by Jo Nesbo
She sat there, looking out over the heads of the thirty or so journalists who had gathered in the Parole Hall on the fourth floor, at the large painting that covered the whole of the back wall. It showed naked people swimming, most of them skinny young boys. A beautiful, innocent scene from a time before everything became loaded and interpreted in the worst possible way. And she was no different: she assumed the artist was a paedophile. Hagen was repeating his mantra in response to the journalists’ questions: ‘We aren’t in a position to answer that at present,’ with simple variations to stop the replies sounding arrogant or directly comical. ‘At this moment in time we can’t comment on that.’ Or a more benevolent: ‘We’ll have to come back to that.’
She heard their scratching pens and keyboards write questions that were obviously more elaborate than the answers: ‘Was the body badly damaged?’, ‘Was there any evidence of sexual assault?’, ‘Do you have a suspect, and, if so, is it someone close to her?’ Speculative questions that could lend a certain tremulous subtext to the reply ‘No comment’, if nothing else.
In the doorway at the back of the room she could make out a familiar figure. He had a black patch over one eye, and had put on the Police Chief’s uniform that she knew always hung, freshly pressed, in the cupboard in his office. Mikael Bellman. He didn’t come all the way inside, just stood there as an observer. She noted that Hagen had also spotted him, and he sat up a little straighter in his chair under the gaze of the rather younger Police Chief.
‘We’ll leave it there,’ the head of communications said.
Katrine saw Bellman indicate that he wanted to talk to her.
‘When’s the next press conference?’ asked Mona Daa, VG’s crime correspondent.
‘We’ll get—’
‘When we’ve got something new,’ Hagen interrupted the head of communications.
When, Katrine noted. Not if. It was tiny but important choices of words like that which signalled that the servants of the state were working tirelessly, that the wheels of justice were turning, and that it was only a matter of time before the perpetrator was caught.
‘Anything new?’ Bellman asked as they strode across the floor of the atrium of Police HQ. In the past his almost girlish prettiness, emphasised by his long eyelashes, neat, slightly too long hair and tanned skin with its characteristic white pigmentless marks, could give an impression almost of affectation, of weakness. But the eyepatch, which of course could have made him look theatrical, had the opposite effect. It implied strength, a man who wasn’t going to let even losing an eye stop him.
‘Forensics have found something in the bite marks,’ Katrine said as she followed Bellman through the airlock in front of reception.
‘Saliva?’
‘Rust.’
‘Rust?’
‘Yes.’
‘As in …?’ Bellman pressed the lift button in front of them.
‘We don’t know,’ Katrine said, stopping beside him.
‘And you still don’t know how the perpetrator got into the flat?’
‘No. The lock is impossible to pick, and neither the door nor any of the windows has been forced. It’s still a possibility that she let him in, but we don’t believe that.’
‘Perhaps he had a key.’
‘The housing association uses locks where the same key will open both the main entrance to the building and one of the flats. And according to the association’s key register, there was only one key to Elise Hermansen’s flat. The one that she had. Berntsen and Wyller have spoken to two guys who were by the entrance when she got home, and they’re both certain she used her key to get in – she didn’t use the entryphone to call someone who was already in the flat to open the front door from there.’
‘I see. But couldn’t he just have got a copy of the key?’
‘In that case he would have had to get hold of the original key, and find a key-cutter who had the technical ability to cut that type of key, and was unscrupulous enough to make a copy without the written permission of the housing association. That probably isn’t very likely.’
‘OK. Well, that wasn’t actually what I wanted to talk to you about …’ The lift door in front of them slid open and two officers who were on their way out stopped laughing automatically when they caught sight of the Police Chief.
‘It’s about Truls,’ Bellman said, after gallantly letting Katrine get into the empty lift before him. ‘Berntsen, I mean.’
‘OK?’ Katrine said, detecting a faint scent of aftershave. She’d always assumed men had given up wet shaving and the dowsing with spirits that followed it. Bjørn had used an electric razor and didn’t bother with any added flavourings, and the men she had met since … well, on a couple of occasions she would have preferred heavy perfume to their natural smell.
‘How is he getting on?’
‘Berntsen? Fine.’
They were standing side by side, facing the lift doors, but from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of his crooked smile in the silence that followed.
‘Fine?’ he eventually repeated.
‘Berntsen carries out the orders he’s given.’
‘Which aren’t too demanding, I imagine?’
Katrine shrugged. ‘He has no background as a detective. And he’s been posted to the biggest crime squad in the country, outside of Kripos. That means you don’t get to sit in the driver’s seat, if I can put it like that.’
Bellman nodded and rubbed his chin. ‘I really just wanted to know that he’s behaving himself. That he isn’t … That he’s following the rules.’
‘As far as I’m aware.’ The lift slowed down. ‘What rules are we actually talking about here?’
‘I just want you to keep an eye on him, Bratt. Truls Berntsen hasn’t had it easy.’
‘You mean the injuries he received from the explosion?’
‘I mean his life, Bratt. He’s a bit … what’s the word I’m looking for?’
‘Fucked up?’
Bellman let out a brief laugh and nodded towards the open doors. ‘Your floor, Bratt.’
Bellman studied Katrine Bratt’s well-shaped rear as she walked off down the corridor towards the Crime Squad Unit, and let his imagination run loose in the seconds it took the lift doors to close again. Then he refocused his thoughts on the problem. Which wasn’t a problem, of course, but an opportunity. Though it was a dilemma. He had received a speculative and highly unofficial enquiry from the Prime Minister’s office. It was rumoured that there was going to be a government reshuffle, and, among others, the position of Justice Minister was up for grabs. The enquiry concerned what Bellman – purely hypothetically – would say if he were to be asked. He had been astonished at first. But on closer consideration he realised that the choice was logical. As Chief of Police he had not only been responsible for the unmasking of the now internationally renowned ‘cop killer’, but had also lost an eye in the heat of battle, thereby becoming in some ways both a national and an international hero. A forty-year-old, articulate Chief of Police with legal training who had already successfully defended the capital against murder, narcotics and criminality: surely it was about time they gave him a greater challenge? And did it do any harm that he was good-looking? That was hardly going to attract fewer women to the party. So he had replied that he – hypothetically – would accept.
Bellman got out at the seventh – the top – floor, and walked past the row of photographs of previous chiefs of police.
But until they made their minds up he would have to make sure he didn’t get any scratches on his paintwork. Such as Truls doing something stupid and it rebounding on him. Bellman shuddered at the thought of the newspaper headlines: POLICE CHIEF PROTECTED CORRUPT COP AND FRIEND. When Truls had come to his office, he had put his feet up on the desk and said straight out that if he got fired from the police, he would at least have the consolation of dragging an equally tainted chief of police with him. So it had been an easy decision to grant Truls’s request to work at Crime Squad
. Particularly since – as Bratt had just confirmed – he wasn’t going to be given enough responsibility to enable him to fuck things up again any time soon.
‘Your lovely wife is sitting in there,’ Lena said when Mikael Bellman reached the outer office. Lena was well over sixty, and when Bellman was appointed four years ago, the first thing she had said was that she didn’t want to be known as his PA, in the way of modern job descriptions. She was and would remain his secretary.
Ulla was sitting on the sofa by the window. Lena was right, his wife was lovely. She was vivacious, sensitive, and giving birth to three children hadn’t changed that. But more importantly, she had backed him up, had realised that his career required nurturing, support, elbow room. And that the occasional misstep in his private life was only human when you had to live with the pressure that went with such a demanding position.
And there was something unspoiled, almost naive about her that meant you could read everything in her face. And right now he could read despair. The first thing Bellman thought was that it was something to do with the children. He was on the point of asking when he detected a hint of bitterness. And he realised that she had found something out. Again. Damn.
‘You look very serious, darling,’ he said calmly, walking towards the cupboard as he unbuttoned the jacket of his uniform. ‘Has something happened to the children?’
She shook her head. He breathed out in feigned relief. ‘Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but I always get a bit worried when you turn up unannounced.’ He hung up his jacket and then sat down in the armchair facing her. ‘So?’
‘You’ve been seeing her again,’ Ulla said. He could hear that she had been practising how to say it. Worked out how to say it without crying. But now there were already tears in her blue eyes.
He shook his head.
‘Don’t deny it,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘I’ve checked your phone. You’ve called her three times this week alone, Mikael. You promised …’
‘Ulla.’ He leaned forward and took her hand over the table but she pulled away. ‘I’ve spoken to her because I need advice. Isabelle Skøyen is currently working as a communications adviser for a company that specialises in politics and lobbying. She’s familiar with the workings of power, because she’s been there herself. And she knows me, too.’
‘Knows?’ Ulla’s face contorted in a grimace.
‘If I – if we are going to do this, I need to make the most of anything that can give me an advantage, anything that can help me cross the line ahead of everyone else who wants the job. The government, Ulla. There’s nothing bigger than that.’
‘Not even your family?’ she sniffed.
‘You know very well that I’d never let our family down—’
‘Never let us down?’ she yelped. ‘You’ve already—’
‘—and I hope you’re not thinking of doing that either, Ulla. Not on the grounds of some unwarranted jealousy towards a woman I’ve spoken to on the phone for purely professional reasons.’
‘That woman was only a local politician for a very brief time, Mikael. What could she possibly have to tell you?’
‘Among other things, what not to do if you want to survive in politics. That was the experience they were buying when they employed her. For instance, you shouldn’t betray your ideals. Or those closest to you. Or your responsibilities and obligations. And, if you get it wrong, you apologise and try to get it right next time. It’s OK to make mistakes. But betrayal isn’t OK. And I don’t want to do that, Ulla.’ He took her hand again, and this time she didn’t pull away. ‘I know I don’t have the right to ask for much after what happened, but if I’m going to do this, I’m going to need your trust and support. You have to believe me.’
‘How can I …?’
‘Come.’ He stood up without letting go of her hand and pulled her over to the window. He positioned her so she was facing the city. Stood behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. Because Police Headquarters was at the top of a hill they could see half of Oslo, which lay bathed in sunshine below them. ‘Do you want to help make a difference, Ulla? Do you want to help me create a safer future for our children? For our neighbours? For this city? For our country?’
He could feel that his words were having an effect on her. Christ, they were having an effect on him too – he actually felt pretty moved by them. Even if they were more or less lifted straight from notes he had made when he was thinking about what to say to the media. It wouldn’t be many more hours before he was officially offered the ministerial post, and said yes, and the newspapers, television, radio all started phoning for a comment.
Truls Berntsen was stopped by a short woman when he and Wyller emerged into the atrium after the press conference.
‘Mona Daa, VG. I’ve seen you before.’ She turned away from Truls. ‘But you seem to be a new arrival at Crime Squad?’
‘Correct,’ Wyller said. Truls studied Mona Daa from the side. She had a fairly attractive face. Wide – Sami heritage, perhaps. But he had never really made sense of her body. The colourful, loose-fitting outfits she wore made her look more like an old-school opera reviewer than a tough crime reporter. Even though she couldn’t be much over thirty, Truls couldn’t help thinking that she’d been around for an eternity: strong, persistent and robust, it would take a lot to shake Mona Daa. And she smelled like a man. Rumour had it that she used Old Spice aftershave.
‘You didn’t exactly give us much to go on in the press conference.’ Mona Daa smiled. The way journalists smile when they want something. Only this time it looked like she wasn’t just after information. Her eyes were glued to Wyller.
‘I dare say we didn’t have much more,’ Wyller said, smiling back.
‘I’ll quote you on that,’ Mona Daa said, making notes. ‘Name?’
‘Quote me on what?’
‘That the police really don’t know anything beyond what Hagen and Bratt said during the press conference.’
Truls saw a brief look of panic in Wyller’s eyes. ‘No, no, that’s not what I meant … I … don’t write that, please.’
Mona went on writing as she replied: ‘I introduced myself as a journalist, and it ought to be pretty obvious that I’m here because of my job.’
Wyller looked to Truls for help, but Truls said nothing. The young dude certainly wasn’t as cocky now as when he was charming those student girls.
Wyller squirmed and tried to make his voice sound lower. ‘I refuse to let you use that quote.’
‘I see,’ Daa said. ‘Then I’ll quote you on that as well, to show that the police are trying to muzzle the press.’
‘I … no, that’s …’ Wyller was blushing furiously now, and Truls had to make a real effort not to laugh.
‘Relax, I’m only kidding,’ Mona Daa said.
Anders Wyller stared at her for a moment before breathing out again.
‘Welcome to the game. We play tough but fair. And if we can, we help each other out. Isn’t that right, Berntsen?’
Truls grunted something in response and left them to decide how to interpret it.
Daa leafed through her notebook. ‘I won’t bother repeating the question of whether you’ve identified a suspect, your boss can deal with that one, but let me just ask more generally about the investigation.’
‘Fire away,’ Wyller said with a smile, looking like he was already back in the saddle.
‘Isn’t it the case in a murder investigation like this that the spotlight is always aimed at previous partners or lovers?’
Anders Wyller was about to answer when Truls put a hand on his shoulder and interjected: ‘I can already see it in front of me, Daa: “Detectives are unwilling to say if they have a suspect, but a source in the police has told VG that the investigation is focusing on previous partners and lovers.”’
‘Bloody hell,’ Mona Daa said, still taking notes. ‘I didn’t know you were that smart, Berntsen.’
‘And I didn’t know you knew my name.’
�
��Oh, all police officers have a reputation, you know. And Crime Squad isn’t so big that I can’t keep up to date. But I’ve got nothing on you, the new kid on the block.’
Anders Wyller smiled weakly.
‘I see you’ve decided to keep quiet, but you can at least tell me your name.’
‘Anders Wyller.’
‘This is how you can get hold of me, Wyller.’ She handed him a business card and – after an almost imperceptible hesitation – another to Truls. ‘Like I said, it’s traditional for us to help each other. And we pay well if the tip-off’s good.’
‘You surely don’t pay police officers?’ Wyller said, tucking her card into his jeans pocket.
‘Why not?’ she said, and her eyes very briefly met Truls’s. ‘A tip-off is a tip-off. So if you come up with anything, just call. Or pop into the Gain Gym, I’m there around nine o’clock most evenings. We could sweat it out together …’
‘I prefer to do my sweating outdoors,’ Wyller said.
Mona Daa nodded. ‘Running with a dog. You look like a dog person. I like that.’
‘Why?’
‘Allergic to cats. OK, guys, in the spirit of collaboration I promise to call if I find out anything I think might help you.’
‘Thanks,’ Truls said.
‘But I’ll need a phone number to call.’ Mona Daa kept her eyes fixed on Wyller.
‘Sure,’ he said.
‘I’ll write it down.’
Wyller recited several digits until Mona Daa looked up. ‘That’s the number to reception here in Police HQ.’
‘This is where I work,’ Anders Wyller said. ‘And by the way, I’ve got a cat.’
Mona Daa closed her notebook. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Truls watched her as she waddled like a penguin towards the exit and the weirdly heavy metal door with its staring porthole.
