by Jo Nesbo
'Espen Vaaland is off sick,' Ola said. 'He knows bank robber turf pretty well. I'll try to get him here tomorrow.' 'What you're trying to say is . . . ?'
Ola's eyes did a racing jig around the table. 'Not a great deal,' he said softly.
'Ola is still relatively new here,' Ivarsson said and Harry noticed how his jaw muscles were beginning to grind. 'Ola demands a hundred per cent certainty when identifying people, and that's laudable, but it's a bit too much to expect when the robber—'
'The killer.'
'—is covered from top to toe, average height, keeps his mouth shut, moves atypically and wears shoes too big for him.' Ivarsson raised his voice. 'So give us the whole list, Ola. Who's in the running?'
'No one.'
'There must be some names!' 'No,' Ola said with a gulp.
'Are you trying to tell us that no one had any suggestions, that all of our volunteer slum rats, zealous undercover boys that they are, who take pride in their daily dealings with the worst scum in Oslo, who in nine out of ten cases hear rumblings about the getaway driver, the man carrying the swag, the lookout, are suddenly unwilling even to hazard a guess?'
'They guessed alright,' Ola said. 'Six names were mentioned.' 'Well, spit them out then, man.'
'I've checked all the names. Three are in the nick. One was seen in Plata market square when the robbery was being committed. One is in Pattaya in Thailand. I've checked that. And there was one all the undercover officers mentioned because he has a similar build and the robbery was so professional, and that is Bjorn Johansen from the Tveita gang.'
'Oh yes?'
Ola looked as if he wanted to slide off his chair and disappear under the table.
'He's in Ulleval hospital, and last Friday he was being operated on for aures alatae'
'Aures alatae?'
'Sticky-out ears,' Harry groaned, flicking a drop of sweat off his eyebrow. 'Ivarsson almost exploded. How many have you done?'
'I've just passed twenty-one.' Halvorsen's voice resounded around the walls. As it was early afternoon they had the fitness centre in the basement of the police station almost to themselves.
'Have you taken a short cut or what?' Harry clenched his teeth and managed to increase the rate a little. There was already a pool of sweat around his ergometer bike while Halvorsen's forehead was barely moist.
'So, you haven't got a bean then?' Halvorsen asked, breathing regularly and calmly.
'Unless there's something in what Beate Lonn said at the end, we haven't got a lot, no.'
'And what did she say?'
'She's working on a program which can make a 3-D image of the robber's head and face from the video pictures.'
'Plus mask?'
'The program uses the information it gets from the pictures. Light, shadow, recesses, protrusions. The tighter the mask, the easier it is to make an image which resembles the person underneath. Nevertheless, it's only a sketch, but Beate says she can use it to match pictures of suspects.'
'Is it the FBI identification program?' Halvorsen turned to Harry and with a certain fascination verified that the sweat stain which had started at the dating agency logo on Harry's chest had now spread to cover the whole of the T-shirt.
'No, she has a better program,' Harry said. 'How far?'
'Twenty-two. Which one?'
'Fusiform gyrus.'
'Microsoft? Apple Mac?'
Harry tapped his forefinger on a bright red forehead. 'Software common to all. Sits in the temporal lobe in the brain and its sole function is to recognise people. That's all it does. It's the bit that makes sure we can distinguish between hundreds and thousands of human faces, but scarcely a dozen rhinos.'
'Rhinos?'
Harry pinched his eyes and tried to blink away the smarting sweat. 'That was an example, Halvorsen, but there's no doubt that Beate Lonn is a special case. Her fusiform can do a couple of extra turns which, so to speak, allow her to remember all the faces she has seen in her life. And I don't just mean people she knows or has spoken to, but faces behind sunglasses she passed in a crowded street fifteen years ago.'
'You're kidding.'
'Nope.' Harry tucked in his head as he regained enough breath to continue: 'There are only about a hundred known cases like hers. Didrik Gudmundson said that she took a test at Police College and beat several well-known identification programs. The woman is a walking archive of faces. If she asks you Haven't I seen you somewhere before? you can take it from me, it's not just a chat-up line.'
'Jeez. What's she doing in the police? With talent like that, I mean.'
Harry shrugged. 'Do you remember the officer who was shot during a bank raid in the eighties in Ryen?'
'Before my time.'
'He happened to be close by when the call went out and as he was the first to arrive on the scene, he went into the bank to negotiate unarmed. He was mown down by automatic gunfire and the robbers were never caught. It was later used at Police College as an example of what you shouldn't do when you surprise bank robbers.'
'You should wait for reinforcements. You must not confront robbers or expose yourself, bank employees or the robbers to unnecessary danger.'
'Right, that's what the manual says. The odd thing is that he was one of the best and most experienced investigators they had. Jorgen Lonn. Beate's father.'
'Right. And you think that's why she joined the police? Because of her father?'
'Possibly.'
'Is she good-looking?'
'She's good. How far?'
'Just passed twenty-four, six left. And you?'
'Twenty-two. I'll catch you up, you know.'
'Not this time,' Halvorsen said, increasing his speed.
'Yes, I will, because here come the hills. And here I come. And you'll be psyched out and get cramp. As usual.'
'Not this time,' Halvorsen said, pedalling harder. A bead of sweat became visible in his thick hairline. Harry smiled and leaned over the handlebars.
Bjarne Moller stared alternately at the shopping list he had received from his wife and at the shelf, at what he thought might be coriander. Margrete had fallen in love with Thai food after their holiday in Phuket last winter, but the Crime Squad head was still not completely at ease with the various vegetables which were flown daily from Bangkok to the Pakistani grocer's store in Gronlandsleiret. 'That's green chilli, boss,' a voice by his ear said and Bjarne Moller spun round and looked into Harry's flushed, sweat-stained face. 'Couple of those and a few slices of ginger and you can make tom yam soup. There'll be steam coming out of your ears, but you'll have sweated out a fair bit of crap.'
'Looks like you've had a foretaste, Harry.'
'Just a little cycle race with Halvorsen.'
'Oh yes? And what's that in your hand?'
'Japone pepper. A small red chilli.'
'Didn't know you cooked.'
Harry gazed with wonderment at the bag containing the chilli, as if it was new to him, too. 'By the way, lucky I met you, boss. We have a problem.'
Moller could feel his scalp chafing.
'I don't know who decided Ivarsson should lead the investigation into the killing in Bogstadveien, but it's not working.'
Moller put the list in the shopping basket. 'How long have you worked together now? Two whole days?'
'That's not the point, boss.'
'Can't you just do your job for once in your life, Harry? And let others decide how it's organised? Having a go at not being against everyone won't inflict permanent damage, you know.'
'I just want the case to be solved as quickly as possible, boss, so that I can get on with the other one, you know.'
'Yes, I know, but you've been working on that case for a good deal longer than the two months I promised you, and I cannot defend the commitment of time and resources with personal considerations and emotions, Harry.'
'She was a colleague, boss.'
'I know!' Moller barked. He paused, looked around, then continued in more muted tones: 'What's your problem, Harry?'
'They're used to working on robberies, and Ivarsson is not in the slightest bit interested in constructive input.'
Bjarne Moller was unable to suppress a grin at the thought of Harry's 'constructive input'.
Harry leaned forward. He spoke quickly and intensely: 'What's the first thing we ask ourselves when a murder has been committed, boss? Why? What's the motive? That's what we ask. In the Robberies Unit they automatically take it for granted money is the motive and don't ask the question.'
'So what do you think the motive is?'
'I don't think anything. The point is that they use completely the wrong methodology.'
'A different methodology, Harry, different. I have to get these vegetable things bought and go home, so tell me what it is you want.'
'I want you to talk to the people you have to talk to so that I can have one person to work solo with.'
'Step down from the investigation team?'
'Parallel investigation.'
'Harry—'
'That was how we caught the Redbreast, do you remember?' 'Harry, I can't interfere—'
'I want to work with Beate Lonn, so that she and I can start afresh. Ivarsson is already getting bogged down—' 'Harry!' 'Yes?'
'What's the real reason?'
Harry shifted weight. 'I can't work with the smiling croc.' 'Ivarsson?'
'I'll go and do something extremely stupid.'
Bjarne Moller's eyebrows met across the bridge of his nose in a black V: 'Is that supposed to be a threat?'
Harry placed a hand on Moller's shoulder. 'Just this one favour, boss. I'll never ask for anything else again. Ever.'
Moller growled. Over the years, how many times had he put his head on the block for Harry, instead of heeding the well-meant career advice from older colleagues? Keep him at arm's length, they said. A loose cannon, he is. The only thing that was certain about Harry Hole was that one day something was going to go disastrously wrong. However, because, in some mysterious way, he and Harry had so far always landed on their feet, no one had been able to implement any drastic measures. So far. The most interesting question of all, though, was: Why did he put up with it? He looked across at Harry. The alcoholic. The troublemaker. The ever-unbearable, arrogant bullhead. And the best investigator he had, apart from Waaler.
'You keep your nose clean, Harry. Otherwise I'll shove you behind a desk and lock the door. Have you got that?'
'Received loud and clear, boss.'
Moller sighed. 'I have a meeting with the Chief Superintendent and Ivarsson tomorrow. We'll have to wait and see. I'm not promising anything, do you hear?'
'Aye, aye, boss. Regards to your wife.' Harry craned his head round on the way out. 'Coriander's on the far left, bottom shelf.'
Bjarne Moller stood staring into his shopping basket. He remembered the reason now. He liked the alcoholic, obstreperous, stubborn bastard.
7
White King
Harry nodded to one of the regulars and sat down at a table under the narrow, wavy window panes looking out onto Waldemar Thranes gate. On the wall behind him hung a large painting of a sunny day in Youngstorget with women holding parasols and being cheerily greeted by men promenading in top hats. The contrast with the forever autumnally gloomy light and the almost devout afternoon quiet in Restaurant Schroder could not have been greater.
'Nice that you could come,' Harry said to the corpulent man already sitting at the table. It was easy to see he was not one of the regulars. Not by the elegant tweed jacket, nor by the bow tie with red dots, but because he was stirring a white mug of tea on a cloth smelling of beer and perforated with blackened cigarette burns. The unlikely customer was Stale Aune, a psychologist, one of the country's finest in his field and an expert to whom the police had had frequent recourse. Sometimes with pleasure and sometimes regret, as Aune was a thoroughly upright man who preserved his integrity and in a court of law never pronounced on matters which he could not support to the hilt with scientific evidence. However, since there is little evidence for anything in psychology, it often happened that the prosecution witness became the defence's best friend, the doubts he sowed generally working in favour of the accused. Harry, in his capacity as a police officer, had used Aune's expertise in murder cases for so long that he regarded him as a colleague. In his capacity as an alcoholic, Harry had put himself so totally in the hands of this warmhearted, clever and becomingly arrogant man that - if cornered - he would have called him a friend. 'So this is your refuge?' Aune said.
'Yes,' Harry said, raising an eyebrow to Maja at the counter, who responded at once by scuttling through the swing doors into the kitchen.
'And what have you got there?'
'Japone. Chilli.'
A bead of sweat rolled down Harry's nose, clung for a second to the tip, then fell onto the tablecloth. Aune studied the wet stain with amazement.
'Sluggish thermostat,' Harry said. 'I've been in the gym.'
Aune screwed up his nose. 'As a man of science, I ought to applaud you, I suppose, but as a philosopher I would question putting your body through that kind of unpleasantness.'
A steel coffee jug and a mug landed in front of Harry. 'Thanks, Maja.'
'Pangs of guilt,' Aune said. 'Some people can only deal with it by punishing themselves. Like when you go to pieces, Harry. In your case alcohol isn't a refuge but the ultimate way to punish yourself.'
'Thank you. I've heard you put forward that diagnosis before.' 'Is that why you train so hard? Bad conscience?' Harry shrugged.
Aune lowered his voice: 'Is Ellen playing on your mind?'
Harry's eyes shot up to meet Aune's. He put the mug of coffee to his lips slowly and took a long drink before putting it down again with a grimace. 'No, it's not the Ellen Gjelten case. We're getting nowhere, but it's not because we've done a bad job. That I do know. Something will turn up. We just have to bide our time.'
'Good,' Aune said. 'It's not your fault Ellen was killed. Keep that uppermost in your mind. And don't forget: all your colleagues consider that the right man was arrested.'
'Maybe, maybe not. He's dead and can't answer.'
'Don't let it become an idee fixe, Harry.' Aune poked two fingers into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat, pulled out a silver pocket watch and cast a rapid glance at it. 'But I scarcely imagine you wanted to speak about guilt?'
'No, I didn't.' Harry took a wad of photographs from his inside pocket. 'I'd like to know what you think about these.'
Aune held out his hand and began to leaf through the pile. 'Looks like a bank raid. My understanding is this is not a Crime Squad matter.'
'You'll understand when you see the next picture.'
'Indeed? He's holding up one finger to the camera.'
'Sorry, the next one.'
'Ooh. Does she . . . ?'
'Yes, you can hardly see the flame as it's an AG3, but he has just fired. Look there, the bullet has just entered the woman's forehead. In the next picture it exits the back of her head and bores into the woodwork beside the glass partition.'
Aune put down the photos. 'Why do you always have to show me grisly pictures, Harry?'
'So that you know what we're talking about. Look at the next one.'
Aune sighed.
'The robber's got his money there,' Harry said, pointing. 'All he has to do now is escape. He's a pro, calm, precise, and there's no reason to intimidate anyone or force anyone to do anything. Yet he opts to delay his escape for a few seconds to shoot the bank cashier. Simply because the branch manager was six seconds too slow emptying the ATM.'
Aune formed slow figures of eight in his tea with the spoon. 'And now you're wondering what his motive is?'
'Well, there's always a motive, but it's difficult to know which side of rationality to look. First reactions?'
'Serious personality disorder.'
'But everything else he does seems so rational.'
'A personality disorder doesn't mean he is stupid. Sufferers are just as good, frequently be
tter, at achieving their aims. What distinguishes them from us is that they want different things.'
'What about drugs? Is there a drug which can make an otherwise normal person so aggressive that he wants to kill?'
Aune shook his head. 'Drugs will only emphasise or weaken latent tendencies. A drunk who kills his wife also has a propensity to beat her when sober. Wilful murders like this one are almost always committed by people with a particular predisposition.'
'So what you're saying is that this guy is barking?'
'Or pre-programmed.'
'Pre-programmed?'
Aune nodded in assent. 'Do you remember the robber who was never caught, Raskol Baxhet?' Harry shook his head.
