Police hh-10

by Jo Nesbo

  Already.

  He heard the clink of metal behind him and twisted his head the other way. The person standing by his side fiddling with the instruments was dressed in green and wore a mask over his mouth.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the man in green. ‘Has the anaesthetic worn off already? Yes, well, I’m not exactly an anaesthetics expert, am I? To tell the truth, I’m not a specialist in anything at all in the hospital.’

  Mikael engaged his mind, tried to hack his way out of the confusion. What the hell was going on?

  ‘By the way, I found the money you brought with you. Nice of you, but I don’t need it. And it’s impossible to compensate for what you did, Mikael.’

  If he wasn’t the anaesthetic nurse, how did he know about the connection between Mikael and Asayev?

  The man in green held up an instrument to the light.

  Mikael could hear the fear pounding. He didn’t feel it yet; the drug was still floating through his brain like wisps of fog, but when the veil of anaesthetics had lifted completely what was behind would be revealed: pain and fear. And death.

  Because Mikael had understood now. It was so obvious that he should have known before he left home. This was the scene of an unsolved murder.

  ‘You and Truls Berntsen.’

  Truls? Did he believe that Truls had anything to do with the murder of Asayev?

  ‘But he’s already received his punishment. What do you think it’s best to use when you cut off a face? A handle number three with a blade number ten is for skin and muscles. Or this one: a handle number seven with a blade number fifteen?’ The man in green held up two seemingly identical scalpels. The light was reflected in one of the blades, casting a thin stripe of light over the man’s face, including one eye. And in that eye he saw something he vaguely recognised.

  ‘The supplier didn’t write which one was best for this particular operation, you see.’

  There was something familiar about his voice as well, wasn’t there?

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll have to manage with what we’ve got. I’m going to have to tape your face down, Mikael.’

  Now the fog had lifted completely and he saw it. The fear.

  And it saw him and rose in his throat.

  Mikael gasped as he felt his head being forced down onto the mattress and the tape stretched across his forehead. Then the man’s face was directly above his. The mask had slipped. But Mikael’s brain was slowly rotating his vision, upside down became downside up. And he recognised him. And knew why.

  ‘Do you remember me, Mikael?’ he asked.

  It was him. The homo. The one who had tried to kiss him when he was working at Kripos. In the toilet. Someone had come in. Truls had beaten him black and blue in the boiler room, and he had never returned to work. He had known what would be awaiting him. As Mikael did now.

  ‘Mercy.’ Mikael felt his eyes filling with tears. ‘I stopped Truls. He would have killed you if I hadn’t-’

  ‘-hadn’t stopped him so that you could save your career and become Chief of Police.’

  ‘Listen, I’m ready to pay whatever-’

  ‘Oh, you’ll pay all right, Mikael. You’ll pay in full for what you took from me.’

  ‘Took. . What did we take from you?’

  ‘You took revenge from me, Mikael. Punishment for the person who killed René Kalsnes. You all let the murderer off the hook.’

  ‘Not all cases can be solved. You yourself know that-’

  Laughter. Cold, brief, with the brakes suddenly applied. ‘I know you didn’t try, that’s what I know, Mikael. You didn’t give a damn for two reasons. First of all, you found a baton close to the scene of the crime, so you were afraid that if you searched too hard you would find out it was one of your own who had killed this creep, this revolting homo. And what was the second reason, Mikael? René wasn’t as hetero as the police force likes us officers to be. Or what, Mikael? But I loved René. Loved him. Do you hear that, Mikael? I’m saying out loud that I — a man — loved the boy, wanted to kiss him, stroke his hair, whisper sweet nothings into his ear. Do you think that’s revolting? Deep down, though, you know, don’t you? That it’s a gift to be able to love another man. It’s something you should have told yourself before, Mikael, because now it’s too late for you, you’re never going to experience it, what I offered you when we were working at Kripos. You were so frightened of your other self that you lost your temper. You had to beat him out. Beat me out.’

  He had gradually raised his voice, but now he lowered it to a whisper.

  ‘But that was just stupid fear, Mikael. I’ve felt it myself, and I would never have punished you this hard for that alone. What you and all the other so-called police officers on the René Kalsnes case received the death sentence for is that you sullied the only person I have ever loved. Demeaned his human value. Said the victim wasn’t even worth the work you’re paid to do. Wasn’t worth the oath you swore to serve the public and to uphold justice. Which means you fail us all, you desecrate the flock, Mikael, the flock which is all that is sacred. That and love. And so you have to be removed. The way you removed the apple of my eye. But enough chit-chat — I have to concentrate if we’re going to get this right. Fortunately for you and me there are very instructive videos online. What do you think about this?’

  He held up a picture in front of Mikael.

  ‘Should be simple surgery, don’t you think? But shush, Mikael! No one can hear you, but if you yell like that I’ll have to tape up your mouth as well.’

  Harry fell into Arnold Folkestad’s chair. It emitted a long, hydraulic wheeze and sank under his weight as Harry switched on the computer and the screen lit up the darkness. And while it started up, with creaks and groans, activated programs and prepared itself for use, Harry read Katrine’s text message yet again.

  No files found for statistic.

  Arnold had told him the FBI had statistics to the effect that in ninety-four per cent of all the serious cases when the prosecution’s witnesses died, the deaths were suspicious. That was what had made Harry examine Asayev’s death more closely. But the statistic didn’t exist. It was like Katrine’s joke, the one that had been nagging away at Harry’s cortex, the one he remembered and couldn’t understand why:

  ‘When people use statistics, in seventy-two per cent of cases, they’ve made them up on the spur of the moment.’

  Harry must have been ruminating on it for a long time. Must have had a suspicion. That this statistic was one Arnold had made up on the spur of the moment.

  Why?

  The answer was simple. To persuade Harry to have a closer look at Asayev’s death. Because Arnold knew something, but couldn’t say straight out what it was or how he had acquired the information. Because it would blow his cover. But, being the zealous policeman he was, morbidly keen to solve a murder, he had still been willing to take the risk by putting Harry onto the case.

  Because Arnold Folkestad knew that the trail could not only lead Harry to the fact that Asayev had been murdered and to his potential murderer, it could also lead to himself, Arnold Folkestad, and another murder. Because the only person who could know and might also have a particular need to say what actually happened up there at the hospital was Anton Mittet. The sedated, remorse-ridden guard. And there was only one reason Arnold Folkestad and Anton Mittet — total strangers to each other — should have been in contact.

  Harry shivered.

  Murder.

  The computer was ready to search.

  48

  Harry stared at the computer screen. He rang Katrine’s number again. Was about to end the call when he heard her voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  She was out of breath, as if she’d been running. But the acoustics suggested she was indoors. And it struck him that he should have heard that the time he’d rung Arnold Folkestad late at night. The acoustics. He’d been outside, not inside.

  ‘Are you in the gym or what?’

  ‘Gym?’ She queried the word as though unfamiliar
with the concept.

  ‘I was wondering if that was why you didn’t answer my calls.’

  ‘No, I’m at home. What’s up?’

  ‘OK, get your pulse down now. I’m at PHS. I’ve just seen someone’s search history. And I can’t get any further.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Arnold Folkestad has been on medical supply websites. I want to know why.’

  ‘Arnold Folkestad? What’s this got to do with him?’

  ‘I think he’s our man.’

  ‘Arnold Folkestad is the cop killer?’

  As Katrine spoke he heard a sound which he immediately identified as Bjørn Holm’s smoker’s cough. And what might have been the creaking of a mattress.

  ‘Are you and Bjørn in the Boiler Room?’

  ‘No, I told you. . we. . yes, we’re in the Boiler Room.’

  Harry mused. And concluded that in all his years as a policeman he had never heard worse lying.

  ‘If you’re near a computer, try to find out if Arnold has been buying medical equipment. And if his name turns up in connection with any old crime scenes or murder investigations. And then ring me back. And now give me Bjørn.’

  He heard her hand over the phone, say something and then Bjørn’s somewhat thick voice.

  ‘Yuh?’

  ‘Get your threads on and hotfoot it to the Boiler Room. Find a police lawyer and get a warrant to tap Arnold Folkestad’s mobile phone. And then check who rang Truls Berntsen this evening, OK? In the meantime, I’ll tell Bellman to deploy Delta. OK?’

  ‘Yes. I. . we. . well, you know. .’

  ‘Is this important, Bjørn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right.’

  Harry rang off, and at that moment Karsten Kaspersen came in through the door.

  ‘I found some iodine and cotton. And tweezers as well. So we can pull out the splinters.’

  ‘Thanks, Kaspersen, but the splinters are more or less holding me together, so just leave the stuff on the table.’

  ‘But, heck, you-’

  Harry waved the protesting Kaspersen out while calling Bellman. Was put through to his voicemail. Swore. Searched for Ulla Bellman, found a landline number in Høyenhall. And then heard a gentle, melodic voice articulate the surname.

  ‘Harry Hole here. Is your husband there?’

  ‘No, he just went out.’

  ‘This is pretty important. Where is he?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘When-?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘If-’

  ‘-he turns up I’ll tell him to call you, Harry Hole.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He hung up.

  Forced himself to wait. Wait while sitting with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, listening to blood dripping onto unmarked tests. Counted the drips as if they were ticking seconds.

  The forest. The forest. There’s no metro in the forest. And the acoustics. He had sounded as if he was outside, not inside.

  When Harry had called Arnold that night Arnold had claimed he was at home.

  Yet Harry had heard the metro in the background.

  There could of course have been relatively innocent reasons for Arnold Folkestad lying about where he was. A female acquaintance he wanted to keep quiet, for example. And it could have been a coincidence that when Harry rang, the young girl was being dug up in Vestre Cemetery. Close to where the metro passes by. Coincidences. But enough to cause other things to surface. The statistic.

  Harry glanced at his watch again.

  Thought about Rakel and Oleg. They were at home.

  Home. Where he would have been. Where he should have been. Where he would never be. Not completely, not fully, not the way he wanted to be. Because it was true, he didn’t have it in him. Instead he had this otherness in him, like a flesh-eating bacterium, which consumed everything else in his life, which not even alcohol could keep down and which he still, after all these years, didn’t completely understand. Only that in some way or other it had to be similar to what Arnold Folkestad had. An imperative so strong and all-encompassing that it could almost justify all it destroyed. Then — at long last — she rang.

  ‘He ordered quite a few surgical instruments and items of clothing some weeks ago. You don’t need any kind of special authorisation to do that.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t seem to have been online much. Seems to have been quite cautious in fact.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I checked whether he’d had any physical injuries or anything like that. And some hospital records came up. From several years ago.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. He was admitted with what the doctor said in his report was a beating, but the patient claimed he fell down the stairs. The doctor rejected this as a cause and referred to the widespread injuries all over his body. He wrote that the patient was a police officer and would have to judge for himself what should be reported. He also wrote that his knee would never completely recover.’

  ‘So he was beaten up. What about the crime scenes and the cop killer?’

  ‘I didn’t find any links there, though it looks as if he worked on some of the original murder cases when he was at Kripos. And I did find a link with one of the victims.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘René Kalsnes. At first he just cropped up by chance, but then I refined the search. These two had quite a lot to do with each other. Flights abroad with Folkestad paying for both of them, double rooms and suites registered in both their names in a variety of European cities. Jewellery I doubt Folkestad would have worn, but he bought it in Barcelona and Rome. In short, looks like the two of them-’

  ‘-were lovers,’ Harry said.

  ‘I’d say more like secret lovers,’ Katrine said. ‘When they travelled from Norway they sat in different rows, sometimes even on different flights. And when they stayed at hotels in Norway it was always in single rooms.’

  ‘Arnold was a policeman,’ Harry said. ‘He thought it was safest to stay in the closet.’

  ‘But he wasn’t the only person wooing this René with weekends away and endless gifts.’

  ‘I’m sure he wasn’t. And what is equally sure is that the previous investigation teams should have seen this.’

  ‘Now you’re being harsh, Harry. They didn’t have my search engines.’

  Harry ran a hand carefully over his face. ‘Maybe not. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m being unfair when I think the murder of a promiscuous gay man didn’t arouse in the detectives involved an urge to graft for a result.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘Fine. Anything else?’

  ‘Not for the moment.’

  ‘OK.’

  He slipped the phone into his pocket. Glanced at his watch.

  A sentence uttered by Arnold Folkestad ran through his mind.

  Anyone who doesn’t dare to stand up for justice should have a guilty conscience.

  Was that what Folkestad was doing with these revenge murders? Standing up for justice?

  And what had he said when they spoke about Silje Gravseng’s mental state? ‘I have some experience of OCD.’ Meaning he knew what it was like to stop at nothing.

  The man had been sitting opposite Harry and spelling it out for him.

  Bjørn rang after seven minutes.

  ‘They’ve checked Truls Berntsen’s line and no one has rung tonight.’

  ‘Mm. So Folkestad went straight to Berntsen’s place and picked him up. What about Folkestad’s phone?’

  ‘It’s switched on and can be located in the area round Slemdalsveien, Chateau Neuf and-’

  ‘Shit,’ Harry said. ‘Hang up and ring his number.’

  Harry waited for a few seconds. Then he heard a vibration somewhere. It came from one of the desk drawers. Harry pulled at them. Locked. Apart from the bottom one, the deepest. A display shone up at him. Harry took the phone and accepted the call.

  ‘Fou
nd it,’ he said.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Harry, Bjørn. Folkestad’s smart. He left the phone registered in his name here. I’d guess it was here when all the murders were committed.’

  ‘So that no one at the phone company would be able to go back and reconstruct his movements.’

  ‘And as evidence that he’s been working here as usual if he should need an alibi. Since it isn’t even locked up, my guess is we won’t find anything revealing on the phone.’

  ‘You mean he’s got another one?’

  ‘Pay as you go, bought with cash, perhaps in someone else’s name. That’s how he calls the victims.’

  ‘And as the phone’s there tonight. .’

  ‘He’s been out and about, yes.’

  ‘But if he needs to use the phone as an alibi, it’s strange he hasn’t taken it. Taken it home. If the signals show it’s been at PHS all night-’

  ‘It won’t work as a plausible alibi. There is another possibility.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He hasn’t finished tonight’s work yet.’

  ‘Oh Christ. Do you think-?’

  ‘I don’t think anything. I can’t get hold of Bellman. Could you ring Hagen, explain the situation and ask if he would authorise the mobil-isation of Delta? To raid Folkestad’s home address.’

  ‘You think he’s at home?’

  ‘No. But we-’

  ‘-start searching where there is light,’ Bjørn completed.

  Harry hung up again. Closed his eyes. The whistling in his ears had almost gone. Instead there was another noise. Ticking. The seconds being counted down. Shit! He pressed his knuckles against his eyes.

  Could anyone else have received an anonymous call today? Who? And where from? From a pay-as-you-go phone. Or a payphone. Or a large switchboard where the number didn’t come up.

  Harry sat still for a few seconds.

  Then he took his hands away.

  Looked at the big black telephone on the desk. Hesitated. Then he lifted the receiver. Got the switchboard’s dialling tone. Hit the redial key and with small, excited beeps the phone started ringing the last number that had been dialled. He heard the number ringing. The call being answered.