceptible raised eyebrow. It had been an order.
“But why would Torhus and the Commissioner risk their jobs just to catch a pedophile?”
“Good question.”
Silence. Neither of them dared put into words what they were thinking.
“So what happens now, Harry?”
“Now it’s Operation Save Our Arses.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that no one wants to be left holding the can. Neither Løken nor I. The deal is he and I keep our gobs shut about this for now and haul in Klipra together. I suppose you’d rather take over the case from there, PAS? Go directly to Storting maybe? You’ve got an arse to save as well, you know.”
Møller mulled that one over. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be saved. The worst that could happen was that they would make him do police work again.
“This is heavy stuff, Harry. I need to think, so I’ll ring you back, OK?”
“OK.”
They were receiving faint signals from another conversation in space, which went quiet all of a sudden. They listened to the sound of stars.
“Harry?”
“Yes?”
“To hell with the thinking. I’m with you.”
“Thought you would be, boss.”
“Ring me when you’ve arrested him.”
“Oh yes, I forgot to say. No one’s seen Klipra since the ambassador was murdered.”
38
Monday, January 20
Løken passed the night binoculars to Harry.
“All clear,” he said. “I know the routines. The guard will go and sit in the hut at the bottom of the drive by the gate. He won’t do another round for twenty minutes.”
They were sitting in the loft of a house about a hundred meters from Klipra’s property. The window was boarded up, but between two of the planks there was just enough room for binoculars. Or a camera. Between the loft and Klipra’s dragonhead-bedecked teak house was a line of low sheds, a road and a high white wall topped with barbed wire.
“The only problem in this town is that there are people everywhere. All the time. So we’ll have to walk around and climb over the wall behind that shed over there.”
He pointed and Harry grabbed the binoculars.
Løken had told him to wear discreet, tight-fitting, dark clothes. He chose black jeans and his old black Joy Division T-shirt. He had thought about Kristin when he put on the T-shirt; it was the only one he had managed to make her like, Joy Division. He thought that probably made up for her not liking Camel.
“Let’s get going,” Løken said.
The air outside was still, and the dust hovered freely over the gravel path. A group of boys were playing takraw, standing in a circle and keeping a little rubber ball in the air with their feet, and they didn’t notice the two black-clad farangs. Harry and Ivar crossed the street, slipped between the sheds and arrived at the wall undetected. The misty night sky reflected a dirty yellow light coming from millions of bigger and smaller lights, never allowing Bangkok to be completely dark on nights like this. Løken threw his small rucksack over the wall and rolled
a thin, narrow rubber mat over the barbed wire.
“You first,” he said, interlacing his fingers to give Harry a foothold.
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me, come on.”
He hoisted Harry up, so that he could grab a post on top of the wall. Harry placed one foot on the mat and heard the wire tear the rubber underneath as he swung the other foot over. He tried not to think about the story of the boy who had slid down the flagpole at Romsdal Fair without remembering the cleat at the bottom with the rope tied around. His grandad had said the boy’s castration cries could be heard right across the fjord.
Next second Løken was standing beside him.
“Jeez, that was quick,” Harry whispered.
“Pensioner’s exercise for the day.”
With the pensioner in front they ran with their heads down across the lawn, alongside the house wall and stopped at the corner. Løken took out the binoculars and waited until he was sure the guard was looking in the other direction.
“Now!”
Harry set off, trying to imagine he was invisible. It wasn’t far to the garage, but it was lit and there was no cover between them and the guard’s hut. Løken followed hard on his heels.
Harry had thought there couldn’t be so many ways to break into a house, but Løken had insisted on planning everything down to the last detail. When he had stressed that they had to run close together over the last critical phase Harry had asked if it wouldn’t be wiser for one to run while the other kept a lookout.
“What for? We’ll know if we’ve been seen. If we run separately the chances of being seen are double. Don’t they teach you anything in the police nowadays?” Harry didn’t have any objections to the rest of the plan.
A white Lincoln Continental dominated the garage, from where a side door did indeed lead into the house. Løken had counted on the lock of the side door being easier than the main door, and besides, they couldn’t be seen from the gate.
He took out his picklock and got down to work.
“Are you checking the time?” he whispered and Harry nodded. According to the timetable there were sixteen minutes till the guard’s next round.
After twelve minutes Harry started to feel his whole body itching.
After thirteen minutes he was wishing Sunthorn would appear in a puff of smoke.
After fourteen minutes he knew they would have to abandon the operation.
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered.
“Bit more,” Løken said, stooped over the lock. “A few seconds, no more.”
“Now!” Harry hissed between gritted teeth.
Løken didn’t answer. Harry breathed in and put an arm around his shoulder. Løken turned to him and their eyes met. The gold tooth glinted. “Bingo,” Løken whispered.
The door slid open without a sound. They crept in and closed it quietly behind them. At that moment they heard steps in the garage, saw the light from a torch through the window over the door and then the door handle was given a rough shake. They stood with their backs against the wall. Harry held his breath with his heart pounding blood around his body. Then the steps faded.
Harry found it difficult to keep his voice down. “Twenty minutes you said!”
Løken shrugged. “Give or take.”
Harry counted, breathing through an open mouth.
They switched on their torches and were about to move into the house when there was a crunch beneath Harry’s feet.
“What’s that?” He shone the torch downwards. There were small white clumps on the dark parquet floor.
Løken shone his torch on the whitewashed wall.
“Ugh, Klipra’s a bodger. This house is supposed to be built of nothing but teak. Well, now I’ve really lost respect for the guy,” he said. “Come on, Harry. The clock’s ticking!”
They searched the house quickly and systematically according to Løken’s instructions. Harry concentrated on doing what he was told, remembering where things had been before he moved them, not leaving fingerprints and checking for bits of tape before opening drawers and cupboards. After a couple of hours they sat down at the kitchen table. Løken had found a few child-porn magazines and a revolver that didn’t look as if it had been fired for years. He had taken photos of both.
“The guy’s left in a tearing hurry,” he said. “There are two empty suitcases in his bedroom, the toilet bag’s in the bathroom and the wardrobes are crammed full.”
“He might have had a third suitcase,” Harry suggested.
Løken regarded him with a mixture of disgust and indulgence. The way he would have looked at a willing but not exactly bright recruit, Harry thought.
“No man has two toilet bags, Hole.”
Recruit, Harry thought.
“One room left,” Løken said. “The office on the first floor is locked and the lock is some German monster I can’t pick.” He took a jimmy from his rucksack.
“I’d been hoping we wouldn’t need this,” he said. “That door’s going to be a mess after we’ve finished.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said. “I think I put his slippers back on the wrong shelf anyway.”
Løken chuckled.
They used the jimmy on the hinges instead of the lock. Harry reacted too slowly and the heavy door fell into the room with a loud bang. They stood still for a few seconds and waited for the guard’s shouts.
“Do you think they heard?” Harry asked.
“Nah. There are so many noises per inhabitant here that one bang more or less won’t be noticed.”
Their torchlights ran like yellow cockroaches up and down the walls.
On the wall above the desk hung a red-and-white Manchester United banner over a framed poster of the team. Beneath it was the city coat of arms in red and white with a ship, carved in wood.
The torch stopped at a photograph. It showed a man with a broad, smiling mouth, solid double chin and two slightly bulging eyes sparkling with amusement. Ove Klipra looked like a man who laughed a lot. He had blond curls blowing in the wind. The photo must have been taken on board a boat.
“He doesn’t exactly fit the picture of a pedophile,” Harry said.
“Pedophiles seldom do,” Løken said. Harry glanced at him, but he was blinded by the torch. “What’s that?”
Harry turned. Løken shone his torch on a gray metal box in the corner. Harry recognized it at once.
“I can tell you what that is,” he said, happy at last to be able to make a contribution. “It’s a tape recorder worth half a million kroner. I saw an identical one in Brekke’s office. It records phone conversations, and the recording and the time code can’t be manipulated, so it can be used in legal disputes. Great if you make deals over the phone to the tune of millions.”
Harry flicked through the documents on the desk. He saw letterheads of Japanese and American companies, agreements, contracts, drafts of agreements and amendments to drafts. The transport project, BERTS, was mentioned in many of them. He noticed a stapled booklet with Barclays Thailand on the front. It was a report on a company called Phuridell. Then he shone the torch upward. And stopped as the light caught an object on the wall.
“Bingo! Look here, Løken. This must be the other knife you were talking about.”
Løken didn’t answer; he had his back to Harry.
“Did you hear what I—?”
“We have to get out, Harry. Now.”
Harry turned and saw Løken’s torch pointing at a little box on the wall with a red flashing light. At that moment it felt as if he’d had a knitting needle poked in his ear. The whine was so loud he was immediately semi-deaf.
“Delayed alarm!” Løken shouted, already in mid-stride. “Turn off the torch!”
Harry staggered down the stairs after him in the darkness. They made for the side door to the garage.
“Wait.” Harry had knelt down, and with his hands he swept up the lumps of plaster on the floor.
Outside, they could hear voices a
nd the rattling of keys. A shaft of moonlight, colored blue by the glass mosaic in the window over the door, fell onto the parquet floor in front of them.
“What are you doing?”
Harry didn’t have time to answer because they heard the bolt turn. They made it to the side door, and the next moment they were running, heads down, across the grass as the hysterical whine of the alarm grew fainter and fainter behind them.
“That was a close call,” Løken said when they were on the other side of the wall. Harry looked at him. The moonlight caught his gold tooth. Løken wasn’t even out of breath.
39
Monday, January 20
A cable had burned somewhere in the wall when Harry had shoved the scissors in the socket, so they sat in the flickering light of a candle again. Løken had just opened a bottle of Jim Beam.
“Why are you wrinkling your nose, Hole? Don’t you like the smell?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the smell.”
“The taste then?”
“The taste’s great. Jim and I are old friends.”
“Ah.” Løken poured himself a generous glass. “Not such good friends anymore perhaps?”
“They say he has a bad influence on me.”
“So who keeps you company now?”
Harry raised the Coke bottle. “American cultural imperialism.”
“Completely dry now?”
“There was a fair bit of beer in the autumn.”
Løken gave a chuckle.
“So there we have it. I’ve been pondering why on earth Torhus would choose you.”
Harry knew this was an indirect compliment. Løken thought that Torhus could have chosen bigger idiots. That there had to be another reason, not that he was an incompetent policeman.
Harry nodded toward the bottle. “Does that dull the nausea?”
Løken raised his eyebrows.
