by Jo Nesbo
'I know a couple of things about getting high,' Harry said. 'Do you know if he owed money to anyone?'
'No.' Her answer was curt. So much so that Harry already knew the answer to his next question.
'But you could maybe-'
'No,' she interrupted, 'I cannot make enquiries. Listen, these are people no one cares about, and I am here to help them, not to persecute them.'
Harry gave her a searching look. 'You're right. I apologise for asking and it won't happen again.'
'Thank you.'
'Just one last question?'
'Come on.'
'Would you…' Harry hesitated, wondering if he was about to commit a blunder. 'Would you believe me if I said I did care?'
She angled her head and studied Harry. 'Should I?'
'Well, I'm investigating a case everyone thinks is the cut-and-dried suicide of a person no one cared about.'
She didn't answer.
'It's good coffee.' Harry got up.
'You're welcome,' she said. 'And may God bless you.'
'Thank you,' Harry said, feeling, to his surprise, the lobes of his ears flush.
On his way out he stopped in front of the guard and turned, but she had gone. The man in the hoody offered Harry the green plastic bag with the packed lunch, but he turned it down, pulled his coat tighter around him and went out into the streets where he could already see the sun making its blushing retreat into Oslo fjord. He walked towards the Akerselva. In the area known as Eika a man was standing erect in a snowdrift with the sleeve of a quilted jacket rolled up and a needle hanging from his forearm. He smiled as he looked straight through Harry and the frosty mist over Gronland.
6
Monday, 15 December. Halvorsen.
Pernille Holmen seemed even smaller sitting in her armchair in Fredensborgveien with large, red-rimmed eyes staring at Harry. In her lap she held a glass-framed photograph of her son Per.
'He was nine here,' she said.
Harry had to swallow. Partly because no smiling nine-year-old in a life jacket looks as if they imagined they would end up in a container with a bullet through their head. And partly because the photo reminded him of Oleg, who could forget himself and call Harry 'Pappa'. Harry wondered how long it would take him to call Mathias Lund-Helgesen 'Pappa'.
'Birger, my husband, used to go out in search of Per if he had been missing for a few days,' she said. 'Even though I asked him to stop. I couldn't stand having Per here any longer.'
Harry repressed his thought, Why not?
Birger Holmen was at the undertaker's, she had explained, when Harry called by unannounced.
She sniffled. 'Have you ever shared a house with someone who has an addiction?'
Harry didn't answer.
'He stole everything that came to hand. We accepted it. That is, Birger, accepted it. He's the loving one of us two.' She pulled her face into a grimace, which Harry interpreted as a smile.
'He defended Per in everything. Right up to this autumn. Until Per threatened me.'
'Threatened you?'
'Yes, threatened to kill me.' She looked down at the photo and rubbed the glass as though it had become unclear. 'Per rang the bell one morning and I refused to let him in. I was on my own. He wept and begged, but we had played that game before, so I was hard. I went back into the kitchen and sat down. I don't know how he got in, but all of a sudden there he was – standing in front of me with a gun.'
'The same gun he…'
'Yes. Yes, I think so.'
'Go on.'
'He forced me to unlock the cupboard where I kept my jewellery. That is, the little I had left. He had already taken most of it. Then he was off.'
'And you?'
'Me? I had a breakdown. Birger came and took me to hospital.' She sniffled. 'Where they wouldn't even give me any more pills. They said I'd had enough.'
'What kind of pills were they?'
'What do you think? Tranquillisers. Enough! When you have a son who keeps you awake at night because you're frightened he'll return. ..' She paused and pressed a clenched fist against her mouth. Tears were in her eyes. Then she whispered in such a low voice that Harry struggled to catch the words: 'Sometimes you don't want to live any longer…'
Harry cast his eyes down to his notepad. It was blank.
'Thank you,' he said.
'One night, sir. Is that correct?' asked the female receptionist in Scandia Hotel by Oslo Central Station, without looking up from the reservation on the computer screen.
'Yes,' the man before her answered.
She had made a mental note that he was wearing a light brown coat. Camel hair. Or imitation.
Her long, red nails scurried across the keyboard like frightened cockroaches. Imitation camels in wintry Norway. Why not? She had seen pictures of camels in Afghanistan, and her boyfriend had written that it could be just as cold there as here.
'Will you be paying by cash or credit card, sir?'
'Cash.'
She pushed the registration form and a pen over the counter to him and asked to see his passport.
'No need,' he answered. 'I'll pay now.'
He spoke English almost like a Brit, but there was something about the way he articulated consonants that made her think of Eastern Europe.
'I still have to see your passport, sir. International regulations.'
He nodded in acknowledgement, passed her a smooth thousand-kroner note and his passport. Republika Hrvatska? Probably one of the new countries in the East. She gave him his change, put the note in the cash box and reminded herself to check it against the light when the hotel guest had gone. She endeavoured to maintain a certain style, although she had to concede that for the moment she was working at one of the city's less sophisticated hotels. And this particular guest did not look like a swindler, more like a… well, what did he look like in fact? She gave him the plastic card and the spiel about floor, lift, breakfast and checkout times.
'Will there be anything else, sir?' she warbled, confident that her English and service attitude were too good for this hotel. Before very long she would move to somewhere better. Or – if that was not possible – trim her approach.
He cleared his throat and asked where the nearest telephone booth was.
She explained that he could ring from his room, but he shook his head.
She had to think. The mobile phone had in practice meant that most phone boxes in Oslo had been removed, but she thought there was still one close by, in Jernbanetorget, the square outside the station. Although it was only a hundred metres away, she took out a little map, marked it and gave him directions. As they did in the Radisson and Choice hotels. Peering up to see whether he had understood, she was confused for a moment, without quite knowing why.
'It's us against the rest of the world, Halvorsen!'
Harry shouted his regular morning greeting as he burst into their shared office.
'Two messages,' Halvorsen said. 'You've got to report to the new POB's office. And a woman rang asking for you. Stunning voice.'
'Oh?' Harry slung his coat in the direction of the hatstand. It landed on the floor.
'Wow,' Halvorsen exclaimed without thinking. 'At last you've got over it, haven't you?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'You're chucking clothes at the hatstand again. And saying, "It's us against the rest of the world!" You haven't done either since Rakel dumped-'
Halvorsen shut up as he saw his colleague's warning expression.
'What did the lady want?'
'To pass on a message. Her name is…' Halvorsen searched through the yellow Post-its in front of him. '… Martine Eckhoff.'
'Don't know her.'
'Works at the Lighthouse.'
'Aha!'
'She said she'd been making enquiries. And that no one had heard anything about Per Holmen having any debts.'
'Did she now? Mm. Perhaps I ought to ring and check if there was anything else.'
'Oh? OK. Fine.'
'Alr
ight? Why are you looking so cheated?' Harry bent down for his coat, but instead of hanging it up, he put it on. 'Do you know what, Junior? I have to go out again.'
'But the POB-'
'-will have to wait.'
The gate to the container terminal was open, but there was a sign on the fence prohibiting access and directing vehicles to the car park outside. Harry scratched his bad leg, glanced at the long, open expanse between the containers and drove in. The watchman's office was a low building much like a Moelven workman's shed that had been extended at regular intervals over the last thirty years. Which was not that far from the truth. Harry parked in front of the entrance and covered the remaining metres at a quick walk.
The watchman leaned back in his chair, silent, his hands behind his head, chewing on a matchstick, while Harry explained why he was there. And what had happened the night before.
The matchstick was the only thing moving in the watchman's face, but Harry thought he detected the hint of a grin as he told him about the altercation with the dog.
'Black Metzner,' the watchman said. 'The cousin of the Rhodesian ridgeback. Lucky to get it imported. Great guard dog. And quiet, too.'
'I noticed.'
The matchstick jumped in amusement. 'The Metzner is a hunter, so it sneaks up. Doesn't want to frighten the prey.'
'Are you saying the animal intended to… er, eat me?'
'Depends what you mean by eat.'
The watchman did not go into any details, just stared at Harry with a blank expression. The interwoven hands framed the whole of his head, and Harry was thinking that either he had unusually big hands or an unusually small head.
'So you didn't see or hear anyone at the time we are assuming Per Holmen was shot?'
'Was shot?'
'Shot himself. Anything?'
'Guard stays indoors in the winter. And the Metzner is quiet, as I said.'
'Isn't that impractical? That it doesn't raise an alarm, I mean?'
The watchman shrugged. 'It gets the job done. And we don't have to go out.'
'It didn't catch Per Holmen when he slipped in.'
'It's a big area.'
'But later?'
'The body, you mean? Bah. That was frozen, wasn't it? And the Metzner's not so keen on dead things. It likes fresh meat.'
Harry shuddered. 'In the police report it says you'd never seen Holmen down here before.'
'That's right enough.'
'I've just been to see his mother and she lent me this family photo.'
Harry put the picture on the watchman's desk. 'Could you have a look and swear to me that you have never seen this person before?'
The watchman lowered his gaze. Rolled the matchstick to the corner of his mouth to answer, then paused. The hands moved from behind his head and he picked up the photo. Studied it at length.
'I made a mistake. I have seen him. He was here in the summer. It wasn't so easy to recognise the… what was in the container.'
'I can appreciate that.'
When Harry stood in the doorway to leave a few minutes later, he opened the door a crack at first and checked. The watchman grinned.
'It's locked up during the day. And anyway, a Metzner's teeth are narrow. The wound heals fast. I've been thinking about buying a Kentucky terrier. Jagged teeth. Bite chunks out of you. You were lucky, Inspector.'
'Well,' Harry said, 'you'd better warn Fido that a lady is on her way and she'll give him something else to bite.'
'What?' Halvorsen asked, carefully manoeuvring the car past a snowplough.
'Something soft,' Harry said. 'Kind of clay. Afterwards Beate and her team will put the clay in plaster, let it set and, bingo, you've got a model of a dog's jaw.'
'Right. And that's supposed to prove that Per Holmen was murdered?'
'No.'
'I thought you said-'
'I said that's what I need to prove that it was murder. The missing link in the chain of evidence.'
'I see. And what are the other links?'
'The usual. Motive, murder weapon and opportunity. Turn right here.'
'I don't know. You said your suspicions were based on Holmen using wire cutters to break into the container terminal?'
'I said that was what made me wonder. To be precise, I wondered how a heroin addict so out of his skull that he has to look for refuge in a container would be alert enough to make sure he had wire cutters to get through the gate. Then I had a closer look at the case. You can park here.'
'What I don't understand is how you can claim that you know who the guilty party is.'
'Work it out, Halvorsen. It's not difficult, and you have all the facts.'
'I hate it when you do this.'
'I only want you to be good.'
Halvorsen cast a glance at his older colleague to see if he was joking. They got out of the car.
'Aren't you going to lock up?' Harry asked.
'The lock froze last night. The key broke in it this morning. How long have you known who the guilty person is?'
'A while.'
They crossed the street.
'Knowing who is in most cases the easy bit. It's the obvious candidate. The husband. The best friend. The guy with a record. And never the butler. That's not the problem; the problem is proving what your head and your gut have been telling you for ages.' Harry pressed the bell beside 'Holmen'. 'And that's what we're going to do now. Find the little piece that changes apparently unconnected information into a perfect chain of evidence.'
A voice crackled 'Ja' over the speaker.
'Police here, Harry Hole. Can we…?'
The lock buzzed.
'It's all a question of moving fast,' Harry said. 'Most murder cases are solved in the first twenty-four hours or not at all.'
'Thanks. I've heard that one before,' Halvorsen said.
Birger Holmen stood waiting for them at the top of the stairs.
'Come in,' he said and led them into the living room. A bare Christmas tree stood by the door to the French balcony, waiting to be decorated.
'My wife is sleeping,' he said before Harry could ask.
'We'll whisper,' Harry said.
Birger Holmen gave a sad smile. 'She won't wake up.'
Halvorsen sent Harry a quick glance.
'Mm,' the inspector said. 'Taken a tranquilliser perhaps?'
Birger Holmen nodded. 'The funeral's tomorrow.'
'Yes, of course, that's a strain. Well, thank you for lending me this.' Harry put a photograph on the table. It was of Per Holmen sitting with his mother and father standing on either side. Protected. Or, depending on how you saw it, surrounded. A silence ensued as no one said a word. Birger Holmen scratched his forearm through his shirt. Halvorsen wriggled forward in his chair, then moved back.
'Do you know much about drug addiction, herr Holmen?' Harry asked without looking up.
Birger Holmen frowned. 'My wife has taken one sleeping pill. That doesn't mean-'
'I'm not talking about your wife. You may be able to save her. I'm talking about your son.'
'Depends what you mean by know. He was hooked on heroin. It made him unhappy.' He was going to say something else, but paused. He examined the picture on the table. 'It made us all unhappy.'
'I don't doubt that. But if you had known anything about drug addiction, you would have known that it takes precedence over everything else.'
Birger Holmen's voice at once trembled with indignation. 'Are you saying I don't know that, Inspector? Are you saying… my wife was
… he…' But tears had crept into his voice. '… his own mother…'
'I know,' Harry whispered. 'But drugs come before mothers. Before fathers. Before life.' Harry breathed in. 'And before death.'
'I'm exhausted, Inspector. What do you want?'
'Tests show there were no drugs in his blood when he died. So he was in a bad state. And when heroin addicts are like this, the need for redemption is so strong that you can threaten your own mother with a gun to get it. And redemption
is not a shot in the head, but in the arm, the neck, the groin or any other place you can still find a fresh vein. Your son was found with his kit and a bag of heroin in his pocket, herr Holmen. He can't have shot himself. Drugs take precedence, as I said, over everything. Also-'
'Death.' Birger Holmen still had his head in his hands, but his voice was quite distinct. 'So you think my son was killed? Why?'
'I was hoping you could tell us.'
Birger Holmen did not answer.
'Was it because he threatened her?' Harry asked. 'Was it to give your wife peace of mind?'
Holmen raised his head. 'What are you talking about?'
'My guess is you hung around Plata waiting. And when he turned up, you followed him after he had bought his fix. You took him down to the container terminal, as he sometimes went there when he had nowhere else.'
'How am I supposed to know that?! This is outrageous. I-'
'Of course you knew. I showed this photo to the watchman, who recognised the person I was asking about.'
'Per?'
'No, you. You were there this summer asking if you could search the containers for your son.'
Holmen stared at Harry, who went on:
'You had it all planned. Wire cutters to get in and an empty container, which was an appropriate place for a drug addict to end his life, where no one could hear or see you shoot him. With the gun you knew Per's mother could testify was his.'
Halvorsen studied Birger Holmen and held himself in readiness, but Holmen showed no signs of making any kind of move. He breathed heavily through his nose and scratched his forearm while staring into space.
'You can't prove any of this.' He said this in a resigned tone, as if it were a fact he regretted.
Harry made a conciliatory gesture. In the ensuing silence they could hear loud barking from down in the street.
'It won't stop itching, will it,' Harry said.
Holmen stopped scratching at once.
'Can we see what itches so much?'
'It's nothing.'
'We can do it here or down at the station. Your choice, herr Holmen.'
The barking increased in intensity. A dog sled, here, in the middle of the city? Halvorsen had a feeling there was going to be an explosion.
'Fine,' Holmen whispered, unbuttoning the cuff and pushing up his sleeve.
