by Jo Nesbo
Harry could not decide whether Albu's smile was mocking or simply obliging. Not even that.
'I haven't time,' Harry said. 'So if we could sit down—'
'I'm afraid I don't have time, either,' Albu interposed in a calm but firm voice. 'This is my working time, so we'll have to talk this afternoon. If you are still of the opinion there is something I can help you with, that is.'
Harry swallowed. He was powerless and he could see Albu knew.
'Let's say that then,' Harry said and could hear how pathetic it sounded.
'Thank you, Constable.' Albu inclined his head with a smile. 'And you're probably right about the wine.' He turned to face Handelsbanken. 'You were saying, Stein, about Opticom?'
Harry picked up the photograph and had to endure the barely concealed smile from the broker with the fringe before leaving.
At the edge of the quay, Harry lit a cigarette, but it didn't have any taste and he threw it away with a growl. The sun glinted off a window in Akershus fortress and the sea was so calm there seemed to be a thin layer of clear ice on top. Why had he done it? Why this kamikaze attempt to humiliate a man he didn't know? Just to be lifted with silk gloves and gently thrown out.
He faced the sun, closed his eyes and wondered if today he ought to do something intelligent for a change. Like dropping the whole case. Nothing seemed to make sense; it was just the usual state of chaos and bafflement. The bells in the City Hall started chiming.
Little did Harry know that Moller was to be proved right. It was the last warm day of the year.
16
Namco G-Con 45
Brave Oleg.
'It'll be fine,' he had said on the telephone. Again and again as if he had a secret plan. 'Mummy and I will be back soon.'
Harry stood by the window looking at the sky over the roof of the block facing him, where the evening sun was painting the underside of a thin, creased layer of cloud in orange and red. On his way home the temperature had fallen sharply and inexplicably, as though someone had opened an invisible door and all the heat had been sucked out. In the flat, the cold had begun to creep up through the floorboards. Where had he put his felt slippers? In the cellar or in the attic? Did he have any slippers? He couldn't remember. Fortunately, he had written down the name of the Playstation kit he had promised to buy Oleg if he managed to beat Harry's Tetris record on the Gameboy. Namco G-Con 45.
The news droned on the 14-inch TV behind him. Another gala to collect money for victims. Julia Roberts showing her sympathy and Sylvester Stallone receiving donors' incoming calls. And the hour of vengeance had come. Pictures showing the sides of mountains being carpet-bombed. Black pillars of smoke from the rocks and nothing growing in the desolate landscape. The telephone rang.
It was Weber. At Police HQ the general reputation of Weber was that he was a stubborn old sourpuss and difficult to work with. Harry thought the contrary. You just had to be aware that he would be intractable if you were disrespectful or hassled him.
'I know you're waiting for results,' Weber said. 'We didn't find any DNA on the bottle, but we did find a couple of faint fingerprints.'
'Good. I was afraid they might be destroyed even if they were in a plastic bag.'
'Luckily it was a glass bottle. The grease in the prints on a plastic bottle would have been absorbed after so many days.'
Harry could hear the clicking sound of swabbing in the background. 'Are you still at work, Weber?'
'Yes.'
'When will you have checked the prints against the data bank?' 'Are you hassling me?' the old forensics man growled suspiciously. 'Not at all. I've got oceans of time, Weber.' 'Tomorrow. I'm no computer whizz and the young guys have gone home for the night.' 'And you?'
'I'll just check the prints against a few possibilities in the old way. Sleep tight, Hole. Uncle Plod will keep an eye open.'
Harry put down the telephone, went into the bedroom and switched on his computer. The chirpy Windows jingle drowned the American revenge rhetoric from the sitting room for a second. He clicked his way through to the video of the robbery in Kirkeveien. Ran the jerky clip several times without becoming any the wiser, or more foolish. He clicked on the e-mail icon. The hourglass and You have 1 message came up. The hall telephone rang again. Harry cast a glance at his watch before lifting the receiver and saying hi with the soft voice reserved for Rakel.
'Arne Albu. I apologise for calling you in the evening, but I was given your name by my wife and thought I would clear up this matter at once. Is it convenient?'
'Fine,' Harry said sheepishly in his usual voice.
'Well, I've had a chat with my wife, and neither of us has heard of this woman or knows how she got hold of the photo. But it was developed by a professional, perhaps someone working in the shop took a copy. Also, there is a lot of coming and going in our house and so there could be many, many possible explanations.'
'Mm.' Harry noticed that Arne Albu's voice didn't have the same assured composure it had had earlier in the day. After a few seconds of crackly silence Albu continued: 'If you need to talk about this more, I would appreciate it if you would contact me at the office. I understood from my wife that she gave you my number.'
'And I understood that you didn't want to be disturbed during your working hours.'
'I don't want . . . my wife to be stressed. A dead woman with a photo in a shoe, my God! I would like you to deal with me.'
'I understand. But the photo is of your wife and the children!'
'She knows nothing about it, I'm telling you!' And then apparently regretting his angry tone, he added: 'I promise I will examine every possibility I can envisage to explain how this might have happened.'
'Thank you for the offer, but I still reserve the right to talk to whoever I think fit.' Harry listened to Albu's breathing before adding: 'I hope you understand.'
'Listen here—'
'I'm afraid this is not a topic for discussion. I'll contact you or your wife if there is something I need to know.'
'Wait a minute! You don't understand. My wife gets . . . very upset.'
'You're right, I don't understand. Is she ill?'
'Ill?' said Albu with surprise in his voice. 'No, but—'
'Then I suggest we conclude this conversation now.' Harry saw
himself in the mirror. 'These are not my working hours. Good evening.'
He put down the telephone and looked in the mirror again. It was gone now, the little smile, the glee that Spite gives. The Small-mindedness. The Self-righteousness. The Sadism. The four 'S's of revenge.There was something else, too, though. Something looked wrong. Something was missing. He studiedthe reflected image. Perhaps it was just the way the light fell.
Harry sat down in front of the computer while thinking that he would have to tell Aune about the four 'S's. He collected that sort of thing. The e-mail he had received came from an address he had never seen before: [email protected]
. He clicked on it.
As he was sitting there, a chill spread through Harry Hole's body that would linger for a good year.
It happened while he was reading from the screen. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and the skin around his body tightened like shrinking clothes.
Shall we play? Let's imagine you've been to dinner with a woman
and the next day she's found dead. What do you do?
S2MN
The telephone chirruped its lament. Harry knew it was Rakel. He let it ring.
17
Arabia's Tears
Halvorsen was very surprised to see Harry as he entered their office.
'Here already? You are aware it's only—'
'Couldn't sleep,' Harry mumbled, sitting in front of the computer screen with crossed arms. 'These machines are so bloody slow.'
Halvorsen peered over his shoulder. 'It all depends on the data transfer rate when you're on the Net. You're using a standard ISDN line now, but, rejoice, we'll soon be on broadband. Looking for articles in Dagens Neeringsliy?'
'Eh? . . . Yes.'
'Arne Albu? Did you talk to Vigdis Albu?'
'Yes.'
'What have they actually got to do with the bank robbery?'
Harry didn't look up. He hadn't said it was anything to do with the robbery, but he hadn't said it wasn't either, so it was quite natural for his colleague to make the assumption. Harry was spared answering him as at that moment Arne Albu's face filled the screen. By far the broadest smile Harry had seen today presided over the tightly knotted tie. Halvorsen smacked his lips and read aloud:
'Thirty million for family business. Today Arne Albu can salt away thirty million kroner after the hotel chain Choice bought up all the shares in Albu AS yesterday. Albu says he wants to devote more time to his family, which was the biggest reason for him selling his successful company. "I want to see my children grow up," Albu said when interviewed. "The family is my most important investment." '
Harry pressed print.
'Don't you want the rest of the article?'
'No, I just want the picture,' Harry said.
'Thirty mill in the bank and now he's started holding up banks,
too?'
'I'll explain later,' Harry said, rising from his chair. 'In the meantime, I wonder if you could explain to me how you find out who sends an e-mail.'
'The address is in the e-mail.'
'And that's in the telephone book, is it?'
'No, but you can find out which mail server sent it. That's in the address. The server has a list of which clients own which addresses. Very simple. Have you received an interesting e-mail?'
Harry shook his head.
'Give me the address and I'll find it for you in no time,' Halvorsen said.
'OK. Have you heard of a server called bolde.com?'
'No, but I'll check it out. What's the rest of the address?' Harry hesitated. 'Forgotten,' he said.
Harry requisitioned a car from the garage and drove slowly through Gronland. A biting wind swirled the leaves which had dried on the pavement in yesterday's sun. People walked with their hands buried in their pockets and their heads drawn in between their shoulders.
In Pilestredet Harry tucked in behind a tram and found the NRK news broadcast on the radio. They didn't say anything about the Stine Grette case. There were fears that hundreds of thousands of refugee children would not survive the tough Afghan winter. An American soldier had been killed. There was an interview with his family. They wanted revenge. Bislett was closed to traffic and there was a diversion.
'Yes?' One syllable on the door intercom was enough to establish that Astrid Monsen had a bad cold.
'Harry Hole. Thank you for your help so far. I wondered if it would be possible to ask a couple more questions. Have you got time?'
She sniffled twice before answering. 'What about?'
'I would prefer not to stand out here and ask.'
Two more sniffs.
'Is this not a convenient time?' Harry asked. The lock buzzed and Harry shoved open the door. Astrid Monsen was standing in the corridor with a shawl over her shoulders and her arms crossed as Harry came up the stairs. 'I saw you at the funeral,' Harry said.
'I thought at least one of her neighbours should put in an appearance,' she said. She sounded as if she was talking through a megaphone.
'I wonder if you recognise this person?'
Reluctantly she took the dog-eared photograph. 'Which one?'
'Any of them, in fact.' Harry's voice resounded up and down the stairwell.
Astrid Monsen stared at the picture. At length.
'Well?'
She shook her head.
'Sure?'
She nodded.
'Mm. Do you know if Anna had a partner?'
'One?'
Harry breathed in deeply. 'Do you mean there were many?' She shrugged. 'You can hear every sound in this house. The stairs creaked, let's put it that way.'
'Anything serious?' 'I have no idea.'
Harry waited. She didn't pause for long: 'A note with a name on was stuck next to her post box this summer. I don't know if it was serious though . . .'
'No?'
'I think it was her handwriting on the note. It just said eriksen.' There was a hint of a smile on her thin lips. 'Perhaps he had forgotten to tell her his Christian name. At any rate, the note was gone after a week.'
Harry looked down over the banisters. The stairs were steep. 'A week's better than nothing, though, isn't it?'
'For some maybe,' she said, resting her hand on the door handle. 'I have to go now. I've just received an e-mail, I can hear.'
'It's not going anywhere, is it?'
She was overpowered by another fit of sneezing. 'I have to answer it,' she said with tear-filled eyes. 'It's the author. We're discussing my translation.'
'Then I'll be quick,' Harry said. 'I just want you to look at this, too.' He passed her a sheet of paper. She held it, cast an eye over it and looked up at Harry suspiciously.
'Just have a good look,' Harry said. 'Take all the time you need.' 'Quite unnecessary,' she said, returning the sheet.
It took Harry ten minutes to walk from Police HQ to Kjolberggata 21A. In its time the run-down brick building had been a tannery, a printing press, a forge and probably several other things too. A reminder that Oslo had once had industry. Now Krimteknisk had taken it over. Despite new lighting and a modern interior, the building still had an industrial feel to it. Harry found Weber in one of the large, cold rooms.
'Shit,' Harry said. 'Are you absolutely sure?'
Weber gave a tired smile. 'The fingerprint on the bottle is so good that if we had had it on our files, the computer would have found a match. Of course, we could search manually to be one hundred and ten per cent sure, but it would take weeks and we wouldn't find anything, anyway. It's definite.'
'Sorry,' Harry said. 'I was just so sure we had him. I reckoned the chances of a guy like him never having been arrested for anything were microscopic.'
'The fact that we don't have him in our archives just means we have to look elsewhere. But now at least we have tangible evidence. This fingerprint and the fibres from Kirkeveien. If you can find the man, we have conclusive proof. Helgesen!'
A young man passing by pulled up smartly.
'I was given this cap from the Akerselva in an unsealed bag,' Weber grumbled. 'This isn't a pigsty we're running. Have you got that?'
Helgesen nodded and sent Harry a knowing look.
'You'll have to take it like a man,' Weber said, turning to Harry again. 'At least you didn't have to put up with what Ivarsson went through today.'
'Ivarsson?'
'Haven't you heard what happened in the Culvert today?' Harry shook his head and Weber chuckled and rubbed his hands. 'In that case, I'll tell you a good story to help you on your way, Hole.'
Weber's presentation was a lot like the police reports he wrote. Brief, rough-hewn sentences sketching out the action taken without any florid descriptions of feelings, tone of voice or facial expression. Harry had no problem filling in the gaps though. He could visualise PAS Rune Ivarsson and Weber going into one of the visitors' rooms in A-Wing and could hear the door being locked behind them. Both rooms were next to the reception desk and kitted out for families. Inmates could enjoy a few moments of peace with their nearest and dearest in a room which someone had even tried to make cosy - basic furnishings, plastic flowers and a couple of pale watercolours on the wall.
Raskol was standing when the two of them arrived. He had a thick book under his arm, and on the low table in front of them there was a chessboard with the pieces set up and ready. He didn't say a word, just beheld them with his pained brown eyes. He was wearing a white coat-like shirt hanging almost down to his knees. Ivarsson was ill at ease and brusquely told the tall, thin gypsy to take a seat. Raskol obeyed the order with a slight smile.
Ivarsson had taken Weber with him instead of the younger officers in the investigation team because he thought that the old fox would be able to help Ivar
sson 'size Raskol up', as he put it. Weber placed a chair against the door and took out a notebook while Ivarsson sat face to face with the infamous prisoner.
'Please, Politiavdelingssjef Ivarsson,' Raskol said, displaying an open palm to invite the policeman to start the game.
'We have come here to gather information, not to play games,' Ivarsson said and placed five photographs of the robbery in Bogstadveien beside each other across the table. 'We would like to know who this is.'
Raskol picked up the photos one after the other and studied them with loud 'hm's.
