by Jo Nesbo
‘You don’t need to shout,’ Hagen said.
‘You don’t need to, but I do!’ Harry shouted, banging the armrest. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
‘You should be happy Holm’s not going to report you. Why did you hit him anyway? Is he the leak?’
‘Anything else you wanted, boss?’
Hagen looked at his inspector. Then he shook his head. ‘Take a couple of days off, Harry.’
Truls Berntsen had been called a lot of things in his childhood. Most of the nicknames were forgotten now. But he had been given a name soon after he finished school in the early nineties that had stuck: Beavis. The cartoon idiot on MTV. Blond hair, underbite and grunted laugh. OK, maybe he did laugh like that. Had done ever since primary school, especially when someone was given a beating. Especially when he was given a beating. He had read in a comic that the guy who made Beavis and Butt-Head was called Judge; he couldn’t recall the first name. But at any rate, this Judge guy said he imagined that Beavis’s father was a drunkard who beat his son. Truls Berntsen remembered he had just thrown the comic on the floor and left the shop, laughing this grunt laughter.
He had two uncles who were in the police force, and he had managed to satisfy the entrance requirements by the skin of his arse and with two letters of recommendation. And scraped through the exam with at least one helping hand from the guy at the next desk. It was the least he could do; they had been pals since they were small. Sort of pals. To be honest, Mikael Bellman had been his boss since they were twelve years old when they met on the large building site that was being blown up in Manglerud. Bellman had caught him trying to set fire to a dead rat. And had shown him how much more fun it was to stuff a stick of dynamite down a rat’s throat. Truls had even been allowed to light it. And since that day he had followed Mikael Bellman wherever he went. When he was given permission. Mikael knew how to do all the things Truls did not. School, gym lessons, talk so that no one would give you any shit. He even had girls; one of them was older and had tits Mikael was allowed to stroke as much as he liked. There was only one thing Truls was better at: taking a beating. Mikael always backed down when any of the bigger boys found it hard to accept that the show-off had outdone them in the art of badmouthing and went for him with clenched fists. Then Mikael shoved Truls in front of him. For Truls could take a beating. He had plenty of training from home. They could knock him about until blood was drawn, but he still stood there with his grunted laugh, which just made them even wilder. But he couldn’t stop himself, he simply had to laugh. He knew that afterwards he would receive a pat on the shoulder from Mikael, and if it was a Sunday, Mikael might say that Julle and TV were having another race. So they would stand on the bridge below the Ryen intersection, smell the sun-baked tarmac and listen to the Kawasaki 1000cc engines revving up as the cheerleaders screamed and shouted. And then Julle’s and TV’s bikes would tear down Sunday’s traffic-free motorways, pass beneath them and on to the tunnel and Bryn, and they might – if Mikael was in a good mood and Truls’s mother was working a shift at Aker Hospital – go and eat Sunday lunch with fru Bellman.
Once Mikael had rung the bell at Truls’s house and his father had shouted that Jesus had come to collect his disciple.
They had never argued. That is, Truls had never retaliated if Mikael was in a stinking mood and took the piss out of him. Not even at the party when Mikael had called him Beavis and everyone had laughed, and Truls had instinctively known that the name would stick. He had retaliated only once. The time Mikael had called his father one of the drunks from the Kadok factory. Then Truls had gone for Mikael with a raised fist. Mikael had curled up with an arm over his head, told him to take it easy, laughed and said he was just joking, he was sorry. But afterwards it was Truls who had been sorry and apologised.
One day Mikael and Truls had gone into one of the petrol stations where they knew Julle and TV stole fuel. Julle and TV filled the Kawasaki tanks from the self-service pumps while their girls sat at the back with their denim jackets casually tied around their waists covering the number plates. Then the boys jumped on their bikes and rode off full throttle.
Mikael gave them the full names and addresses of Julle and TV, but of just one of the girls, TV’s girlfriend. The owner had looked sceptical, wondering whether he hadn’t seen Truls’s face before on a CCTV camera; at any rate he resembled the lad who had stolen a jerrycan of petrol not long before the empty workmen’s shed at Manglerud went up in flames. Mikael had said he didn’t want any reward for the information, he just wanted the guilty parties held responsible for their actions. He assumed the owner was aware of his social duty. The grown-up man had nodded, somewhat surprised. Mikael had that effect on people. As they left, Mikael said he was going to apply to Police College after school and Beavis should consider doing the same – there were even policemen in his family.
Later, Mikael had got together with Ulla, and they hadn’t seen so much of each other. But after school and Police College they had been employed by the same police station in Stovner, a real east Oslo suburb with gang crimes, burglaries and even the odd murder. After a year Mikael had married Ulla and been promoted. Truls, or Beavis, as he had been called from day three, roughly, reported to him and the future had looked good for Truls and radiant for Mikael. Until some knucklehead, a civilian temp in the salaries office, had accused Bellman of smashing his jaw after the Christmas dinner. He had no proof, and Truls knew for certain that Mikael had not done it. But in all the hubbub Mikael had applied for a move anyway, been accepted at Europol, moved to the head office in The Hague where he soon became a star, too.
When Mikael returned to Norway and Kripos, the second thing he did was to ring Truls and ask: ‘Beavis, are you ready to blow up rats again?’
The first was to employ Jussi.
Jussi Kolkka was a an expert in half a dozen martial arts whose names you forget before they have been fully articulated. He had worked at Europol for four years, and before that he had been a policeman in Helsinki. Jussi Kolkka had been forced to resign from Europol because he had crossed the line during an investigation into a series of rapes targeting teenage girls in southern Europe. Kolkka had, it was said, beaten up a sex offender so badly that even his brief had had trouble recognising him. But he had no trouble threatening Europol with a lawsuit. Truls had tried to get Jussi to tell him the gory detail, but he had just stared into the distance without speaking. Fair enough, Truls wasn’t the talkative type, either. And he had noticed that the less you speak, the greater the chance people will underrate you. Which was not always a bad thing. Nevertheless. Tonight they had reason to celebrate. Mikael, himself, Jussi and Kripos had won. And in Mikael’s absence they would have to call the shots themselves.
‘Shut up!’ shouted Truls, pointing to the TV attached to the wall above the bar at Kafe Justisen. And heard his own nervous grunted laugh when his colleagues actually did what he said. There was silence around the tables and the bar. Everyone was staring at the newsreader, who looked straight into the camera and announced what they had been waiting for.
‘Today Kripos arrested a man suspected of killing six people, including Marit Olsen.’
Cheers broke out, mugs of beer were swung, silencing the newsreader until a deep voice with a Finnish-Swedish accent boomed ‘Shut up!’
The Kripos officers obeyed and focused their attention on Mikael Bellman who was standing outside their building in Bryn with a furry microphone thrust into his face.
‘This person is a suspect, will be interviewed by Kripos and thereafter appear in court for a preliminary hearing,’ Mikael Bellman said.
‘Does that mean you believe the police have solved this case?’
‘Finding the perpetrator and getting him convicted are two different things,’ Bellman said with a tiny smile at the corners of his mouth. ‘However, our investigation at Kripos has uncovered so much circumstantial evidence and so many coincidences that we considered it appropriate to make an immediate arrest as there was a risk of furthe
r crimes and a tampering of evidence.’
‘The man you have arrested is in his thirties. Can you tell us any more about him?’
‘He has a previous conviction for violence; that is all I can say.’
‘On the Internet there are rumours circulating about the man’s identity. Suggesting he’s a well-known investor who among other things is engaged to the daughter of a famous shipowner. Can you confirm these rumours, Bellman?’
‘I don’t think I have to confirm or deny anything except that we at Kripos are fairly confident that we will soon have this case solved.’
The reporter turned to the camera for an outro, but was drowned out by the round of applause at Justisen.
Truls ordered another beer as one of the detectives got up onto a chair and proclaimed that Crime Squad could suck his dick, at least the tip, if they said pretty please. Laughter resounded around the packed, sweaty, fetid room.
At that moment the door opened and in the mirror Truls saw a figure fill the entrance.
He felt a strange excitement at the sight, a tremulous certainty that something was going to happen, that someone would be hurt.
It was Harry Hole.
Tall, broad-shouldered, lean-faced with deep-set bloodshot eyes. He just stood there. And although no one shouted for the crowd to shut up the silence spread from the front to the back of Justisen, until a last shh was heard to quieten two garrulous forensics officers. When the silence was total, Hole spoke.
‘So you’re celebrating the job you succeeded in stealing from us, are you?’
The words were low, almost a whisper, and yet every syllable reverberated around the room.
‘You’re celebrating having a boss who’s prepared to step over dead bodies – those that have piled up outside and those that will soon be carried from the sixth floor at Police HQ – just so that he can be the Sun King of fucking Bryn. Well, here’s a hundred-krone note.’
Truls could see Hole waving a note.
‘You don’t have to steal this. Here, buy yourselves beer, forgiveness, a dildo for Bellman’s threesome…’ He screwed up the note and tossed it onto the floor. From the corner of his eye he could see Jussi was already moving. ‘… or another snitch.’
Hole lurched to the side to gain balance, and it was then that Truls realised that the guy – despite enunciating with the diction of a priest – was as stewed as a prune.
The next moment Hole performed a half-pirouette as Jussi Kolkka’s right hook hit him on the chin, and then a deep, almost gallant bow, as the Finn’s left buried itself in his solar plexus. Truls guessed that in a few seconds Hole – when he had got some air back in his lungs – was going to spew. In here. And Jussi was obviously thinking the same, that he would be better outside. It was a wonder to see how the tubby, almost log-shaped Finn lifted his foot high with the suppleness of a ballerina, placed it against Harry’s shoulder and gently pushed so that the crumpled detective rocked backwards and through the door whence he had come.
The drunkest and youngest of them howled with laughter, but Truls grunted. A couple of the older ones yelled, and one screamed that Kolkka should bloody well behave himself. But no one did anything. Truls knew why. Everyone here remembered the story. Harry had dragged the uniform through the dirt, shat in the nest, taken the life of one of their best men.
Jussi marched towards the bar, po-faced, as if he had carried out the rubbish. Truls whinnied and grunted. He would never understand Finns or Samis or Eskimos or whatever the hell they were.
From further back in the room a man had stood up and made his way to the door. Truls hadn’t seen him at Kripos before, but he had the circumspect eye of a policeman under all that dark, curly hair.
‘Tell me if you need any help with him, sheriff,’ someone shouted from his table.
Three minutes later, when Celine Dion had been turned back up and the chatting had resumed its previous levels, Truls ventured forth, put his foot on the hundred-krone note and took it to the bar.
Harry had his breath back. And he spewed. Once, twice. Then he collapsed again. The tarmac was so cold it stung his ribs through his shirt and so heavy he seemed to be supporting it and not vice versa. Blood-red spots and wriggling black worms danced in front of his eyes.
‘Hole?’
Harry heard the voice, but knew that if he showed he was conscious it would be open season for a kicking. So he kept his eyes closed.
‘Hole?’ The voice had come closer and he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Harry also knew that the alcohol would have reduced his speed, accuracy and ability to judge distances, but he did it anyway. He opened his eyes, twisted over and aimed for the larynx. Then he collapsed again.
He had missed by half a metre.
‘I’ll get you a taxi,’ the voice said.
‘Will you fuck,’ Harry groaned. ‘Piss off, you bloody bastard.’
‘I’m not Kripos,’ the voice said. ‘My name’s Krongli. The County Officer from Ustaoset.’
Harry turned and squinted up at him.
‘I’m just a bit pissed,’ Harry said hoarsely and tried to breathe calmly so that the pain wouldn’t force the contents of his stomach up again. ‘No big deal.’
‘I’m a bit pissed, too,’ Krongli smiled, putting an arm around Harry’s shoulders. ‘And, to be frank, I have no idea where to get a taxi. Can you stand upright?’
Harry got one and then two legs beneath him, blinked a couple of times and established that at least he was vertical again. Semi-embracing an officer from Ustaoset.
‘Where are you sleeping tonight?’ Krongli asked.
Harry looked askance at the officer. ‘At home. And preferably on my own, if that’s alright with you.’
At that moment a police car pulled up in front of them, and the window slid down. Harry heard the tail end of some laughter and then a composed voice.
‘Harry Hole, Crime Squad?’
‘Sme,’ Harry sighed.
‘We’ve just received a phone call from one of the Kripos detectives requesting that we drive you home safe and sound.’
‘Open the door then!’
Harry got onto the back seat, lolled against the headrest, closed his eyes, started to feel everything rotating, but preferred that to watching the two in the front ogling him. Krongli asked them to ring him at a number when ‘Harry’ was safely home. What the hell gave him the idea he was his pal? Harry heard the hum of the window and then the pleasant voice from the front seat again.
‘Where do you live, Hole?’
‘Keep going straight ahead,’ Harry said. ‘We’re going to pay someone a visit.’
When Harry felt the car set off, he opened his eyes, turned and saw Aslak Krongli still standing on the pavement in Mollergata.
43
House Call
Kaja lay on her side staring into the darkness of her bedroom. She had heard the gate open and now there were footsteps on the gravel outside. She held her breath and waited. Then the doorbell rang. She slipped out of bed, into her dressing gown and over to the window. Another ring. She opened the curtains a fraction. And sighed.
‘Drunken police officer,’ she said out loud in the room.
She put her feet into slippers and shuffled into the hall towards the door. Opened it and stood in the doorway with crossed arms.
‘Hello there, schweedie,’ the policeman slurred. Kaja wondered if he was trying to perform the drunkard sketch. Or if it was the pitiful original version.
‘What brings you here so late?’ Kaja asked.
‘You. Can I come in?’
‘No.’
‘But you said I could get in touch if I was too lonely. And I was.’
‘Aslak Krongli,’ she said. ‘I’m in bed. Go to your hotel now. We can have a coffee tomorrow morning.’
‘I need a coffee now, I reckon. Ten minutes and we’ll ring for a taxi, eh? We can talk about murders and serial killers to pass the time. What do you say?’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I
’m not on my own.’
Krongli straightened up at once, with a movement that made Kaja suspect he was not as drunk as he had seemed at first. ‘Really? Is he here, that policeman you said you were so hung up on?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Are they his?’ the officer drawled, kicking the enormous shoes beside the doormat.
Kaja didn’t answer. There was something in Krongli’s voice, no, behind it, something she hadn’t heard there before. Like a low-frequency, barely audible growl.
‘Or have you just put the shoes there to frighten off unwanted visitors?’ Laughter in his eyes. ‘There’s no one here, is there, Kaja?’
‘Listen, Aslak-’
‘The policeman you’re talking about, Harry Hole, came a cropper earlier this evening. Turned up at Justisen as drunk as a skunk, picked a fight and got one. A patrol car passed by to give him a lift home. So you must be free tonight after all, eh?’
Her heart beat faster; she was no longer cold under the dressing gown.
‘Perhaps they drove him here instead,’ she said and could hear her voice was different now.
‘No, they rang me and said they had driven him way up the hill to visit someone. When they found out he wanted to go to Rikshospital and they strongly advised against it, he just jumped out at the traffic lights. I like my coffee strong, OK?’
An intense gleam had come into his eyes, the same Even used to get when he wasn’t well.
‘Aslak, go now. There are taxis in Kirkeveien.’
His hand shot out and before she could react he had grabbed her arm and pushed her inside. She tried to free herself, but he put an arm around her and held her tight.
‘Do you want to be just like her?’ his voice hissed in her ear. ‘To cut and run, to scram? To be like all you bloody lot…’
