Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8)

by Jo Nesbo

  Wonder what Harry’s doing tonight.

  No one ever quite knew what Harry was doing, even when you were sitting opposite him. Secret Harry. Not like anyone else. Not like Bjørn Holm, who wore his heart on his sleeve. Who had told her yesterday he would play several Merle Haggard records while waiting by the phone. Eat home-made elk burgers from Skreia. And when she had screwed up her nose he had said, heck, when this was over he would invite her to eat his mother’s elk burgers with fries and initiate her into the secrets of the Bakersfield sound. Which was probably all the music he had. No wonder the guy was single. He’d looked as if he regretted making the offer when she politely refused.

  Truls Berntsen drove through Kvadraturen. The way he did almost every night now. Slowly cruising up and down, here, there and everywhere. Dronningens gate, Kirkegata, Skippergata. Nedre Slottsgate, Tollbugata. This had been his town. And it would become his town again.

  They were prattling away on the radio. Codes which were meant for him, Truls Berntsen, it was him they wanted to keep on the outside. And the idiots probably thought they were succeeding and that he didn’t understand. But they didn’t fool him. Truls Berntsen straightened the mirror, glanced at the service pistol lying on his jacket on the front seat. It was, as usual, the other way round. It was him who would fool them.

  The women on the street ignored him; they recognised the car, knew he wasn’t going to buy their services. A boy wearing make-up and trousers that were far too tight swung round the pole of a No Parking sign like a pole dancer, jutting out a hip and pouting at Truls, who responded by giving him the finger.

  The darkness felt as if it had become a touch denser. Truls leaned into the windscreen and looked up. Clouds were on their way in from the west. He stopped at the lights. Glanced back down at the seat. He had fooled them time after time and was about to fool them again. This was his town, no one could come here and take it away from him.

  He shifted the gun into the glove compartment. The murder weapon. It was so long ago, but he could still see his face. René Kalsnes. The weak lady-boy features. Truls smacked the wheel with his fist. Turn green, for Christ’s sake!

  He had hit him first with the baton.

  Then he had taken his gun.

  Even with his face bleeding, smashed to pieces, Truls had seen the pleading look, heard the begging wheeze, like a punctured cycle tyre. Wordless. Useless.

  He had put the gun in the guy’s nose, fired, seen the jerk, as if it were in a film. Then he had rolled the car over the cliff and driven off. Further down the road he had wiped the baton and thrown it into the forest. He had several more in the bedroom cupboard at home. Weapons, night-vision goggles, bulletproof vest, even a Märklin rifle which they thought was still in the Evidence Room.

  Truls drove down the tunnels and into Oslo’s belly. The car lobby, on the political right, had called the recently constructed tunnels the capital’s vital arteries. A representative of the environment lobby had responded by calling them the town’s bowels. They might be vital but they still carried shit.

  He manoeuvred his way through the spur roads and roundabouts, signposted in the Oslo tradition, so that you had to be a local not to fall foul of the Department of Transport’s practical jokes. Then he was high up. East Oslo. His part of town. On the radio they were rabbiting away. One of the voices was drowned out by a rattling sound. The metro. The idiots. Did they think he couldn’t work out their childish codes? They were in Bergslia. They were outside the yellow house.

  Harry lay on his back watching cigarette smoke slowly curling up to the bedroom ceiling. It formed figures and faces. He knew whose. He could mention them by name, one by one. The Dead Policemen’s Society. He blew on them and they disappeared. He had made a decision. He didn’t know exactly when he’d decided, he only knew it was going to change everything.

  For a while he had tried to convince himself that it didn’t have to be such a risk, that he was exaggerating, but he had been an alcoholic for too many years not to recognise the fool’s ill-judged disdain of the cost. After he’d said what he was going to say now, it would change everything in his relationship with the woman he was lying next to. He was dreading it. Rolled some of the phrases around in his mouth. It was now or never.

  He took a deep breath, but she intervened.

  ‘Can I have a drag?’ Rakel murmured, snuggling closer to him. Her naked skin had that tiled-stove glow he could begin to long for at the most astonishing times. It was warm underneath the duvet, cold on top. White bedlinen, always white bedlinen, nothing else got cold in the same, authentic way.

  He passed her the Camel. Watched her hold it in that clumsy manner of hers, her cheeks hollowing as she squinted at the cigarette, as though it was safest to keep an eye on it. He reflected on all he had.

  All he had to lose.

  ‘Shall I run you to the airport tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  ‘I know. But my first lecture isn’t until late.’

  ‘Drive me then.’ She kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘On two conditions.’

  Rakel rolled over onto her side and eyed him with a quizzical look.

  ‘The first is you never stop smoking like a teenager at a party.’

  She sniggered quietly. ‘I’ll try. And the second?’

  Harry swallowed. Knowing he could come to regard this as the last happy moment of his life.

  ‘I expect . . .’

  Oh, shit.

  ‘I’m considering breaking a promise,’ he said. ‘A promise I’d made primarily to myself, but I’m afraid it affects you as well.’

  He sensed rather than heard her breathing change in the darkness. Shorten, quicken. Fear.

  Katrine yawned. Looked at her watch. At the luminous second hand counting down the time. None of the detectives on the original case had reported receiving a call.

  She should have felt the tension mounting as the deadline approached, but instead it was the opposite, she had already started to work on her disappointment by forcing herself to think positively. Of the hot bath she would have when she got back to her flat. Of the bed. Of the coffee early tomorrow. Another day with new possibilities. There was always something new, there had to be.

  She could see the car headlights on Ring 3: life in Oslo incomprehensibly following its inexorable course. The darkness deepening after the clouds had drawn a curtain in front of the moon. She was about to turn when she froze. A noise. A crack. A twig. Here.

  She held her breath and listened. The position she had been allocated was surrounded by dense bushes and trees, well hidden from any of the paths he might choose. But there hadn’t been any twigs on the paths.

  Another crack. Closer this time. Katrine instinctively opened her mouth, as though the blood, which was pounding through her veins, needed more oxygen.

  Katrine reached for the walkie-talkie. But never got that far.

  He must have moved like greased lightning, yet the breath she felt on her neck was quite calm and the whispering voice by her ear unruffled, cheerful almost.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Katrine turned to him and released her breath in a long hiss. ‘Nothing.’

  Mikael Bellman took her binoculars and studied the house below. ‘Delta has two positions inside the railway line there, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes. How—?’

  ‘I was given a copy of the ops map,’ Bellman said. ‘That’s how I found this observation post. Well hidden, I must say.’ He smacked himself on the forehead. ‘Well I never. Mosquitoes in March.’

  ‘Midges,’ Katrine said.

  ‘Wrong,’ said Mikael Bellman, who was still holding the binoculars to his eyes.

  ‘Well, we’re both right. Midges are similar to mosquitoes, just much smaller.’

  ‘You’re wrong about—’

  ‘Some of them are so small that they don’t suck the blood of humans but other insects. Or their bodily fluids.’ Katrine knew she was babbling ou
t of nervousness, without really knowing why she was nervous. Perhaps because he was the Chief of Police. ‘Of course, insects don’t have—’

  ‘—nothing happening. A car has stopped outside the house. Someone’s getting out and approaching the house.’

  ‘And if a midge . . . What did you say?’

  She took the binoculars from him. Chief of Police or not, this was her post. And he was right. In the light from the street lamps she saw someone who had already walked through the gate and was heading for the front door. He was dressed in red and carrying something she couldn’t identify. Katrine felt her mouth going dry. It was him. It was happening. It was happening now. She grabbed her mobile phone.

  ‘And I don’t break promises lightly,’ Harry said. Staring at the cigarette she had passed back to him. Hoping there was enough for at least one big drag. He was going to need it.

  ‘And which promise is that?’ Rakel’s voice sounded small, helpless. Alone.

  ‘It’s a promise I made to myself . . .’ Harry said, pressing his lips round the filter. Inhaled. Tasted the smoke, the end of the cigarette which for some strange reason has a completely different flavour from the beginning. ‘. . . about never asking you to marry me.’

  In the silence that followed he could hear a gust of wind rustling through the deciduous trees, like an excited, shocked, whispering audience.

  Then came her answer. Like a short walkie-talkie message.

  ‘Repeat.’

  Harry cleared his throat. ‘Rakel, will you marry me?’

  The wind had moved on. And all that remained was silence, calm. Night. In the midst of it, Harry and Rakel.

  ‘Are you pulling my leg?’ She had moved away from him.

  Harry closed his eyes. He was in free fall. ‘I’m not joking.’

  ‘Quite sure?’

  ‘Why would I joke? Do you want this to be a joke?’

  ‘First off, Harry, you have a very bad sense of humour.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Second, I have Oleg to consider. And you do, too.’

  ‘When I think about us getting married, Oleg is a big plus.’

  ‘Third, even if I had wanted to, getting married has a number of legal implications. My house—’

  ‘I had been thinking of separate estates. I’m damned if I’m going to hand over my fortune to you on a silver platter. I can’t promise much, but I can promise the world’s most pain-free divorce.’

  She chuckled. ‘But we’re getting on well as we are, aren’t we, Harry?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got everything to lose. And fourth?’

  ‘Fourth, that’s not how you propose, Harry. In bed, over a cigarette.’

  ‘Well, if you want me on my knees, I’ll have to put my trousers on first.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, I should put my trousers on? Or yes, I—?’

  ‘Yes, you idiot! Yes! I want to marry you.’

  Harry’s reaction was automatic, rehearsed over a long life as a policeman. He turned to the side and checked his watch. Noted the time. 23.11. The nitty-gritty for when he had to write the report. When they arrived at the crime scene, when the arrest was made, when the shot was fired.

  ‘Oh good lord,’ he heard Rakel mumble. ‘What am I saying?’

  ‘Cooling-off period expires in five seconds,’ Harry said, turning back to her.

  Her face was so close to his that all he saw was a hazy sparkle in her wide eyes.

  ‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘And what kind of a grin is that supposed to be?’

  And now Harry could feel it himself, the smile that just kept spreading across his face like a freshly cracked egg in the pan.

  Beate was lying with her legs on the arm of the sofa watching Gabriel Byrne wriggle uncomfortably in the chair. She had worked out it had to be the eyelashes and the Irish accent. The eyelashes of a Mikael Bellman, the lilt of a poet. The man she was seeing had none of these things, but that wasn’t the problem. There was something odd about him. For starters, there was the intensity; he hadn’t understood why he couldn’t visit her if she was by herself this evening. And then there was his background. He had told her things she had gradually discovered didn’t tally.

  Perhaps that wasn’t so unusual: you want to make a good impression and so you lay it on a bit thick.

  On the other hand, perhaps there was something wrong with her. After all, she had tried to google him. Without finding anything. So she had googled Gabriel Byrne instead. Reading with interest that he’d worked as a teddy bear eye-installer before she found what she was really looking for. Spouse: Ellen Barkin (1988–1999). For a moment she’d thought Gabriel was widowed, left behind, like her, until she realised it was probably the marriage that was deceased. And if so Gabriel must have been single for longer than her. Or maybe Wikipedia wasn’t up to date?

  On the screen the female patient flirted at will. But Gabriel wasn’t fooled. He sent her a brief, troubled smile, fixed his gentle eyes on her and said something trivial, which he made sound like a Yeats poem.

  A light flashed on the table and her heart stopped.

  Her mobile. It was ringing. It could be him. Valentin.

  She lifted the phone, looked at the caller. Sighed.

  ‘Yes, Katrine?’

  ‘He’s here.’

  Beate could hear from her colleague’s excitement that it was true, they had a bite.

  ‘Tell . . .’

  ‘He’s standing on the doorstep.’

  Doorstep! That was more than a bite. That was fish for supper. Christ, they had the whole house surrounded.

  ‘He’s just standing there, hesitating.’

  She heard the activity on the walkie-talkie in the background. Get him now, get him now. Katrine answered her prayers. ‘The orders have been given to move in.’

  Beate heard another voice in the background say something. It was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  ‘They’re storming the house now,’ Katrine said.

  ‘Details, please.’

  ‘Delta. All wearing black. Automatics. God, the way they’re running . . .’

  ‘Less colour, more content.’

  ‘Four men running up the path. Blinding him with light. The others are hidden, waiting to see if he has any backup. He’s dropped what he’s holding . . .’

  ‘Has he got a weap—?’

  A shrill, high-pitched ring. Beate groaned. Doorbell.

  ‘He hasn’t got time. They’re on him already. They’ve wrestled him to the ground.’

  Yes!

  ‘Searching him, so it seems. They’re holding something up.’

  ‘Weapon?’

  The doorbell again. Hard, insistent.

  ‘Looks like a remote control.’

  ‘Ooh! A bomb?’

  ‘Don’t know. But they’ve got him now anyway. They’re signalling the situation is under control. Wait . . .’

  ‘I’ve got to open the door. I’ll ring you back.’

  Beate jumped up off the sofa. Jogged to the door. Wondering how to explain to him that this wasn’t acceptable, that if she said she wanted to be alone she meant it.

  And as she opened the door she thought about how far she had come. From the quiet, shy, self-sacrificing girl, who had graduated from the same police college her father had attended, to the woman who not only knew what she wanted but did what she had to do to achieve it. It had been a long and at times hard road, but the reward was worth every single step.

  She looked at the man opposite her. The reflected light from his face hit her retina, was converted into visual signals and fed her fusiform gyrus with the data.

  Behind her she heard Gabriel Byrne’s reassuring voice; she thought it said: ‘Don’t panic now.’

  By which time her brain had recognised the face before her.

  Harry could feel the orgasm coming. His own. The sweet, sweet pain, the muscles in his back and abdomen tensing. He closed the door on what he could see and opened his eyes. Looked down at Rakel,
who was staring up at him with glassy eyes. The blood vessel on her forehead bulged. A jerk went through her body and face every time he thrust. She seemed to be trying to say something. And he became aware that this was not the suffering, offended look she generally wore before she came, this was something else, a terror in her eyes he could only once remember having seen before, also here in this room. He became aware she had both hands around his wrist, trying to drag his hand off her neck.

  He waited. Not knowing why, but he wouldn’t slacken his grip. Felt the resistance in her body, saw her eyes bulge. Then he let go.

  Heard the hiss as she inhaled air.

  ‘Harry . . .’ Her voice was hoarse, unrecognisable. ‘What were you doing?’

  He looked down at her. He had no answer.

  ‘You . . .’ She coughed. ‘You mustn’t hold on so long!’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I got a bit carried away.’

  Then he felt it come. Not the orgasm, but something similar. A pain in his chest that rose into his throat and spread to behind his eyes.

  He slumped down beside her. Buried his face in the pillow. Felt the tears come. Rolled to the side, away from her, took deep breaths, fought them. What the hell was going on with him?

  ‘Harry?’

  He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  ‘Is something wrong, Harry?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just tired,’ he said into the pillow.

  He felt her hand on his neck, caressing him gently, then it lay over his chest and she snuggled up to his back.

  And he thought what he had always known at some point he was going to think: how could he ask someone he loved so much to share her life with someone like him?

  Katrine lay with her mouth open, listening to the furious communication on the walkie-talkie. Behind her Mikael Bellman was cursing. It wasn’t a remote control the man on the step had in his hand.

  ‘It’s a payment terminal,’ a breathless voice rasped.

  ‘And what’s in his bag?’