Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘What would you say has been the worst aspect of this case?’ Oda could hear the impatience in Bosse’s voice, probably because Harry had neither taken the ‘head’ bait nor portrayed the murders in the gory detail he would have hoped.

  ‘So many years passing before we realised that there was a connection between the disappearances.’

  Another dull answer. The floor manager signalled to Bosse that he had to start thinking about a link to the next topic.

  Bosse pressed his fingertips together. ‘And now the case is solved and you’re a star again, Harry. How does it feel? Do you get fan mail?’ The disarming boyish smile. They were out of the flippancy-free zone.

  The inspector nodded slowly and moistened his lips with concentration, as if how he phrased the answer was crucial. ‘Well, I got one letter earlier this autumn, but I’m sure Støp can say more about that.’

  Close-up of Støp as he looked at Harry with mild curiosity. Two long, silent TV seconds followed. Oda chewed her lower lip. What did Harry mean? Then Bosse swept in and tidied up.

  ‘Yes, Støp does get a lot of fan mail, of course. And groupies. What about you, Hole? Have you got groupies, too? Do the police have their own groupies, as it were?’

  The audience laughed cautiously.

  Harry Hole shook his head.

  ‘Come on,’ Bosse said. ‘A female recruit must sometimes come and ask for a bit of extra tuition on body searches.’

  The studio was really laughing now. With gusto. Bosse grinned with pleasure.

  Harry Hole didn’t even crack a smile; he just looked resigned and cast a glance towards the exit. For one short, frantic moment Oda had visions of him getting up and leaving. Instead he turned to Støp in the chair beside him.

  ‘What do you do, Støp? When a woman comes to you after a lecture in Trondheim, saying she has only one breast, but she would like to have sex with you. Do you invite her for a bit of extra-curricular in your hotel room?’

  The audience went deadly quiet, and even Bosse looked perplexed.

  Only Arve Støp seemed to think the question was amusing. ‘No, I don’t think I would do that. Not because sex wouldn’t be fun with only one breast, but because the hotel beds in Trondheim are so narrow.’

  The audience laughed, though without conviction, mostly from relief that the exchange had not been more embarrassing. The psychologist was introduced.

  They talked about playful adults, and Oda noticed that Bosse was navigating the conversation away from Harry Hole. He must have decided that the unpredictable policeman was not on form today. And therefore Arve Støp, who definitely was on form, had even more airtime.

  ‘How do you play, Støp?’ Bosse asked with an innocent expression underlining the non-innocent subtext. Oda rejoiced – she had written that question.

  But before Støp could answer, Harry Hole leaned forward and asked him in loud, clear tones. ‘Do you make snowmen?’

  And that was when Oda knew that something was amiss. Hole’s peremptory, angry tone, the aggressive body language; Støp who raised an eyebrow in surprise as his face seemed to shrink and tense up. Bosse paused. Oda didn’t know what was going on, but counted four seconds, an eternity on live TV. Then she realised that Bosse knew what he was doing. For even though Bosse saw it as his duty to create a good atmosphere on the panel, he of course knew that the most important thing, his highest duty, was to entertain. And there is no better entertainment than people who are angry, lose control, cry, break down or in some other way display their feelings in front of a large audience on the air. Accordingly, he had simply let go of the reins and just looked at Støp.

  ‘Of course I make snowmen,’ Støp said after the four seconds were up. ‘I make them on the roof terrace beside my swimming pool. I make each one look like a member of the royal family. In that way – when spring comes – I can look forward to the unseasonable elements melting and disappearing.’

  For the first time that evening Støp earned neither laughter nor applause. Oda thought Støp should have known that fundamentally anti-royalist comments never did.

  Undaunted, Bosse broke the silence by introducing the pop star who was to talk about her recent onstage breakdown and then conclude the show by singing the single that would be released on Monday.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ asked Gubbe, the producer, who had taken up a position directly behind Oda.

  ‘Perhaps he isn’t sober after all,’ Oda said.

  ‘My God, he’s a bloody policeman!’

  At that moment Oda remembered he was hers. Her scoop. ‘But, Jesus, can he deliver the goods.’

  The producer didn’t answer.

  The pop star talked about psychological problems, explained that they were inherited, and Oda looked at her watch. Forty seconds. This was too serious for a Friday night. Forty-three. Bosse interrupted after forty-six.

  ‘What about you, Arve?’ Bosse was usually on first-name terms with the main guest by the end of the broadcast. ‘Ever experienced madness or a serious hereditary illness?’

  Støp smiled. ‘No, Bosse, I haven’t. Unless you count a craving for total freedom as an illness. In fact, it’s a family weakness.’

  Bosse had come to round-up time, now he just had to sign off with the other guests before introducing the song. Final few words from the psychologist about the ludic in life. And then:

  ‘And as the Snowman’s no longer with us I suppose you’ll have time to play for a couple of days, Harry?’

  ‘No,’ Harry said. He had slumped so far down into his chair that his long legs almost reached over to the pop star. ‘The Snowman hasn’t been caught.’

  Bosse frowned, smiled and waited for him to go on, waited for the punchline. Oda hoped to God it was better than his opening line promised.

  ‘I never said Idar Vetlesen was the Snowman,’ Harry said. ‘On the contrary. Everything points to the Snowman still being at large.’

  Bosse gave a little chuckle. It was the laugh he used to smooth over a guest’s hapless attempt to be funny.

  ‘I hope for the sake of my wife’s beauty sleep that you’re joking now,’ Bosse said mischievously.

  ‘No,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not.’

  Oda looked at her watch and knew the floor manager was standing behind the camera now, shifting nervously, as she ran a finger across her throat to show Bosse that they were running over and he would have to begin the song if they were to manage the first verse before the credits started rolling. But Bosse was the best. He knew that this was more important than all the singles in the world. Thus he ignored the raised baton and leaned forward in his chair to show those who might have been in any doubt about what this was. The scoop. The sensational announcement. Here on his, on their programme. The quaver in his voice was almost genuine.

  ‘Are you telling us here and now that the police have been lying, Hole? That the Snowman is out there and can take more lives?’

  ‘No,’ Harry said. ‘We haven’t been lying. New details have come to light.’

  Bosse swivelled round in his chair, and Oda thought she could hear the technical director shouting for camera 1, and then Bosse’s face was there, the eyes staring straight at them.

  ‘And I would guess we’ll hear more about those details on the news tonight. Bosse is back next Friday. Thank you for watching.’

  Oda closed her eyes as the band began to play the single.

  ‘Jesus,’ she heard the producer wheeze behind her. And then, ‘Jesus bloody Christ.’ Oda just felt like howling. Howling with pleasure. Here, she thought. Here at the North Pole. We aren’t where it happens. We are what happens.

  22

  DAY 18.

  Match.

  GUNNAR HAGEN WAS STANDING INSIDE THE DOOR AT Schrøder’s, scanning the room. He had set out from home exactly thirty-two minutes and three telephone conversations after the credits had rolled on Bosse. He hadn’t found Harry in his flat, at Kunstnernes Hus or in his office. Bjørn Holm had tipped him off that he might try
Harry’s local, Schrøder’s. The contrast between the young, beautiful and almost-famous clientele at Kunstnernes Hus and Schrøder’s somewhat dissipated beer drinkers was striking. At the back, in the corner, by the window, alone at a table, sat Harry. With a large glass.

  Hagen made his way to the table.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you, Harry. Have you switched off your mobile?’

  The inspector looked up, bleary-eyed. ‘There’s been so much hassle. Loads of bloody journos suddenly after me.’

  ‘At NRK they said the Bosse crew and guests usually went to Kunstnernes Hus after the programme.’

  ‘The press was standing outside waiting for me. So I cleared off. What do you want, boss?’

  Hagen plumped down onto a chair and watched Harry raise the glass to his lips and the golden-brown liquid slip down into his mouth.

  ‘I’ve been talking to the Chief Super,’ Hagen said. ‘This is serious, Harry. Leaking that the Snowman is still at large is a direct breach of his orders.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Harry said, taking another swig.

  ‘Right? Is that all you’ve got to say? But in the name of all that’s sacred, Harry, why?’

  ‘The public has a right to know,’ Harry said. ‘Our democracy is built on openness, boss.’

  Hagen banged his fist on the table and received a few encouraging looks from neighbouring tables and an admonitory glance from the waitress passing them with an armful of half-litre glasses.

  ‘Don’t mess with me, Harry. We’ve gone public and said the case was solved. You’ve put the force in a very bad light, are you aware of that?’

  ‘My job is to catch villains,’ Harry said. ‘Not to appear in a good light.’

  ‘It’s two sides of the same thing, Harry! Our working conditions are dependent on how the public perceives us. The press is crucial!’

  Harry shook his head. ‘The press has never hindered or helped me in solving a single case. The press is crucial only for individuals who want to be in the limelight. The people you report to are just concerned with having concrete results that will give them a good press. Or prevent a bad press. I want to catch the Snowman, full stop.’

  ‘You’re a danger to your colleagues,’ Hagen said. ‘Do you know that?’

  Harry seemed to be considering the statement, then nodded slowly, drained his glass and signalled to the waitress that he wanted another.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to the Chief Superintendent and the Chief Constable,’ Hagen said, bracing himself. ‘I was told to get hold of you instantly to muzzle you. From this very second. Understood?’

  ‘Fine, boss.’

  Hagen blinked in amazement, but Harry’s face revealed nothing.

  ‘As of this moment, I’m going to be very hands-on, all the time,’ said the POB. ‘I want regular reports. I know that you won’t do that, so I’ve spoken to Katrine Bratt and given her the job. Any objections?’

  ‘None at all, boss.’

  Hagen was thinking that Harry must have been drunker than he looked.

  ‘Bratt told me you’d asked her to go and see this assistant of Idar Vetlesen’s to check Arve Støp’s files. Without going through the public prosecutor. What the bloody hell are you two doing? Do you know what we would have been exposed to if Støp had found out?’

  Harry’s head shot up like a watchful animal’s. ‘What do you mean by if he had found out?’

  ‘Fortunately there was no file on Støp. This secretary of Vetlesen’s said they never kept one.’

  ‘Oh? And why not?’

  ‘How should I know, Harry. I’m just relieved. We don’t want any more trouble now. Arve Støp, my God! Be that as it may, from now on Bratt will dog your every step so that she can report to me.’

  ‘Mm,’ Harry said, nodding to the waitress who set down another glass for him. ‘Hasn’t she already been informed?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When she started you told her I would be her …’ Harry stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Her what?’ Hagen snapped.

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘What’s up? Something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Harry said, sinking half the glass in one big gulp and placing a hundred-krone note on the table. ‘Have a nice evening, boss.’

  Hagen sat at the table until Harry had left the restaurant. Only then did he notice that there were no carbon dioxide bubbles rising in the half-empty glass. He stole a few sidelong glances and put the glass cautiously to his lips. It tasted tart. Non-alcoholic cider.

  Harry walked home through silent streets. The windows of the old, low blocks shone like cats’ eyes in the night. He felt an urge to speak to Tresko to find out how things were going, but decided to let him have the night as agreed. He rounded the corner to Sofies gate. Deserted. He was heading for his block when he caught a movement and a tiny glint. Light reflecting off a pair of glasses. Someone standing by the line of vehicles parked along the pavement, apparently struggling to open a car door. Harry knew which cars generally parked at this end of the street. And this car, a blue Volvo C70, was not one of them.

  It was too dark for Harry to see the face clearly, but he could tell from the way the person was holding his head that he was keeping an eye out for Harry. A journalist? Harry passed the car. In the wing mirror of another, he glimpsed a shadow flit between the cars and approach from behind. Without any undue haste Harry slipped his hand inside his coat. Heard the footsteps coming. And his anger. He counted to three, then turned round. The person behind him froze to the tarmac.

  ‘Is it me you’re after?’ Harry growled, stepping forward with gun raised. He collared the man, dragged him sideways, knocking him off balance, and launched himself at him, sending both of them over the bonnet of a car. Harry pressed his forearm against the man’s throat and thrust the barrel into one lens of his glasses.

  ‘Is it me you want?’ Harry hissed.

  The man’s answer was drowned by the car alarm going off. The sound filled the whole street. The man tried to free himself, but Harry had him in a tight grip and he gave up. His head hit the bonnet with a soft thud and the light from the street lamp fell on the man’s face. Then Harry let go. The man doubled up, coughing.

  ‘Come on,’ Harry shouted over the relentless howl, grabbed the man under the arm and dragged him over the road. He unlocked the front door and shoved the man inside.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Harry said. ‘And how do you know where I live?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to ring the number you gave me all evening. In the end I rang directory enquiries and got your address.’

  Harry observed the man. That is, he observed the ghost of the man. Even in the remand cell there had been more of Professor Filip Becker left.

  ‘I had to switch off my mobile,’ Harry said.

  Harry walked ahead of Becker up to his flat, opened the door, kicked off his boots, went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle.

  ‘I saw you on Bosse this evening,’ Becker said. He had come into the kitchen, still wearing his coat and shoes. His face was ashen, lifeless. ‘You were brave. So I thought I should be brave too. I owe you that.’

  ‘Owe me?’

  ‘You believed me when no one else did. You saved me from public humiliation.’

  ‘Mm.’ Harry pulled up a chair for the professor, but he shook his head.

  ‘I’ll be off in a minute, but I’ll tell you something no one else must know. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the case, but it’s about Jonas.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘I took some blood from him the night I visited Camilla Lossius.’

  Harry remembered the plaster on Jonas’s forearm.

  ‘Plus a mouth swab. Sent it to the paternity section of the Institute of Forensic Medicine for DNA testing.’

  ‘Uh-huh? I thought you had to go through a solicitor.’

  ‘You did before. Now anyone can buy the test. Two thousand eight hundred kroner per pe
rson. Bit more if you want a quick answer. Which I did. And the answer came today. Jonas …’ Becker paused and took a deep breath. ‘Jonas is not my son.’

  Harry nodded slowly.

  Becker rocked back on his heels as if about to start a run-up.

  ‘I asked them to match him against all the data in the data bank. They found a perfect match.’

  ‘Perfect? So Jonas was in the bank?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Harry pondered. It was starting to dawn on him what he meant.

  ‘In other words, someone had already sent in a sample for Jonas’s DNA profile,’ Becker said. ‘I was informed that the previous sample was seven years old.’

  ‘And they confirmed it was Jonas?’

  ‘No, it was anonymous. But they had the name of the client who had ordered the test.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘A medical centre that no longer exists.’ Harry knew the answer before Becker said it. ‘Marienlyst Clinic.’

  ‘Idar Vetlesen,’ Harry said, angling his head as though studying a picture to see if it was hanging straight.

  ‘Right,’ Becker said, clapping his hands together and smiling weakly. ‘That was it. All I wanted to say was that … I have no son.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Actually I’ve had that feeling for a long time.’

  ‘Mm. Why the hurry to come here and tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Becker said.

  Harry waited.

  ‘I … I had to do something tonight. Like this. If I hadn’t I don’t know what I would’ve done. I …’ The professor hesitated before going on. ‘I’m alone now. My life no longer has much meaning. If the gun had been real …’

  ‘Don’t,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t even think it. The thought will only become more tempting the more you caress it. And you’re forgetting one thing. Even if your life has no meaning for you, it has meaning for others. For Jonas, for example.’

  ‘Jonas?’ Becker snorted with a bitter laugh. ‘The cuckoo? “Don’t caress the thought” – is that what they teach you at Police College?’

  ‘No,’ Harry said.