by Jo Nesbo
Ståle sighed. He had obviously made the wrong decision, but it was too late, and he decided to plough on.
‘Paul,’ he said. The carefully plucked eyebrows and the two small scars under the chin, suggesting a facelift, had allowed Ståle to categorise him within ten minutes of the first therapy session. ‘Repressed homosexuality is very normal even in our apparently tolerant society.’ Aune followed the patient closely to detect a reaction. ‘I’m often consulted by the police, and one officer told me he was open about his homosexuality in his private life, but he couldn’t be open in his job because he would be frozen out. I asked if he was really so sure of that. Oppression often turns out to be the expectations we impose on ourselves and the expectations we interpret those around us as having. Especially those closest, friends and colleagues.’
He stopped.
There was no widening of the patient’s pupils, no colouring of the complexion, no resistance to eye contact, no evasive body language. On the contrary, a little contemptuous smile had appeared on his thin lips. But, to his surprise, Ståle Aune noticed that the temperature in his own cheeks had risen. My God, how he hated this patient! How he hated this job.
‘And the policeman,’ Paul said, ‘did he follow your advice?’
‘Our time’s up,’ Ståle said without checking the clock.
‘I’m curious, Aune.’
‘And I’ve taken an oath of confidentiality.’
‘So let’s call him X then. And I can see from your face that you didn’t like the question.’ Paul smiled. ‘He followed your advice, and there was an unhappy outcome, wasn’t there?’
Aune sighed. ‘X went too far, misunderstood a situation and tried to kiss a colleague in the toilets. And was frozen out. The point is that it might have gone well. Would you at least give the matter some thought for next time?’
‘But I’m not a homo.’ Paul raised a hand towards his throat, then lowered it again.
Ståle Aune nodded briefly. ‘Same time next week?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not getting better, am I?’
‘It’s going slowly, but we’re making progress,’ Ståle said. The answer came as automatically as the patient’s hand moving towards his tie.
‘Yes, you’ve said that a few times,’ Paul said. ‘But I have a feeling I’m paying for nothing. And that you’re just as useless as those detectives who can’t even nail a bloody serial killer and rapist . . .’ Ståle registered with some astonishment that the patient’s voice had gone lower. Quieter. His voice and body language communicated something quite different from what he actually said. Ståle’s brain had, as if on autopilot, begun to analyse why the patient had used precisely this example, but the answer was so obvious he didn’t need to delve very deep. The newspapers lying on Ståle’s desk since the autumn. They had always been open at the page describing the police murders.
‘It isn’t so easy to catch a serial killer, Paul,’ Ståle Aune said. ‘I know quite a bit about serial killers, in fact, it’s my speciality. Just like this is. But if you feel like stopping the therapy, or you’d like to try one of my colleagues, it’s up to you. I have a list of very capable psychologists and can help you—’
‘Are you washing your hands of me, Ståle?’ Paul had tilted his head to one side, the eyelids with the colourless lashes had closed and the smile was broader. Ståle was unable to decide whether this was a smirk at the homosexuality theory or Paul was showing a glimpse of his true self. Or both.
‘Please don’t misunderstand,’ Ståle said, knowing that he had not been misunderstood. He wanted to get rid of him, but professional therapists didn’t kick out tricky patients. They just gritted their teeth harder, didn’t they? He adjusted his bow tie. ‘I’d like to treat you, but it’s important that we trust each other. And right now it doesn’t seem—’
‘I’m just having a bad day, Ståle.’ Paul splayed his hands in defence. ‘Sorry. I know you’re good. You worked on the serial murders at Crime Squad, didn’t you? You helped to catch the guy who was drawing pentagrams at crime scenes. You and that inspector.’
Ståle studied the patient as he got up and buttoned his jacket.
‘Yep, you’re more than good enough for me, Ståle. Next week. And I’ll think about whether I’m a homo in the meantime.’
Ståle didn’t get up. He could hear Paul humming in the corridor while waiting for the lift. There was something familiar about the tune.
As indeed there was about some of the things Paul had said. He had used the expression ‘serial murders’, a police preference, rather than the more common ‘serial killings’. He had called Harry Hole an inspector and most people had no idea about police ranks. Generally they remembered the gory details from the newspaper reports, not insignificant details such as a pentagram carved into a beam beside the body. But what had particularly caught his attention – because it could turn out to be significant for the therapy – was that Paul had compared him to ‘those detectives who can’t even nail a bloody serial killer and rapist . . .’
Ståle heard the lift come and go. But he had remembered what the tune was now. In fact, he had listened to Dark Side of the Moon to find out if there were any hints to interpreting Paul Stavnes’s dream. The song was called ‘Brain Damage’. It was about lunatics. Lunatics who were on the grass, who were in the hall. Who end up inside.
Rapist.
The murdered policemen hadn’t been raped.
Of course the case might have interested him so little that he had confused the murdered policemen with the earlier victims at the crime scene. Or he had assumed as a general rule that serial killers rape. Or he dreamt about raped policemen, which naturally would reinforce the theory about repressed homosexuality. Or . . .
Ståle Aune froze mid-movement and stared in amazement at the hand poised to move towards his bow tie.
Anton Mittet took a sip of coffee and looked down at the man sleeping in the hospital bed. Shouldn’t he also feel a certain pleasure? The same pleasure that Mona had expressed, which she had called ‘one of the small everyday miracles that make all the slog worthwhile’? Well, yes, of course it was good that a coma patient they assumed would die should suddenly change his mind and drag himself back to life and wake up. But the person in the bed, the pale, ravaged face on the pillow meant nothing to him. All it meant was that the job was coming to an end. It didn’t necessarily mean it was the end of his relationship with Mona, of course. They hadn’t spent their most intimate hours here anyway. On the contrary, now they didn’t need to worry if their colleagues noticed the tender gazes they sent each other whenever she went in and out of the patient’s room, or the conversations that were just a little too long, the chats that ended a little too abruptly when someone appeared. But Anton Mittet had a nagging feeling that precisely this had been the spark in their relationship. The secrecy. The illicit. The excitement of seeing but not being able to touch. Having to wait, having to sneak away from home, serving up the lie to Laura about another extra shift, a lie which had become easier and easier to perform and which nevertheless filled his mouth and he knew that sooner or later it would suffocate him. He knew that infidelity didn’t make him a better man in Mona’s eyes and that she could envisage him serving up the same excuses to her at some point in the future. She had told him it had happened to her before with other men, that they had deceived her. And then she had been younger and slimmer than she was now, so if he wanted to drop the fat, middle-aged woman she had become it wouldn’t exactly shock her. He had tried to explain to her that she mustn’t say things like that, not even if she meant them. It made her less attractive. It made him less attractive. Made him into a man who would take anything he could get, as it were. But now he was glad she had said it. It had to stop somewhere, and she had made it easier for him.
‘Where did you get the coffee?’ the new nurse asked, straightening the round glasses as he read the doctor’s notes he unhooked from the end of the bed.
‘There’s an espresso mach
ine down the corridor. I’m the only person who uses it but you can—’
‘Thanks for the offer,’ the nurse said. Anton could hear there was something odd about his pronunciation. ‘But I don’t drink coffee.’ The nurse had taken a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and was reading it. ‘Let me see . . . he needs to have some propofol.’
‘I’ve no idea what that is.’
‘It means he’ll sleep for a good while.’
Anton scrutinised the nurse as he pierced the foil on a little bottle of a transparent liquid with a syringe. The nurse was short, slightly built and resembled a famous actor. Not one of the good-looking ones. One of the ones who had made it, though. The one with the ugly teeth and the Italian name it was impossible to remember. The way he had forgotten the name the nurse had given when he introduced himself.
‘It’s complicated with patients who come out of a coma,’ the nurse said. ‘They’re extremely vulnerable and have to be carefully brought into a conscious state. One injection out of place and we risk sending them back to where they were.’
‘I see,’ Anton said. The man had shown him his ID card, produced the password and waited for Anton to ring the duty room to confirm that the person in question had been scheduled to do this shift.
‘So you’ve had lots of experience with anaesthetics?’ Anton asked.
‘I worked in the anaesthetics department for long enough, yes.’
‘But you don’t work there now?’
‘I’ve been travelling for two or three years.’ The nurse held the syringe up to the light. Released a jet that dissolved into a cloud of microscopic drops. ‘This patient looks as if he’s had a hard life. Why’s there no name on the notes?’
‘He’s supposed to be anonymous. Didn’t they tell you?’
‘They haven’t told me anything.’
‘They should have done. It’s thought an attempt may be made on his life. That’s why I sit out here in the corridor.’
The man leaned down close to the patient’s face. Closed his eyes. Looked as if he was inhaling the patient’s breath. Anton shivered.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ the nurse said. ‘Is he from Oslo?’
‘I’ve taken an oath of confidentiality.’
‘And what do you think I’ve done?’ The nurse rolled up the patient’s sleeve. Flicked the inside of his forearm. There was something about the way the nurse spoke, something Anton couldn’t quite put his finger on. He shivered again as the syringe slid into the skin, and in the total silence he thought he could hear a rasp, the friction of the needle against flesh. The flow of the liquid being squeezed through the syringe as the plunger was pressed.
‘He lived in Oslo for several years before moving abroad,’ Anton said with a swallow. ‘But then he returned. Rumours say it was because of a boy. He was a junkie.’
‘That’s a sad story.’
‘Yes, but it looks as if it will have a happy ending.’
‘That’s a bit too early to say,’ the nurse said, pulling out the needle. ‘Lots of coma patients have sudden relapses.’
Anton could hear it now. Hear what it was about the way he spoke. It was barely audible, but they were there, the S’s. He lisped.
After they had left the room and the nurse had gone down the corridor, Anton went back in to the patient. He studied the heart monitor. Listened to the rhythmical beeps, like a submarine’s sonar signals from the depths of the ocean. He didn’t know what made him do it, but he did as the nurse had done, leaned over the man’s face. Closed his eyes. And felt the breath on his cheek.
Altman. Anton had taken a close look at his name tag before he left. The nurse’s name was Sigurd Altman. He had a gut feeling, that was all. But he had already decided that he would check him out the following day. He didn’t want this to turn out like Drammen. He wasn’t going to make any mistakes this time.
8
KATRINE BRATT SAT with her feet on the desk and a telephone pressed between her shoulder and ear. Gunnar Hagen was on another call. Her fingers ran across the keyboard in front of her. She knew that behind her, outside the window, Bergen was bathed in sunshine. That the wet streets were glistening from the rain that had been falling all morning until ten minutes ago. And that with the Bergen law of averages it would soon start to drizzle again. But right now there was a glimpse of sun, and Katrine Bratt hoped Gunnar Hagen would finish on the other line, so that he could resume the conversation he was having with her. She only wanted to hand over the information she had and get out of Bergen Police Station. Into the fresh Atlantic ozone that tasted so much better than the air her former boss was inhaling at that moment in his office in the east of the capital. Before he released it again in the form of an indignant shout:
‘What do you mean we can’t talk to him yet? Is he out of the coma or not? . . . Yes, I appreciate he’s in a fragile state, but . . . What?’
Katrine hoped that what she had spent the last few days finding out would put Hagen in a better mood than he was obviously in now. She scanned the pages, just to check what she already knew.
‘I don’t give a shit what his solicitor says,’ Hagen said. ‘And I don’t give a shit what the consultant says, either. I want him questioned now!’
Katrine Bratt heard him smack down the receiver. Then, at last, he was back.
‘What was that all about?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ Hagen said.
‘Is it him?’ she asked.
Hagen sighed. ‘Yes, it’s him. He’s coming out of the coma, but they’re doping him up and saying we have to wait at least two days before we can talk to him.’
‘Isn’t it wise to tread warily?’
‘Probably. But as you know we need some results now. The police murders have us on our knees.’
‘Two days won’t make much difference.’
‘I know, I know. But I have to do a bit of barking. I mean, that’s half the point of climbing your way to the top. Isn’t it?’
Katrine Bratt had no answer to that. She’d never had any interest in becoming a boss. And even if she had, she had a suspicion that detectives who had done time in psychiatric wards would not be first in the queue when the big, spacious offices were being allocated. The diagnosis had shifted from manic depression via borderline personality disorder to bipolar and healthy. At least as long as she took the small pink pills to keep her on an even keel. They could criticise the use of pills in psychiatry as much as they liked, for Katrine they had meant a new and better life. But she noticed that her boss kept a watchful eye on her, and that she wasn’t being given more work in the field than absolutely necessary. That was fine, though; she liked sitting in her cramped office with a high-spec computer and exclusive access to search engines even the police didn’t know about. Looking, searching, finding. Tracking down people who had apparently vanished from the surface of the earth. Seeing patterns where others only see chance. That was Katrine Bratt’s speciality and more than once it had been of benefit to Kripos and Crime Squad in Oslo. So they would have to put up with the walking psychosis.
‘You said you had something for me.’
‘It’s been quiet in the department for the last few weeks, so I’ve been having a look at the murdered police officers.’
‘Did your boss at Bergen tell you . . .?’
‘No, no, no. I thought it was better than gawping at Pornhub and playing patience.’
‘I’m all ears.’
Katrine could hear that Hagen was trying to sound positive, but was unable to conceal his despair. He had probably got sick of his hopes being raised only to be dashed in the following months.
‘I’ve gone through the data to see if there were any recurrent names in the original rapes and murders in Maridalen and by Lake Tryvann.’
‘Thanks, Katrine, but we’ve done that, too. Ad nauseam, one might say.’
‘I know. But I work in a slightly different way, you see.’
Deep sigh. ‘Go on then.’
‘I noticed
there were different teams on the two cases. Only two officers from Krimteknisk and three detectives were on both. And none of the five could have had a complete picture of who was brought in for questioning. As neither of the cases was cleared up, it was a protracted affair and the case file was enormous.’
‘Enormous – you can say that again. And naturally it’s right that no one can remember everything that happened during the investigation. But everyone who was brought in for questioning is on the police central registration system. That goes without saying.’
‘That’s exactly the point,’ Katrine said.
‘What’s exactly the point?’
‘When people are brought in for questioning, they’re registered and the interview is filed according to the case they’re brought in for. But sometimes things fall between two stools, such as if the interviewee is already in prison – then the interview is an informal matter in the cell and the person isn’t registered as he’s already on the register.’
‘But the notes from the interview are still in the case file.’
‘Normally, yes. But not if this interview is primarily about another case for which he is the prime suspect, and for example, the murder in Maridalen was only a minor part of the interview, a routine long shot. Then the whole interview is filed under the first case and a search wouldn’t link him to the second case.’
‘Interesting. And you’ve found . . .?’
‘A person who was questioned as a prime suspect in a rape case in Ålesund while he was inside for the assault and attempted rape of an underage girl at a hotel in Otta. During the interview he was also asked about the Maridal case, but afterwards the interview was filed under the Otta rape. The interesting thing is that this person was also hauled in for the Tryvann case, but on that occasion in the usual manner.’
