by Jo Nesbo
Two seconds passed before he heard anything at the other end, and he thought she had hung up. But then the voice was there, right by his ear, soft and tantalising.
‘Hello, Truls, this is Ulla.’
‘Ulla …?’
‘Ulla Bellman.’
‘Oh, hi, Ulla, is that you?’ Truls hoped he sounded convincing. ‘How can I help you?’
She let out a little laugh. ‘I don’t know about “help”. I saw you in the atrium of Police HQ the other day, and realised how long it had been since we last had a proper chat. You know, like we used to.’
We never had a proper chat, Truls thought.
‘Could we meet up sometime?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Truls tried to stifle his grunting laughter.
‘Great. How about tomorrow? Mum’s got the kids then. We could go for a drink or a bite to eat?’
Truls could hardly believe his ears. Ulla wanted to meet him. To interrogate him about Mikael again? No, she must know they didn’t see much of each other these days. Besides: a drink or a bite to eat? ‘That would be great. Is there something on your mind?’
‘I just thought it would be nice to meet up, I don’t really have much contact with too many people from the old days.’
‘No, of course,’ Truls said. ‘So, where?’
Ulla laughed. ‘I haven’t been out for years. I don’t know what there is in Manglerud these days. You do still live there, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Er … Olsen’s is still there, down in Bryn.’
‘Is it? Right, then. Let’s say there. Eight o’clock?’
Truls nodded dumbly, then remembered to say ‘Yes’.
‘And, Truls?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t mention it to Mikael, please.’
Truls coughed. ‘No?’
‘No. See you tomorrow at eight o’clock, then.’
He stared at the phone after she’d hung up. Had that really happened or was it just an echo of the daydreams he had cooked up when he was sixteen, seventeen? Truls felt a happiness so intense that his chest felt like it was going to burst. And then panic hit. It was going to be a disaster. One way or another, it was obviously going to be a disaster.
It was all a disaster.
Obviously, it couldn’t have lasted, it was only a matter of time before he was chucked out of paradise.
‘Beer,’ he said, looking up at the young freckled girl who was standing at his table.
She wasn’t wearing any make-up, her hair was pulled up in a simple ponytail, and she’d rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse like she was ready for a fight. She wrote on her pad, as if she were expecting a longer order, which made Harry think she was new, seeing as they were at Schrøder’s, where nine out of ten orders stopped there. She’d hate the job for the first few weeks. The coarse jokes from the male customers, the ill-concealed jealousy from the most alcoholic of the women. Poor tips, no music to sway her hips to as she moved round the bar, no nice guys to be seen by, just argumentative old drunks to chuck out at closing time. She’d wonder if it was worth the boost it gave her student loan, which meant she could afford to live in a shared student house in such a relatively central location. But Harry knew that if she got through the first month without giving up and handing in her notice, things would gradually change. She’d start to laugh at the senseless humour in the comments, learn to give as good as she got in the same tacky way. When the women realised she wasn’t threatening their territory they’d start to confide in her. And she’d get tips. Not much, but they’d be genuine tips, as well as gentle encouragement and the occasional declaration of love. And they’d give her a name. Something that might be uncomfortably close to the bone, but it would still be meant affectionately, something that ennobled you among this ignoble company. Short-Kari, Lenin, Backscreen, She-Bear. In her case it would probably be something to do with her freckles and red hair. And as people moved in and out of the collective, and presumptive boyfriends came and went, little by little it would become her family. A kind, generous, irritating, lost family.
The girl looked up from her pad. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes,’ Harry smiled.
She hurried to the bar as if someone was timing her. And who knows, maybe Rita was standing behind the bar doing just that.
Anders Wyller had texted to say that he was waiting for Harry at Tattoos & Piercings on Storgata. Harry started to write a reply, saying that Anders would have to deal with it on his own, when he suddenly heard someone sit down in front of him.
‘Hello, Rita,’ he said without looking up.
‘Hello, Harry. Bad day?’
‘Yes.’ He tapped in the old-fashioned smiley: colon, right-hand bracket.
‘And now you’re here to make it even worse?’
Harry didn’t answer.
‘Know what I think, Harry?’
‘What do you think, Rita?’ His finger tried to find the Send button.
‘I don’t think this is a crack in the ice.’
‘I’ve just ordered a beer from Freckly-Fia.’
‘Who we’re still calling Marte. And I’ve cancelled that beer. The devil on your right shoulder might want a drink, Harry, but the angel on your left steered you to a place where they don’t serve spirits, but where there is a Rita who you know will serve you coffee instead of beer, have a chat with you, then send you home to Rakel.’
‘She’s not at home, Rita.’
‘Aha, so that’s why. Harry Hole has managed to fuck up again. You men always seem to find a way.’
‘Rakel’s sick. And I need a beer before I call Oleg.’ Harry looked down at his phone. Looked again for the Send button as he felt Rita’s stubby warm hand settle on his.
‘Things usually turn out OK in the end, Harry.’
He stared at her. ‘Of course they don’t. Unless you actually know someone who made it out alive?’
She laughed. ‘In the end is somewhere between what’s dragging you down today, and the day when nothing can drag us down any more, Harry.’
Harry looked at his phone again. Then he tapped in Oleg’s name instead and pressed the Call button.
Rita stood up and left him alone.
Oleg answered after the first ring. ‘It’s good that you called! We’re in a seminar, discussing paragraph 20 of the Police Act. You have to interpret it to mean that if the situation demands it, every police officer is subordinate to one of a higher rank and must obey orders from that higher rank even if they don’t work in the same department, or even at the police station, don’t you? Paragraph 20 says that the ranking officer decides if the situation is precarious and requires that. Come on, tell me I’m right! I’ve just bet these two idiots here a drink …’ Harry could hear laughter in the background.
Harry closed his eyes. Of course there was something to hope for, something to look forward to: the time that comes after what’s dragging you down today. The day when nothing can drag you down any more.
‘Bad news, Oleg. Your mum’s in Ullevål.’
‘I’ll have the fish,’ Mona said to the waiter. ‘Skip the potatoes, sauce and vegetables.’
‘Then there’s only the fish left,’ the waiter said.
‘Precisely,’ Mona said, handing him the menu. She looked around the lunchtime customers at the new but already popular restaurant where they had got hold of the last table for two.
‘Just fish?’ Nora said, after ordering the Caesar salad with no dressing, but Mona already knew her friend would capitulate and order dessert to go with coffee.
‘Deffing,’ Mona said.
‘Deffing?’
‘Getting rid of subcutaneous fat so that the muscles stand out better. It’s the Norwegian Championships in three weeks.’
‘Bodybuilding? You’re really going to take part?’
Mona laughed. ‘With these hips, you mean? I’m hoping my legs and upper body will get me enough points. And my winning personality, obviously.’
‘You seem nervous.’
>
‘Of course.’
‘That’s three weeks away, and you never get nervous. What is it? Something to do with the vampirist murders? Thanks for the advice, by the way – Smith was great. And Bratt came up with the goods too, in her own way. Have you seen Isabelle Skøyen, that former Councillor for Social Affairs? She called us to ask if The Sunday Magazine would be interested in having Mikael Bellman on as a guest.’
‘So he could answer criticism of the fact that Valentin Gjertsen was never caught? Yes, she’s called us about that too. Quite an intense woman, to put it mildly!’
‘Are you running it? Christ, anything even vaguely related to the vampirist gets published.’
‘I wouldn’t have taken it. But my colleagues aren’t quite so fussy.’ Mona tapped on her iPad and passed it to Nora, who read out loud from VG’s online edition:
‘“Former Councillor for Social Affairs, Isabelle Skøyen, rejects criticism of the Oslo Police and says that the Chief of Police is firmly in charge: ‘Mikael Bellman and his police officers have already identified the vampirist murderer, and are now deploying all their resources to find him. Among other things, the Chief of Police has brought in renowned murder detective Harry Hole, who was more than willing to help his former senior officer, and is looking forward to slapping a pair of handcuffs on this wretched pervert.’”’ Nora passed the iPad back. ‘That’s pretty tawdry. So what do you think of Hole? Would you kick him out of bed?’
‘Definitely. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Don’t know.’ Nora stared into space. ‘Not kick. Maybe just a little push. Sort of please-leave-and-don’t-touch-me-there-and-not-there-and-definitely-not-there.’ She giggled.
‘Bloody hell,’ Mona said, shaking her head. ‘It’s people like you who are driving up the figures for misunderstanding-rapes.’
‘Misunderstanding-rapes? Is that a thing? And what does it actually mean?’
‘You tell me. No one’s ever misunderstood me.’
‘Which reminds me that I’ve finally worked out why you use Old Spice.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ Mona said with a sigh.
‘Yes, I have! As protection against rape. That’s it, isn’t it? Aftershave that smells of testosterone. It chases them off as effectively as pepper spray. But has it occurred to you that it’s chasing all the other men away as well, Mona?’
‘I give up,’ Mona groaned.
‘Yes, give up! Tell me!’
‘It’s because of my father.’
‘What?’
‘He used Old Spice.’
‘Of course. Because you used to be so close. You miss him, poor—’
‘I use it as a constant reminder of the most important thing he taught me.’
Nora blinked. ‘Shaving?’
Mona laughed and picked up her glass. ‘Never giving up. Never.’
Nora tilted her head and gave her friend a serious look. ‘You are nervous, Mona. What is it? And why wouldn’t you have taken that Skøyen piece? I mean, you own the vampirist murders.’
‘Because I’ve got bigger fish to fry.’ Mona moved her hands from the table as the waiter appeared again.
‘I certainly hope so,’ Nora said, looking at the pathetic little fillet the waiter put down in front of her friend.
Mona prodded it with her fork. ‘And I’m nervous because I’m probably being watched.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t tell you, Nora. Or anyone else. Because that’s the agreement, and for all I know we might be being bugged now.’
‘Bugged? You’re kidding! And there was me saying that Harry Hole could—’ Nora put her hand over her mouth.
Mona smiled. ‘That’s unlikely to be used against you. The thing is, I’m looking at what might be the scoop of the century in crime reporting. Ever, in fact.’
‘You’ve got to tell me!’
Mona shook her head firmly. ‘What I can tell you is that I’ve got a pistol.’ She patted her handbag.
‘Now you’re scaring me, Mona! And what if they hear that you’ve got a pistol?’
‘I want them to hear that. Then they’ll know they can’t mess with me.’
Nora groaned in resignation. ‘But why do you have to do it alone, if it’s dangerous?’
‘Because that’s when it becomes newspaper legend, my dear Nora.’ Mona gave a big grin and raised her glass. ‘If this goes the way it should, I’ll pay for lunch next time. And championship or no championship, we’ll have champagne.’
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Harry said, closing the door to Tattoos & Piercings behind him.
‘We’re taking a look at what’s on offer,’ Anders Wyller smiled. He was standing behind a table, leafing through a catalogue with a bowlegged man in a Vålerenga Football Club cap, a black Hüsker Dü T-shirt and a beard that Harry was pretty sure had been there before the always synchronised hipsters stopped shaving.
‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ Harry said, stopping by the door.
‘As I was saying,’ the beard said, pointing at the catalogue, ‘those are only for decoration, you can’t put them in your mouth. And the teeth aren’t sharp either, apart from the canines.’
‘What about those?’
Harry looked round. There was no one else in the shop, and there would hardly have been room for anyone. Every square metre, not to mention cubic metre, had been used. The tattoo bench in the middle of the floor, T-shirts hanging from the ceiling. Racks of piercing jewellery and stands holding larger ornaments, skulls and chrome-covered metal models of comic-book characters. Any available wall space was covered with drawings and photographs of tattoos. In one of the photographs he recognised a Russian prison tattoo, a Makarov pistol, which told those in the know that its bearer had killed a police officer. And the indistinct lines could mean that it had been made the old way, using a guitar string fixed to a razor blade, the melted sole of a shoe and urine.
‘Are these all your tattoos?’ Harry wondered.
‘No, none of them,’ the man replied. ‘They’re from all over the place. Cool, aren’t they?’
‘We’re nearly done,’ Anders said.
‘Take all the time you n—’ Harry stopped abruptly.
‘Sorry I wasn’t able to help,’ the beard said to Wyller. ‘What you describe sounds more like the sort of the thing you’d find in a shop for sex fetishists.’
‘Thanks, we’ve already looked into that.’
‘Right. Well, just say if there’s anything else.’
‘There is.’
They both turned to the tall policeman who was pointing at a picture towards the top of the wall. ‘Where did you get hold of that?’
The other two went over to join him.
‘Ila Prison,’ the beard said. ‘It’s one of the tattoos left by Rico Herrem, an inmate who was also a tattooist. He died in Pattaya in Thailand soon after he got out two or three years ago. Anthrax.’
‘Have you ever given anyone that tattoo?’ Harry asked, feeling the screaming mouth in the demonic face draw his eyes to it.
‘Never. No one’s asked for it either. It’s not exactly the sort of thing anyone would want to go around with.’
‘No one?’
‘Not that I’ve seen. But now you mention it, there was a guy who worked here for a while who said he’d seen that tattoo. Cin, he called it. I only know that because cin and seytan are the only Turkish words I can still remember. Cin means demon.’
‘Did he say where he’d seen it?’
‘No, and he moved back to Turkey. But if it’s important I’ve probably got his phone number.’
Harry and Wyller waited until the man returned from the back room with a handwritten note.
‘I should warn you, he hardly speaks any English.’
‘How …?’
‘Sign language, my made-up Turkish and his kebab Norwegian. Which he’s probably forgotten. I’d recommend using a translator.’
‘Thanks again,’ Harry said. ‘And I’m afraid we’re going to ha
ve to take that drawing with us.’ He looked around for a chair to climb up on, only to see that Wyller had already put one in front of him.
Harry studied his smiling young colleague before climbing onto the chair.
‘What do we do now?’ Wyller asked when they were standing outside on Storgata and a tram rumbled past.
Harry put the drawing in the inside pocket of his jacket and looked up at the blue cross on the wall above them.
‘Now we go to a bar.’
He walked along the hospital corridor. Holding the bouquet of flowers up in front of him so that it covered part of his face. None of the people passing by, visitors or the ones in white, paid him any attention. His pulse was at its resting rate. When he was thirteen years old he fell off a ladder when he was trying to look at the neighbour’s wife, hit his head on the cement terrace and lost consciousness. When he came round his mother had her ear to his chest and he smelt her scent, a scent of lavender. She said she thought he was dead because she couldn’t hear his heart or find his pulse. It was hard to work out if that was relief or disappointment in her voice. But she had taken him to a young doctor, who only managed to find his pulse after a lot of effort, and said it was unusually low. That concussion often caused an increased heart rate. He was admitted and spent a week lying in a white bed, dreaming dazzlingly white dreams, like overexposed photographs, the way life after death is depicted in films. Angel-white. Nothing in a hospital prepares you for all the blackness that awaits.
