Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8)

by Jo Nesbo

  17

  ‘SO YOU’VE MOVED in here, have you?’ Beate said, looking around the spacious kitchen. Outside the window, darkness had descended over Holmenkollen Ridge and the neighbouring houses. None of the houses was the same, but they were all twice the size of the house Beate had inherited from her mother in East Oslo and they had hedges that were double the height, double garages and double-barrelled names on the letter boxes. Beate knew she was prejudiced about West Oslo, but it was still strange to see Harry Hole in these surroundings.

  ‘Yes,’ Harry said, pouring coffee for both of them.

  ‘Isn’t it . . . lonely?’

  ‘Mm. Don’t you and the littl’un live on your own as well?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ She didn’t continue. What she wanted to say was that she lived in a cosy yellow house erected in the Einar Gerhardsen socialist spirit of the reconstruction period after the Second World War, sober and practical, with none of the national-romantic fashion that caused the affluent to build log-cabin-like fortresses such as this. With black-stained timbers, which even on sunny days gave an atmosphere of eternal darkness and melancholy to the house Rakel had inherited from her father.

  ‘Rakel comes home at the weekends,’ he said, lifting his cup to his mouth.

  ‘So things are good?’

  ‘Things are very good.’

  Beate nodded and studied him. The changes. He had laughter lines around his eyes, but still looked younger. The titanium prosthesis replacing his middle finger on the right hand clinked against the cup.

  ‘What about you?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Good. Busy. The little one’s off school staying with his grandmother in Steinkjer.’

  ‘Really? Scary how quickly . . .’ He half closed his eyes and chuckled.

  ‘Yes,’ Beate said, sipping her coffee. ‘Harry, I wanted to meet you because I’d like to know what happened.’

  ‘I know,’ Harry said. ‘I meant to contact you. But I had to sort things out with Oleg. And myself.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  ‘OK,’ Harry said, putting down his cup. ‘You were the only person I informed while it was going on. You helped me, and I owe you a great debt of thanks, Beate. And you’re the only person who’ll ever know. But are you sure you want to know? It could put you in a bit of a dilemma.’

  ‘I was an accessory the moment I started helping you, Harry. And we got rid of violin. It’s not on the streets any more.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Harry said drily. ‘The market’s back on heroin, crack and speedballs.’

  ‘And the man behind violin’s gone. Rudolf Asayev’s dead.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh? You knew he was dead? Did you know he was in a coma under a false name at the Rikshospital for more than a year before he died?’

  Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Asayev? I thought he died in a room at Hotel Leon.’

  ‘He was found there. With blood from wall to wall. But they managed to keep him alive. Until now. How do you know about Hotel Leon? All of that was kept under wraps.’

  Harry didn’t answer, just twirled the cup in his hand.

  ‘Oh no . . .’ Beate groaned.

  Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘I said you might not want to know.’

  ‘It was you who stabbed him?’

  ‘Would it help if I said it was in self-defence?’

  ‘We found a bullet in the wooden bed frame. But the wound from the knife was big and deep, Harry. The pathologist said the blade must have been twisted round several times.’

  Harry looked down into his cup. ‘Well, I obviously didn’t do a thorough enough job.’

  ‘Honestly, Harry . . . you . . . you . . .’ Beate wasn’t used to raising her voice, and it sounded like a quivering saw blade.

  ‘He turned Oleg into a junkie, Beate.’ Harry’s voice was low, and he spoke without looking up from the cup.

  They sat in silence listening to the expensive Holmenkollen silence.

  ‘Was it Asayev who shot you in the head?’ Beate asked at length.

  Harry ran his finger over the new scar at the side of his forehead. ‘What makes you think it’s a bullet wound?’

  ‘Well, what do I know about gunshot wounds? I’m just a forensics officer.’

  ‘OK. It was a guy who had worked for Asayev,’ Harry said. ‘Three shots at close range. Two in the chest. The third in the head.’

  Beate looked at Harry. Knowing he was telling the truth. But it wasn’t the whole truth.

  ‘And how did you survive that?’

  ‘I’d been walking round with a bulletproof vest on for two days. So it was about time it did something useful. But the shot to the head knocked me out. And would have killed me if . . .’

  ‘If . . .?’

  ‘If the guy who shot me hadn’t run to the A&E in Storgata. He badgered a doctor to come along, and he saved me.’

  ‘What? Why haven’t I heard any of this?’

  ‘The doctor bandaged me up on the spot and wanted to send me to hospital, but I woke up in time and made sure I was sent home instead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t want any fuss. How’s Bjørn these days? Got himself a girl?’

  ‘This guy . . . first of all he tried to shoot you and then he saved your life? Who—?’

  ‘He didn’t try to shoot me, it was an accident.’

  ‘Accident? Three shots is no accident, Harry.’

  ‘If you’re going cold turkey and holding an Odessa, it can happen.’

  ‘Odessa?’ Beate knew the weapon. The cheap copy of the Russian Stechkin. In pictures the Odessa looked like it had been welded together by a schoolboy of average skill in a metalwork class, the clumsy, illegitimate progeny of a pistol and a machine gun. But it was popular with Russian Urkas and professional criminals because it could fire both single shots and salvos. The slightest pressure on an Odessa and you had suddenly let off two rounds. Or three. It struck her that the Odessa had the rare Makarov 9x18mm calibre bullets, the same ammunition that had killed Gusto Hanssen.

  ‘I’d like to see that weapon,’ she said slowly, watching Harry’s eyes automatically wander around the living room. She turned. She couldn’t see anything there, just an ancient black corner cupboard.

  ‘You didn’t say who the guy was,’ Beate said.

  ‘It’s not important,’ Harry said. ‘He’s long been outside your jurisdiction.’

  Beate nodded. ‘You’re protecting someone who almost took your life.’

  ‘All the more credit to him that he saved it.’

  ‘Is that why you’re protecting him?’

  ‘How we choose who we protect is often a riddle, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ Beate said. ‘Take me for example. I protect police officers. As I’m handy at facial recognition I questioned the bartender at Come As You Are, the place where this drug dealer of Asayev’s was killed by a tall blond guy with a scar running from his mouth to his ear. I showed the bartender some photos and talked and talked. And as you know, the visual memory is child’s play to manipulate. Witnesses no longer remember what they thought they remembered. In the end, the bartender was sure the man in the bar wasn’t the Harry Hole I showed him in the photos.’

  Harry looked at her. Then he nodded slowly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I was going to say no thanks were necessary,’ Beate said, lifting the cup to her mouth. ‘But they are. And I have a suggestion as to how you could thank me.’

  ‘Beate . . .’

  ‘I protect police officers. You know it’s a personal matter for me when officers die on active duty. Jack. And my father.’ She noticed she automatically touched her earring. The button off her father’s uniform jacket, which she’d had recast. ‘We don’t know whose turn it is next, but I intend to do whatever I can to stop this bastard, Harry. Whatever I can. Do you understand?’

  Harry didn’t answer.

  ‘Sorry, of course you understand,’ Beate said under her breath. ‘You have your own dead to gr
ieve for.’

  Harry rubbed the back of his right hand against the coffee cup as if he was cold. Then he got up and walked to the window. Stood there for a while before he spoke.

  ‘As you know, a murderer came here and tried to kill Oleg and Rakel. And it was my fault.’

  ‘That’s a long time ago, Harry.’

  ‘It was yesterday. It will always be yesterday. Nothing has changed. But I’m trying anyway. To change myself.’

  ‘And how’s it going?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Up and down. Have I told you I never remembered to buy Oleg a birthday present? Even though Rakel reminded me weeks in advance. There was always some case or other supressing my memory. Then I would come up here, find the place all done up for a party and have to leave at once, the old trick as always.’ Harry drew one corner of his mouth into half a smile. ‘I said I had to go and buy some cigarettes, so I jumped in the car, raced to the nearest petrol station, bought a couple of CDs or something. Rakel and I had a deal. When I came in the door Oleg stood there looking at me with those dark, accusatory eyes of his. But before he could search me, Rakel hurried over to give me a hug, as if she hadn’t seen me for years. And while she had her arms round me she tugged the CDs, or whatever the present was, from the back of my trousers, hid it and left the room while Oleg frisked me. Ten minutes later Rakel had wrapped the present, attached a gift tag, the whole caboodle.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And this year Oleg got a properly wrapped present from me. He said he didn’t recognise the writing on the tag. I said that was because it was mine.’

  A smile flitted across Beate’s face. ‘Sweet story. Happy ending and all that.’

  ‘Listen, Beate. I owe those two people everything, and I still need them. And I’m so lucky that they need me, too. As a mother, you know what a blessing and a curse it is to be needed.’

  ‘Yes. And what I’m trying to say is we need you, too.’

  Harry walked back. Leaned across the table to her. ‘Not like these two do, Beate. And no one is irreplaceable at work, not even . . .’

  ‘No, that’s true, we’ll manage to replace the ones that have been killed. One was retired anyway. And we’ll find enough people to take over after the next officers have been butchered as well.’

  ‘Beate . . .’

  ‘Have you seen these?’

  Harry didn’t look down at the pictures she had taken from her bag and laid on the kitchen table.

  ‘Crushed, Harry. Not a bone left intact. Even I had problems identifying them.’

  Harry stayed standing. Like a party host signalling that it was late. But Beate stayed where she was. Sipped from her cup. Didn’t budge. Harry sighed. She took another sip.

  ‘Oleg’s going to study law when he gets back from the clinic, isn’t he? And afterwards apply to Police College.’

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘From Rakel. I spoke to her before coming here.’

  Harry’s bright blue eyes darkened. ‘You what?’

  ‘I rang her in Switzerland and told her what this was about. It was quite improper and I apologise. But, as I said, I will do whatever it takes.’

  Harry’s lips moved, muttering silent imprecations. ‘And what did she answer?’

  ‘That it was up to you.’

  ‘Yes, she probably did.’

  ‘So now I’m asking you, Harry. I’m asking you for Jack Halvorsen’s sake. Ellen Gjelten’s sake. I’m asking you for all the dead officers’ sakes. But above all I’m asking you for those who are still alive. And for those who may become police officers.’

  She watched Harry’s jaw muscles flexing furiously.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to manipulate witnesses for my sake, Beate.’

  ‘You never ask for anything, Harry.’

  ‘Well, it’s late, so I’m asking you to—’

  ‘—leave now.’ She nodded. Harry had a look that made people obey. Then she got up and went into the hall. Put her coat on, buttoned it. Harry stood in the doorway watching her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t intervene in your life. We do a job. It’s only a job.’ She could hear her voice was about to fail her and hurried to add the rest: ‘And of course you’re right. There must be rules and limits. Goodbye.’

  ‘Beate . . .’

  ‘Sleep well, Harry.’

  ‘Beate Lønn.’

  Beate had already opened the front door, trying to get out, out before he could see the tears in her eyes. But Harry stood right behind her holding a hand against the door. His voice was next to her ear.

  ‘Have you wondered how the murderer got the officers to go voluntarily to their old crime scenes on the same date as the murder was committed?’

  Beate let go of the door handle. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I read newspapers. I read that Nilsen had gone to Tryvann in a Golf that was left in the car park, and they were his footprints in the snow down to the ski-lift hut. And that you had CCTV images from a petrol station in Drammen showing Anton Mittet alone in his car before his murder. They knew police had been killed in exactly this way. Yet they still went.’

  ‘Of course we’ve wondered about that,’ Beate said. ‘But we haven’t found the right answer. We know they were called from phone booths not far from the crime scenes, so our guess is they knew who it was and this was their chance to catch the murderer on their own.’

  ‘No,’ Harry said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Forensics found an empty gun and a box of ammo in Anton Mittet’s glove compartment. If he had thought the murderer was there he would have at least loaded the gun first.’

  ‘He might not have had the time and the murderer struck before he could open the glove compartment and—’

  ‘He was called at 22.31, but he filled up with petrol at 22.35. So he had time after he’d received the call.’

  ‘Perhaps he ran out of petrol?’

  ‘Nope. Aftenposten has put the petrol station video online under the heading: “THE LAST IMAGES OF ANTON MITTET BEFORE HE WAS EXECUTED”. It shows a man filling up for only thirty seconds before the pump trigger clicks, meaning the tank is full. So Mittet had plenty of petrol to get to the crime scene and back home, which in turn means he wasn’t in any hurry.’

  ‘Right. So he could have loaded the gun, but he didn’t.’

  ‘Tryvann,’ Harry said. ‘Bertil Nilsen also had a gun in the glove compartment of his car. Which he didn’t take with him. Accordingly we have two officers with experience of murder cases who turn up at unsolved crime scenes even though they know a colleague has recently been murdered in this way. They could have armed themselves, but they didn’t and apparently they had plenty of time to do so. Veteran policemen who have stopped playing the hero. What does all this tell you?’

  ‘OK, Harry,’ Beate said, turning, leaning back against the door and shutting it, ‘what should it tell us?’

  ‘It should tell you that they didn’t think they were going to catch a murderer there.’

  ‘Well, so they didn’t think that. Perhaps they thought it was a rendezvous with a beautiful woman who got a kick out of having sex at crime scenes.’

  Beate meant this as a joke, but Harry answered without batting an eyelid. ‘Not enough notice.’

  Beate considered the matter. ‘What if the murderer pretended to be a journalist interested in talking about other unsolved cases in the wake of these? And told Mittet he wanted to talk late at night to get the right atmosphere for the photographs?’

  ‘It takes a bit of an effort to get to the crime scenes. At least to Tryvann it does. I read that Bertil Nilsen drove from Nedre Eiker, which is a thirty-minute drive. And serious police officers don’t volunteer their time in order to give the press another shocking murder headline.’

  ‘When you say they don’t volunteer their time, do you mean . . .?’

  ‘Yes, I do. My guess is they thought it was work.’

  ‘And it was a colleague ringing?
’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘The murderer rang them, pretending to be a policeman working at the crime scene because . . . because it was a potential scenario for the cop killer to strike next time and . . . and . . .’ Beate rubbed the uniform button in her ear. ‘. . . and said he needed their help to reconstruct the original murder!’

  She could feel herself smiling like a schoolgirl who had just given the teacher the right answer, and she blushed like one when Harry laughed.

  ‘We’re getting warmer. But with the restrictions on overtime I’d imagine Mittet would have been surprised to be summoned in the middle of the night and not during working hours.’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘Oh?’ Harry said. ‘What kind of call from a colleague would make you go anywhere at all in the middle of the night?’

  Beate smacked her forehead. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We’ve been such idiots!’

  18

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU saying?’ Katrine said, shivering in the cold gusts of wind as they stood on the steps outside the yellow house on Bergslia. ‘He rings his victims and says the police murderer has struck again?’

  ‘It’s as simple as it’s brilliant,’ Beate said, confirming the key fitted, turning it and opening the door. ‘They get a call from someone pretending to be a detective. He says he wants them at the crime scene right away because they know all about the previous murder and they need information to see if it can help them to make the correct decisions while the evidence is still fresh.’

  Beate went in first. She knew her way around of course. It was more than a cliché to say forensics officers never forgot a crime scene. She came to a halt in the living room. The sunlight fell from the window and lay in crooked rectangles on the bare, evenly faded wooden floor. It must have been sparsely furnished for years. The family had probably taken most of it with them after the murder.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Ståle Aune, who had taken up a position by a window overlooking the forest between the house and what he assumed to be Berg School. ‘The murderer uses the hysteria he has created himself as bait.’

  ‘If I got a call like that I would consider it very plausible,’ Katrine said.