by Jo Nesbo
‘I’ve tried to find out where you could get hold of a set of iron teeth like these. And it isn’t exactly the sort of thing you can get through mail order. So if we were able to find someone who’s sold contraptions like this in Oslo or elsewhere in Norway, and who to, I’d say we’d be looking at a very limited number of people.’
Katrine realised that Bjørn had gone far beyond the usual duties of a forensics officer, but decided not to comment on the fact.
‘One more thing,’ Bjørn said. ‘There’s not enough blood.’
‘Not enough?’
‘The blood contained in an adult human body makes up, on average, seven per cent of bodyweight. It differs slightly from person to person, but even if she was at the low end of the scale, there’s almost half a litre missing when we add up what was left in the body, on the carpet in the hallway, on the wooden floor and the small quantity on the bed. So, unless the murderer took the missing blood away with him in a bucket …’
‘… he drank it,’ Katrine concluded, giving voice to what they were all thinking.
For three seconds there was total silence in the conference room.
Wyller cleared his throat. ‘What about the black paint?’
‘There’s rust on the inside of the flakes of paint, so it came from the same source,’ Bjørn said, disconnecting his laptop from the projector. ‘But the paint isn’t that old. I’m going to analyse that tonight.’
Katrine could see that the others hadn’t really absorbed the bit about the paint, they were still thinking about the blood.
‘Thanks, Bjørn,’ Katrine said, standing up and looking at her watch. ‘OK, about that bar crawl. It’s bedtime, so how about we send the people with kids home while us poor barren souls stay behind and split into teams?’
No response, no laughter, not so much as a smile.
‘Good, we’ll do that, then,’ Katrine said. She could feel how tired she was. And thrust her weariness aside. Because she had a nagging sense that this was only the beginning. Iron dentures and no DNA. Half a litre of missing blood.
The sound of scraping chairs.
She gathered her papers, glanced up and saw Bjørn disappearing through the door. Recognised the peculiar feeling of relief, guilty conscience and self-loathing. And thought that she felt … wrong.
5
THURSDAY EVENING AND NIGHT
MEHMET KALAK LOOKED at the two people in front of him. The woman had an attractive face, an intense look in her eyes, tight hipster clothes and such a finely proportioned body that it didn’t seem unlikely that she might have picked up the handsome young man who had to be ten years her junior. They were just the sort of clientele he was after, which was why he had given them an extra generous smile when they walked through the door of the Jealousy Bar.
‘What do you think?’ the woman said. She spoke with a Bergen accent. He had only managed to see the surname on her ID card. Bratt.
Mehmet lowered his eyes again and looked at the photograph they had put down on the bar in front of him.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, she was here. Yesterday evening.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘She was sitting right where you’re standing now.’
‘Here? Alone?’
Mehmet could see that she was trying to hide her excitement. Why did people bother? What was so dangerous about showing what you felt? He wasn’t particularly keen on selling out the only regular he had, but they had police ID.
‘She was with a guy who’s here a fair bit. What’s happened?’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’ her blond colleague asked in a high voice.
‘No, I prefer something with news in it,’ Mehmet said.
Bratt smiled. ‘She was found murdered this morning. Tell us about the man. What were they doing here?’
Mehmet felt as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice-cold water over him. Murdered? The woman who had been standing here right in front of him less than twenty-four hours ago was now a corpse? He pulled himself together. And felt ashamed of the next thought that automatically popped into his head: if the bar got mentioned in the papers, would that be good or bad for business? After all, there was a limit to how much worse it could get.
‘A Tinder date,’ he said. ‘He usually meets his dates here. Calls himself Geir.’
‘Calls himself?’
‘I’d say it’s his real name.’
‘Does he pay by card?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded towards the till. ‘Do you think you could find the receipt for his payment last night?’
‘That should be possible, yes.’ Mehmet smiled sadly.
‘Did they leave together?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That Geir had set his sights too high, as usual. He’d basically been dumped before I’d even had time to pour their drinks. Speaking of which, can I get you something …?’
‘No, thanks,’ Bratt said. ‘We’re on duty. So she left here alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t see anyone follow her?’
Mehmet shook his head, got two glasses out, and picked up a bottle of apple juice. ‘This is on the house, freshly pressed, local. Come back another night and have a beer, on the house. The first one’s free, you know. Same thing applies if you want to bring any police colleagues. Do you like the music?’
‘Yes,’ the blond policeman said. ‘U2 are—’
‘No,’ Bratt said. ‘Did you hear the woman say anything you think might be of interest to us?’
‘No. Actually, now you come to mention it, she did say something about someone stalking her.’ Mehmet looked up from pouring. ‘The music was on low and she was talking loudly.’
‘I see. Was anyone else here showing any interest in her?’
Mehmet shook his head. ‘It was a quiet night.’
‘Like tonight, then?’
Mehmet shrugged. ‘The other two customers who were here had gone by the time Geir left.’
‘So it might not be too difficult to get their card details as well?’
‘One of them paid cash, I remember. The other one didn’t buy anything.’
‘OK. And where were you between 10 p.m. and one o’clock this morning?’
‘Me? I was here. Then at home.’
‘Anyone who can confirm that? Just so we can get it out of the way at the start.’
‘Yes. Or no.’
‘Yes or no?’
Mehmet thought hard. Getting a loan shark with previous convictions mixed up in this could mean more trouble. He should hold on to that card in case he needed it later.
‘No. I live alone.’
‘Thanks.’ Bratt raised her glass, and Mehmet thought at first she was drinking a toast, until he realised she was gesturing towards the till with it. ‘We’ll sample these local apples while you look, OK?’
Truls had quickly worked his way through his bars and restaurants. Had shown the photograph to bartenders and waiters, and moved on as soon as he got the answer he expected, ‘No’ or ‘Don’t know’. If you don’t know, you don’t know, and the day had already been more than long enough. Besides, he had one final item on his agenda.
Truls typed the last sentence on the keyboard and looked at the brief but, in his opinion, concise report. ‘See attached list of licensed premises visited by the undersigned at the times specified. None of the staff reported having seen Elise Hermansen on the evening of the murder.’ He pressed Send and stood up.
He heard a low buzz and saw a light flash on the desk telephone. He could tell from the number on the screen that it was the duty officer. They dealt with any tip-offs and only forwarded the ones that seemed relevant. Damn, he didn’t have time for any more chat right now. He could pretend he hadn’t seen it. But, on the other hand, if it was a tip-off, he might end up with more to pass on than he had thought.
He picked up.
‘Berntsen.’
‘Out at bars.’
‘Haven’t you got a murder to—?’
‘What is it?’
‘We’ve got a guy who says he was with Elise Hermansen last night.’
‘Put him through.’
There was a click and Truls heard a man who was breathing so hard it could only mean he was frightened.
‘DC Berntsen, Crime Squad. What’s this about?’
‘My name is Geir Sølle. I saw the picture of Elise Hermansen on VG’s website. I’m phoning because I had a very short encounter yesterday with a lady who looked a lot like her. And she said her name was Elise.’
It took Geir Sølle five minutes to give an account of his date at the Jealousy Bar, and how he had gone straight home afterwards, and was home before midnight. Truls vaguely remembered that the pissing boys had seen Elise alive after 11.30.
‘Can anyone confirm when you got home?’
‘The log on my computer. And Kari.’
‘Kari?’
‘My wife.’
‘You’ve got family?’
‘Wife and dog.’ Truls heard him swallow audibly.
‘Why didn’t you call earlier?’
‘I’ve only just seen the picture.’
Truls made a note, swearing silently to himself. This wasn’t the murderer, just someone they needed to rule out, but it still meant writing a full report, and now it was going to be ten o’clock before he managed to get away.
Katrine was walking down Markveien. She had sent Anders Wyller home from his first day at work. She smiled at the thought that he was bound to remember it for the rest of his life. First the office, then straight to the scene of a murder – and a serious one at that. Not the sort of boring drug-related murder that people forgot the next day, but what Harry called a could-have-been-me murder. Which was the murder of a so-called ordinary person in ordinary circumstances, the sort that led to packed press conferences and guaranteed front pages. Because familiarity made it easier for the public to empathise. That was why a terrorist attack in Paris got more media coverage than one in Beirut. And the media was the media. That was why Police Chief Bellman was taking the effort to keep himself informed. He was going to have to deal with questions. Not right away, but if the murder of a young, well-educated, hard-working female citizen wasn’t cleared up within the next few days, he would have to make a statement.
It would take her half an hour to walk from here to her flat in Frogner, but that was fine, she needed to clear her head. And her body. She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket and opened the Tinder app. She walked on with one eye on the pavement and the other on the phone as she swiped to right and left.
They had guessed right. Elise Hermansen had got home from a Tinder date. The man the bartender had described to them sounded harmless enough, but she knew from experience that some men had the strange idea that a quick shag gave them the right to more. An old-fashioned attitude that the act itself constituted a form of female submission which could be taken as purely sexual, perhaps. But for all she knew, there might be just as many women out there with equally old-fashioned ideas that men were automatically under some sort of moral obligation the moment they kindly consented to penetrate them. But enough of that – she’d just got a match.
I’m 10 minutes from Nox on Solli plass, she tapped.
OK, I’ll be waiting, came the reply from Ulrich, who from his profile picture and description seemed to be a very straightforward man.
Truls Berntsen stopped and looked at Mona Daa looking at herself.
She no longer reminded him of a penguin. Well, she actually reminded him of a penguin that was being tightly squeezed around the middle.
Truls had detected a certain reluctance when he had asked the girl in gym gear behind the counter at Gain Gym to let him in so he could take a look at the facilities. Possibly because she didn’t buy the idea that he was considering joining, and possibly because they didn’t want people like him as members. Because a long life as someone who aroused other people’s disapproval – often on good grounds, he had to admit – had taught Truls Berntsen to perceive disapproval in most faces he encountered. Either way, after passing machines that were supposed to tighten stomachs and buttocks, rooms for Pilates, rooms for spinning and rooms containing hysterical aerobics instructors (Truls had a vague idea it wasn’t called aerobics any more), he found her in the boys’ area. The weights room. She was doing deadlifts. Her squat, splayed legs were still a bit penguiny. But the combination of broad backside and the wide leather belt that was squeezing her waist and making her bulge out both above and below made her look more like a number 8.
She let out a hoarse, almost frightening roar as she straightened her back and took the strain, staring at her own red face in the mirror. The weights clanked against each other as they left the floor. The bar didn’t bend as much as he’d seen them do on television, but he could see that it was heavy from the two grunting Paki types who were doing curls to get biceps that were big enough for their pathetic gang tattoos. Christ, how he hated them. Christ, how they hated him.
Mona Daa lowered the weights. Roared and raised them again. Down. Up. Four times.
She stood there trembling afterwards. Smiled the way that crazy woman out in Lier did when she’d had an orgasm. If she hadn’t been quite so fat and lived quite so far away, maybe something could have come of that. She said she’d dumped him because she was starting to like him. That once a week wasn’t enough. At the time he had been relieved, but Truls still found himself thinking about her from time to time. Not the way he thought about Ulla, of course, but she had been nice, no question.
Mona Daa caught sight of him in the mirror. Pulled out her earphones. ‘Berntsen? I thought you had a gym in Police HQ?’
‘We have,’ he said, going closer. Gave the Paki types an I’m-a-cop-so-get-lost look, but they didn’t seem to understand. Perhaps he’d been wrong about them. Some of those kids were even in Police College these days.
‘So what brings you here?’ She loosened the belt and Truls couldn’t help staring to see if she was going to balloon back out and become an ordinary penguin again.
‘I thought we might be able to help each other.’
‘With what?’ She squatted down in front of the weights and undid the nuts holding them on each side.
He crouched down beside her and lowered his voice. ‘You said you paid well for tip-offs.’
‘We do,’ she said, without lowering hers. ‘What have you got?’
‘It’ll cost fifty thousand.’
Mona Daa laughed out loud. ‘We pay well, Berntsen, but not that well. Ten thousand is the maximum. And then we’re talking a really tasty morsel.’
Truls nodded slowly as he moistened his lips. ‘This isn’t a tasty morsel.’
‘What did you say?’
Truls raised his voice a bit more. ‘I said: this isn’t a tasty morsel.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘It’s a three-course meal.’
‘Not going to happen,’ Katrine cried over the cacophony of voices and took a sip of her White Russian. ‘I’ve got a partner and he’s at home. Where do you live?’
‘Gyldenløves gate. But there’s nothing to drink, it’s a real mess, and—’
‘Clean sheets?’
Ulrich shrugged.
‘You change the sheets while I take a shower,’ she said. ‘I’ve come straight from work.’
‘What do you—?’
‘Let’s just say that all you need to know about my job is that I have to be up early tomorrow, so shall we …?’ She nodded towards the door.
‘OK, but maybe we could finish our drinks first?’
She looked at the cocktail. The only reason she’d started drinking White Russians was because that’s what Jeff Bridges drinks in The Big Lebowski.
‘That depends,’ she said.
‘On what?’
‘On what eff
ect alcohol has … on you.’
Ulrich smiled. ‘Are you trying to give me performance anxiety, Katrine?’
She shivered at the sound of her own name in this stranger’s mouth. ‘Do you get performance anxiety, then, Ul-rich?’
‘No,’ he grinned. ‘But do you know what these drinks cost?’
Now she smiled. Ulrich was OK. Thin enough. That was the first and really the only thing she looked for in a profile. Weight. And height. She could calculate their BMI as quickly as a poker player figured out the odds. 26.5 was OK. Before she met Bjørn she’d never have believed she’d accept anyone over 25.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ she said. ‘Here’s my cloakroom ticket, black leather jacket, wait by the door.’
Katrine stood up and walked across the floor, assuming – seeing as this was his first chance to look at her from behind – that he was checking out what people where she came from usually called her arse. And knew that he’d be happy.
The back of the bar was more crowded and she had to push her way through, seeing as ‘Excuse me!’ didn’t have the open-sesame effect it had in what she considered to be the more civilised parts of the world. Bergen, for instance. And she must have been getting squeezed harder than she thought between the sweaty bodies, because suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She broke free, and the giddy feeling of a lack of oxygen disappeared after a few steps.
In the corridor beyond there was the usual queue for the women’s toilet and no one waiting for the men’s. She looked at her watch again. Lead detective. She wanted to get to work first tomorrow. What the hell. She yanked open the door to the men’s toilet, marched in and walked past the row of urinals, unnoticed by two men standing there, and locked herself in one of the cubicles. Her few female friends had always said they’d never set foot in a men’s toilet, that they were much dirtier than the ladies’. That wasn’t Katrine’s experience.
She had pulled her trousers down and was sitting on the toilet when she heard a cautious knock on the door. That struck her as odd – it ought to be obvious from the outside that the cubicle was occupied, and, if you thought it was empty, why knock? She looked down. In the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor she saw the toes of a pair of pointed snakeskin boots. Her next thought was that someone must have seen her go into the men’s toilet and had followed her to see if she was the more adventurous sort.
