by Jo Nesbo
Beate bit her lower lip. Gave the impression she was going to say something, but flashed a quick smile and nodded.
In the taxi Harry took out his mobile phone and called Halvorsen's mobile. But, as expected, there was no answer.
Then he punched in the number of Hotel International. He got reception and asked to be put through to Fred in the bar. Fred? Which bar?
'The other bar,' Harry said.
'It's the policeman,' Harry said when he had the barman on the line. 'The one who was in yesterday asking about mali spasitelj.'
'Da?'
'I have to talk to her.'
'She's had bad news,' Fred said. 'Goodbye.'
Harry sat listening to the severed connection for a while. Then he put his mobile in his inside pocket and gazed out of the side window at the dead streets. Imagined her in the cathedral lighting another candle.
'Restaurant Schroder,' the taxi driver announced, pulling in.
Harry sat at his usual table staring into his half-full beer glass. The socalled restaurant was in fact a plain, shabby cafe serving alcohol, but it had an aura of pride and dignity that may have been thanks to the clientele, or perhaps the staff, or perhaps the impressive and out-ofplace paintings adorning the smoke-stained walls.
There weren't many people just before closing time. But in came a new customer, who glanced round the room while unbuttoning the coat he wore over his tweed jacket and hastened towards Harry's table.
'Good evening, my friend,' said Stale Aune. 'This appears to be your regular corner.'
'It's not a corner,' Harry said without a hint of a slur. 'It's an angle. Corners are on the outside. You walk round a corner, you don't sit in one.'
'What about the expression a corner table?'
'That's not a table in a corner, but a table with corners. As in a corner sofa.'
Aune gave a smile of pleasure. This was his type of conversation. The waitress arrived and sent him a brief, suspicious glance when he ordered tea.
'So dunces are not sent to the corner then, I assume?' he said, straightening his red and white dotted bow tie.
Harry smiled. 'Are you trying to tell me something, Mr Psychologist?'
'Well, I assume you rang me because you wanted me to tell you something.'
'How much do you charge to tell people that right now they are ashamed of themselves?'
'Be careful, Harry. Drinking makes you not only irritable but irritating. I have not come here to divest you of your self-respect, your bollocks or your beer. But your current problem is that all three are in that glass.'
'You are eternally right,' Harry said, raising his glass. 'And that's why I have to hurry up and finish this drink.'
Aune stood up. 'If you want to talk about your drinking, we can do this as usual in my office. This consultation is over and you're paying for the tea.'
'Wait,' Harry said. 'Look.' He turned round and put the rest of his beer on the empty table behind him. 'This is my magic trick. I control my boozing by ordering half a litre which I take an hour to drink. A little sip every alternate minute. Like a sleeping pill. Then I go home and from the very next day I'm on the wagon. I wanted to talk to you about the attack on Halvorsen.'
Aune hesitated. Then he sat down again. 'Terrible business. I heard the details.'
'And what can you see?'
'Glimpse, Harry. Glimpse, and hardly that.' Aune nodded amiably to the waitress, who brought his tea. 'But, as you know, I glimpse better than the other good-for-nothings in my line of work. What I can see is that there are similarities between this attack and the murder of Ragnhild Gilstrup.'
'Tell me.'
'Deep, heartfelt anger being vented. Violence caused by sexual frustration. As you know, bouts of fury are typical of borderline personalities.'
'Yes, except that this individual seems to be able to control the fury. If not, we would have had more clues at the crime scenes.'
'Good point. It may be a fury-driven assailant – or a "person who commits violence" as the old maids in my profession would have us call them – who on a day to-day basis may seem sedate, almost defensive. There was a recent article in the American Journal of Psychology about such people with what they call slumbering rage. What I call Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. And when Mr Hyde wakes up…' Aune brandished the forefinger of his left hand while taking a sip of tea, '… it's Judgement Day and Armageddon at once. But once the fury has been released they cannot control it.'
'Sounds like a handy personality trait for a professional contract killer.'
'Not at all. What are you referring to?'
'Stankic loses points for style in the murder of Ragnhild Gilstrup and the attack on Halvorsen. There's something… unclinical about it. Quite different from the murders of Robert Karlsen and the others in the reports Europol sent us.'
'An angry, unstable contract killer? Well, I suppose there are unstable airplane pilots and unstable managers of nuclear power stations, too. Not everyone is in a job they ought to be in, you know.'
'I'll drink to that.'
'In fact, I wasn't thinking about you just now. Do you know you have certain narcissistic qualities, Inspector?'
Harry smiled.
'Will you tell me why you're ashamed?' Aune asked. 'Do you think it's your fault Halvorsen was stabbed?'
Harry cleared his throat. 'Well, it was me who gave him the task of looking after Jon Karlsen. And it was me who should have taught him where you keep your gun when on babysitting duties.'
Aune nodded. 'So it's all your fault. As usual.'
Harry looked to the side and across the room. The lights had begun to flash and the few customers left were obediently drinking up and putting on scarves and hats. Harry put a hundred-kroner note on the table and kicked a bag out from under his chair. 'Next time, Stale. I haven't been home since Zagreb and now I need some shuteye.'
Harry followed Aune to the door, but was unable to stop himself glancing at the beer in the glass still standing on the table behind them.
As Harry was unlocking the door to his flat he noticed the smashed glass and swore aloud. It was the second time his flat had been broken into within a year. He noted that the intruder had taken the time to tape the glass so as not to arouse the curiosity of passing residents. Yet had not taken the time to depart with the stereo or the TV. Easy enough to understand since neither was this year's model. Or the previous year's. And there were no other marketable items of value.
Someone had moved the pile of papers on the coffee table. Harry went into the bathroom and saw the mess in the medicine cupboard above the sink, so it was not difficult to work out that a drug addict had been on the loose.
He was puzzled by a plate on the worktop and the empty stew tins in the rubbish bag under the sink. Had the unfortunate intruder been overwhelmed by a need for comfort eating?
Once in bed Harry could sense the threat of imminent pain and hoped he would be able to sleep while still to some extent under the effects of medication. Through the crack between the curtains the moon laid a white stripe along the floor to his bed. He tossed and turned as he waited for the ghosts. He could hear the rustling; it was only a question of time. Even though he was aware it was alcoholic paranoia, he thought he could smell death and bloodshed on the sheets.
27
Sunday, 21 December. The Disciple.
Someone had hung a Christmas wreath outside the meeting room in the red zone.
Behind the closed door the last morning meeting of the investigative team was drawing to an end.
Harry stood sweating in front of the assembled group in a tight-fitting, dark suit.
'As the contract killer, Stankic, and the go-between, Robert Karlsen, are both dead the investigative team, in its present form, will be dissolved as of this meeting,' Harry said. 'And that means most of us can look forward to a Christmas holiday this year. However, I will ask Hagen to make a few of you available for further detection work. Any questions before we round things off? Yes, Toril?'
'You say that the Stankic link in Zagreb confirmed our suspicion that Robert Karlsen contracted the murder of Jon. Who spoke to the link and how?'
'I'm afraid I can't go into any details on that,' Harry said, ignoring Beate's eloquent eyes and feeling the sweat running down his back. Not because of the suit or the question, but because he was sober.
'OK,' he continued. 'The next job is to find out who Robert was working with. In the course of today I will contact the fortunate few who will be allowed to be involved. Hagen is holding a press conference later today and will take care of whatever has to be said.' Harry shooed with his hands. 'Run along to your piles of paperwork, guys.'
'Hey!' shouted Skarre over the scraping of chairs. 'Shouldn't we celebrate?'
The noise died away and the group looked at Harry.
'Well,' Harry said quietly, 'I don't know quite what we should celebrate, Skarre. That three people are dead? That the man behind Robert Karlsen is still free? Or that we still have an officer in a coma?'
Harry watched them and did nothing to ease the painful silence that followed.
When the room was empty, Skarre went over to Harry, who was sorting through the notes he had written at six o'clock that morning.
'Sorry,' Skarre said. 'Rotten suggestion.'
'That's alright,' Harry said. 'You meant well.'
Skarre coughed. 'Rare to see you in a suit.'
'Robert Karlsen's funeral is at twelve,' Harry said without looking up. 'Thought I would see who turned up.'
'Right.' Skarre rocked back on his heels.
Harry stopped flicking through his papers. 'Anything else, Skarre?'
'Well, yes. I was thinking that quite a few people in Crime Squad have got families and are looking forward to Christmas, whereas I'm single…'
'Mm?'
'Well, I'd like to volunteer.'
'Volunteer?'
'I mean I'd like to keep working on the case. If you want me, that is,' Skarre hastened to add.
Harry studied Magnus Skarre.
'I know you don't like me,' Skarre said.
'It's not that,' Harry said. 'I've already decided who will stay. And it's those I consider the best, not the ones I like.'
Skarre shrugged, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. 'Fair enough. Happy Christmas then.' He moved towards the door.
'That's why,' Harry said, putting the notes in the briefcase, 'I want you to start checking Robert Karlsen's bank account. See what's gone in and out over the last six months and note any irregularities.'
Skarre stopped and turned in amazement.
'Do the same for Albert and Mads Gilstrup. Have you got that, Skarre?'
Magnus Skarre nodded with enthusiasm.
'Check with Telenor if there have been any phone conversations between Robert and either Gilstrup during that period. Yes, and since it looks as though Stankic took Halvorsen's mobile, check if there have been any conversations on that number. Talk to the solicitor about access to bank accounts.'
'No need,' Skarre said. 'According to new regulations we have permanent access.'
'Mm.' Harry sent Skarre a serious look. 'Thought it would be a good idea to have someone on the team who reads instructions. Yup.'
Then he strode out of the door.
Robert Karlsen didn't have the rank of an officer, but since he had died on duty it was decided that he would still be entitled to a grave in the area the Army reserved for officers in Vestre cemetery. After the burial, there was to be a remembrance service with the corps in Majorstuen.
As Harry entered the chapel Jon, sitting alone on the front bench with Thea, turned his head. Harry noted the absence of Robert's parents. He and Jon made eye contact and Jon gave a quick, sombre nod, but there was gratitude in his expression.
The chapel was, as expected, full to the last bench. Most people were wearing the Salvation Army uniform. Harry saw Rikard and David Eckhoff. And beside him, Gunnar Hagen. There were also a few vultures from the press. At that moment Roger Gjendem slipped onto the bench next to him and asked whether he knew why the Prime Minister was not coming as previously announced.
'Ask the Prime Minister's Office,' Harry answered, knowing that the office had that very morning received a discreet telephone call from the top police echelons to talk about Robert Karlsen's possible role in the murder case. The Prime Minister's Office had subsequently remembered that the premier had other pressing engagements he had to prioritise.
Commander David Eckhoff had also received a call from Police HQ and it had created panic in the Salvation Army centre, particularly as one of the key figures in the preparations for the burial, his daughter Martine, had rung in early that morning to say she was sick and would not be coming to work.
The commander, however, had announced in a resolute voice that a man is innocent until the contrary has been proven beyond any shadow of doubt. Besides, he had added it was too late to change the arrangement now. The show had to go on. And the Prime Minister had assured the commander his attendance at the Christmas concert was definite whatever happened.
'Anything else?' Gjendem whispered. 'Anything new on the murders?'
'I understand you've all been told,' Harry said. 'The press have to go through Gunnar Hagen or the spokesperson.'
'They're not saying anything.'
'Sounds like they know their jobs.'
'Come on, Hole, I know something's going on. The officer that was stabbed in Goteborggata – is there any connection between him and the gunman you shot down last night?'
Harry shook his head in a way that could mean both 'no' and 'no comment'.
The organ music stopped at that moment, the mumbling went silent and the girl with the debut album stepped forward and sang a wellknown psalm with an alluring amount of air, the suggestion of a groan and brought it to an end by taking the final syllable on a roller-coaster ride that Mariah Carey would have envied. For a second Harry experienced an overwhelming yearning for a drink, but at long last she closed her mouth and bowed her head in sorrow to an imaginary storm of camera flashes. Her manager smiled with pleasure. It was obvious he hadn't received a telephone call from Police HQ.
Eckhoff spoke to the congregation about courage and sacrifice.
Harry was unable to concentrate. He looked at the coffin and thought about Halvorsen. And he thought about Stankic's mother. And when he closed his eyes, he thought about Martine.
Afterwards six Salvation Army officers carried out the coffin. Jon and Rikard went first.
Jon slipped on the ice as they turned on the gravel path.
Harry left the others still gathered around the grave. He walked through the deserted part of the cemetery towards Frogner Park where he heard the creak of shoes on the snow behind him.
At first he thought it was a journalist but when he heard the fast, agitated breathing he reacted without thinking and spun round.
It was Rikard. Who came to a sudden halt.
'Where is she?' he wheezed.
'Where is who?'
'Martine.'
'I heard she was ill today.'
'Ill, yes.' Rikard's chest was heaving. 'But home in bed, no. And she wasn't at home last night, either.'
'How do you know?'
'Don't…!' Rikard's shout sounded like a scream of pain and his face went into contortions as though he were no longer in charge of his own expressions. But then he caught his breath and with what seemed like a huge exertion pulled himself together. 'Don't try that on me,' he whispered. 'I know. You've duped her. Defiled her. She's in your flat, isn't she. But you won't get…'
Rikard took a step towards Harry who automatically took his hands out of his coat pockets.
'Listen,' Harry said. 'I have no idea where Martine is.'
'You're lying!' Rikard clenched his fists and Harry realised he needed to find the correct words to calm him down in a hurry. He took a punt on these: 'There are a couple of things you ought to reflect on right now, Rikard. I'm not very quick but I weigh ninety-five kil
os and I have punched my fist through an oak front door. And paragraph 127 of the Penal Code gives a minimum punishment of six months for violence against a public servant. You're risking a hospital visit. And prison.'
Rikard's eyes smouldered. 'See you, Harry Hole,' he said airily, turned and ran back through the snow between the graves to the chapel.
Imtiaz Rahim was in a bad mood. He had just had a row with his brother about whether to put Christmas decorations on the wall behind the till. Imtiaz thought it was enough to sell Advent calendars, pork and other Christian paraphernalia without desecrating Allah by bowing to this kind of heathen custom. What would their Pakistani customers say? His brother, however, thought that they had to think of the other customers. For example, those from the block of flats on the other side of Goteborggata. It wouldn't hurt to give the grocer's shop a tiny touch of Christianity during the holiday period. Although Imtiaz had won the heated discussion, it gave him no pleasure.
So it was with a heavy sigh that he heard the irascible ring of the bell over the door. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit entered and came over to the till.
'Harry Hole, police,' the man said, and for one small moment of panic Imtiaz wondered whether there was a law in Norway stipulating that all shops had to display Christmas decorations.
'A few days ago there was a beggar sitting outside this shop,' the policeman said. 'A guy with red hair and a beard like this.' He ran a finger over his top lip and down the side of the mouth.
'Yes,' Imtiaz said. 'I know him. He brings empty bottles here to get the deposit.'
'Do you know his name?'
'The tiger. Or the cheetah.'
'Pardon?'
Imtiaz laughed. He was back in a good mood. 'Tiger, after tigger, your Norwegian word for beggar. And cheetah because he pinches the empties from… we don't know where.'
Harry nodded.
Imtiaz shrugged. 'It's my nephew's joke…'
'Mm. Very good. So…'
'No, I don't know his name. But I do know where you can find him.'
Espen Kaspersen was sitting with a pile of books in front of him, as usual, in the Deichmanske Central Library in Henrik Ibsens gate 1 when he felt a figure loom above him. He looked up.
