by Jo Nesbo
‘Two crosses?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ Harry said.
She put a cross against ‘arrest’ and ‘search’ and leaned back in her chair in a way that Harry bet was a copy of the you’ve-got-thirty-seconds-to-persuade-me pose she had seen more seasoned solicitors adopt.
Harry knew from experience that the first argument was the weighty one – that was when solicitors made up their minds – so he started with the call Leike made to Elias Skog two days before the murder. This despite Leike’s assertions when talking to Harry that he didn’t know Skog and hadn’t spoken to him at the cabin. Argument number two was the assault conviction which Leike admitted was attempted murder, and Harry could already see that the blue chit was in the bag. So he spiced up proceedings with the coincidences of the Congo and Lake Lyseren, without entering into too much detail.
She removed her glasses.
‘Basically, I’m sympathetic,’ she said. ‘However, I need to give the matter a little more thought.’
Harry cursed inwardly. A more experienced solicitor would have given him the warrant there and then, but she was so green she didn’t dare without consulting one of the others. There should have been an ‘in training’ sign on her door, so that he could have gone to one of the others. Now it was too late.
‘It’s urgent,’ Harry said.
‘Why’s that?’
She had him there. Harry made an airy gesture with his hand, the kind that is supposed to say everything, but says nothing.
‘I’ll make a decision straight after lunch …’ She pointedly peered down at the form. ‘… Hole. I’ll put the blue chit in your pigeon hole, if it gets clearance.’
Harry clenched his teeth to make sure he didn’t say anything hasty. Because he knew she was behaving in a proper manner. Naturally, she was overcompensating for the fact that she was young, inexperienced and a woman in a male-dominated world. But she showed a determination to be respected; from the outset she demonstrated that the steamroller technique would not work on her. Well done. He felt like grabbing her glasses and smashing them.
‘Could you ring my internal number when you’ve made up your mind?’ he said. ‘For the moment my office is quite a distance from the pigeon holes.’
‘Fine,’ she said graciously.
Harry was in the culvert, about fifty metres from the office, when he heard the door open. A figure came out, hastily locked up after himself, turned and began to hurry towards Harry. And stiffened when he caught sight of him.
‘Did I startle you, Bjørn?’ Harry asked gently.
The distance between them was still over twenty metres, but the walls cast the sound towards Bjørn Holm.
‘Bit,’ said the man from Toten, straightening the multicoloured Rasta hat covering his red hair. ‘You creep up on folk.’
‘Mm. And you?’
‘What about me?’
‘What are you doing here? I thought you had enough to do in Kripos. You’ve been given a wonderful new job, I hear.’ Harry stopped two metres from Holm, who was obviously taken aback.
‘Not sure about wonderful,’ Holm said. ‘I’m not allowed to work on what I like best.’
‘Which is?’
‘Forensics. You know me.’
‘Do I?’
‘Eh?’ Holm frowned. ‘Coordination of forensics and strategic planning, what’s that s’posed to be when it’s at home? Passing on messages, calling meetings, sending out reports.’
‘It’s a promotion,’ Harry said. ‘The start of something good, don’t you think?’
Holm snorted. ‘Know what I think? I think Bellman’s put me there to keep me out of the loop, to make sure I don’t get any first-hand info. Because he suspects that if I do, he’s not sure he’ll get it before you.’
‘But he’s mistaken there,’ Harry said, standing face to face with the forensics officer.
Bjørn Holm blinked twice. ‘What the fuck is this, Harry?’
‘Yes, what the fuck is it?’ Harry heard the anger making his voice tight, metallic. ‘What the fuck were you doing in the office, Bjørn? All your crap has gone now.’
‘Doing?’ Bjørn said. ‘Fetching this, wasn’t I.’ He held up his right hand. It was clutching a book. ‘You said you’d leave it in reception, remember?’
Hank Williams: The Biography.
Harry felt the shame flood into his cheeks.
‘Mm.’
‘Mm,’ Bjørn mimicked.
‘I had it with me when we moved out,’ Harry said. ‘But we did a U-turn halfway down the culvert and came back. Then I forgot all about it.’
‘OK. Can I go now?’
Harry stepped aside, and listened to Bjørn stomping down the culvert between curses.
He unlocked the office.
Flopped into the chair.
Looked around.
The notebook. He flicked through. He hadn’t taken any notes from the conversation, nothing that would pinpoint Tony Leike as a suspect. Harry opened the drawers in the desk to see if there were any signs of someone having rifled them. It all looked untouched. Could Harry have been wrong after all? Could he hope that Holm was not leaking information to Mikael Bellman?
Harry glanced at his watch. Praying the new police solicitor ate quickly. He struck an arbitrary key on the computer and the screen came to life. It was still showing the page with his last Google search. In the search box the name shone out at him: Tony Leike.
41
The Blue Chit
‘SO,’ SAID ASLAK KRONGLI, TWIRLING HIS COFFEE CUP. Kaja thought it looked like an egg cup in his large hand. She had taken a seat opposite him at the table closest to the window. The police canteen was situated on the top floor and was of standard Norwegian design, that is, light and clean, but not so cosy that people would be tempted to sit for longer than necessary. The great advantage of the room was its view of the town, but that didn’t seem to interest Krongli much.
‘I checked the guest books at the other self-service cabins in the area,’ he went on. ‘The only people who had written in the book that they were planning to spend the next night at Håvass cabin were Charlotte Lolles and Iska Peller, who were in Tunvegg the night before.’
‘And we already know about them,’ Kaja said.
‘Yes. So in fact I have only two things that might be of interest to you.’
‘And they are?’
‘I was speaking on the phone to an elderly couple who were at the Tunvegg cabin the same night as Lolles and Peller. They said that a man had turned up in the evening, had a bite to eat, changed his shirt, then went on his way heading south-west. Even though it was dark. And the only cabin in that direction is Håvass.’
‘And this person …’
‘They barely saw him. Seemed as if he didn’t want to be seen, either; he didn’t take off his balaclava or his old-fashioned slalom goggles, not even when changing his shirt. The wife said she thought he might have had a serious injury at one time.’
‘Why was that?’
‘She could only remember thinking this, couldn’t say why. Nevertheless, he might have changed direction when he was out of sight, and skied to another cabin.’
‘Suppose so,’ Kaja said, checking her watch.
‘Anyone come forward in response to your crime alert, by the way?’
‘No,’ Kaja said.
‘You look as though you mean yes.’
Kaja’s eyes shot up at Aslak Krongli, who reacted by holding up his palms. ‘Country clod in town! Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.’
‘Alright,’ Kaja said.
They both inspected their coffee cups.
‘You said there were two things I might be interested in,’ Kaja said. ‘What’s the second?’
‘I know I’m going to regret saying this,’ Krongli said. The quiet laughter was back in his eyes.
Kaja guessed immediately which direction the conversation was going to take and knew he was right: he would regret it.
‘I’m sta
ying at the Plaza and wondered if you would like to have dinner with me there tonight.’
She could see by his expression that her own was not difficult to read.
‘I don’t know anyone else in town,’ he said, contorting his mouth into a grimace that might have been intended as a disarming smile. ‘Apart from my ex, that is, and I daren’t ring her.’
‘Would’ve been nice …’ Kaja began, and paused. Conditional past. She saw that Aslak Krongli was already regretting his approach. ‘… but I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged.’
‘Fine, this was short notice.’ Krongli smiled, threaded his fingers through his unruly, curly hair. ‘What about tomorrow?’
‘I … er, I’m pretty busy these days, Aslak.’
Krongli nodded, apparently to himself. ‘Of course. Of course you’re busy. The man who was in your room when I arrived is perhaps the reason?’
‘No, I’ve got new bosses now.’
‘It wasn’t bosses I had in mind.’
‘Oh?’
‘You said you were in love with a policeman. And it seemed to me he didn’t have much difficulty persuading you. Less than me anyway.’
‘No, no, that wasn’t him! Are you out of your mind? I … erm, must have had too much to drink that night.’ Kaja could hear her own inane laughter and felt the blood rising up her neck.
‘Oh well,’ Krongli said, finishing his coffee, ‘I’ll have to go out into the big, cold city. I suppose there are museums to visit and bars to patronise.’
‘Yes, you have to make the most of the opportunity.’
He arched an eyebrow and his eyes shed tears and laughed out loud. The way Even’s had at the end.
Kaja accompanied him out. As he shook her hand, she couldn’t help herself. ‘Ring me if it gets too lonely and I’ll see if I can slip away.’
She interpreted his smile as gratitude for allowing him the chance to decline an offer or at least to decide not to take her up on it.
Standing in the lift to the sixth floor, Kaja was reminded of what he had said, ‘… didn’t have much difficulty persuading you.’ How long had he actually been standing there by the door eavesdropping?
At one o’clock the telephone in front of Kaja rang.
It was Harry. ‘I’ve finally got the blue chit. Ready?’
She could feel her heart beating faster. ‘Yes.’
‘Vest?’
‘Vest and a weapon.’
‘Delta will take care of weapons. They’re ready in a vehicle outside the garage, just have to go down. And bring the blue chit from my pigeon hole, would you?’
‘OK.’
Ten minutes later they were in one of Delta’s blue twelve-seaters heading west through the city centre. Kaja listened to Harry explaining that he had rung Leike half an hour earlier at the building where he rented an office and they had said he was working off-site today. Harry had called his home number in Holmenveien, Tony Leike had answered and Harry had rung off. To lead the operation, Harry had specifically requested Milano, a dark, squat man with massive eyebrows, who did not have a drop of Italian blood in his veins, despite his surname.
They passed through Ibsen Tunnel, and rectangles of reflected light slid over the helmets and visors of the eight elite officers who appeared to be in deep meditation.
Kaja and Harry sat on the rear seat. Harry was wearing a black jacket with POLITI written in large yellow letters at the front and back, and had taken out his service revolver to check that there were bullets in all the chambers.
‘Eight men from Delta and a blender,’ Kaja said, referring to the blue light rotating on the roof of the MPV. ‘Sure this isn’t a bit over the top?’
‘It has to be over the top,’ Harry said. ‘If we want to attract attention to the person who initiated this arrest, then we need a bigger party factor than usual.’
‘Leaked it to the press?’
Harry clocked her.
‘If you want attention, I mean,’ she said. ‘Imagine it, Leike, the celebrity, being arrested for the murder of Marit Olsen. They would pass up on the birth of a princess for that.’
‘And what about if his fiancée is there?’ Harry said. ‘Or the mother? Are they going to be in the papers and on live TV, too?’ He jerked the revolver and the cylinder clicked into place.
‘What are we going to do with the big party factor then?’
‘The press come later,’ Harry said. ‘They question the neighbours, passers-by, us. They find out what a magnificent show it was. That’ll do me. No innocents involved, and we get our front page.’
She sent him a sideways glance as the shadows of the next tunnel passed over them. They crossed Majorstuen and went up Slemdalsveien, past Vinderen, and she saw him staring out of the window, at the tram stop, a naked expression of torment on his face. She felt an urge to place a hand over his, to say something, anything, that could remove that expression. She looked at his hand. It was holding the revolver, squeezing it, as though it was all he had. This could not go on, something was going to burst. Had already burst.
They climbed higher and higher; the town lay beneath them. They crossed the tramlines and then the lights began to flash behind them and the barrier was lowered.
They were in Holmenveien.
‘Who’s coming with me to the door, Milano?’ Harry shouted to the passenger seat at the front.
‘Delta 3 and Delta 4,’ Milano shouted back, turning and pointing to a man with a large figure 3 chalked onto the chest and back of his combat suit.
‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘And the rest?’
‘Two men on each side of the house. Procedure Dyke 1-4-5.’
Kaja knew this was code for the formation. It had been borrowed from American football, and the aim was to communicate quickly without anyone else understanding, in case they had managed to tune into the radio frequencies that Delta used. They came to a halt a couple of houses down from Leike’s. Six of the men checked their MP5s and jumped out. Kaja saw them move up through the neighbours’ large gardens of brown, withered grass, bare apple trees and the tall hedges they had a proclivity for in west Oslo. Kaja checked her watch. Forty seconds had gone when Milano’s radio crackled. ‘Everyone in position.’
The driver released the clutch, and they drove slowly towards the house. Tony Leike’s recently acquired home was yellow, single storey, impressively large, but the address was more resplendent than the architecture, which lay somewhere between functionalist and a wooden box, as far as Kaja could judge.
They stopped outside two garage doors at the end of a shingle drive leading to the front door. Several years back, during a hostage crisis in Vestfold where Delta had surrounded a house, the hostage-takers had escaped by strolling down a path from the house into the garage, starting up the house owner’s car and simply driving off, to the open-mouthed amazement of the heavily armed police bystanders.
‘Stay back and follow me,’ Harry said to Kaja. ‘Next time it’s your turn.’
They got out and Harry immediately made for the house with the two other policemen one step behind and to the side, in a triangle formation. Kaja could hear from his voice that his pulse was accelerated. Now she could see it in his body language too, from the tenseness of the neck, from the exaggeratedly supple way he was moving.
They went up the steps. Harry rang the bell. The other two had positioned themselves at each side of the door, backs against the wall.
Kaja counted. Harry had told her in the car that in the FBI manual it said you had to ring or knock, shout ‘Police!’ and ‘Please open up!’, repeat and then wait ten seconds before you entered. The Norwegian police had no such precise instructions, but that didn’t mean there weren’t guidelines.
On this afternoon in Holmenveien, however, none of them were in evidence.
The door burst open. Kaja automatically recoiled a step when she saw the Rasta hat in the doorway, then saw Harry’s shoulders swivel and heard the sound of fist on flesh.
42
Beavis
THE REACTION HAD BEEN INSTINCTIVE; HARRY HAD SIMPLY not been able to prevent it.
When Forensics Officer Bjørn Holm’s moonlike face had appeared in Tony Leike’s doorway and Harry had seen the other officers in full swing behind him, he realised in a flash what had happened and everything went black.
He just felt the punch register along his arm into his shoulder and then the pain in his knuckles. Opening his eyes again, he saw Bjørn Holm on his knees in the hall with blood streaming from his nose into his mouth and dripping from his chin.
The two Delta officers had leapt forward and pointed their weapons at Holm, but were obviously in a state of bewilderment. They had probably seen his familiar Rasta hat before and were aware the other men in white were crime scene officers.
‘Report back that the situation is under control,’ Harry said to the man with the figure 3 on his chest. ‘And that the suspect has been arrested. By Mikael Bellman.’
Harry sat slumped in the chair with his legs stretched out as far as Gunnar Hagen’s desk.
‘It’s very simple, boss. Bellman found out we were about to arrest Tony Leike. For Christ’s sake, they’ve got the public prosecutor’s office right across the street, in the same building as Krimteknisk. All he had to do was amble over and pick up a blue chit from one of the solicitors. He was probably done in two minutes, while I waited for two fucking hours!’
‘You don’t need to shout,’ Hagen said.
‘You don’t need to, but I do!’ Harry shouted, banging the armrest. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
‘You should be happy Holm’s not going to report you. Why did you hit him anyway? Is he the leak?’
‘Anything else you wanted, boss?’
Hagen looked at his inspector. Then he shook his head. ‘Take a couple of days off, Harry.’
Truls Berntsen had been called a lot of things in his childhood. Most of the nicknames were forgotten now. But he had been given a name soon after he finished school in the early nineties that had stuck: Beavis. The cartoon idiot on MTV. Blond hair, underbite and grunted laugh. OK, maybe he did laugh like that. Had done ever since primary school, especially when someone was given a beating. Especially when he was given a beating. He had read in a comic that the guy who made Beavis and Butt-Head was called Judge; he couldn’t recall the first name. But at any rate, this Judge guy said he imagined that Beavis’s father was a drunkard who beat his son. Truls Berntsen remembered he had just thrown the comic on the floor and left the shop, laughing this grunt laughter.
