Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8)

by Jo Nesbo

  The hymn was over and the priest had started on the marriage vows – Will you love and honour her . . .? – but he and Rakel ignored the ceremony and still faced each other, and Harry knew he would never let her go, however much he had to lie, however impossible it was to promise you would love a person until their dying day. He hoped the priest would soon shut up so that he could say the yes that was already bubbling joyfully in his chest.

  Ståle Aune took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and passed it to his wife.

  Harry had just said yes and the echo of his voice still hung beneath the church’s vaulted roof.

  ‘What?’ Ingrid whispered.

  ‘You’re crying, love,’ he whispered.

  ‘No, you’re the one who’s crying.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Ståle Aune checked. He was indeed crying. Not much, but enough for him to detect wet patches on his handkerchief. He didn’t cry proper tears, Aurora would say. It was just thin, invisible water that, without any kind of prior warning, could run down both sides of his nose, although no one around him had considered the situation, film or conversation especially moving. It was just a gasket that blew inside and then the water flowed. He would have liked to have Aurora along with them, but she was taking part in a two-day handball tournament at Nadderud Sports Hall, and had just texted him to say they had won the first match.

  Ingrid straightened Ståle’s tie and placed a hand on his shoulder. He put his on hers and knew she was thinking the same thoughts as he was, about their own wedding.

  The case was over and he had written a psychological report. In it he had speculated that the weapon Arnold Folkestad had shot himself with was the same one that had been used to murder Gusto Hanssen. And that there were several similarities between Gusto Hanssen and René Kalsnes. Both were very attractive young men who had no scruples about selling sexual favours to men of all ages, and it may have been that Folkestad had a propensity to fall in love with such types. Nor was it improbable that someone with Folkestad’s paranoid schizophrenic symptoms might have murdered Gusto out of jealousy or for a whole string of other reasons based on delusions as a result of a profound psychosis, though this might not necessarily have been noticeable to the outside world. Here Ståle had attached notes from the time Arnold Folkestad had worked in Kripos and come to him complaining about hearing voices. Even though psychologists had long concurred that hearing voices was not always synonymous with schizophrenia, Aune had tended to the view that in Folkestad’s case it was and started preparing a diagnosis that would have finished Folkestad’s career as a detective. But it had never become necessary to send the report as Folkestad decided to resign after telling Aune about his approach towards an unnamed colleague. He had also terminated the treatment and thus disappeared off Aune’s radar. However, it was clear that there had been a couple of events that might have triggered his deterioration. One was the head injuries he had received which had necessitated a longish stay in hospital. There was significant research showing that even light blows to the brain could cause behavioural changes, such as increased aggression and decreased impulse control. The blows, incidentally, bore a likeness to those he dealt to his victims. And the second event was the loss of René Kalsnes, with whom, witnesses’ testimonies suggested, he had been wildly, almost manically, in love. It was no surprise that Folkestad had concluded what he obviously regarded as his mission by taking his own life. The only caveat had to be that he hadn’t left anything in writing or said anything to justify what he had done. It was normal for megalomaniacs to feel a need to be remembered, understood, declared a genius, admired and to find a well-deserved place in history.

  The psychological report had been well received. It was the final piece in the puzzle, Mikael Bellman had said.

  But Ståle Aune had a suspicion that it was another aspect which had been of paramount importance for the police. With this diagnosis he put an end to what otherwise could have become a bitter and problematic issue: how could one of the force’s own men be behind the massacre? Folkestad was only an ex-policeman, it was true, but nevertheless, what did this say about the profession and what did it say about the culture inside the police force?

  Now they could shelve the debate because a psychologist had concluded that Arnold Folkestad had been insane. Insanity has no cause. Insanity just is, a kind of natural disaster that strikes out of the blue, the kind of thing that can happen. And afterwards you have to get on with your life because what else can you do?

  That was how Bellman and the others reasoned.

  That was not how Ståle Aune reasoned.

  But it would have to rest for now. Ståle was back in his consulting room full-time, but Gunnar Hagen had said he would like to have the Boiler Room gang as a unit permanently on call, a bit like Delta. Katrine had already been offered a job as a detective in Crime Squad and had accepted it. She claimed she had several compelling reasons to move from her wonderful, beautiful Bergen to the wretched capital.

  The organist started up, Ståle could hear the creak of the pedals, and then came the notes. And then the bride and groom. Now the newly-weds. They didn’t need to nod left and right, there were so few people in the church you could encapsulate them all in one glance.

  The party afterwards was to be at Schrøder’s. Harry’s watering hole was of course not quite what you associated with a wedding celebration, but according to Harry it had been Rakel’s decision, not his.

  The guests turned and followed Rakel and Harry, who continued past the empty rows of pews at the back towards the door. Towards the June sun, Ståle thought. Towards the rest of the day. Towards the future. The three of them, Oleg, Rakel and Harry.

  ‘Oh, Ståle,’ Ingrid said, tugging the handkerchief from his breast pocket and handing it to him.

  Aurora sat on the bench and could hear from the cheering that her teammates had scored again.

  It was the second match today they were on their way to winning, and she reminded herself that she had to text Dad. Actually for herself she didn’t much care whether they won or lost, and Mummy definitely didn’t care. But Dad always reacted as if she was the new world champion whenever she reported another victory in the girls’ under-13s league.

  As Emilie and Aurora had played almost all the first match, they were on the bench for most of this one. Aurora had started counting the spectators in the stands on the other side of the court, and there were only two rows left. Most of them were parents of course and players from other teams who were taking part in the tournament, but she thought she had seen a familiar face up there.

  Emilie nudged her. ‘Aren’t you following the match?’

  ‘Yes, I am. I just . . . Can you see the man up there in the third row? He’s sitting apart from the others. Have you seen him before?’

  ‘Don’t know. Too far away. Don’t you wish you’d gone to the wedding?’

  ‘No, it’s grown-up stuff. I need a pee. Are you coming?’

  ‘In the middle of the match? What if they want us to go on.’

  ‘It’s Charlotte’s or Katinka’s turn. Come on.’

  Emilie looked at her. And Aurora knew what she was thinking. That Aurora didn’t usually ask anyone to go with her to the toilet. Didn’t usually ask for company anywhere.

  Emilie hesitated. Turned back to the court. Glanced at the coach standing with his arms crossed on the sideline. Shook her head.

  Aurora wondered whether she could wait until the game was over, and the others were streaming towards the changing rooms and the toilets.

  ‘I’ll be back in a mo,’ she whispered, getting up and jogging over to the stairs. Turned in the doorway and looked up at the stands. Searched for the face she thought she recognised, but couldn’t see it. Then she ran down the stairs.

  Mona Gamlem stood alone in the cemetery by Bragernes Church. She had driven from Oslo to Drammen and it had taken her some time to find the place. And she’d had to ask her way to the gravestone. The sunlight glistened on the crys
tals in the stone around his name. Anton Mittet. It glistened now more than when he was alive, she thought. But he had loved her. He had, of that she was sure. She popped a piece of mint chewing gum into her mouth. Thinking about what he had said when he had driven her home after the shift at the Rikshospital and they had kissed: he liked the minty taste of her tongue. And the third time, when they were parked in front of her house and she had leaned over to him, unbuttoned his fly and – before she began – discreetly removed the gum from her mouth and stuck it under his seat. And straight afterwards she had started chewing a fresh piece of gum before they kissed again. Because she had to taste of mint; that was the taste he wanted. She missed him. Without having any right to miss him, and that made it even worse. Mona Gamlem heard footsteps crunching up the path behind her. Perhaps it was her. The other woman. Laura. Mona Gamlem started to walk ahead without turning, trying to blink the tears from her eyes, trying to stay on the gravel path.

  The church door opened, but Truls couldn’t see anyone coming out yet.

  He glanced at the magazine on the passenger seat. Magasinet. An interview with Mikael. The happy family man pictured with his wife and three children. The astute, humble Chief of Police who said that the Cop Killer case would not have been solved without his wife Ulla’s support at home. Without all his excellent colleagues at Police HQ. And that the unmasking of Folkestad meant another case had been cleared up. The ballistics report showed that the Odessa gun Arnold Folkestad had shot himself with was the same one that Gusto Hanssen had been killed with.

  Truls had grinned at the thought. No fucking chance. Harry Hole had had a finger in the pie and had been up to his usual tricks. Truls had no idea how or why, but at any rate it meant that Oleg Fauke was off the hook and could stop looking over his shoulder. Hole would get the boy into PHS now as well, you see.

  Fair enough. Truls wouldn’t stand in his way. Great burner job. Respect. Anyway, he hadn’t saved the magazine because of Harry, Oleg or Mikael.

  It was the photo of Ulla he’d been after.

  A temporary setback, that was all, he would get rid of the magazine afterwards. Get rid of her.

  He thought about the woman he had met in the cafe the day before. Internet dating. Of course she couldn’t hold a candle to Ulla or Megan Fox. Bit too old, arse a bit too fat and talked a bit too much. But apart from that he’d liked her. If a woman failed in the age, face and arse categories and was totally unable to keep her mouth shut – could she be any good at all?

  He wasn’t sure. He only knew that he’d liked her.

  Or, to be more precise, he liked the fact that she had apparently liked him.

  Perhaps it had been his ravaged face and she’d felt sorry for him. Or perhaps Mikael had been right: his face had been so unattractive in the first place that a slight rearrangement wouldn’t make any difference.

  Or in some way or other things had changed inside him. What or how he didn’t know exactly, but some days he woke up and felt new. He thought in a different way. Could even talk to people around him in a new way. And it was as though they noticed. As though they treated him in a new way as well. A better way. And that had given him the courage to take another tiny step in this new direction, although he had no idea where it would lead. Not that he had found redemption or anything. The change was minimal. And on some days he didn’t feel new at all.

  Anyway, he thought he would ring her again.

  The police radio crackled. He could hear from the voice rather than the words that it was something important, different from the boring traffic jams, basement break-ins, domestics and rabid drunks. A body.

  ‘Does it look like murder?’ the unit leader asked.

  ‘I would imagine it is.’ The answer was an attempt to deliver the laconic, cool tone that especially the younger guard aspired to. Not that they didn’t have their own models in the older guard. Even though Hole was no longer among them his sayings were still alive and well. ‘Her tongue . . . I think it’s her tongue. It’s been cut off and stuffed up . . .’ The young officer couldn’t take the heat; his voice cracked.

  Truls could feel the exhilaration coming. The life-giving beats as his heart pumped a little faster.

  This sounded nasty. June. She’d had lovely eyes. And he guessed pretty big tits beneath all the clothes. Yes, it was going to be a great summer.

  ‘Got an address?’

  ‘Alexander Kiellands plass, number 22. Shit, loads of sharks here.’

  ‘Sharks?’

  ‘Yes, on those little surfboards. Place is full of them.’

  Truls put the Suzuki into gear. Straightened his sunglasses, pressed the accelerator and let go of the clutch. Some days were new. Others weren’t.

  The girls’ toilet was at the end of the corridor. As the door closed behind Aurora it struck her at first how quiet it was. The noise of all the people upstairs was gone, and there was just her.

  She quickly locked herself in one of the cubicles, pulled down her shorts, knickers and sat on the cold plastic seat.

  Thought about the wedding. Actually she would have preferred to be there. She had never seen anyone get married before, not properly. She wondered if she would get married one day. Tried to imagine it, standing outside a church, laughing and ducking under the shower of confetti, a white dress, a house and a job she liked. A boy she would have children with. She tried to imagine the boy.

  The door opened and someone came into the room.

  Aurora was sitting on a swing in the garden with the sun straight in her eyes and couldn’t see the boy. She hoped he was great. A boy who thought a bit like her. Bit like Dad, but not so scatty. No, as a matter of fact, just as scatty.

  The footsteps were too heavy for a woman.

  Aurora stretched out for some toilet paper, but held back. She had tried to take a breath, but there was nothing there. No air. She felt her throat tighten.

  Too heavy to be a woman’s footsteps.

  They had stopped now.

  She looked down. In the big gap between the door and floor she saw a shadow. And the tips of a pair of long, pointed shoes. Like cowboy boots.

  Aurora didn’t know if the ringing in her head was the wedding bells or the beating of her heart.

  Harry came out onto the steps. Squinted into the bright June sun. Stood with his eyes closed for a moment listening to the church bells pealing out over Oppsal. Feeling that everything was right with the world, at rest, in harmony. Knowing this was how things should end, like this.

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  Epub ISBN: 9781448130405

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Harvill Secker 2013

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  Copyright © Jo Nesbo 2013

  English translation copyright © Don Bartlett 2013

  Map copyright © Neil Gower 2013

  Jo Nesbo has asserted his right under the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  First published with the title Politi in 2013

  by H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard), Oslo

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

  HARVILL SECKER

  Random House

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781
846555961 (hardback)

  ISBN 9781846555978 (trade paperback)