The Leopard: An Inspector Harry Hole Novel

by Jo Nesbo

  The silence was so pervasive that they could hear a bird twittering outside.

  “Why?” asked the Pelican. “If he could have killed him? Or tortured him?”

  “Because pain and death are not the worst that can befall mankind,” Harry said, again hearing the echo. “Humiliation is. That was what he wanted for Leike. The humiliation of having everything you possess taken from you. The fall, the shame.”

  He saw a tiny smile playing on Beate Lønn’s lips, saw her give a nod of acknowledgment.

  “But,” he continued, “as has been indicated, Tony had—unluckily for our killer—an alibi. And so Tony got away with the subsidiary punishment. Which was a slow and decidedly brutal death.”

  In the ensuing silence Harry sensed something flutter past. The smell of roasted meat. Then the room seemed to draw breath all at once.

  “So what do we do now?” asked the Pelican.

  Harry looked up. The twittering bird on the branch outside the window was a chaffinch. A migratory bird that had arrived too soon. That gave people hopes of spring, but that froze to death on the first frosty night.

  Damned if I know, Harry thought. Damned if I know.

  68

  Pike

  It was a long Kripos meeting that morning.

  Bjørn Holm reported back on the forensic investigations at Kadok. No semen was found, nor any other physical evidence of the perpetrator. The room he had used was indeed completely burned out, and the computer had been reduced to a lump of metal, leaving no chance of recovering any data.

  “He’s probably been online using those unsecured networks in the area. Nydalen’s full of them.”

  “He must have left some electronic trails,” Ærdal said, but it sounded more like a refrain he had heard than something he could expatiate on beyond “must have” speculation.

  “Of course, we could apply to access some of the hundreds of networks up there and search for whatever it is we don’t know,” Holm said. “But I have no idea how many weeks it could take. Or whether we would find anything.”

  “Leave it to me,” Harry said. He had already gotten up and was on his way to the door while keying in a number. “I know someone.”

  He left the door ajar, and while he was waiting for an answer he heard one of the detectives say that no one they had spoken to had seen anyone come or go at Kadok, but that was not so surprising since it was hidden behind trees and bushes and, anyway, it was so dark now, in the winter months.

  Harry got an answer. “Katrine Bratt’s secretary.”

  “Hello?”

  “Frøken Bratt is at lunch right now.”

  “Sorry, Katrine, but eating will have to wait. Listen …”

  Katrine listened as Harry explained what he wanted.

  “Prince Charming had pictures on the wall that had probably been printed off Internet news sites. With the search engine you could get onto the networks in the area, check the server logs and find out who has been on the news pages that covered the murders. Loads of people must have been—”

  “Not as much as he was,” Katrine said. “I’ll just ask for a list sorted according to the number of downloads.”

  “Mm. You’ve learned this quickly.”

  “It’s in the name. Katrine Bratt. Bratt, steep. Steep learning curve. Get it?”

  Harry went back to the others.

  They were playing the message that Harry had received from Leike’s cell phone. It had been sent to NTNU, the technical university in Trondheim, for voice analysis. They had achieved useful results with sound recordings of bank robberies—in fact, better than with CCTV, since the voice—even if you try to distort it—is very difficult to disguise. But Bjørn Holm had been told that a bad recording of an indeterminate sound, coughing or laughter, was worthless and could not be used to make a voice profile.

  “Damn,” said Bellman, banging the table with his hand. “With a voice profile, a foothold, we could have started eliminating possible suspects from the case.”

  “Which possible suspects?” mumbled Ærdal.

  “The base station signal tells us that whoever used Leike’s phone was near the center of Ustaoset when he called,” Holm said. “The signal faded right afterward—the operators’ network has coverage only around the center of Ustaoset. But the fact that the signal faded strengthens the theory that it was Prince Charming who had the phone.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Even when the phone’s not being used the base station will pick up signals every other hour. The fact that it didn’t receive any signals shows that the phone, before or after the call, was in the deserted mountain region around Ustaoset. Where perhaps it was carried during the avalanche and torture and so on.”

  No reaction. Harry knew that the euphoria from earlier had evaporated. He went to his chair.

  “There’s one possible way we could get a foothold, as Bellman suggested,” he said softly, knowing that he no longer had to work to gain attention. “Cast your minds back to Leike’s house and the break-in. Let’s assume our killer broke into Leike’s place to call Elias Skog from there. And let’s assume that our white-clad crime scene officers were doing such a thorough job, as it appeared when I arrived and inadvertently … bumped into Holm …” Bjørn Holm tilted his head and sent Harry a spare-me-the-jokes look. “Shouldn’t we already have fingerprints from Holmenveien that might well be … Prince Charming’s?”

  The sun lit up the room again. The others exchanged glances. Ashamed, almost. So simple. So obvious. And none of them had thought of it …

  “It’s been a long meeting with lots of new information,” Bellman said. “Our brains are clearly beginning to get a little sluggish. But what do you think about this, Holm?”

  Bjørn Holm slapped his forehead. “ ’Course we’ve got all the fingerprints. We did the investigation thinking Leike was the killer and his house a possible crime scene. We were hoping to find fingerprints that would match some of the victims’.”

  “Do you have many that were not identified?” Bellman asked.

  “That’s the point,” said Bjørn Holm, smiling. “Leike had two Polish women who did the cleaning once a week. They’d been there six days before and done a thorough job. So we found prints only for Leike himself, Lene Galtung, the two Polish women and an unknown person whose prints definitely did not match those of the victims. We stopped looking for matches after Leike came up with his alibi and was released. But I don’t remember off the top of my head where we found the unknown prints.”

  “But I do,” Beate Lønn said. “I was given the report with sketches and photographs. The prints from X-One’s left hand were found on top of the pompous and very ugly desk. Like so.” She stood up and leaned on her left hand. “If I’m not much mistaken, it’s where the landline is. Like so.” She used her right hand to make the international sign for a telephone, thumb to her ear and little finger to her mouth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Bellman said with a broad smile and a sweeping arm gesture, “I’ll be damned if we don’t have a genuine lead. Carry on searching for a match to X-One, Holm. But promise me it isn’t the husband of one of the Polish women who joined them to make a few free calls home, all right?”

  On the way out, the Pelican sidled up to Harry. She tossed one of her new dreads. “You might be better than I thought, Harry. But when you advance your theories, it wouldn’t hurt to intersperse the occasional ‘I think’ here and there.” She smiled and nudged him in the hip.

  Harry appreciated the smile; the nudge in the hip, on the other hand … His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out. Not Rikshospital.

  “He calls himself Nashville,” said Katrine Bratt.

  “Like the American town?”

  “Yep. He’s been on the websites of all the big newspapers, read the whole caboodle about the murders. The bad news is that’s all I’ve got for you. Nashville’s only been active on the Net for a couple of months, you see, and he’s searched exclusively for things related to
the murders. It almost seems as if Nashville has been waiting to be investigated.”

  “Sounds like our man, all right,” Harry said.

  “Well,” Katrine said, “you’ll have to search for men with cowboy hats.”

  “What?”

  “Nashville. Mecca of country music and all that.”

  Pause.

  “Hello? Harry?”

  “I’m here. Right. Thanks, Katrine.”

  “Kisses?”

  “All over.”

  “No, thank you.”

  They hung up.

  Harry had been allocated an office with a view of Bryn and was observing some of the more unlovely details of the area when there was a knock at the door.

  Beate Lønn was standing in the doorway.

  “So, how does it feel to be in bed with the enemy?”

  Harry shrugged. “The enemy’s name is Prince Charming.”

  “Good. Just wanted to say we’ve run the fingerprints on the desk against the database and he’s not on it.”

  “I didn’t expect him to be.”

  “How’s your dad?”

  “Days away.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you.”

  They looked at each other. And suddenly it struck Harry that this was a face he would see at the funeral. A small pale face he had seen at other funerals, tear-stained, with large tragic eyes. A face as if made for funerals.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “I know only one killer who has murdered in this way,” Harry said, turning back to the view.

  “He reminds you of the Snowman, doesn’t he?”

  Harry nodded slowly.

  She sighed. “I promised I wouldn’t tell you, but Rakel called.”

  Harry stared at the apartment buildings in Helsfyr.

  “She asked about you. I said you were fine. Did I do the right thing, Harry?”

  Harry took a deep breath. “Sure.”

  Beate remained in the doorway for a while. Then she left.

  How is she? How is Oleg? Where are they? What do they do when night falls, who looks after them, who keeps watch? Harry rested his head on his arms and covered his ears with his hands.

  Only one person knows how Prince Charming thinks.

  …

  The afternoon gloom descended without warning. The Captain, the overenthusiastic Hotel Bristol receptionist, called to say someone had called to ask if Iska Peller, the Australian lady in Aftenposten, was staying there. Harry said it was probably a journalist, but the Captain thought even the lowest press vermin knew the rules of the game; they had to introduce themselves by name and state where they worked. Harry thanked him and was about to ask him to call back if he heard any more, until he considered what this invitation would involve. Bellman called to say there was a press conference; if Harry felt like taking part, then …

  Harry declined and could hear Bellman’s relief.

  Harry drummed on the desk. Lifted the receiver to phone Kaja, but cradled it again.

  Raised it again and called some downtown hotels. None of them could recall being asked questions about anyone called Iska Peller.

  Harry looked at his watch. He felt like a drink. He felt like going into Bellman’s office, asking what the hell he had done with his opium, raising his fist and watching him cower …

  Only one person knows.

  Harry got up, kicked the chair, grabbed his wool coat and strode out.

  He drove to town and parked in a glaringly illegal spot outside the Norwegian Theater. Crossed the street and went to the hotel reception desk.

  The Captain had acquired his nickname while he was working as a doorman at the same hotel. The reason was probably a combination of the gaudy red uniform and the fact that he was continually commenting on, and issuing commands to, everyone and everything around him. Furthermore, he saw himself as the point person for anything of importance that happened downtown, the man with his finger on the city’s pulse, the man who knew. The Informant with a capital I, an inestimable part of the police force’s machinery that kept Oslo safe.

  “Right at the very back of my brain, I can hear a rather special voice,” the Captain said, tasting his own words with an appreciative smack. Harry caught the rolling eyes of the man standing next to the Captain behind the reception desk.

  “Sort of gay,” the Captain concluded.

  “Do you mean high-pitched?” Harry asked, thinking of something Adele’s friends had mentioned. Adele had said it was a turn-off the way her boyfriend spoke, like her gay flat mate.

  “No, more like this.” The Captain crooked his hands, fluttered his eyelashes and peformed a parody of a loud-mouthed queen. “I’m just sooo cross with you, Søren!”

  His colleague, who, sure enough, was wearing a name tag inscribed SØREN, giggled.

  Harry thanked him, and again it was on the tip of his tongue to ask the Captain to call him should anything else occur to him. He went outside. Lit a cigarette and looked up at the hotel sign. There was something … At that moment he spotted the Traffic Department car parked behind his and the overalled warden jotting down his registration number.

  Harry crossed the street and held up his ID card. “I’m on police business.”

  “Makes no difference. No parking is no parking,” Overalls said without pausing in his writing. “Send in a complaint.”

  “Well,” Harry said, “you know we also have the authority to dish out parking fines if we want to?”

  The man poked up his head and grinned. “If you think I’m going to let you write your own fine, you’re wrong, pal.”

  “I was thinking more of that car.” Harry pointed.

  “That’s mine and the Traffic—”

  “No parking is no parking.”

  Overalls sent him a grouchy look.

  Harry shrugged. “Send in a complaint. Pal.”

  Overalls slammed his notepad shut, spun on his heel and walked back to his car.

  As Harry drove up Universitetsgata, his phone rang. It was Gunnar Hagen. Harry could hear the quiver of excitement in the usually controlled voice of the Crime Squad boss.

  “Come here right away, Harry.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Just come. The culvert.”

  Harry heard the voices and saw the flashes going off long before he had reached the end of the concrete corridor. Gunnar Hagen and Bjørn Holm were standing by the door to his old office. A woman from Krimteknisk was brushing the door and door handle for fingerprints while a Holm look-alike was taking pictures of half a boot print in the corner.

  “The print’s old,” Harry said. “It was here before we moved in. What’s going on?”

  The look-alike gave a questioning look to Holm, who nodded that would be enough.

  “One of the prison wardens discovered this on the floor by the door,” Hagen said, holding up an evidence bag containing a brown envelope. Through the transparent bag Harry read his name. Printed on an address label stuck to the envelope.

  “The prison warden figured it had been lying here for a couple of days, max. People don’t go through this culvert every day, of course.”

  “We’re measuring the moisture in the paper,” Bjørn said. “We’ve put a similar envelope here and are waiting to see how long it takes to reach the same level of moisture. Then we work backward.”

  “There you go. Shades of CSI,” Harry said.

  “Not that the timing will help us,” Hagen said. “There are no surveillance cameras where I assume he must have been. Which, of course, is fairly straightforward. Into a busy reception area, in the elevator, down here, no locked doors before you go up into the prison.”

  “No, why should we lock up here?” Harry said. “Anyone object to me having a smoke?”

  No one answered, but looks were eloquent enough. Harry shrugged.

  “I suppose at some point someone is going to tell me what was in the envelope,” he said.

  Bjørn Holm he
ld up another evidence bag.

  It was difficult to see the contents in the poor lighting, so Harry stepped closer.

  “Oh, shit,” he said and recoiled half a step.

  “The middle finger,” Hagen said.

  “The finger looks as if it might have been broken first,” Bjørn said. “Clean, smooth cut, no ragged skin. Chop. An ax. Or a large knife.”

  From the culvert came the resonant sound of rapid strides approaching.

  Harry stared. The finger was white, drained of blood, but the tip was a bluish black.

  “What’s that? Have you taken fingerprints already?”

  “Yes,” Bjørn said. “And if we’re lucky the answer is on its way.”

  “My guess is right hand,” Harry said.

  “You’re correct. Well observed,” Hagen said.

  “Did the envelope contain anything else?”

  “No. Now you know as much as we do.”

  “Maybe,” Harry said, fidgeting with the cigarette packet. “But I know something else about the finger.”

  “We thought about that, too,” Hagen said, exchanging glances with Bjørn Holm. The sound of clomping steps rose. “The middle finger of the right hand. It’s the same finger the Snowman took off you.”

  “I’ve got something here,” the female forensics officer interrupted.

  The others turned to her.

  She was squatting down holding an object between her thumb and first finger. It was grayish black. “Doesn’t it look like the tiny stones we found at the Borgny crime scene?”

  Harry went closer. “Yup. Lava.”

  The runner was a young man with a police ID card hanging from the breast pocket of his shirt. He stopped in front of Bjørn Holm, placed his hands on his knees and gasped for breath.

  “Well, Kim Erik?” Holm said.

  “We found a match,” the young man panted.

  “Let me guess,” Harry said, poking a cigarette between his lips.

  The others turned their attention to him.

  “Tony Leike.”

  Kim Erik looked genuinely disappointed: “H-how …?”