The Thirst: Harry Hole 11

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘Yes.’ Smith went over to the bookcase and pulled out one of the folders. ‘They’re mine. These are my records. The ones that were stolen.’

  ‘This too, I presume,’ Harry said, holding up the folder so that Hallstein Smith could read the label.

  ‘Alexander Dreyer. That’s my handwriting, yes.’

  ‘I don’t understand all the terminology here, but I can see that Dreyer was obsessed with Dark Side of the Moon. And women. And blood. You wrote that he might go on to develop vampirism and noted that if this happened you would have to consider breaking your oath of confidentiality and telling the police about your concerns.’

  ‘Like I said, Dreyer stopped coming to see me.’

  Harry heard the sound of a door being opened and looked out of the window, just in time to see the policeman stick his head over the railing of the veranda and throw up in the snow.

  ‘Where did they go to look for the fuse box?’

  ‘The cellar,’ Smith said.

  ‘Wait here,’ Harry said.

  He went downstairs. There was a light on in the hall now, and the door to the cellar was open. He crouched down as he descended the narrow, dark cellar steps but still managed to hit his head on something and felt the skin break. The edge of a water pipe. Then he felt the solid floor beneath his feet, and saw a single light bulb outside a storeroom, where Jimmy was standing with his hands hanging limply by his sides, staring in.

  Harry walked towards him. The cold in the living room had hidden the smell, even though the corpse showed signs of decomposition. But it was damp down here, and even if it did get cold, it was never as far below zero as above ground. And as Harry approached, he realised that what he had thought was the smell of rotten potatoes was actually another body.

  ‘Jimmy,’ he said quietly, and the sheriff started and turned round. His eyes were wide open and he had a little cut on his forehead that made Harry jump before he realised it was the result of another encounter with the water pipe above the stairs.

  The sheriff stepped aside and Harry looked in the storeroom.

  It was a cage. Three metres by two. Iron mesh, and a door with an open padlock on it. But it wasn’t holding anyone captive now. Because whatever had been in that empty shell had long since departed. Soulless, again. But Harry could see why the young policeman had reacted so strongly.

  Even if the level of decay indicated that she had been dead a long time, the mice and rats hadn’t been able to reach the naked woman who was hanging from the mesh roof of the cage. And the fact that the body was intact meant that Harry could see in detail what had been done to her. Knives. Mostly knives. Harry had seen so many, mutilated in so many different ways. You might think that would harden you. And it did. You got used to seeing the results of random violence, of vicious fights, fatal and efficient stabbings, of ritual madness. But it didn’t prepare you for this. For a type of mutilation where you could see what it was trying to achieve. The physical pain and desperate terror of the victim when she realised what was in the process of happening. The sexual pleasure and creative satisfaction of the murderer. The shock, the helpless desolation of those who found the body. Had the murderer got what he wanted here?

  The sheriff began to cough behind him.

  ‘Not here,’ Harry said. ‘Go outside.’

  He heard the sheriff’s stumbling steps behind him as he opened the door to the cage and went inside. The girl hanging there was thin and her skin as white as the snow outside, with red marks on it. Not blood. Freckles. And a black hole at the top of her stomach, from a bullet.

  Harry doubted she had escaped her suffering by hanging herself. The cause of death could of course have been the bullet hole in her stomach, but the shot could also have been fired in frustration after she was dead, when she no longer worked, the way children go on destroying a broken toy.

  Harry brushed aside the red hair hanging in front of her face. No doubt at all. The girl’s face expressed nothing. Fortunately. When, before too long, her ghost came to him at night, Harry would rather it did so with a blank expression on its face.

  ‘W-who’s that?’

  Harry turned round. Hallstein Smith still had the St. Pauli hat pulled down to his eyes as if he was freezing, but Harry doubted that his trembling was caused by the cold.

  ‘It’s Marte Ruud.’

  36

  SUNDAY EVENING

  HARRY SAT WITH his head in his hands, listening to the voices and heavy steps from the floor above. They were in the living room. The kitchen. The hall. Setting up cordons, placing little white flags, taking photographs.

  Then he forced himself to raise his head and look again.

  He had explained to the sheriff that they mustn’t cut Marte Ruud down until the crime-scene investigators had been. Of course, you could tell yourself that she had bled to death in the boot of Valentin’s car, there had been enough of her blood there for that. But there was a mattress on the floor in the left-hand side of the cage that told a different story. It was black, had over time become saturated with the sort of thing the human body rids itself of. And immediately above the mattress, attached to the mesh, hung a pair of handcuffs.

  There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. A familiar voice cursed loudly, then Bjørn Holm appeared, with a bleeding cut on his forehead. He stopped next to Harry and looked at the cage before turning towards him. ‘Now I understand why our two colleagues have identical wounds on their heads. You too, I see. But none of you felt like telling me, eh?’ He turned quickly and called towards the stairs: ‘Look out for the water p—’

  ‘Ow!’ a muffled voice exclaimed.

  ‘Why would anyone build a set of stairs so that you have to hit your head on—?’

  ‘You don’t want to look at her,’ Harry said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want to either, Bjørn. I’ve been here almost an hour, and it doesn’t get any damn easier.’

  ‘So why are you sitting here?’

  Harry stood up. ‘She’s been alone for so long. I thought …’ Harry heard the telltale vibrato in his voice. He walked quickly towards the stairs and nodded to the forensics officer who was standing there rubbing his forehead.

  The sheriff was in the hall talking on his phone.

  ‘Smith?’ Harry asked.

  The sheriff pointed upstairs.

  Hallstein Smith was sitting in front of the computer reading the folder with Alexander Dreyer’s name on it when Harry walked in.

  He looked up. ‘Down there, Harry, that’s Alexander Dreyer’s work.’

  ‘Let’s call him Valentin. Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s all in my own notes. The cuts. He described it to me, told me his fantasies about torturing and then killing a woman. He described it as if he were planning a work of art.’

  ‘And you still didn’t tell the police?’

  ‘I thought about it, of course, but if we were to report all the grotesque crimes our clients commit in their imaginations, then neither we nor the police would do much else, Harry.’ Smith put his head in his hands. ‘Just think of all the lives that could have been saved if I’d only …’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Hallstein, it isn’t even clear that the police would have done anything. Anyway, it’s possible that Lenny Hell used your stolen notes to copy Valentin’s fantasy.’

  ‘That’s not impossible. Not very likely, but not impossible.’ Smith scratched his head. ‘But I still don’t understand how Hell knew that by stealing my notes, he would find a murderer he could work with.’

  ‘You do talk quite a lot.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Think about it, Smith. How likely is it that in your conversations with Lenny Hell about morbid jealousy you mentioned that you had other patients who fantasised about murder?’

  ‘I’m sure I did that, I always try to explain to my patients that they aren’t alone in their thoughts, in order to calm and normalise—’ Smith fell silent and put his hand to his mou
th. ‘Dear God, you mean that I … that my big mouth is responsible?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘We can find a hundred ways to blame ourselves, Hallstein. During my years as a detective, at least a dozen people have been killed because I haven’t managed to catch a serial killer as quickly as I should have. But if you’re going to survive, you have to learn to let go.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Smith laughed hollowly. ‘But I’m pretty sure the psychologist is supposed to say that, not the cop.’

  ‘Go home to your family, eat Sunday dinner and forget this for a while. Tord will be here soon to go through the computer, so we’ll see what he can find.’

  ‘OK.’ Smith stood up, pulled off the woolly hat and gave it to Harry.

  ‘Keep it,’ Harry said. ‘And if anyone asks, you’ll remember why we came out here today, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Smith said, pulling the hat back on. And it struck Harry that there was something unintentionally comic but also ominous about the St. Pauli skull above the psychologist’s jovial features.

  ‘Without a search warrant, Harry!’ Gunnar Hagen was shouting so loud that Harry had to hold the phone away from his ear, and Tord, who was sitting in front of Hell’s computer, looked up.

  ‘You went to the address and broke in without permission! I said no, loudly and clearly!’

  ‘I didn’t break in, boss.’ Harry looked out through the window at the valley. Darkness had started to fall and lights were going on. ‘The local sheriff did that. I just rang the doorbell.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him, and he says he had a very clear impression that you had a warrant to search the house.’

  ‘I just said I had what I needed. And I did.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Hallstein Smith is Lenny Hell’s psychologist. He was perfectly entitled to visit a patient he was concerned about. And in light of what has emerged regarding Hell’s connection to two murder victims, Smith believed there were grounds for concern. He asked me to accompany him, because of my police background, in case Lenny Hell turned violent.’

  ‘And Smith will back this up, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course, boss. We can’t mess about with this sort of psychologist–patient thing.’

  Harry heard Gunnar Hagen manage the tricky feat of laughing while spitting with rage. ‘You deceived the sheriff, Harry. And you know that any evidence could be disregarded by a court if they find out—’

  ‘Stop going on about it and shut up, Gunnar.’

  There was a brief pause. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I asked you, in a very friendly way, to shut up,’ Harry said. ‘Because there’s nothing to find out, the way we got in is perfectly correct. And there’s no one to stand trial. They’re all dead, Gunnar. The only thing that’s happened today is that we’ve found out what happened to Marte Ruud. And that Valentin Gjertsen wasn’t alone. I can’t see how either you or Bellman could come out of this badly.’

  ‘I don’t care about—’

  ‘Yes, you do, so here’s the text for the Police Chief’s next press release: The police have worked tirelessly to locate Marte Ruud, and that persistence has now paid off. And we damn well believe that Marte’s family and the whole of fucking Norway deserve that. Have you written that down? Lenny Hell in no way detracts from the Police Chief’s success with Valentin, boss. This is a bonus. So relax and enjoy your steak.’ Harry put his phone in his trouser pocket. Rubbed his face. ‘What have you got, Tord?’

  The IT expert looked up. ‘Email correspondence. It confirms what you’re saying. When Lenny Hell first contacts Alexander Dreyer, he tells Dreyer that he’s got hold of his address from Smith’s patient archive, which he’s stolen. Then Hell gets straight to the point and suggests a collaboration.’

  ‘Does he use the word “murder”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Go on.’

  ‘A couple of days pass before Dreyer, or rather Valentin, replies. He writes that he had to check that the patient archive really had been stolen, and that this wasn’t just the police setting a trap for him. Then he goes on to say that he’s open to suggestions.’

  Harry looked over Tord’s shoulder. Shivered when he saw the words on the screen.

  My friend, I’m open to attractive suggestions.

  Tord scrolled down and continued: ‘Lenny Hell writes that they should only ever contact each other by email, and that under no circumstances should Valentin try to find out who he is. He asks Valentin to suggest a place where Hell can supply him with keys to the women’s flats, as well as any additional instructions, but without the two of them meeting. Valentin suggests the changing room of the Cagaloglu Hamam …’

  ‘The Turkish bathhouse.’

  ‘Four days before Elise Hermansen is murdered, Hell writes that the key to her flat and some extra instructions are inside one of the lockers in the changing room, that there’s one padlock with a fleck of blue paint on it. And that the code to the lock is 0999.’

  ‘Hm. Hell wasn’t just directing Valentin, he was steering him by remote control. What else does it say?’

  ‘It’s similar for Ewa Dolmen and Penelope Rasch. But there are no instructions about killing Marte Ruud. Quite the contrary. Let’s see … Here it is. The day after Marte Ruud went missing Hell writes: I know it was you who took that girl from Harry Hole’s favourite haunt, Alexander. That’s not part of our plan. I’m guessing you still have her in your flat. The girl will lead the police to you, Alexander. We need to act quickly. Bring the girl and I’ll make sure she disappears. Drive to map reference 60.148083, 10.777245, it’s a desolate stretch of road with very little traffic at night. Be there at 01.00 tonight, stop at the sign saying Hadeland 1km. Walk exactly one hundred metres straight into the forest to your right, lay her down by the big burnt tree, and leave.’

  Harry looked at the screen and tapped the coordinates into Google Maps on his phone. ‘That’s only a few kilometres from here. Anything else?’

  ‘No, that was the last email.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t found anything else on this computer yet. Maybe they were in touch by phone.’

  ‘Hm. Let me know if you find anything else.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Harry went back downstairs.

  Bjørn Holm was standing in the hall talking to one of the forensics officers.

  ‘One little detail,’ Harry said. ‘Take DNA samples from that water pipe.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The first time anyone goes down there, they hit that water pipe. Skin and blood. It’s basically a big guestbook.’

  ‘OK.’

  Harry walked towards the front door. Then stopped and turned back.

  ‘Congratulations, by the way. Hagen told me yesterday.’

  Bjørn looked at him blankly. Harry made a round gesture over his stomach.

  ‘Oh, that.’ Bjørn Holm smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  Harry went outside and breathed in deeply as the winter darkness and cold embraced him. It felt cleansing. He headed for the black wall of pine trees. They were using the two snowmobiles as shuttles between the house and the ploughed part of the road, and Harry was pretty sure he could get transport from there. But right now there was no one here. He found the compacted trail made by the snowmobiles, made sure he wasn’t going to fall through, and started to walk. The house had disappeared into the darkness behind him when a noise made him stop. He listened.

  Church bells. Now?

  He didn’t know if they were ringing for a funeral or christening, only that the sound made him shudder. And at that moment he saw something in the dense darkness ahead of him. A pair of yellow, glowing eyes, moving. Animal’s eyes. Hyena’s eyes. And a low growl that grew in strength. It was getting closer fast.

  Harry raised his hand in front of him but was still blinded by the headlights of the snowmobile as it stopped ahead of him.

  ‘Where are you heading?’ a voice asked from behind the light.
r />   Harry took his phone out, opened the app and gave it to the snowmobile driver. ‘There.’

  60.148083, 10.777245.

  There was forest on either side of the main road. No cars. A blue sign.

  Harry found the tree precisely one hundred metres into the forest from the sign.

  He waded over to the charred, splintered black trunk, where the snow wasn’t as deep as elsewhere. He crouched down and saw a paler scar in the wood, lit up by the lights of the snowmobile. Rope. A chain, perhaps. Which meant that Marte Ruud had been alive at that point.

  ‘They were here,’ he said, looking round. ‘Valentin and Lenny, they were both here. Perhaps they met?’

  The trees stared back at him in silence, like reluctant witnesses.

  Harry went back to the snowmobile and sat behind the police officer.

  ‘You’ll need to bring forensics back here so they can get hold of anything that’s left.’

  The officer half turned round. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to the city with the bad news.’

  ‘You know Marte Ruud’s family have already been informed?’

  ‘Mm. But not her family at Schrøder’s.’

  From inside the forest a bird shrieked a lone warning, far too late.

  37

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  HARRY MOVED THE half-metre-high pile of written answers so that he could see the two boys who had sat down in front of his desk better.

  ‘Well, I’ve read your answers regarding the case of the devil’s star,’ he said. ‘And obviously you deserve praise for spending your free time on a task I set the final-year students …’

  ‘But?’ Oleg said.

  ‘No but.’

  ‘No, because our answers were better than any of theirs, weren’t they?’ Jesus had folded his hands behind his head, over his long black plait.

  ‘No,’ Harry said.

  ‘No? Which of theirs was better?’

  ‘Ann Grimset’s group, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘What?’ Oleg said. ‘They didn’t even get the prime suspect right!’