by Jo Nesbo
‘But even so . . .’ the Chief Inspector said. ‘Was Vollan really going to leave everything he owned to this place?’
Martha shrugged. ‘I doubt he had much to leave. Did you notice the date under his signature?’
‘He wrote the letter yesterday. And you think he did that because he knew he was going to die? Are you saying he killed himself?’
Martha thought about it. ‘I don’t know.’
The tall, thin woman cleared her throat again. ‘Marital breakdown is not, as far as I know, an uncommon reason for suicide in men over forty.’
Martha got the feeling that the quiet woman more than just knew it; she had the exact statistics at her fingertips.
‘Did he seem depressed?’ Simon asked.
‘More low than depressed, I’d say.’
‘It’s not uncommon for a suicidal person to kill themselves as they come out of their depression,’ the woman said and sounded as if she was reading from a book. The other two looked at her. ‘The depression itself is often characterised by apathy and it takes a certain amount of initiative to commit suicide.’ A beep indicated that she had received a text message.
Kefas turned to Martha. ‘A middle-aged man is thrown out by his wife and writes something that could be seen as a farewell note to you. So why isn’t it suicide?’
‘I didn’t say that it wasn’t.’
‘But?’
‘He seemed scared.’
‘Scared of what?’
Martha shrugged. She wondered if she was creating unnecessary trouble for herself.
‘Per was a man with a dark side. He was very open about it. He said he became a chaplain because he needed forgiveness more than most.’
‘You’re saying he had done things not everyone would forgive him for?’
‘Things that no one would forgive him for.’
‘I see. Are we talking about the type of sins where the clergy seems to be over-represented?’
Martha didn’t reply.
‘Is that why his wife threw him out?’
Martha hesitated. This man was sharper than the other police officers she had met. But could she trust him?
‘In my job you learn the art of forgiving the unforgivable, Chief Inspector. Of course it’s possible that Per ultimately couldn’t forgive himself and that’s why he chose this way out. But it’s also possible that—’
‘—someone, let’s say the father of a child who had been abused, wanted to avoid pressing charges that would also stigmatise the victim. And, besides, the someone couldn’t be sure that Per Vollan would be punished and, in any case, whatever sentence he got wouldn’t be enough. So the someone decided to be judge, jury and executioner.’
Martha nodded. ‘It’s only human if someone hurts your child, I guess. Haven’t you ever come across cases in your work where the law is inadequate?’
Simon Kefas shook his head. ‘If police officers gave in to that kind of temptation, the law would be pointless. And I actually believe in the rule of law. Justice must be blind. Do you suspect anyone in particular?’
‘No.’
‘Drug debt?’ Kari Adel asked.
Martha shook her head. ‘I would have known if he was using.’
‘I’m asking because I’ve just texted an officer from the Drug Squad about Per Vollan. And he replied . . .’ She took her mobile out of her tight jacket pocket and there was a clunk when a marble came out with it, hit the floor and started rolling eastwards. ‘Seen him talking to one of Nestor’s dealers sometimes,’ she read out loud while she rose and started looking for the marble. ‘Seen him buy a wrap, but not pay.’ Kari Adel put the phone back in her pocket and caught the marble before it reached the wall.
‘And what do you make of that?’ Simon asked.
‘That this building slopes towards Alexander Kiellands Plass. Probably more blue clay and less granite on that side.’
Martha chuckled.
The tall, thin woman smiled briefly. ‘And that Vollan owed money to someone. A wrap of heroin costs three hundred kroner. And that’s not even a full wrap, that’s just 0.2 gram. Two bags a day—’
‘Not so fast,’ Simon interrupted her. ‘Junkies don’t get credit, do they?’
‘Not usually, no. Perhaps he was doing favours for someone and was paid in heroin.’
Martha threw up her hands. ‘He wasn’t using, I keep telling you! Half my job is knowing if people are clean, OK?’
‘You’re right, of course, Miss Lian,’ Simon said, rubbing his chin. ‘Perhaps the heroin wasn’t for him.’ He got up. ‘Anyway, we’ll have to wait and see what the medical examiner says.’
‘Good idea of yours to text the Drug Squad,’ Simon said as he drove them down Uelandsgate towards the city centre.
‘Thank you,’ Kari said.
‘Nice girl, that Martha Lian. Have you come across her before?’
‘No, but I wouldn’t have kicked her out of bed if I had.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry, bad joke. You meant if I knew her from my time with the Drug Squad. I do. She’s lovely and I’ve always wondered why she works at the Ila Centre.’
‘Because she’s pretty?’
‘It’s a well-known fact that good looks improve the career prospects of people with only average intelligence and ability. Working at the Ila Centre isn’t a springboard for anything as far as I can see.’
‘Perhaps she thinks it’s a worthwhile job.’
‘Worthwhile? Have you any idea what they pay—’
‘Worth doing. Police work doesn’t pay very well, either.’
‘True.’
‘But it’s a good place to start your career if you combine it with a law degree,’ Simon said. ‘When will you finish the second level?’
Again he detected a hint of reddening on Kari’s neck and knew he had touched a nerve.
‘Right,’ Simon said. ‘Nice to have the use of your services. I expect you’ll be my boss soon. Or you’ll get a job in the private sector where salaries are on average one and a half times more for people with skills like ours.’
‘Perhaps,’ Kari said. ‘But I don’t think I’ll ever be your boss. You’re due to retire next March.’
Simon didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He turned left at Grønlandsleiret, towards Police HQ.
‘One and a half times your salary would come in very handy if you’re doing up a property. Flat or house?’
‘House,’ Kari said. ‘We plan on having two children and we need more room. Given the cost per square metre in central Oslo, you have to buy a place that needs doing up unless you inherit money. Both mine and Sam’s parents are alive and well; and besides, Sam and I agree that subsidy corrupts.’
‘Corrupts? Really?’
‘Yes.’
Simon looked at the Pakistani shop owners who had left their overheated shops and come out into the street where they chatted, smoked cigarettes and watched the traffic.
‘Aren’t you curious how I knew that you’re house-hunting?’
‘The marble,’ Kari said. ‘Adults with no children only have one of those in their pocket if they’re viewing old houses or flats and want to check if the floors are sloping due to subsidence so badly they’ll have to be taken up.’
She really was clever.
‘Just bear this in mind,’ Simon said. ‘If a house has been standing for 120 years, the floors should be a little crooked.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Kari said, leaning forward to look at the spire of Grønland Church. ‘But I like it when the floors are level.’
Simon started to laugh. He might grow to like this girl. He liked the floors level, too.
7
‘I KNEW YOUR father,’ Johannes Halden said.
It was raining outside. It had been a warm, sunny day; the clouds had built up on the horizon and the light summer drizzle fell across the city. Johannes remembered what it felt like before he was banged up. How the little drops of rain warmed up the moment they hit your sun-kissed sk
in. How it made the smell of dust rise from the tarmac. The scent of flowers, grass and leaves would make him wild, dizzy and frisky. Ah, to be young again.
‘I was his confidential informant,’ Johannes said.
Sonny sat in darkness close to the wall and it was impossible to see his face. Johannes didn’t have very much time; the cells would soon be locked up for the night. He took a deep breath. Here it came. The sentence he needed to say, but dreaded the consequences. Uttering the words that had sat in his chest for so long he was afraid that they had taken root.
‘It’s not true that he shot himself, Sonny.’
There. He had finally told him.
Silence.
‘You’re not asleep, are you, Sonny?’
Johannes could see the body shift in the shadow.
‘I know what it must have been like for you and your mother. Finding your father dead. Reading the note where he claimed he was the mole in the police who had helped drug dealers and traffickers. That he had told them about raids, evidence, suspects . . .’
He saw the white in a pair of blinking eyes.
‘But it was the other way round, Sonny. Your father suspected who the mole was. I overheard Nestor talk on the phone to his boss about how they had to get rid of a policeman called Lofthus before he ruined everything for them. I told your father about that conversation, that he was in danger, that the police had to move quickly. But your father said that he couldn’t involve other people, that he had to go it alone because he knew there were other police officers in hock to Nestor. So he got me to swear to keep my mouth shut and never breathe a word of it to a living soul. And I’ve kept that promise right up until now.’
Had Sonny understood? Possibly not, but the most important thing wasn’t that Sonny had listened or the consequences, but that Johannes had got it off his chest. Finally told him. Delivered the message to its rightful owner.
‘Your father was alone that weekend; you and your mother were at a wrestling competition out of town. He knew they were coming for him so he barricaded himself inside that yellow house of yours up in Berg.’
Johannes thought he could feel something in the darkness. A change in pulse and breathing.
‘Even so, Nestor and his people still managed to get in. They didn’t want the fallout that would come from shooting a police officer so they forced your father to write that suicide note.’ Johannes swallowed. ‘In return for a promise to spare you and your mother. Afterwards they shot him point-blank with his own gun.’
Johannes closed his eyes. It was very quiet and yet it felt as if someone was shouting into his ear. And there was a tightness in his chest and throat that he hadn’t felt for many, many years. Dear God, when did he last cry? When his daughter was born? But he couldn’t stop now; he had to finish what he had started.
‘I guess you’re wondering how Nestor got into the house?’
Johannes held his breath. It sounded as if the boy had also stopped breathing; all he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears.
‘Someone had seen me talk to your father, and Nestor thought the police had been a little too lucky with the trucks they had stopped recently. I denied that it was me, said that I knew your father a bit and that he was trying to get information from me. So Nestor said that if your father believed I might become his confidential informant, I would be able to walk up to the front door and make him open it. That way I could prove where my loyalties lay, he said . . .’
Johannes could hear that the other had started breathing again. Quickly. Hard.
‘Your father opened the door. Because you trust your informant, don’t you?’
He sensed movement, but he didn’t hear or see anything before the punch hit him. And while he lay on the floor tasting the metallic blood, feeling the tooth glide down his throat, hearing the boy scream and scream, the cell door opening, the officers’ shouting and then the boy being restrained and handcuffed, he thought about the astonishing physical speed, accuracy and force in the blow from this junkie. And about forgiveness. The forgiveness which he hadn’t got. And about time. About the passing seconds. About the approaching night.
8
WHAT ARILD FRANCK liked most about his Porsche Cayenne was the sound. Or rather the absence of sound. The hum of the 4.8-litre V8 engine reminded him of his mother’s sewing machine when he was growing up in Stange outside of Hamar. That, too, had been the sound of silence. Of silence, calm and concentration.
The door on the passenger side opened and Einar Harnes got in. Franck didn’t know where young lawyers in Oslo bought their suits; he just knew it wasn’t the same shops he frequented. Nor had he ever seen the point of buying light-coloured suits. Suits were dark. And cost less than five thousand kroner. The difference in price between his suits and Harnes’s ought to be paid into a savings account for future generations who had families of their own to support and who would continue the work of building Norway. Or fund an early and comfortable retirement. Or a Porsche Cayenne.
‘I hear he’s in solitary,’ Harnes said as the car pulled away from the kerb outside the graffitied entrance to the law offices of Harnes & Fallbakken.
‘He beat up a fellow inmate,’ Franck said.
Harnes raised a well-groomed eyebrow. ‘Gandhi pulled a punch?’
‘You never can tell what junkies are capable of. But he’s had four days of cold turkey so I imagine he’s very cooperative by now.’
‘Yes, it runs in the family – or so I’ve heard.’
‘What have you heard?’ Franck honked the horn at a slow Corolla.
‘Only what everybody knows. Is there anything else?’
‘No.’
Arild Franck steered the car in front of a Mercedes convertible. He had visited the isolation cell yesterday. Staff had just finished cleaning up vomit and the boy sat huddled up under a woollen blanket in the corner.
Franck had never met Ab Lofthus, but he knew that the son had followed in his father’s footsteps. That he had been a wrestler like his father and showed such promise at the age of fifteen that the newspaper Aftenposten had predicted a national league career. Now he sat in a stinking cell, shaking like a leaf and sobbing like a little girl. In withdrawal everyone is equal.
They stopped in front of the security booth, Einar Harnes produced his ID and the steel barrier was raised. Franck parked the Cayenne in its allocated space and he and Harnes walked up to the main entrance where Harnes’s visit was logged. Usually Franck let Harnes in through the back door by the staff changing rooms to avoid signing him in. He didn’t want to give anyone cause to speculate what a lawyer with Harnes’s reputation was doing visiting Staten so often.
Any inmate suspected of involvement in a new criminal case was usually questioned at Police HQ, but Franck had asked if this interview could take place at Staten, given that Sonny Lofthus was currently in solitary confinement.
A vacant cell had been cleared and made ready for this purpose. A policeman and a policewoman in plain clothes sat on one side of the table. Franck had seen them before, but couldn’t remember their names. The figure on the other side of the table was so pale that he seemed to blend in with the milky-white wall. His head was bowed and his hands gripped the edge of the table tightly as if the room was spinning.
‘So, Sonny,’ Harnes said brightly, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, ‘are you ready?’
The policewoman cleared her throat. ‘The question should rather be is he finished.’
Harnes smiled thinly at her and raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean? I hope you haven’t started questioning my client without his lawyer present.’
‘He said he didn’t need to wait for you,’ the policeman replied.
Franck looked at the boy. He sensed trouble.
‘So he’s confessed already?’ Harnes sighed, opened his briefcase and pulled out three sheets of paper stapled together. ‘If you want it in writing then—’
‘On the contrary,’ the policewoman said. ‘He’s just denie
d having anything to do with the murder.’
The room fell so silent that Franck could hear the birds singing outside.
‘He did what?’ Harnes’s eyebrows reached his hairline now. Franck didn’t know what made him angrier, the lawyer’s plucked eyebrows or his slowness to appreciate the catastrophe that was unfurling.
‘Did he say anything else?’ Franck asked.
The policewoman looked at the assistant prison governor, then at the lawyer.
‘It’s quite all right,’ Harnes said. ‘He’s here at my request in case you needed more information about Lofthus’s day release.’
‘I granted it personally,’ Franck said. ‘And there was nothing to indicate that it would have such tragic consequences.’
‘And we don’t know that it has yet,’ the policewoman said. ‘Given that we don’t have a confession.’
‘But the evidence—’ Arild Franck exclaimed, but then stopped himself.
‘What do you know about the evidence?’ the policeman asked him.
‘I just presumed that you had some,’ Franck said. ‘Since Lofthus is a suspect. Isn’t that right, Mr . . .?’
‘Detective Inspector Henrik Westad,’ the policeman said. ‘I was the first person to interview Lofthus, but now he’s changed his statement. He even says he has an alibi for the time of the murder. A witness.’
‘He does have a witness,’ Harnes said, looking down at his silent client. ‘The prison officer who accompanied him on his day release. And he has said that Lofthus disappeared for—’
‘Another witness,’ Westad said.
‘And who might that be?’ Franck scoffed.
‘Lofthus says he met a man called Leif.’
‘Leif what?’
Everyone stared at the long-haired prisoner who looked like he was very far away and entirely oblivious to their presence.
‘He doesn’t know,’ Westad said. ‘He says they chatted briefly at a lay by. He says the witness drove a blue Volvo with an “I ♥ Drammen” sticker and he thinks the witness might have been ill or had heart trouble.’
