The Leopard: An Inspector Harry Hole Novel

by Jo Nesbo

  “Goes without saying,” Beate said, sighing.

  “In fact, I’m embarrassed I didn’t figure it out before,” Harry said. “I went around wondering why the killer had made the effort to go all the way out to a disused ropery just for a piece of rope. Especially since that rope—unlike what he could have bought in a shop—could be traced back here. The answer was, of course, obvious. Nevertheless, it was only when I sat looking into a deep African lake that I realized. He didn’t come here for the rope. He must have used the rope for something here—because it happened to be lying around—and then taken it home, where he later used it to kill Marit Olsen. The reason he came here was that he already had a body he needed to dispose of. Adele Vetlesen. The local man, Skai, spelled it out for us the first time we came here. This is the deep end of the lake. The killer filled her trousers with rocks, tied up the waist and legs with rope, then dropped her overboard.”

  “How do you know she was dead before she came here? He might have drowned her.”

  “There was a large cut around her neck. It’s my bet the postmortem will show that there wasn’t any water in her lungs.”

  “And that ketanome is in her bloodstream, the same as with Charlotte and Borgny,” Beate said.

  “I’m told ketanome is a fast-working anesthetic,” Harry said. “Strange I’d never heard of it before.”

  “Not so strange,” Beate said. “It’s an old cheapo version of Ketalar, which is used to anesthetize patients with the advantage that they can still breathe by themselves,” Beate said. “Ketanome was banned in the EU and Norway in the nineties because of side effects, so now you generally see it in underdeveloped countries. Kripos considered it a major clue for a while, but got nowhere with it.”

  As they dropped Beate off at Krimteknisk in Bryn forty minutes later, Harry asked Kaja to wait and he got out of the car.

  “There was one thing I wanted to ask you,” Harry said.

  “Oh, yes?” Beate said, shivering and rubbing her hands together.

  “What were you doing at a potential crime scene? Why wasn’t Bjørn there?”

  “Because Bellman assigned Bjørn to special duties.”

  “And what does that mean? Cleaning the latrines?”

  “No. Coordination of Krimteknisk and strategic planning.”

  “What?” Harry raised his eyebrows. “That’s a fucking promotion.”

  Beate shrugged. “Bjørn’s good. It wasn’t premature. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye. Oh, by the way, just a moment. I asked you to tell Bellman where we’d found the rope. When did you pass the message on?”

  “You called me at night, remember, so I waited until the following morning. Why’s that?”

  “No reason,” Harry said. “No reason.”

  When he got back into the car, Kaja quickly slipped her phone into her pocket.

  “News of the body’s already on the Aftenposten website,” she said. “Oh, yes?”

  “They say there’s a big picture of you with your full name and that you’re referred to as ‘heading the investigation.’ And of course they’re linking this case with the other murders.”

  “So, that’s what they’re doing. Mm. Are you hungry?”

  “Very.”

  “Do you have any plans? If not, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

  “Great. Where?”

  “Ekeberg Restaurant.”

  “Ooh. Fancy. Any particular reason you chose that one?”

  “Well, it came to mind when a pal of mine was recounting an old story.”

  “Tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell, it’s just the usual adolescent thi—”

  “Adolescent! Come on!”

  Harry chuckled. And as they approached downtown and it started snowing at the top of Ekeberg Ridge, Harry told her about the Killer Queen, the darling of Ekeberg Restaurant, once the most attractive functionalist building in Oslo. Which today—post-renovation—it was again.

  “But in the eighties it was so run-down that people had actually given up on the place. It had become a boozy dance restaurant where you went around to tables and asked for a partner, trying not to knock over the glasses. And then shuffled around the floor propping each other up.”

  “I see.”

  “Øystein, Tresko and I used to go to the top of the German bunkers on Nordstrand beach, drink beer and wait for puberty to pass. When we were seventeen we ventured over to the restaurant, lied about our ages and went in. You didn’t have to lie much—the place needed all the cash it could get. The dance band stank, but at least they played ‘Nights in White Satin.’ And they had a star attraction who guested almost every night. We called her the Killer Queen. A female man-o’-war, she was.”

  “A man-o’-war?” Kaja laughed. “Set your cap at?”

  “Yup,” Harry said. “Bore down on you like a galleon in full rig, mean, sexy and dead scary. Equipped like a fairground. Curves on her like a roller coaster.”

  Kaja laughed even louder. “The local amusement park, no less?”

  “In a way,” Harry said. “But she went to Ekeberg Restaurant primarily to be seen and adored, I think. And for the free drinks from faded dance-floor kings, of course. No one ever saw the Killer Queen go home with any of them. Perhaps that was what fascinated us. A woman who’d had to go down a league or two for admirers, but in a way still had style.”

  “And then what?”

  “Øystein and Tresko said they would each buy me a whiskey if I dared ask her to dance.”

  They crossed the tram lines and drove up the steep hill to the restaurant.

  “And?” Kaja said.

  “I dared.”

  “And then?”

  “We danced. Until she said she was sick of having her feet trodden on and it would be better if we went for a walk. She left first. It was August, hot, and, as you can see, there’s only forest around here. Thick foliage and loads of paths to hidden places. I was drunk, but still so excited that I knew she would be able to hear the tremor in my voice if I said anything. So I kept my trap shut. And that was fine; she did all the talking. And the rest, too. Afterward she asked me if I wanted to go home with her.”

  Kaja sniggered. “Ooh. And what happened there?”

  “We can talk about that during the meal. We’re here.”

  They came to a halt in the parking lot, got out and walked up the steps to the restaurant. The head waiter welcomed them at the entrance to the dining area and asked for the name. Harry answered that they hadn’t reserved a table.

  The waiter could barely restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

  “Full for the next two months,” Harry snorted as they left, after buying cigarettes at the bar. “I think I liked the place better when water was leaking into the restaurant and rats squealed at you from behind the toilets. At least we could get in.”

  “Let’s have a smoke,” Kaja suggested.

  They walked over to the low brick wall from where the forest sloped downward into Oslo. The clouds in the west were tinged with orange and red, and the lines of traffic on the highway glittered like phosphorescence against the blackness of the town. It seemed to be lying there in wait, keeping watch, Harry thought. A camouflaged beast of prey. He tapped out two cigarettes, lit them and passed one to Kaja.

  “The rest of the story,” Kaja said, inhaling.

  “Where were we?”

  “The Killer Queen took you home.”

  “No, she asked if I wanted to go. And I politely declined.”

  “Declined? You’re lying. Why?”

  “Øystein and Tresko asked me that when I got back. I told them I couldn’t just leave when I had two pals and free whiskey waiting for me.”

  Kaja laughed and blew smoke over the view.

  “But of course that was a lie,” Harry said. “Loyalty had nothing to do with it. Friendship means nothing to a man if he has a tempting enough offer. Nothing. The truth is that I didn’t
dare. The Killer Queen was simply in the scariest league of all for me.”

  They sat silently for a while, listening to the hum of the town and watching the smoke curl upward.

  “You’re thinking,” Kaja said.

  “Mm. I’m thinking about Bellman. How well informed he is. He not only knew I was coming to Norway, he even knew which flight I was on.”

  “Perhaps he has contacts at Police HQ.”

  “Mm. And at Lake Lyseren today Skai said that Bellman had called him about the rope the same evening that we’d been at the ropery.”

  “Really?”

  “But Beate says she didn’t tell Bellman about the rope until the morning after we’d been there.” Harry followed the glow of tobacco on its flight over the slope. “And Bjørn has been promoted to coordinator for forensics and strategic planning.”

  Kaja stared at him in surprise. “That’s not possible, Harry.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Bjørn Holm! Would he have kept Bellman informed about what we were doing? You two have worked together for so long; you’re … friends!”

  Harry shrugged. “As I said, I think”—he dropped his cigarette onto the ground and crushed it with a swivel of his heel—“friendship means nothing to a man if he has a tempting enough offer. Do you dare join me for today’s special at Schrøder’s?”

  I dream all the time now. It was summer, and I loved her. I was so young and thought that if you wanted something enough it was yours to have.

  Adele, you had her smile, her hair and her faithless heart. And now Aftenposten says they have found you. I hope you were as foul on the outside as you were on the inside.

  It also says they’ve put Inspector Harry Hole on the case. He was the one who caught the Snowman. Perhaps there’s hope; perhaps the police can save lives, after all?

  I’ve printed out a photo of Adele from the Verdens Gang website and pinned it on the wall, next to the torn page from the Håvass cabin guest book. Including mine, there are only three more names now.

  37

  Profile

  The special at Schrøder’s was bubble and squeak served with fried eggs and raw onions.

  “Nice,” said Kaja.

  “The cook must be sober today,” Harry agreed. Then he pointed. “Look.”

  Kaja turned and looked up at the TV Harry was indicating.

  “Well, hello!” she said.

  Mikael Bellman’s face filled the screen, and Harry signaled to Rita that they wanted the volume up. Harry studied the movements of Bellman’s mouth. The soft, quasi-feminine features. The gleam in the intense brown eyes beneath the elegantly formed eyebrows. The white patches, like sleet on his skin, didn’t disfigure him; actually, they made him more interesting to look at, like an exotic animal. If his number were not unlisted, as was the case with most detectives, his voice mail would be full of lusting and lovelorn messages afterward. Then the sound came on.

  “… at Håvass cabin on the night of the seventh of November. So we are appealing to those of you who were there to come forward to the police as quickly as possible.”

  Then the newsreader returned, and there was a new item.

  Harry pushed his plate away and waved for coffee. “Let me hear your thoughts about this killer now that we’ve found Adele. Give me a profile.”

  “Why?” Kaja asked, sipping water from her glass. “Starting tomorrow we’ll be working on other cases.”

  “Just for fun.”

  “Does the profiling of serial killers come under your definition of fun?”

  Harry sucked on a toothpick. “I know there’s a good answer to that, but I can’t think of it.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “So who is he?”

  “It’s still a he, first of all. And still a serial killer. I don’t necessarily think Adele was number one.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it was so flawless that he must have kept a clear head. The first time you kill you’re not so clear-headed. Besides, he hid her so well that we definitely were not intended to find her. That suggests he may be behind many of the present missing-persons statistics.”

  “Good. More.”

  “Erm …”

  “Come on. You just said that he did a good job of hiding Adele Vetlesen. The first of the murder victims we know anything about. How do the other murders develop?”

  “He becomes bolder, more self-assured. He stops hiding them. Charlotte is found behind a car in the forest and Borgny in a cellar beneath a downtown office building.”

  “And Marit Olsen?”

  Kaja mulled this over. “It’s too overblown. He’s lost control, his grip is going.”

  “Or,” Harry said, “he’s gone up to the next level. He wants to show everyone how clever he is, so he starts exhibiting his victims. The murder of Marit Olsen in the Frogner pool is a huge scream for attention, but there are few indications of failing control in the execution. The rope he used was at worst careless, but otherwise he left no clues. Disagree?”

  She deliberated and shook her head.

  “Then there’s Elias Skog,” Harry said. “Anything different there?”

  “He tortures the victim with a slow death,” Kaja said. “The sadist in him reveals itself.”

  “A Leopold’s apple is also an instrument of torture,” Harry said. “But I agree with you that this is the first time we’ve seen sadism. At the same time, it’s a conscious choice. He reveals himself; he doesn’t let others do it. He is still directing the show, he’s in charge.”

  The coffeepot and cups were plunked down in front of them.

  “But …” Kaja said.

  “Yes?”

  “Doesn’t it seem a bit odd that a sadistic killer would leave the crime scene before he can witness the victim’s suffering and final death? According to the landlady, she could hear banging noises from the bathroom after the guest had gone. He ran off—funny, eh?”

  “Good point. So what have we got? A fake sadist. And why does he fake it?”

  “Because he knows we’ll try to profile him, the way we’re doing now,” Kaja said eagerly. “And then we’ll go looking for him in the wrong places.”

  “Mm. Maybe. A sophisticated killer, if so.”

  “What do you think, O venerable wise one?”

  Harry poured the coffee. “If this is really a serial killer, I think the murders are well spread out.”

  Kaja leaned across the table, and her pointed teeth glistened as she whispered, “You think it might not be a serial killer?”

  “Well, there’s a signature missing. Usually, there are special aspects of the murder that mark a serial killer, and thus certain things that recur throughout. Here we have no indications that the killer did anything sexual during the killing. And there’s no similarity in the methods used, apart from Borgny, Charlotte and Juliana all being murdered with a Leopold’s apple. The crime scenes are quite different, and so are the victims. Both sexes, different ages, different backgrounds, different physiques.”

  “But they have not been selected at random; they spent the same night in the same cabin.”

  “Precisely. And that’s why I’m not absolutely convinced we’re up against a classic serial killer. Or, rather, not one with a classic motive to kill. For serial killers, the killing itself is generally enough of a motive. If, for example, the victims are prostitutes. It doesn’t really matter whether they are sinners, just that they are easy prey. I know of only one serial killer who had criteria for the selection of individual victims.”

  “The Snowman.”

  “I don’t think a serial killer chooses his victims from a random page of a cabin guest book. And if anything happened at Håvass to give the killer a motive, we’re not talking about classic serial murders. Besides, the move to show himself was too quick for the usual serial killer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He sent a woman to Rwanda and the Congo to cover up a murder and at the same time to buy the murder wea
pon for the next. Afterward he killed her. In other words, he went to extremes to hide one murder, yet for the next one, a few weeks later, he did absolutely nothing. And for the next murder again, he’s like a matador shoving his balls in our faces with a flourish of his cloak. This is a personality change at fast-forward speed. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Do you think there could be several killers? Each with a different method?”

  Harry shook his head. “There is one similarity. The killer doesn’t leave any clues. If serial killers are rare, one who kills without leaving any clues is a white whale. There is only one of them in this case.”

  “Right, so what are we saying here?” Kaja threw up her arms. “A serial killer with multiple-personality disorder?”

  “A white whale with wings,” Harry said. “No, I don’t know. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re only doing this for fun. It’s a Kripos case now.” He drained his coffee. “I’m going to take a taxi to the hospital.”

  “I can drive you.”

  “Thank you but no. Go home and prepare for new and interesting cases.”

  Kaja heaved a weary sigh. “The business with Bjørn …”

  “Must not be mentioned to a soul,” Harry said. “Have a good sleep.”

  …

  Altman was leaving Harry’s father’s room at Rikshospital when he arrived.

  “He’s asleep,” the nurse said. “I gave him ten milligrams of morphine. You can sit here, no problem, but he’s unlikely to stir for several hours.”

  “Thank you,” Harry said.

  “That’s OK. I had a mother who … well, who had to put up with more pain than was necessary.”

  “Mm. Do you smoke, Altman?”

  Harry saw from the guilt-ridden reaction that Altman did, and invited him to join him outside. The two men smoked while Altman, first name Sigurd, explained that it had been because of his mother that he had specialized in anesthesia.

  “So when you gave my father an injection just now …”

  “Let’s say it was a favor from one son to another.” Altman smiled. “But I cleared it with the doctor, naturally. I would like to keep my job.”

  “Wise,” Harry said. “Wish I were as wise.”