Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8)

by Jo Nesbo

  Did he hell. He missed the importance of it.

  He missed the feeling that he was saving lives. Not the life of a rationally thinking suicidal soul who could on occasion make him ask the question: if life is such a painful experience and we can’t change that, why can’t this person just be allowed to die? He missed being active, being the one to intervene, the one to save the innocent party from the guilty, doing what no one else could do because he – Ståle Aune – was the best. It was as simple as that. Yes, he missed Harry Hole. He missed having the tall, grumpy alcoholic with the big heart on the phone asking – or to be more precise commanding – Ståle Aune to do his social duty, demanding him to sacrifice his family life and sleep to catch one of society’s poor wretches. But there was no longer an inspector at Crime Squad by the name of Harry Hole, and no one else had rung him either. His eye ran over the pages of the newspaper again. There had been a press conference. It was almost three months since the murder of the police officer in Maridalen, and the police still didn’t have a lead or any suspects. This was the kind of problem they would have rung him about in times gone by. The murder had occurred at the same scene and on the same date as an old, unsolved investigation. The victim was a policeman who had worked on the original case.

  But that was then. Now the problem was the sleeplessness of an overworked businessman he didn’t like. Soon Aune would begin to ask questions that would presumably eliminate post-traumatic stress disorders. The man in front of him wasn’t incapacitated by his nightmares; he was only concerned about getting his productivity back to its previous heights. Aune would then give him a copy of the article ‘Imagery Rehearsal Therapy’ by Krakow and . . . he couldn’t remember the other names. Ask him to write down his nightmares and bring it along for next time. Then, together, they would create an alternative, a happy ending to the nightmare, which they would rehearse mentally so that the dream either became easier to cope with or just disappeared.

  Aune heard the regular, soporific drone of the patient’s voice and reflected that the Maridalen murder had been in a rut from day one. Even when the striking similarities with the Sandra Tveten case – the date, the place – and the connection between the victims had come out, neither Kripos nor Crime Squad had managed to make any headway. And now they were urging people to rack their brains and come forward, however seemingly irrelevant their information might be. That was what the previous day’s press conference had been about. Aune suspected it was the police playing to the gallery, showing they were doing something, that they weren’t paralysed. Even though that was exactly what they were: helpless senior management under attack, desperately turning to the public and asking ‘let’s see if you can do any better’.

  He looked at the picture of the press conference. He recognised Beate Lønn. Gunnar Hagen, head of Crime Squad, resembling a monk more and more with the rich abundance of hair like a laurel wreath around his blank, shiny pate. Even Mikael Bellman, the new Chief of Police, had been there; after all, it had been the murder of one of their own. Taut-faced. Thinner than Aune remembered him. The media-friendly curls that had been on the verge of being too long had obviously been shed somewhere along the line between being the head of Kripos and Orgkrim and the sheriff’s office. Aune thought about Bellman’s almost girlish good looks, emphasised by the long eyelashes and the tanned skin with its characteristic, white patches. None of which were visible in the photo. The unsolved murder of an officer was of course the worst possible start for a Chief of Police who had based his meteoric rise on success. He had cleared up the drug wars in Oslo, but that would be forgotten quickly. It was true the retired Erlend Vennesla hadn’t been killed on active service in a formal sense, but most people knew that in some way or other it was tied up with the Sandra Tveten case. So Bellman had mobilised every available officer and all the external manpower there was. Except him, Ståle Aune. He had been crossed off their lists. Naturally enough – he himself had asked them to.

  And now winter had arrived early and with it a sense that snow was settling on the tracks. Cold tracks. No tracks. That was what Beate Lønn had said at the conference, an almost conspicuous lack of forensic evidence. It went without saying that they had checked the evidence in the Sandra Tveten investigation. Suspects, relatives, friends, even colleagues of Vennesla who had worked on the case. All without success.

  The room had gone quiet, and Ståle Aune saw from the patient’s expression that he had just asked a question and was waiting for the psychologist’s answer.

  ‘Hm,’ Aune said, resting his chin on his clenched fist and meeting the other man’s gaze. ‘What do you think about it?’

  There was bewilderment in the man’s eyes and for a moment Aune feared he had asked for a glass of water or something like that.

  ‘What do I think about her smiling? Or the beam of light?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Sometimes I think she’s smiling because she likes me. Then I think she’s smiling because she wants me to do something. But when she stops smiling the beam of light in her eyes dies and it’s too late to find out, she won’t talk to me any more. So I think perhaps it’s the amp. Or something.’

  ‘Erm . . . the amp?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pause. ‘The one I told you about. The one Dad used to switch off when he came into my room, when he said I’d been playing that record so long it was bordering on insanity. And then I said you could see the little red light beside the off switch fade and disappear. Like an eye. Or a sunset. And then I thought I was losing her. That’s why she says nothing at the end of the dream. She’s the amp that goes quiet when Dad switches it off. And then I can’t talk to her.’

  ‘Did you play records and think about her?’

  ‘Yes. All the time. Until I was sixteen. And not records. The record.’

  ‘Dark Side of the Moon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But she didn’t want you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably not. Not then.’

  ‘Hm. Our time’s up. I’ll give you something to read for next time. And then I want us to make a new ending for the story in the dream. She has to speak. She has to say something to you. Something you wished she would say. That she likes you perhaps. Can you give that a bit of thought for next time?’

  ‘Fine.’

  The patient stood up, took his coat from the stand and walked towards the door. Aune sat at his desk and looked at the calendar shining at him from the computer screen. It already looked depressingly full. And he realised it had happened again: he had completely forgotten the name of the patient. He found it on the calendar. Paul Stavnes.

  ‘Same time next week OK, Paul?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ståle entered it. When he looked up, Stavnes had already gone.

  He got up, grabbed the newspaper and went to the window. Where the hell was the global warming they had been promised? He looked at the newspaper, but suddenly couldn’t be bothered, threw it down, weeks and months of grinding his way through the papers were enough. Beaten to death. Terrible force. Fatal blows to the head. Erlend Vennesla leaves behind a wife, children and grandchildren. Friends and colleagues in shock. ‘A warm, kind person.’ ‘Impossible to dislike.’ ‘Good-natured, honest and tolerant, absolutely no enemies.’ Ståle Aune took a deep breath.

  He gazed at the phone. They had his number. But the phone was mute. Just like the girl in the dream.

  4

  THE HEAD OF crime squad, Gunnar Hagen, ran his hand across his forehead and then further up, through the entrance to the lagoon. The sweat collecting on his palm was caught by the thick atoll of hair at the back of his head. In front of him sat the investigative team. For a standard murder there would typically be twelve officers. But the murder of a colleague was not typical and K2 was full, down to the last chair, just shy of fifty people. Including those on the sick list, the group consisted of fifty-three members. And soon more of them would be on the sick list, as they felt the full force of the media. The best that could be sai
d about this case was that it had brought the two big murder investigation units in Norway – Crime Squad and Kripos – closer together. All the rivalry had been cast aside, and for once they were collaborating with no other agenda than to find the person who had killed their colleague. In the first weeks with an intensity and passion that convinced Hagen the case would soon be solved, despite the lack of forensic evidence, witnesses, possible motives, possible suspects and possible or impossible leads. Simply because the collective will was so formidable, the net spread was so tight, the resources they had at their disposal boundless. And yet.

  The tired, grey faces stared at him with an apathy that had become more and more visible over the last few weeks. And yesterday’s press conference – which had been like an ugly capitulation, his plea for help, wherever it might come from – had not raised fighting spirits. Today there were two further absentees, and they weren’t exactly throwing in the towel over a sniffly nose. In addition to the Vennesla case there was the Gusto Hanssen murder which had gone from solved to unsolved after Oleg Fauke had been released and Chris ‘Adidas’ Reddy had withdrawn his confession. Ah, there was one positive side to the Vennesla case: the murder of the policeman overshadowed that of the young beautiful drug dealer called Gusto Hanssen so completely that the press hadn’t written a word about the resumption of this investigation.

  Hagen glanced down at the sheet of paper on the lectern. There were two lines. That was all. Two lines for a morning meeting.

  Gunnar Hagen cleared his throat. ‘Morning, folks. As most of you are aware, we have received some calls after yesterday’s conference. Eighty-nine in all, of which several are being followed up now.’

  He didn’t need to say what everyone knew, that after close on three months they were now scraping the bottom; ninety-five per cent of all calls were a waste of time: the usual nutters who always rang in, drunks, people wanting to cast suspicion on someone who had run off with their other half, a neighbour shirking their cleaning duties, practical jokes or just people who wanted some attention, someone to talk to. By ‘several’ he meant four. Four tip-offs. And when he said they were being ‘followed up’ it was a lie, they had finished following them up. And they had led where they were now: nowhere.

  ‘We’ve got an illustrious visitor today,’ Hagen said, and immediately heard that this could be construed as sarcasm. ‘The Chief of Police would like to join us and say a few words. Mikael . . .’

  Hagen closed his folder, raised it and placed it on the table as though it contained a pile of new, interesting documents instead of the one sheet of paper, hoping he had smoothed over the ‘illustrious’ by using Bellman’s Christian name and nodding to the man standing by the door at the back of the room.

  The young Chief of Police was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, waiting for the brief moment when everyone turned round to look at him, then in one sleek, powerful movement he pulled himself away from the wall and strode to the rostrum. He was half smiling as though he was thinking about something amusing, and when he turned to the lectern with a casual swing of his heel, rested his forearms on it, leaned forward and looked straight at them as if to emphasise that he had no typed speech ready, it struck Hagen that Bellman had better deliver now what his entrance promised.

  ‘Some of you may know that I’m a climber,’ Mikael said. ‘And when I wake up in the morning on days like today, look out of the window and there’s zero visibility and more snow and gusting winds are forecast, I think about a mountain I once had plans to conquer.’

  Bellman paused, and Hagen could see the unexpected introduction was working; Bellman had caught their attention. For the moment. But Hagen knew that the overworked unit’s bullshit tolerance was at an all-time low, and they wouldn’t go out of their way to hide it. Bellman was too young, had taken up his post too recently and had arrived there with too much haste for them to allow him to test their patience.

  ‘Coincidentally, the mountain has the same name as this room. Which is the same name some of you have given the Vennesla case. K2. It’s a good name. The world’s second-highest mountain. The Savage Mountain. The hardest mountain in the world to conquer. One in four climbers dies. We’d planned to tackle the southern ascent, also known as the Magic Line. It’s only been done twice before and is considered by many to be ritual suicide. A slight change in weather and wind, and you and the mountain are enveloped in snow and temperatures none of us is made to survive, not with less oxygen per cubic metre than you have underwater. And, as this is the Himalayas, everyone knows there will be a change in the weather and wind.’

  Pause.

  ‘So why should I climb this mountain of all mountains?’

  Another pause. Longer, as though waiting for someone to answer. Still with the half-smile. The pause dragged on. Too long, Hagen thought. The police are not fans of theatrical effects.

  ‘Because . . .’ Bellman tapped a forefinger on the table beneath the lectern. ‘. . . because it’s the hardest in the world. Physically and mentally. There’s not a moment’s pleasure in the ascent, only anxiety, toil, fear, acrophobia, lack of oxygen, degrees of dangerous panic and even more dangerous apathy. And when you’re on top, it’s not about relishing the moment of triumph, just creating evidence that you have actually been there, a photo or two, not deluding yourself into thinking the worst is over, not letting yourself slip into an agreeable doze, but keeping your concentration, doing the chores, systematically like a robot, while continuing to monitor the situation. Monitoring the situation all the time. What’s the weather doing? What signals are you getting from your body? Where are we? How long have we been here? How are the others in the team coping?’

  He took a step back from the lectern.

  ‘K2 is an uphill climb in all senses. Even when going downhill. And that was why we wanted to have a go.’

  The room was silent. Utterly silent. No demonstrative yawning or shuffling of feet under chairs. My God, Hagen thought, he’s got them.

  ‘Two words,’ Bellman said. ‘Stamina and solidarity. I had considered including ambition, but the word isn’t important enough, not big enough in comparison with the other two. So you may ask what’s the point of stamina and solidarity if there’s no goal, no ambition. Fighting for fighting’s sake? Honour without reward? Yes, I say, fighting for fighting’s sake. Honour without reward. When the Vennesla case is still being talked about years from now it’s because it was an uphill climb. Because it looked impossible. The mountain was too high, the weather too treacherous, the air too thin. Everything went wrong. And it’s the story of the uphill climb which will turn the case into mythology, which will make it one of the tales around the campfire that will survive. Just as most climbers in the world have never got as far as the foothills of K2, you can work all your life without ever being on a case like this one. If this case had been cracked in the first weeks it would soon have been forgotten. For what is it that all legendary criminal cases in history have in common?’

  Bellman waited. Nodded as if they had given him the answer.

  ‘They took time. They were an uphill climb.’

  A voice beside Hagen whispered: ‘Churchill, eat your heart out.’

  He turned and saw Beate Lønn standing beside him with a mischievous smile on her face.

  He nodded and watched the assembled officers. Old tricks maybe, but they still worked. Where, a few minutes ago, he had seen only a dead, blackened fire, Bellman had managed to blow life into the embers. But Hagen knew it wouldn’t burn for long if results were not forthcoming.

  Three minutes later Bellman had finished the pep talk and left the podium with a broad grin and to great applause. Hagen clapped along dutifully, dreading his return to the lectern. For the certain showstopper, telling them the unit would be cut to thirty-five. Bellman’s orders, but which they had agreed he would not have to pass on. Hagen stepped forward, put down his folder, coughed, pretended to flick through it. Looked up. Coughed again and said with a wry smile: ‘Ladies
and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.’

  Silence, no laughter.

  ‘Well, we have a few matters to deal with. Some of you are going to be transferred to other duties.’

  Stone dead. Fire extinguished.

  As Mikael Bellman left the lift in the atrium at Police HQ he caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing into the adjacent lift. Was it Truls? Hardly likely, he was still suspended after the Asayev business. Bellman walked out of the building and struggled through the snow to the waiting car. When he took over the Chief of Police post he had been told that in theory he had the services of a chauffeur, but his three predecessors had all refrained from using them because they thought it would send the wrong signals, as they were the ones who had to deliver all the cuts in other areas. Bellman had reversed this practice and said in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t let that kind of social-democratic pettiness threaten his productivity, and it was more important to signal to those further down the food chain that hard work and promotion brought certain benefits. The head of PR had subsequently taken him aside and suggested that if the press were to ask him he should limit his answer to productivity and lose the bit about benefits.