by Jo Nesbo
‘Interesting.’
‘Stine had pretended not to know who the three murder victims were, and then Elias had said that he would tell her about someone else who had been there, someone he was sure she did know. And this is the really interesting bit. The man is well known. At least a B-list celebrity.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘According to Elias Skog, Tony Leike was there.’
‘Tony Leike. Should I know who that is?’
‘He lives with the daughter of Anders Galtung, the shipping magnate.’
A couple of newspaper headlines flashed in front of Harry’s inner eye.
‘Tony Leike is a so-called investor, which means he has become rich and no one quite understands how, just that it certainly wasn’t by dint of hard work. Not only that, he’s a real pretty boy. Hardly Mr Nice Guy, though. And this is the crunch. The guy’s got a sheet.’
‘Sheet?’ Harry asked, affecting incomprehension to imply what he thought of Colbjørnsen’s Americanisms.
‘A record. Tony Leike has a conviction for violent assault.’
‘Mm. Checked the charge?’
‘Years ago Tony Leike beat up and maimed one Ole S. Hansen on the 7th of August between 11.20 and 11.45 p.m. It happened outside a dance venue where Tony was living with his grandfather. Tony was eighteen, Ole seventeen and of course it was over a piece of skirt.’
‘Mm. Jealous kids fighting after drinking is not exactly unusual. Did you say violent assault?’
‘Yes; in fact, there was more. After Leike had knocked down the other boy, he sat on him and carved up the poor lad’s face with a knife. He was permanently scarred, though the report said it could have been much worse if people hadn’t dragged Leike off.’
‘But no more than the one conviction?’
‘Tony Leike was known for his temper and was regularly involved in brawls. At the trial a witness said that at school Leike had tried to strangle him with a belt because he had said something less than flattering about Tony’s father.’
‘Sounds like someone should have a long chat with Leike. Do you know where he lives?’
‘On your patch. Holmenveien … wait … 172.’
‘Right. West End. Hm. Thanks, Colbjørnsen.’
‘Not at all. Erm, there was one other thing. A man got on the bus after Elias. He alighted at the same stop as Elias, and Stine says she saw the man following him. But she couldn’t give a description because his face was hidden by a hat. Might be of some significance, or not.’
‘Right.’
‘So I’m counting on you, Hole.’
‘Counting on what?’
‘You doing the right thing.’
‘Mm.’
‘Goodnight.’
Harry sat listening to the Duke. Then he grabbed the phone and looked up Kaja’s number. He was about to press the call button but hesitated. He was doing it again. Dragging people down with him. Harry tossed the phone aside. There were two options. The smart one, which was to ring Bellman. Or the stupid one, which was to go it alone.
Harry sighed. Who was he kidding? He had no choice. So he stuffed the lighter in his pocket, wrapped up the ball in silver foil, put it in the drinks cabinet, undressed, set the alarm for six and went to bed. No choice. A prisoner of his own behaviour patterns whereby in reality every action was a compulsive action. In that sense, he was neither better nor worse than those he pursued.
And with this thought he fell asleep with a smile on his lips.
The night is so blessedly still, it heals your sight, clears your mind. The new, old policeman. Hole. I’ll have to tell him that. I won’t show him everything, just enough for him to understand. Then he can stop it. So that I don’t have to do what I do. I spit and spit, but blood fills my mouth, over and over again.
39
Relational Search
HARRY ARRIVED AT POLICE HQ AT A QUARTER TO SEVEN IN the morning. Apart from the security guard on reception there was no one around in the large atrium inside the heavy front doors.
He nodded to the guard, swiped his card in the reader by the gate and took the lift down to the cellar. From there he loped through the culvert and unlocked the room. He lit the day’s first cigarette and rang the mobile number while the computer booted up. Katrine Bratt sounded sleepy.
‘I want you to run those relational searches of yours,’ Harry said. ‘Between a Tony Leike and each of the murder victims. Including Juliana Verni from Leipzig.’
‘The Hobbies Room’s free until half past eight,’ she said. ‘I’ll get going this minute. Anything else?’
Harry hesitated. ‘Could you check on a Jussi Kolkka for me? Policeman.’
‘What’s he about?’
‘That’s the point,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t know what he’s about.’
Harry put down the phone and set to work on the computer.
Tony Leike had one conviction, that was correct. And according to the register he had been in trouble with the police on two other occasions as well. As Colbjørnsen had indicated, both were for physical violence. In the first instance the charge had been withdrawn, in the other the case had been dropped.
Harry googled Tony Leike and got a number of hits: minor newspaper mentions – most of which were connected with his fiancée Lene Galtung – but there were also some in the financial press where he was referred to alternately as an investor, a speculator and an ignorant sheep. This last, in Kapital, was a reference to Leike belonging to the flock that mimicked a lead sheep, the psychologist Einar Kringlen, in everything he did: from buying shares, mountain cabins and cars to his choice of the right restaurant, drink, woman, office, house and holiday destination.
Harry searched through the links until he stopped at an article in a financial newspaper.
‘Bingo,’ he mumbled.
Tony Leike was clearly able to stand on his own two feet. Or in his own two mining boots. At any rate the Finansavisen wrote about a mining project with Leike as the entrepreneur and enthusiast. He was photographed alongside with his colleagues, two young men with side partings. They were not wearing the standard designer suits, but overalls and work clothes, sitting on a pile of wood in front of a helicopter and smiling. Tony Leike wore the biggest smile of them all. He was broad-shouldered, long-limbed, dark, both his skin and his hair, and he had an impressive aquiline nose that in conjunction with his colouring made Harry think that he must have at least a dash of Arab blood in his veins. But the reason for Harry’s restrained outburst was the headline: KING OF THE CONGO?
Harry continued to follow the links.
The yellow press were more interested in the imminent wedding with Lene Galtung and the guest list.
Harry glanced at his watch. Five past seven. He rang the duty officer.
‘I need assistance for an arrest in Holmenveien.’
‘Detention?’
Harry knew very well that he didn’t have enough to ask the police solicitor for an arrest warrant.
‘To be brought in for questioning,’ Harry said.
‘I thought you said arrest? And why do you need assistance if it’s only—?’
‘Could you have two men and a car ready outside the garage in five minutes?’
Harry received a snort by way of response, which he interpreted as a yes. He took two puffs of his cigarette, stubbed it out, got up, locked the door and left. He was ten metres down the culvert when he heard a faint noise behind him which he knew was the landline ringing.
He had come out of the lift and was on his way to the door when he heard someone shout his name. He turned and saw the security guard waving to him. By the counter Harry saw the back of a mustard-yellow woollen coat.
‘This man was asking for you,’ the receptionist said.
The woollen coat turned. It was the type that is supposed to look as if it is cashmere, and on occasion it is. In this case, Harry assumed it was. Because it was filled out by a broad-shouldered, long-limbed man with dark eyes, dark hair and possibly a dash of Arab blood
in his veins.
‘You’re taller than you appear in the photos,’ said Tony Leike, exhibiting a row of porcelain dental high-rises and an outstretched hand.
‘Good coffee,’ said Tony Leike, looking as if he meant it. Harry studied Leike’s long, distorted fingers wrapped around the coffee cup. It wasn’t contagious Leike had explained as he had proffered his hand to Harry, just good old-fashioned arthritis, an inherited affliction that – if nothing else – made him a reliable meteorologist. ‘But, to be frank, I thought they gave inspectors slightly better offices. Trifle warm?’
‘The prison boiler,’ Harry said, sipping his coffee. ‘So you read about the case in Aftenposten this morning?’
‘Yes, I was having breakfast. Almost choked on it, to be honest.’
‘Why’s that?’
Leike rocked in his chair, like a Formula One driver in a bucket seat before the start. ‘I trust what I say can remain between us.’
‘Who is us?’
‘The police and me. Preferably you and me.’
Harry hoped his voice was neutral and did not reveal his excitement. ‘The reason being?’
Leike took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want it to come out that I was in the Håvass cabin at the same time as the MP, Marit Olsen. For the moment I have a very high media profile because of my impending wedding. It would be unfortunate if I were to be linked with a murder investigation right now. The press would be on to it and that might … things would emerge from my past that I would prefer to be dead and buried.’
‘I see,’ Harry said innocently. ‘Of course, I will have to weigh up a number of factors and for that reason cannot promise anything. But this is not an interview, just a conversation, and I don’t usually leak this kind of thing to the press.’
‘Nor to my … er, nearest and dearest?’
‘Not unless there is a reason for it. If you’re afraid it will be made public that you were here, why did you come?’
‘You asked people who were at the cabin to come forward, so it’s my civic duty, isn’t it?’ He sent Harry a questioning look. And then pulled a face. ‘Christ, I was frightened, wasn’t I. I knew that those who were there that night were next for the chop. Jumped in my car and drove straight here.’
‘Has anything happened recently to make you concerned?’
‘No.’ Tony Leike scented the air thoughtfully. ‘Apart from a break-in through the cellar door a few days ago. Christ, I should get an alarm, shouldn’t I.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
‘No, they only took a bike.’
‘And you think serial killers do a spot of cycle-nicking on the side?’
Leike shook his head with a smile. Not the sheepish smile of someone who is ashamed of having said something stupid, Harry thought. But the disarming, winning smile that says ‘you got me there, pal’, the gallant congratulation from someone used to their own victories.
‘Why did you ask for me?’
‘The papers said you were in charge, so I thought it only natural. Anyway, as I said, I was hoping it would be possible to keep this between as few people as possible, so I came straight to the top.’
‘I’m not the top, Leike.’
‘Aren’t you? Aftenposten gave the impression you were.’
Harry stroked his jutting jaw. He hadn’t made up his mind about Tony Leike. He was a man with a groomed exterior and bad-boy charm that reminded Harry of an ice-hockey player he had seen in an underwear ad. He seemed to want to present an air of unruffled, worldly-wise smoothness but also to come across as a sincere human being with feelings which could not be hidden. Or perhaps it was the other way round; perhaps the smoothness was sincere and the feelings were pretence.
‘What were you doing at Håvass, Leike?’
‘Skiing of course.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes. I’d had a few stressful days at work and needed some time off. I go to Ustaoset and Hallingskarvet a lot. Sleep in cabins. That’s my terrain, you could say.’
‘So why haven’t you got your own cabin there?’
‘Where I would like to have a cabin you can’t get planning permission any more. National park regulations.’
‘Why wasn’t your fiancée with you? Doesn’t she ski?’
‘Lene? She …’ Leike took a sip of coffee. The kind of sip you take in mid-sentence when you need a bit of thinking time, it struck Harry. ‘She was at home. I … we …’ He looked at Harry with an expression of mild desperation, as though pleading for help. Harry gave him none.
‘Shit. No pressure then, eh?’
Harry didn’t answer.
‘OK,’ Leike said as though Harry had given a response in the affirmative. ‘I needed a breather, to get away. To think. Engagement, marriage … these are grown-up issues. And I think best on my own. Especially up there on the snowy plains.’
‘And thinking helped?’
Leike flashed the enamel wall again. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember any of the others in the cabin?’
‘I remember Marit Olsen, as I said. She and I had a glass of red wine together. I didn’t know she was an MP until she said.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘There were a few others sitting around I barely greeted. But I arrived quite late, so some must have gone to bed.’
‘Oh?’
‘There were six pairs of skis in the snow outside. I remember that clearly because I put them in the hall in case of an avalanche. I remember thinking the others were perhaps not very experienced mountain skiers. If the cabin is half buried under three metres of snow you’re in a bit of a fix without any skis. I was first up in the morning – I usually am – and was off before the others had stirred.’
‘You say you arrived late. You were skiing alone in the dark, were you?’
‘Head torch, map and compass. The trip was a spontaneous decision, so I didn’t catch the train to Ustaoset until the evening. But, as I said, they are familiar surroundings, I’m used to finding my way across the frozen wastes in the dark. And the weather was good, moonlight reflecting off the snow, I didn’t need a map or a light.’
‘Can you tell me anything about what happened in the cabin while you were there?’
‘Nothing happened. Marit Olsen and I talked about red wine and then about the problems of keeping a modern relationship going. That is, I think her relationship was more modern than mine.’
‘And she didn’t say anything had happened in the cabin?’
‘No.’
‘What about the others?’
‘They sat by the fire talking about skiing trips, and drinking. Beer perhaps. Or some kind of sports drink. Two women and a man, between twenty and thirty-five, I would guess.’
‘Names?’
‘We just nodded and said hello. As I said, I had gone up there to be alone, not to make new friends.’
‘Appearance?’
‘It’s quite dark in these cabins at night, and if I say one was blonde, the other dark, that might be way off the mark. As I said, I don’t even remember how many people were there.’
‘Dialects?’
‘One of the women had a kind of west coast dialect, I think.’
‘Stavanger? Bergen? Sunnmøre?’
‘Sorry, I’m not much good at this sort of thing. It might have been west coast, could have been south.’
‘OK. You wanted to be alone, but you talked to Marit Olsen about relationships.’
‘It just happened. She came over and sat down next to me. Not exactly a wallflower. Talkative. Fat and cheery.’ He said that as if the two words were a natural collocation. And it struck Harry that the photo of Lene Galtung he had seen was of an extremely thin woman – to judge by the latest average weight for Norwegians.
‘So, aside from Marit Olsen, you can’t tell us anything about any of the others? Not even if I showed you photos of those we know to have been there?’
‘Oh,’ Leike said with a smile, ‘I think I can do that.
’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘When I was in one room looking for a bunk to crash out on, I had to switch on the light to see which was free. And I saw two people asleep. A man and a woman.’
‘And you think you can describe them?’
‘Not in great detail, but I’m pretty sure I would recognise them.’
‘Oh?’
‘You sort of remember faces when you see them again.’
Harry knew that what Leike said was right. Witnesses’ descriptions were way out as a rule, but give them a line-up and they rarely made a mistake.
Harry walked over to the filing cabinet they had dragged back to the office, opened the respective victims’ files and removed the photographs. He gave the five photos to Leike, who flipped through them.
‘This is Marit Olsen, of course,’ he said, passing it back to Harry. ‘And these are the two women who were sitting by the fire, I think, but I’m not sure.’ He passed Harry the pictures of Borgny and Charlotte. ‘This may have been the boy.’ Elias Skog. ‘But none of these were asleep in the bedroom. I’m sure about that. And I don’t recognise this one either, he said, passing back the photo of Adele.
‘So you’re unsure about the ones you were in the same room with for a good while, but you’re sure about those you saw for a couple of seconds?’
Leike nodded. ‘They were asleep, weren’t they.’
