Headhunters

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘Right, so now Greve is in trouble. He doesn’t know where his accomplice is, the police have found the body of Sindre Aa, the farm is a crime scene and in their search for the murder weapon there is a chance the police may uncover the Rubens painting. What is going through Greve’s mind?’

  Sperre hesitated. Why? police reports always avoid descriptions of what people think, keeping only to what can be proved At most, one might refer to what those involved said they were thinking. But in this case no one had said anything. On the other hand, Sperre knew he had to come up with something, had to help bring the story to life so as to … to … He probably hadn’t allowed himself to think that thought through to its logical conclusion because he had an inkling what lay at the end. That he liked being the person the media rang, the one they wanted a sound bite from if a comment or an explanation was needed, the nods of recognition on the street, the unsolicited photos on the mobile phone. But if he stopped delivering, would the media stop ringing? So what did it all boil down to? A question of integrity versus media attention, respect from colleagues versus popularity with the man on the street?

  ‘Greve is thinking …’ Brede Sperre said, ‘… that the situation is tricky. He drives around searching, and it is morning by now. Then he hears on the police radio that Kjikerud is going to be arrested, collected from the hospital by the police and taken in for questioning. And now Greve knows the situation has gone from tricky to desperate. You see, he knows that Kjikerud is no hardboiled thug, that the police won’t need to push him very far, that Kjikerud may be offered a reduced sentence if he informs on his partner and, of course, that Kjikerud will not accept the guilt for the murder of Sindre Aa.’

  ‘Logical,’ Dybwad nodded, bending forward, egging him on.

  ‘So Greve realises the only way out is to rescue Kjikerud from the police before the questioning starts. Or …’

  Sperre didn’t need Dybwad’s discreetly raised forefinger to tell him that this was the right place for another little pause.

  ‘… or kill him in the process.’

  The TV signals seemed to crackle in the studio air, which was so dry from the stage lighting that it could catch fire at any point. Sperre went on.

  ‘So Greve starts searching for a car he can borrow. And in a car park he comes across an abandoned truck with a trailer. With his background in a Dutch counter-terrorism unit he knows how to start an engine. He still has the police radio with him and has obviously studied the map to be clear which route the police car transporting Kjikerud will take from the hospital to Elverum. He waits for them in the truck on a side road …’

  Dybwad launched himself into the story with a dramatically raised finger. ‘And then the greatest tragedy in the whole case takes place.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sperre said, eyes downcast.

  ‘I know this is painful for you, Brede,’ Dybwad said.

  Brede. Christian name. That was the cue.

  ‘Close-up of Sperre now,’ the producer said in the earplug to camera 1.

  Sperre took a deep breath. ‘Four good policemen were killed in the collision that followed, one of them a close Kripos colleague of mine, Joar Sunded.’

  They had zoomed in with such care that the average viewer wouldn’t have noticed that Sperre’s face now took up a slightly bigger part of the screen; they only perceived it as a tenser, more intimate atmosphere, a feeling of getting inside this visibly moved stalwart policeman.

  ‘The police car is hurled over a crash barrier and disappears beneath the trees right by the river,’ Dybwad went on. ‘But, miraculously, Ove Kjikerud survives.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sperre has recovered. ‘He clambers out of the wreck, either on his own or with Greve’s help. After dumping the truck they get into Greve’s car and go back to Oslo. When the police later find the patrol car and one body is missing they believe it’s landed in the river. Furthermore, Kjikerud has dressed one of the police bodies to look like himself and for a while this creates confusion about who has survived.’

  ‘But even though Greve and Kjikerud are safe for the moment their paranoia is in full bloom, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Kjikerud is aware that when Greve drove the truck into the patrol car, he had to be indifferent as to whether Kjikerud lived or died. And Kjikerud has realised that his life is in danger; Greve has at least two good reasons to get rid of him. The first because he witnessed the murder of Aa, the second because Greve wouldn’t have to share the proceeds from the Rubens painting. He knows that Greve will strike whenever the opportunity offers itself again.’

  Dybwad leaned forward with excitement. ‘And that’s where we move into the last act of the drama. They have arrived in Oslo and Kjikerud has gone back to his house. But not to relax. He knows he has to make the first move – eat or be eaten. Then from his huge arsenal of weapons he takes out a little black pistol, a … a …’

  ‘Rohrbaugh R9,’ Sperre said. ‘Nine millimetres, semiautomatic, six bullets in the magaz—’

  And he takes it with him to where he believes Clas Greve is staying. At his lover’s. Right?’

  ‘We’re not sure about the relationship Greve had with this woman, but we do know that they were in regular contact, that they met and that Greve’s fingerprints have been found in her bedroom, among other places.’

  ‘So Kjikerud goes to the lover’s address and is standing there with the weapon when she opens the door,’ Dybwad said. ‘She lets him into the hall where Kjikerud shoots her. Then he searches the apartment for Greve, but he isn’t there. Kjikerud puts the body of the woman into her bed and goes back to his own place. He makes sure he has the weapon to hand wherever he is, even in bed. And then Greve appears …’

  ‘Yes. We don’t know how he gets in, perhaps he picks the lock. At any rate he is not aware he has activated the soundless alarm when entering. But that sets off the CCTV cameras in the house.’

  ‘Which means that the police have pictures of what happens from now on, the final showdown between these two criminals. And for those who do not have the stomach to see this on the Internet, could you tell us briefly what happens?’

  ‘They start shooting at each other. Greve fires off two shots first, with his Glock 17. Amazingly enough, he misses with both.’

  ‘Amazing?’

  ‘At such a close range, yes. Greve was a trained commando after all.’

  ‘So he hits the wall instead?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, there were no bullets in the wall by the bed head board. He hits the win-ow. That is, he doesn’t hit the window, either, because it’s wide open. His shots go outside.’

  ‘Outside? How do you know that?’

  ‘Because we’ve found the bullets outside.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘In the forest behind the house. In a bird house for owls hanging from a tree trunk.’ Sperre gave a wry grin, the way men do when they think they’re underplaying a success story.

  ‘I see. And then?’

  ‘Kjikerud starts shooting back with an Uzi machine gun which he has in his bed. As we can see on the film, the bullets hit Greve in the groin and the stomach. He drops his pistol, but picks it up again and manages to fire off a third and final shot. The bullet hits Kjikerud in the forehead above his right eye. It causes massive damage to the brain. But it’s not how people imagine from films – that every shot to the head inflicts instant death. You see, Kjikerud manages to fire a final salvo before dying. And this kills Clas Greve.’

  A long silence followed. The producer probably raised one finger to Dybwad, the signal that there was one minute left on the schedule and it was time to summarise and round off the news item.

  Odd G. Dybwad leaned back in the chair, more relaxed now. ‘So Kripos has never been in any doubt that this was how it all happened?’

  ‘No,’ said Sperre, fixing his gaze on Dybwad. Then he splayed his arms. ‘But it goes without saying that there will always be some uncertainty with regard to details. And a little
confusion. For instance, the pathologist who was at the crime scene felt that the temperature of Kjikerud’s body had fallen with surprising rapidity. On the basis of the usual charts and figures he would have put the time of death at least twenty-four hours earlier. But then the police officers at the scene pointed out that the window behind the bed had been open when they arrived. And this was, as you remember, the first day of sub-zero temperatures in Oslo. This kind of uncertainty exists all the time, it is part and parcel of our work.’

  ‘Yes, for even though you can’t see Kjikerud on the recordings, the bullet in Kjikerud’s head …’

  ‘Came from the Glock that Greve fired, yes.’ Sperre smiled again. ‘The forensic evidence is what the press likes to call “overwhelming”.’

  Dybwad gave a befitting beam as he shuffled the papers together in front of him, signalling that things were being rounded up. All that was left to do now was to thank Brede Sperre, stare straight into the lens of camera I and see to the evening’s other item: another round of agricultural subsidies. But he stopped, his mouth half open, his eyes flicked down. A message in his ear? Something he had forgotten?

  ‘Just one last thing, Inspector,’ Dybwad said, calm, deft, experienced. ‘What do you actually know about the woman who was shot?’

  Sperre hunched his shoulders. ‘Not a lot. As I said, we believe she was Greve’s lover. One of the neighbours says he saw Greve come and go. She doesn’t have a criminal record, but we have found out via Interpol that she was involved in a drugs case many years ago when she and her pa-ents lived in Suriname. She was the girlfriend of one of the drug barons there, but when he was killed by a Dutch commando unit she helped them to reel in the rest of the gang.’

  ‘But she wasn’t charged?’

  ‘She was underage. And pregnant. The authorities sent her family back to their home country.’

  ‘Which was …?’

  ‘Er, Denmark. And there she stayed living, as far as we know, a quiet life. Until she came to Oslo three months ago. And met a tragic end.’

  ‘Apropos of tragic ends, I’m afraid we have to say thank you and goodbye to you, Brede Sperre.’ Glasses off, look into camera 1. ‘Should Norway cultivate its own tomatoes at any price? In News Tonight we’re going to meet …’

  The TV picture imploded as I pressed the ‘off’ button on the remote control with my left thumb. I would usually have done it with my right thumb, but that arm was busy. And even though it was going to sleep through poor blood circulation, I would not have moved it for anything in the world. In fact, it was supporting the most beautiful head I knew. The head turned to me, and her hand pushed away the duvet to have a good look at me.

  ‘Did you really sleep in her bed after shooting her that night? Next to her? How wide did you say it was?’

  ‘One hundred and one centimetres,’ I said. ‘According to the IKEA catalogue.’

  Diana’s big blue eyes stared at me in horror. But – if I wasn’t mistaken – there was a certain admiration there, too. She was wearing a gauzy negligée, an Yves Saint Laurent creation which was cool when it caressed my skin like now, but burning hot when my body pressed it against hers.

  She propped herself up on her elbows.

  ‘How did you shoot her?’

  I closed my eyes and groaned. ‘Diana! We’ve agreed that we won’t talk about this.’

  ‘Yes, we did, but I’m ready for it now, Roger. I promise.’

  ‘Darling, listen …’

  ‘No! Tomorrow the police report will be out and I’ll get to hear the details anyway. I’d rather hear them from you.’

  I sighed. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Absolutely positive.’

  ‘In the eye.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘This one.’ I placed my forefinger against her finely formed left eyebrow.

  She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. In and out. ‘What did you shoot her with?’

  ‘A small black pistol.’

  ‘Where did … ?’

  ‘I found it at Ove’s place.’ I ran my finger along her eyebrow to the side of her face, stroked it over her high cheekbones. ‘And that was where it stayed, too. Minus my fingerprints of course.’

  ‘Where were you when you shot her?’

  ‘In the hall.’

  Diana’s breathing was already noticeably faster. ‘Did she say anything? Was she frightened? Did she understand what was happening?’

  ‘I don’t know. I shot her as soon as I entered.’

  ‘What did you feel?’

  ‘Sorrow.’

  She gave a faint smile. ‘Sorrow? Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even though she tried to lure you into Clas’s trap?’

  My finger stopped. Not even now, a month after it was all over, did I like her using his Christian name. But, of course, she was right. Lotte’s mission had been to become my lover; it was she who was to introduce me to Clas Greve and persuade me to invite him to a job interview with Pathfinder and who was to make sure that I selected him. How long had it taken her to hook me? Three seconds? And I had splashed about helplessly as she had reeled me in. But then something unexpected had happened. I had dropped her. A man had loved his wife so much that he had, of his own accord, renounced a self-sacrificing and totally undemanding lover. Very surprising. And they had had to change plans.

  ‘I suppose I felt sorry for her,’ I said. ‘I think I was just the last in a succession of men who had let Lotte down throughout her life.’

  I felt Diana give a little jerk when I articulated her name. Good.

  ‘Shall we talk about something else?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, I want to talk about this now.’

  ‘OK. Let’s talk about how Greve seduced you and persuaded you to take over the role of manipulating me.’

  She chuckled. ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Did you love him?’

  She turned and her eyes lingered on me.

  I repeated the question.

  She sighed and wriggled closer. ‘I was in love.’

  ‘In love?’

  ‘He wanted to give me a child. So I fell in love.’

  ‘So simple?’

  ‘Yes. But it’s not simple, Roger.’

  She was right, of course. It isn’t simple.

  ‘And you were willing to sacrifice everything to have this child? Even me?’

  ‘Yes, even you.’

  ‘Even though it meant I would have to pay with my life?’

  She nudged my shoulder with her temple. ‘No, not that. You know very well that I thought he would only persuade you to write the report in his favour.’

  ‘Did you really think that, Diana?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Really, Diana?’

  ‘Yes, I think so anyway. You have to understand that I wanted to believe that.’

  ‘Enough for you to place the rubber ball filled with Dormicum on the car seat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when you came down to the garage it was to drive me to the place where he would persuade me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘We’ve been through all this, Roger. He said this way entailed the least risk for all parties. Of course, I should have known it was madness. And perhaps I did, too. I don’t know what else I can tell you.’

  We lay absorbed in our own thoughts while listening to the silence. In the summer we could hear the wind and the rain on the leaves of the trees in the garden outside, but not now. Now everything was stripped bare. And quiet. The only comfort was that it would be spring again. Perhaps.

  ‘And how long were you in love?’ I asked.

  ‘Until I realised what I was doing. The night you didn’t come home …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I just felt like dying.’

  ‘I didn’t mean in love with him,’ I said. ‘I meant with me.’

  She chuckled. ‘I can’t know that until I’ve stopped loving you.’

  Diana almost never lied. Not becau
se she couldn’t, Diana was a wonderful liar, but because she couldn’t be bothered. Beautiful people don’t need shells, are not obliged to learn all the defence mechanisms we others develop in order to protect ourselves against rejection and disappointment. But when women like Diana make up their minds to lie, they are thorough and efficient. Not because they are less moral than men, but because they have greater mastery of this aspect of the treachery. And that was precisely why I had gone to Diana that last evening. Because I knew she was the perfect candidate for the job.

  After unlocking the door, standing in the hallway and listening to her footsteps on the parquet floor for a while, I had gone upstairs to the living room. I had heard her steps stop, the phone fall onto the coffee table, the whispered half-sob ‘Roger …’, seen the tears welling up in her eyes. And I had done nothing to stop her when she had thrown herself around my neck. ‘Thank God you’re alive! I kept ringing you all day yesterday and I’ve been trying all day today … where have you been?’

  And Diana was not lying. She was crying because she thought she had lost me. Because she had sent me and my love out of her life like a dog to the vet to be put down. No, she was not lying. Said my gut instinct. But, as I have said, I am no great judge of human beings, and Diana is a wonderful liar. So when she had gone to dry her tears in the bathroom, I picked up her phone and checked that it was in fact my phone number she had been trying to ring. To be on the safe side.

  When she came back, I told her everything. Absolutely everything. Where I had been, who I had been, what had happened. About the art thefts, about the phone under the bed in Greve’s apartment, about Danish Lotte who had pulled the wool over my eyes. About the conversation with Greve at the hospital. The one that had made me see that he knew Lotte, that she was his closest ally, that the person who had rubbed the gel containing transmitters into my hair was not Diana but the brown-eyed pallid-faced girl with the magical fingers, the translator who spoke Spanish and liked others’ stories better than her own. That I had had the gel in my hair since the evening before I had found Kjikerud in the car. Diana had stared at me in silence with wonder-filled eyes while I had told her.