by Jo Nesbo
Harry had vomited. Spat green mucus on them and staggered backward.
He flipped two cigarettes out of the packet. Put them between his lips and felt them bobbing up and down against his chattering teeth. The plane left in four hours. He had arranged to go to the airport with Saul. Harry was so exhausted he could hardly keep his eyes open, yet neither could nor wanted to sleep. The ghosts were refused admission for the first night.
“Marlon Brando,” she said.
“What?” Harry replied, lighting the cigarettes and passing her one.
“The macho actor whose name I couldn’t remember. He has the most feminine voice of them all. Woman’s mouth, too. Have you noticed, by the way, that he lisps? It’s not that audible, but it’s there, like a kind of overtone the ear doesn’t perceive as a sound, but the brain registers anyway.”
“I know what you mean,” Harry said, inhaling and observing her.
She had been sprayed with blood, tissue, bone fragments and brain matter. It had taken a long time to cut the plastic ties binding her wrists; his fingers had simply not obeyed him. When she was finally free she had gotten to her feet, while he lay on all fours.
And he had done nothing to stop her grabbing Tony’s jacket collar and belt, and rolling the body off the edge into the crater. Harry had not heard a sound, only the whisper of the wind. He had watched her looking down into the volcano until she turned to him.
He nodded. She didn’t need to explain. That was how it had to be done.
She had cast an inquiring glance at the body of Lene Galtung. Harry had weighed the practical versus the moral considerations. The diplomatic consequences versus a mother having a grave to visit. The truth versus a lie that might have made life more livable. Then he had gotten to his feet. Lifted Lene Galtung, almost collapsing under the weight of the slight, young woman. Stood on the edge of the abyss, closed his eyes, felt the longing, swayed for a second. And then let her go. Opened his eyes and watched her descent. She was already a dot. Then she was swallowed by the smoke.
“People disappear in the Congo every single day,” Kaja had said on the drive back from the volcano with Saul, and Harry had sat in the backseat, holding her.
He knew it would be a short report. No traces. Vanished. They could be anywhere. And the answer to all the questions they would be asked would be this: People disappear in the Congo every single day. Even when she asked, the woman with the turquoise eyes. Because it would be simplest for them. No body, no internal inquiry, which was routine when officers had fired a shot. No embarrassing international incident. No dropping of the case, at least not at an official level, but the continued search for Leike would just be for appearances’ sake. Lene Galtung would be reported missing. She hadn’t had a plane ticket and the immigration authorities in the Congo hadn’t registered her entry into the country. It was for the best, Hagen would say. For all parties. At any rate, those parties that counted.
And the woman with the turquoise eyes would nod. Accept what she was told. But she might know anyway, if she listened to what he didn’t say. She could choose. Choose to hear him say her daughter was dead. That he had aimed between Lene’s eyes instead of what he assumed would be accurate, a little farther to the right. But he had wanted to be sure the bullet didn’t deviate so far to the right that he might shoot his colleague, the woman with whom he was working on this job. She could choose that or the lie that pushed sound waves up ahead, the ones that gave hope instead of a grave.
They changed planes in Kampala.
Sat in hard plastic chairs by the gate, watching planes coming and going, until Kaja fell asleep and her head slid down onto Harry’s shoulder.
She was woken by something happening. She didn’t know what, but something had changed. The room temperature. The rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat. Or the lines in his drained, pale face. She saw his hand putting the phone back in his jacket pocket.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“Rikshospital,” Harry said, his eyes going absent to her, slipping past her, disappearing out of the panoramic windows, to the horizon of the concrete runway and the dazzling light-blue sky.
“He’s dead.”
91
Parting
It rained at Olav Hole’s funeral. The turnout was as Harry had expected: not as good as at Mom’s funeral, but not embarrassingly sparse.
Afterward Harry and Sis stood outside the church receiving condolences from old relatives whose names they had never heard, old teaching colleagues they had never seen and old neighbors whose names they recognized, but not their faces. The only people whose turn to face the Grim Reaper was not imminent were Harry’s police colleagues: Gunnar Hagen, Beate Lønn, Kaja Solness and Bjørn Holm. Øystein Eikeland definitely looked as if he were on the point of checking out, but excused himself by saying that he had been on a real bender the night before. And that Tresko, who couldn’t come, sent his regards and condolences. Harry scanned the church for the two he had seen on the bench at the very back, but they had obviously left before the coffin was borne out.
Harry invited everyone for meatballs and beer at Schrøder’s. The small gathering had a lot to say about the weather, but little about Olav Hole. Harry finished up his apple juice, explained he had a prior arrangement, thanked everyone for coming and left.
He hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address in Holmenkollen.
There was still some snow on the lawns at these heights.
As they drove up to the black timber house, Harry’s heart was beating hard. And, even harder, standing in front of the familiar door, after ringing and hearing the approach of footsteps. Familiar steps, too.
She looked as she always had. As she always would. The dark hair, the gentleness in her brown eyes, the slim neck. Fuck her. She was so beautiful it hurt.
“Harry,” she said.
“Rakel.”
“Your face. I saw it in church. What happened?”
“Nothing. They say it will heal fine,” he lied.
“Come in and I’ll make some coffee.”
Harry shook his head. “I have a taxi waiting down on the road. Is Oleg here?”
“In his room. Do you want to see him?”
“Another day. How long are you staying?”
“Three days. Maybe four. Or five. We’ll see.”
“Can I see you both soon? Would that be OK?”
She nodded. “I don’t know if I did the right thing.”
Harry smiled. “Well, who knows what that is?”
“In church, I mean. We left before we … got in the way. You had other things to think about. Anyway, we went for Olav’s sake. You know that he and Oleg … well, they got along. Two reserved personalities. You can take nothing for granted.”
Harry nodded.
“Oleg talks about you a lot, Harry. You mean more to him than you ever realized.” She looked down. “More than I ever realized, too, perhaps.”
Harry cleared his throat. “So everything here is unchanged since …?”
Rakel nodded quickly so he was spared from having to complete the impossible sentence. Since the Snowman had tried to kill them in this very house.
Harry gazed at her. He had only wanted to see her, hear her voice. Feel her eyes on him. He hadn’t wanted to ask her. He cleared his throat again. “There’s something I have to ask you.”
“What’s that?”
“Can we go into the kitchen for a minute?”
They went in. He sat at the table opposite her. Explained slowly and at some length. She listened without interrupting.
“He wants you to visit him at the hospital. He wants to ask you for forgiveness.”
“Why should I agree?”
“You have to answer that one for yourself, Rakel. But he doesn’t have much time left.”
“I’ve read you can live for a long time with that disease.”
“He doesn’t have much time left,” Harry repeated. “Think about it. You don’t need to answer now.”
&nb
sp; He waited. Saw her blink. Saw her eyes fill, heard the almost noiseless crying. She gasped for breath.
“What would you do, Harry?”
“I would say no. But then I’m a pretty bad human being.”
Her laughter mixed with the tears. And Harry wondered how much it was possible to miss a sound, a certain oscillation of the air. How long you could yearn for a certain laugh.
“I need to be going now,” he said.
“Why?”
“I have three meetings left.”
“Left? Before what?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Harry got up. He had heard music from the first floor. Slayer. Slipknot.
After getting into the taxi and giving the next address, he thought about her question. Before what? Before he wanted to have everything finished. To be free. Maybe.
It was a short drive.
“This one might take a little longer,” he said.
He breathed in, opened the gate and went to the door of the fairy-tale house.
He thought he could see the turquoise eyes following him from the kitchen window.
92
Free Fall
Mikael Bellman stood inside the entrance of Oslo District Prison watching Sigurd Altman and a prison guard saunter toward the counter.
“Checking out?” the officer behind the counter asked.
“Yes,” said Altman, handing over a form.
“Anything from the minibar?”
The second officer chuckled at what was undoubtedly standard at releases.
Personal effects were unlocked from a cupboard and returned with a broad smile. “Hope your stay met expectations, Herr Altman, and that we see you again soon.”
Bellman held the door open for Altman. They walked down the stairs together.
“The press are outside,” Bellman said. “So let’s go through the culvert. Krohn’s waiting for you in a car at the rear of Police HQ.”
“Master of bluffs,” Altman said with a barbed smile.
Bellman didn’t ask what he was alluding to. He had other questions. The final ones. And a thousand feet within which to have them answered. The lock buzzed, and he pushed open the door to the culvert. “Now that the deal is done I thought you might be able to tell me a couple of things.”
“Shoot, Bellman.”
“Like why you didn’t correct Harry as soon as you realized he was going to arrest you?”
Altman shrugged. “I considered the misunderstanding a priceless treat. I understood entirely, of course. What was not understandable was that the arrest would take place in Ytre Enebakk. Why there? And when there’s something you don’t understand, it’s best to keep your trap shut. So I did, until the blinding light, until I saw the whole picture.”
“And what did the whole picture tell you?”
“That I was in a seesaw situation.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I knew about the conflict between Kripos and Crime Squad. And I saw that it gave me an option. Being in a seesaw situation means that you’re in a position to apply weight to one side or the other.”
“But why didn’t you try the same deal with Harry that you did with me?”
“In a seesaw situation you always turn to the losing party. That’s the party that is more desperate, more willing to pay for what you have to offer. It’s a simple gambling theory.”
“Why were you so sure that Harry wasn’t on the losing side?”
“I wasn’t sure, but there was another factor. I had begun to get to know Harry. He’s not like you, Bellman, a man of compromises. He couldn’t care less about personal prestige; he only wants to catch the bad boys. All the bad boys. He would have seen things in the following way: If Tony was the main actor, I was the director. And therefore I should not get off lightly. I figured that a career man like you would see things differently. And Johan Krohn agreed with me. You would see the personal gain in being the person who caught the murderer. You knew that people were anxious to know who did it, who physically performed the killing, not who did the thinking. If a film flops, it’s great for a director to have Tom Cruise in the main role because he’s the one people will slaughter. Audiences and the press like to have things simple, and my crime is indirect, complicated. A court of law would undoubtedly have handed down a life sentence, but this case isn’t about courts of law, but about politics. If the press and the people are happy, the Ministry of Justice is happy, so everyone can go home more or less happy. Getting away with a slap on the wrist, maybe a suspended sentence, is a cheap price to pay.”
“Not for everyone,” Bellman said.
Altman laughed. The echo drowned out his footsteps. “Take some advice from someone who knows. Let it go. Don’t let it eat you up. Injustice is like the weather. If you can’t live with it, move. Injustice is not part of the system’s machinery. It is the machinery.”
“I’m not talking about me, Altman. I can live with it.”
“And I’m not talking about you, either, Bellman. I’m talking about the person who can’t live with it.”
Bellman nodded. For his part, he certainly could live with the situation. There had been telephone calls from the ministry. Not from the minister himself, of course, but the feedback could be interpreted in only one way. That they were happy. That this would have positive consequences, both for Kripos and for him personally.
They went up the stairs and into the daylight.
Johan Krohn stepped out of his blue Audi and extended a hand to Sigurd Altman as they crossed the road.
Bellman watched the released man and his counsel until the Audi disappeared around the bend, en route to Tøyen.
“Don’t you say hi when you come to see us, Bellman?”
Bellman turned. It was Gunnar Hagen. He was on the sidewalk across the road, no jacket, arms folded.
Bellman went over, and they shook hands.
“Anyone spreading gossip about me?” Bellman asked.
“Here at Crime Squad everything is brought to light,” Hagen said with a broad smile, shivering and rubbing his hands for warmth. “By the way, I have a meeting with the Ministry of Justice at the end of next month.”
“Oh, yes,” Bellman said, unconcerned. He knew very well what the meeting would be about. Restructuring. Downsizing. Transfer of responsibility for murder cases. What he didn’t know was what Hagen meant with his allusion to everything coming to light.
“But you know all about the meeting, don’t you,” Hagen said. “We’ve both been requested to forward a recommendation for the future organization of murder investigations. The deadline’s approaching.”
“I hardly think they’ll lay much weight on our one-sided presentations,” Bellman said, looking at Hagen and trying to interpret where he was going. “I suppose we just have to give our opinions, in the name of tolerance.”
“Unless we both believe that the present structure is preferable to all the investigations being placed under one roof,” Hagen said through chattering teeth.
Bellman chortled. “You’re not wearing enough clothes, Hagen.”
“You could be right. But I also know what I would think about a new murder unit being led by a policeman who had used his position to let his future wife go free after she had been smuggling drugs. Even though witnesses had pointed her out.”
Bellman stopped breathing. Felt his grip slacken. Felt gravity taking hold of him, his hair rising, his stomach falling. This was the nightmare he had been having. Nerve-jangling in sleep, brutal in reality: the fall without any rope. The solo climber’s fall.
“Looks like you’re feeling the cold, too, Bellman.”
“Fuck you, Hagen.”
“Me?”
“What do you want?”
“Want? Long-term, I want the force to be spared yet another public scandal calling into doubt the integrity of the regular policeman. As far as restructuring is concerned …” Hagen’s head receded between his shoulders and he stamped his feet on the
ground. “The Ministry of Justice might want murder investigation resources all in the same pot, irrespective of the leadership question. If I were to be asked to lead such a unit I would, of course, consider the offer. But, in general, I think things are functioning well as they are. By and large, murderers receive their punishment, don’t they? So if my counterpart in this matter shares that view, I will be prepared to continue with investigations both in Bryn and here at Police HQ. What do you think, Bellman?”
Mikael Bellman felt the jerk as the rope caught him after all. Felt the harness tighten, felt himself being torn into two, felt his back unable to cope with the strain and breaking, the mixture of pain and paralysis. He dangled, helpless and dizzy, somewhere between heaven and earth. But he was alive.
“Let me think about it, Hagen.”
“Think away. But don’t take too much time. Deadline, you know. We have to coordinate.”
Bellman watched Hagen’s back as he loped to the entrance of Police HQ. Then turned and stared over the rooftops of Grønland. Studied the town. His town.
93
The Answer
Harry was standing in the middle of the living-room floor, looking around, when the phone rang.
“It’s Rakel. What are you doing?”
“Examining what’s left,” he said. “After a person dies.”
“And?”
“There’s a lot. And yet not much. Sis has said what she wants, and tomorrow some guy’s coming to buy up the goods and chattels. He intimated he would pay fifty thousand to buy everything, lock, stock and barrel. And he’ll clean up after himself. That’s … er …” Harry couldn’t find the word.
“I know,” she said. “It was like that for me when my father died. His things, which had been so important, so irreplaceable, seemed to lose their meaning. It was as if he alone was the one who had given them value.”
“Or perhaps it’s those of us left realizing we have to clean up. To burn. To start afresh.” Harry went into the kitchen. Looked at the photograph hanging under the kitchen cupboard. A photo from Sofies Gate. Oleg and Rakel.
