by Jo Nesbo
‘You’re pushing your luck. I’ll try anyway. What are we going to do with it?’
‘Compare the handwriting. There’s a handwriting expert called Jean Hue who worked at Kripos before he retired. Get him to the office for seven tomorrow.’
‘So early? D’you think he’ll-’
‘You’re right. I’ll scan Adele’s registration card and email it to you so you can go to Jean’s place with both this evening.’
‘This evening?’
‘He’ll be happy to see you. If you had any other plans, they are hereby cancelled.’
‘Great. By the way, sorry about the late call last night.’
‘No worries. Entertaining story.’
‘I was a bit tipsy.’
‘Thought so.’
Harry rang off.
‘Thanks for all your help,’ he said.
The receptionist responded with a smile.
The coffee-brown envelope had finally found a new owner.
Kjersti Rodsmoen went into the common room and over to the woman looking out of the window at the rain falling on Sandviken’s timber houses. In front of her was an untouched slice of cake with a little candle on.
‘This phone was found in your room, Katrine,’ she said softly. ‘The ward sister brought it to me. You know they’re forbidden, don’t you?’
Katrine nodded.
‘Anyway,’ Rodsmoen said, passing it over, ‘it’s ringing.’
Katrine Bratt took the vibrating mobile phone and pressed answer.
‘It’s me,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘I’ve got four women’s names here. I’d like to know which of them was not booked on flight RA101 to Kigali on the 25th of November. And to receive confirmation that this person was not in any booking system for a Rwandan hotel that same night.’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Auntie.’
Silence for a second.
‘I see. Ring when you can.’
Katrine passed the phone back to Rodsmoen. ‘My auntie wishing me many happy returns.’
Kjersti Rodsmoen shook her head. ‘Rules say the use of phones is forbidden. So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a phone, so long as you don’t use it. Just make sure the ward sister doesn’t see it, OK?’
Katrine nodded, and Rodsmoen left.
Katrine sat looking out of the window for a while, then got up and went towards the Hobbies Room. The ward sister’s voice reached her as she was about to cross the threshold.
‘What are you going to do, Katrine?’
Katrine answered without turning. ‘Play solitaire.’
33
Leipzig
Gunnar Hagen took the lift down to the basement.
Down. Downer. Downtrodden. Downsized.
He got out and set off through the culvert.
But Bellman had kept his promise, he hadn’t blabbed. And he had thrown him a line, a top-management post in the new, expanded Kripos. Harry’s report had been short and to the point. No results. Any idiot would have realised it was time to start swimming towards the lifebuoy.
Hagen opened the door at the end of the culvert without knocking.
Kaja Solness smiled sweetly while Harry Hole – sitting in front of the computer screen with a telephone to his ear – didn’t even turn round, just sang out ‘siddown-boss-want-some-crap-coffee?’ as though the unit head’s doppelganger had announced his forthcoming arrival.
Hagen stood in the doorway. ‘I received the message that you were unable to find Adele Vetlesen. Time to pack up. Time was up ages ago, and you’re needed for other cases. At least you are, Kaja Solness.’
‘Dankeschon, Gunther,’ Harry said on the telephone, put it down and swivelled round.
‘Dankeschon?’ Hagen repeated.
‘Leipzig Police,’ Harry said. ‘By the way, Katrine Bratt sends her regards, boss. Remember her?’
Hagen eyed his inspector with suspicion. ‘I thought Bratt was in a mental institution.’
‘No doubt about that,’ Harry said, getting up and making for the coffee machine. ‘But the woman’s a genius at searching the Net. Speaking of searches, boss…’
‘Searches?’
‘Could you see your way to giving us unlimited funds to mount a search?’
Hagen’s eyes almost popped out. Then he burst out laughing. ‘You’re bloody incredible, Harry, you are. You’ve just wasted half the travel budget on a fiasco in the Congo and now you want a police search operation? This investigation comes to a halt right now. Do you understand?’
‘I understand…’ Harry said, pouring coffee into two cups and passing one to Hagen, ‘… so much more. And soon you will too, boss. Grab my chair and listen to this.’
Hagen looked from Harry to Kaja. Stared sceptically at the coffee. Then he sat down. ‘You’ve got two minutes.’
‘It’s quite simple.’ Harry said. ‘According to Brussels Airlines passenger lists Adele Vetlesen travelled to Kigali on the 25th of November. But according to passport control no one of that name entered the country. What happened is that a woman with a false passport made out in Adele’s name travelled from Oslo. The false passport would have worked without a hitch until she reached her final destination in Kigali, because that’s where it’s computer-checked and the number’s matched, isn’t it? So this mysterious woman must have used her own passport, which was genuine. Passport control officials don’t ask to see the name on your ticket, so any mismatch between passport and ticket is not discovered. So long as no one looks, of course.’
‘But you did?’
‘Yup.’
‘Couldn’t it just be an administrative oversight? They forgot to register Adele’s arrival?’
‘Indeed. But then there’s the postcard…’
Harry nodded to Kaja, who held up a card. Hagen saw a picture of something akin to a smoking volcano.
‘This was posted in Kigali the same day she was supposed to have arrived,’ Harry said. ‘But first of all, this is a picture of Nyiragongo, a volcano situated in the Congo, not Rwanda. Secondly, we got Jean Hue to compare the handwriting on this card with the check-in card the alleged Adele Vetlesen filled in at the Gorilla Hotel.’
‘He established beyond doubt what even I can see,’ Kaja said. ‘It’s not the same person.’
‘Alright, alright,’ Hagen said. ‘But where are you going with all of this?’
‘Someone has gone to great effort to make it seem as if Adele Vetlesen went to Africa,’ Harry said. ‘My guess is that Adele was in Norway and was forced to write the card. Then it was taken to Africa by a second person who sent it back. All to give the impression that Adele had travelled there and written home about her dream guy and that she wouldn’t be back before March.’
‘Any idea who the impersonator might be?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘The immigration authorities at Kigali Airport found a card made out in the name of Juliana Verni. But our friendly fruitcake in Bergen says this name was not registered on any airline passenger lists to Rwanda or at any hotels with modern, electronic booking equipment on the date in question. But she is on the Rwandan passenger list from Kigali three days later.’
‘Would I like to know how you acquired this information?’
‘No, boss. But you would like to know who and where Juliana Verni is.’
‘And that is?’
Harry looked at his watch. ‘According to the information on the landing card, she lives in Leipzig, Germany. Ever been to Leipzig, boss?’
‘No.’
‘Nor me. But I know it’s famous for being the home town of Goethe, Bach plus one of the waltz kings. What’s his name again?’
‘What has this got to do with…?’
‘Well, you see, Leipzig is also famous for holding the main archives of the Stasi, the security police. The town was in the old GDR. Did you know that over the forty years the GDR existed the German spoken in the East developed in such a way that a sensitive ear can hear the differ
ence between East and West Germans?’
‘Harry…’
‘Sorry, boss. The point is that in late November a woman with an East German accent was in the town of Goma in the Congo, which is just a three-hour drive from Kigali. And I’m positive that, while there, she bought the murder weapon that took the lives of Borgny Stem-Myhre and Charlotte Lolles.’
‘We’ve been sent a copy of the form the police keep when passports are issued,’ Kaja said, passing Hagen a sheet of paper.
‘Matches Van Boorst’s description of the buyer,’ Harry said. ‘Juliana Verni had big rust-red curls.’
‘Brick red,’ Kaja said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Hagen said.
Kaja pointed to the sheet. ‘She’s got one of the old-fashioned passports with hair colour listed. They called it “brick red”. German thoroughness, you know.’
‘I’ve also asked the police in Leipzig to confiscate her passport and check it has a stamp from Kigali on the date in question.’
Gunnar Hagen stared blankly at the printout. He appeared to be trying to absorb what Harry and Kaja had said. At length he looked up with one raised bushy eyebrow. ‘Are you telling me… are you telling me that you may have the person who…’ The POB swallowed, struggled to find an indirect way of saying it, terrified that this miracle, this mirage might vanish if he said it aloud. But he gave up the attempt. ‘… is our serial killer?’
‘I’m not saying any more than what I’m saying,’ Harry said. ‘For the moment. My colleague in Leipzig is going through her personal data and criminal records now, so we’ll soon know a bit more about Fraulein Verni.’
‘But this is fantastic news,’ Hagen said, sending a gleam from Harry to Kaja, who gave him a nod of encouragement.
‘Not…’ Harry said, with a swig from his cup of coffee, ‘… for Adele Vetlesen’s family.’
Hagen’s smile faded. ‘True. Do you think there’s any hope for…?’
Harry shook his head. ‘She’s dead, boss.’
‘But…’
At that moment the telephone rang.
Harry took it. ‘Ja, Gunther!’ And repeated with a strained smile: ‘Ja, Dirty Harry. Genau.’
Gunnar Hagen and Kaja observed Harry as he listened in silence. Harry rounded off the conversation with a ‘Danke’ and cradled the receiver. Cleared his throat.
‘She’s dead.’
‘Yes, you said that,’ Hagen said.
‘No, Juliana Verni is. She was found in the River Elster on the 2nd of December.’
Hagen cursed under his breath.
‘Cause of death?’ Kaja asked.
Harry stared into the distance. ‘Drowning.’
‘Might have been an accident.’
Harry shook his head slowly. ‘She didn’t drown in water.’
In the ensuing silence they heard the rumble of the boiler in the adjacent room.
‘Wounds in the mouth?’ Kaja asked.
Harry nodded. ‘Twenty-four to be precise. She was sent to Africa to bring back the instrument that would kill her.’
34
Medium
‘So Juliana Verni was found dead in Leipzig three days after she flew home from Kigali,’ Kaja said. ‘Where she’d travelled as Adele Vetlesen, booked in at the Gorilla Hotel as Adele Vetlesen and sent a postcard written by the real Adele Vetlesen, probably dictated.’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Harry, who was in the process of brewing some more coffee.
‘And you think that Verni must have done that in collusion with someone,’ Hagen said. ‘And this second person killed her to cover the traces.’
‘Yes,’ Harry said.
‘So it’s just a question of finding the link between her and this second person. That shouldn’t be too difficult. They must have been very close if they committed this kind of crime together.’
‘Well in that case I’d have thought it would be pretty difficult.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because,’ Harry said, smacking down the lid of the machine and flicking the switch, ‘Juliana Verni had a record. Drugs. Prostitution. Vagrancy. In short, she was the type it would have been easy to hire for a job like this, if the money was right. And everything so far suggests that the person behind it won’t have left any clues for us, that he has considered most angles. Katrine discovered that Verni travelled from Leipzig to Oslo. From there she continued to Kigali using Adele’s name. Nevertheless, Katrine did not find so much as a phone conversation between Verni’s mobile and Norway. This person has been scrupulous.’
Hagen shook his head dejectedly. ‘So close…’
Harry sat on the desk. ‘There is another dilemma we have to resolve. The overnight guests at Havass cabin that night.’
‘What about them?’
‘We cannot exclude the possibility that the page torn out of the guest book is a hit list. They have to be warned.’
‘How? We don’t know who they are.’
‘Through the media. Even if it means we would be letting the killer know we’ve picked up his trail.’
Hagen slowly shook his head. ‘Hit list. And you’ve only reached this conclusion now?’
‘I know, boss.’ Harry met Hagen’s eyes. ‘If I’d gone to the media with a warning as soon as we stumbled on the Havass cabin, it might have saved Elias Skog’s life.’
The room went quiet.
‘We can’t go to the media,’ Hagen said.
‘Why not?’
‘If someone responds to the media alert, perhaps we can find out who else was in the cabin and what really happened,’ Kaja said.
‘We can’t go to the media,’ Hagen said, getting to his feet. ‘We’ve been investigating a missing persons case and uncovered links with a murder case, which is in the Kripos hands. We have to pass the information on and let them take it further. I’ll ring Bellman.’
‘Wait!’ Harry said. ‘Should he take all the credit for what we’ve done?’
‘I’m not sure there will be any credit to share, will there?’ Hagen said, heading for the door. ‘And you can start moving out now.’
‘Isn’t that a trifle hasty?’ Kaja said.
The other two looked at her.
‘I mean, we’ve still got a missing person here. Shouldn’t we try to locate her before we tidy up?’
‘And how were you going to go about that?’ Hagen asked.
‘As Harry said before. A search.’
‘You don’t even know where you should bloody search.’
‘Harry knows.’
They looked at the man who had just grabbed the jug from the coffee machine with one hand and was holding his cup under the mud-brown stream with the other.
‘Do you?’ Hagen said at length.
‘Yes, I do,’ Harry said.
‘Where?’
‘You’ll get into hot water,’ Harry said.
‘Shut up, and out with it,’ Hagen said, without noticing the contradiction. Because he was thinking, here I am, doing it again. What was it about this tall, fair-haired policeman who always managed to drag others along when he took headlong plunges?
Olav Hole looked up at Harry and the woman beside him.
She had curtsied when she introduced herself, and Harry had noticed that his father had liked that; he was always complaining that women had stopped curtsying.
‘So you’re Harry’s colleague,’ Olav said. ‘Does he behave himself ?’
‘We’re off to organise an operation,’ Harry said. ‘Just dropped by to see how you were.’
His father smiled wanly, shrugged and beckoned Harry to come closer. Harry leaned forward, listened. And flinched.
‘You’ll be alright,’ Harry said in a sudden hoarse voice and stood up. ‘I’ll be back this evening, OK?’
In the corridor Harry stopped Altman and motioned for Kaja to go on ahead.
‘Listen, I was wondering if you could do me a big favour,’ he said when Kaja was out of range. ‘My father’s just told me t
hat he’s in pain. He would never admit that to you because he’s afraid you’ll give him more painkillers, and, well, he has a pathological fear of becoming dependent on… drugs. There’s a bit of family history here, you see.’
‘Thee,’ the nurse lisped and there was a moment of confusion until Harry realised that Altman had repeated ‘see’. ‘The problem is that I’m being shifted between wards at the moment.’
‘I’m asking this as a personal favour.’
Altman screwed up one eye behind his glasses, staring thoughtfully at a point between himself and Harry. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’
Kaja drove while Harry was on the phone to the chief of operations at Briskeby Fire Station.
‘Your father seems like a nice man,’ Kaja said as Harry rang off.
Harry took that in. ‘Mum made him good,’ he said. ‘When she was alive he was good. She brought out the best in him.’
‘Sounds like something you’ve been through yourself,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Someone made you good.’
Harry looked out of the window. Nodded.
‘Rakel?’
‘Rakel and Oleg,’ Harry said.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to…’
‘It’s alright.’
‘It’s just that when I came to Crime Squad everyone was talking about the Snowman case. About him trying to kill them. And you. But it was already over before the case began, wasn’t it?’
‘In a way,’ Harry said.
‘Have you had any contact with them?’
Harry shook his head. ‘We had to try to put it behind us. Help Oleg to forget. When they’re that young they still can.’
‘Not always,’ Kaja said with a sardonic smile.
Harry glanced at her. ‘And who made you good?’
‘Even,’ she answered without any hesitation.
‘No great romantic passions?’
She shook her head. ‘No XLs. Just a few smalls. And one medium.’
‘Got your cap set at someone?’
She chuckled. ‘Cap set at someone?’
Harry smiled. ‘My vocabulary is somewhat old-fashioned in that area.’
