by Jo Nesbo
'To catch baddies? And you come to me? Jesus!' 0ystein's laughter morphed into a coughing fit.
'It's a case I'm personally involved in,' Harry said. 'It's a bit difficult to explain everything, but I'm trying to trace someone who is sending me e-mails. I think he's using a server with anonymous clients somewhere abroad.'
0ystein nodded pensively. 'So you're in trouble?'
'Maybe. What makes you think that?'
'I'm a pisshead taxi driver who knows nada about the latest in IT. And everyone who knows me can tell you, I'm unreliable as far as work goes. In short, the only reason you've come to me is that I'm an old pal. Loyalty. I'll keep my mouth shut, won't I.' He took a long swig of a new beer. 'I may enjoy the odd bevvy, but I'm not stupid, Harry.' He pulled hard on his cigarette. 'So - when do we begin?'
Night had settled over Slemdal. The door opened and a man and a woman appeared on the steps. They took leave of their hosts amid laughter, walked down the drive, the shingle crunching under shiny black shoes as they commented in low voices on the food, the host and hostess and the other guests. Thus, as they left the gateway into Bjornetrakket, they didn't notice the taxi parked a bit further down the road. Harry stubbed out his cigarette, turned up the car radio and listened to Elvis Costello droning through 'Watching the Detectives'. On P4. He had noticed that when his favourite hot sounds were old enough, they ended up on tepid radio channels. Naturally, he was all too aware that could mean only one thing - he was getting old, too. Yesterday they had played Nick Cave after Cliff Richard.
An ingratiating night-time voice introduced 'Another Day in Paradise' and Harry switched off. He rolled down the window and listened to the muted bass throb coming from Albu's house, which was the only sound to stir the silence. An adult party. Business connections, neighbours and old college friends. Not quite 'The Birdy Song' and not quite a rave, but G and Ts, Abba and the Rolling Stones. People in their late thirties who had been through higher education. In other words, not too late back to the babysitter. Harry looked at his watch. He thought about the new e-mail on his computer when he and Oystein had switched it on:
I am bored. Are you frightened or just stupid? S2MN
He had left the computer in Oystein's hands and borrowed his taxi, a clapped-out Mercedes from the seventies, which had shaken like an old sprung mattress over the speed bumps when he came into the residential area, but was still a dream to drive. He had decided to wait when he saw the formally dressed guests leaving Albu's house. There was no reason to make a scene. And, anyway, he needed to spend some time thinking things through before he did anything stupid. Harry had tried to be cold and rational, but this I am bored had got in the way.
'Now you've thought things through,' Harry muttered to himself in the rear-view mirror. 'Now you can do something stupid.'
Vigdis opened the door. She had performed the magic trick only female illusionists master and one men will never get to the bottom of: she had become beautiful. The only specific change Harry could put his finger on was that she was wearing a turquoise evening dress matching her large blue eyes - suddenly wide open with surprise.
'I apologise for disturbing you at such a late hour, fru Albu. I would like to speak to your husband.'
'We're having a party. Can't it wait until tomorrow?' She sent him an imploring smile, and Harry could see how much she burned to slam the door.
'My apologies,' he said. 'Your husband was not telling the truth when he said he didn't know Anna Bethsen. And I don't think you were, either.' Harry didn't know whether it was the evening dress or the confrontation which made him choose a formal tone. Vigdis Albu's mouth was like a mute 'o'.
'I have a witness who saw them together,' Harry said. 'And I know where the photograph is from.'
She blinked twice.
'Why . . . ?' she stammered. 'Why . . . ?' 'Because they were lovers, fru Albu.'
'No, I mean - why are you telling me this? Who gave you the right?' Harry opened his mouth, ready to answer, to say he thought she had a right to know, that it would come out anyway, and so on.
Instead he stood looking at her. She knew why he was telling her, and he hadn't known himself, not until now. He swallowed. 'The right to do what, dearest?'
Harry caught sight of Arne Albu as he came down the stairs. His forehead was glistening with sweat and his bow tie was hanging loose over his shirt front. From the living room up the stairs he could hear David Bowie erroneously insisting 'This Is Not America'.
'Shh, Arne, you'll wake the children,' Vigdis said, without taking her imploring eyes off Harry.
'They wouldn't wake up if an atomic bomb was dropped,' her husband slurred.
'I think that's what herr Hole just did,' she said softly. 'In order to inflict maximum damage, it appears.'
Harry met her eyes.
'Well?' Arne Albu grinned and put an arm around his wife's shoulders. 'Can I join in the game?' The smile was full of amusement, yet open at the same time, almost innocent. Like the irresponsible delight of a boy who has borrowed his father's car without permission.
'My apologies,' Harry said. 'The game is over. We have the proof we need. And right now an IT expert is tracking down the address you have been sending the e-mails from.'
'What is he talking about?' Arne laughed. 'Proof? E-mails?'
Harry studied him. 'The photograph in Anna's shoe. She took it from the photo album when you and she were at the chalet in Larkollen a few weeks ago.'
'Weeks?' Vigdis asked, looking at her husband.
'He knew that when I showed him the photo,' Harry said. 'He was in Larkollen yesterday and stuck a copy in its place.'
Arne Albu frowned, but continued to smile. 'Have you been drinking, Constable?'
'You shouldn't have told her she was going to die,' Harry went on and knew he was about to lose his grip. 'Or at the very least taken your eyes off her afterwards. She sneaked the photo into her shoe. And that was what gave you away, Albu.'
Harry heard a sharp intake of breath from fru Albu.
'A shoe here or there . . .' Albu said, still stroking his wife's neck. 'Do you know why Norwegian businessmen can't do business abroad? They forget their shoes. They wear shoes bought in Norway with Prada suits costing fifteen thousand kroner. Foreigners regard that with suspicion.' Albu pointed below. 'Look. Hand-sewn, Italian shoes. Eighteen hundred kroner. Cheap at the price if you're buying confidence.'
'What I'm wondering is why you were so keen to let me know you were waiting outside,' Harry said. 'Was it jealousy?'
Arne shook his head with a laugh as fru Albu freed herself from his arm.
'Did you think I was her new lover?' Harry persisted. 'And because you thought I wouldn't dare do anything in case my name might be brought up in the case, you thought you could play with me a little, torment me, drive me insane, was that how it was?'
'Come on, Arne! Christian wants to give a speech!' A man with a glass and cigar in hand stood swaying at the top of the stairs.
'Start without me,' Arne said. 'I'll just remove this nice gentleman
first.'
The man furrowed his brow. 'Trouble, eh?' 'Not at all,' Vigdis hastened to say. 'Just join the others, Thomas.'
The man shrugged and left.
'The other thing which amazes me is that, even after I had con-fronted you with the photo, you were arrogant enough to continue sending me e-mails,' Harry said.
'I regret to have to repeat myself, Constable,' Albu slurred, 'but what are these . . . these e-mails you keep going on about?'
'Right. A lot of people think you can send an e-mail anonymously by subscribing to a server without giving your real name. That is a fallacy. My hacker friend has just told me that everything - absolutely everything - you do on the Net leaves an electronic trail which can be, and in this case will be, traced back to the machine they are sent from. It's just a question of knowing where to look.' Harry pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket.
'I'd prefer it if you didn't . .
.' Vigdis began, but broke off.
'Tell me, herr Albu,' Harry said, lighting a cigarette. 'Where were you on the Tuesday evening of last week between eleven and one o'clock?'
Arne and Vigdis Albu exchanged glances.
'We can do this here or at the police station,' Harry said.
'He was here,' Vigdis said.
'As I said.' Harry blew the smoke out through his nose. He knew he was over-playing his hand, but a half-hearted bluff would fail, and there was no way back now. 'We can do this here or at the police station. Shall I tell the guests the party's over?'
Vigdis chewed her bottom lip. 'But I'm telling you he was . . .' she started. She wasn't beautiful any longer.
'That's fine, Vigdis,' Albu said and patted her on the shoulder. 'Go and see to the guests. I'll walk herr Hole to the gates.'
Harry could hardly feel a breath of wind although higher up it was clearly gusting. Clouds were chasing across the sky and occasionally covering the moon. They ambled.
'Why here?' Albu asked.
'You asked for it.'
Albu nodded. 'Perhaps I did. Buy why did she have to find out like this?'
Harry shrugged. 'How did you want her to find out?' The music had stopped and the odd salvo of laughter came from the house. Christian was under way.
'Can I borrow a cigarette?' Albu asked. 'Actually, I have given up.' Harry passed him the packet.
'Thank you.' Albu placed a cigarette between his lips and bent over Harry's lighter. 'What are you after? Money?' 'Why does everyone ask that?' Harry mumbled.
'You're on your own. You have no papers to arrest me and you try to bluff me with threats of taking me to the police station. And if you've been inside the chalet in Larkollen, you're in at least as much trouble as I am.'
Harry shook his head.
'No money?' Albu leaned back. There were a few stars sparkling up above. 'Something personal then? Were you lovers?'
'I thought you knew everything about me,' Harry said.
'Anna took love very seriously. She loved love. No, worshipped, that's the word. She worshipped love. That was the only thing which had any place in her life. That and hatred. Do you know what neutron stars are?'
Harry shook his head. Albu held up his cigarette. 'They're planets with such compactness and high surface gravity that if I dropped this cigarette on one of them it would strike with the same force as an atom bomb. It was the same with Anna. Her gravitation to love - and hatred - was so strong that nothing could exist in the space between them. Every tiny detail caused an atomic explosion. Do you understand? It took me time to understand. She was like Jupiter - hidden behind an eternal cloud of sulphur. And humour. And sexuality.'
'Venus.'
'I beg your pardon.' 'Nothing.'
The moon protruded from between two clouds, and like a fictional beast the bronze hart stepped out of the shadows in the garden.
'Anna and I had arranged to meet at midnight,' Albu said. 'She said she had a couple of personal things of mine she wanted to return. I was parked in Sorgenfrigata between twelve and a quarter past. We had agreed I would phone her from the car instead of ringing the bell. Because of a nosy neighbour, she said. Anyway, she didn't answer, so I drove home.'
'So your wife was lying?'
'Of course. The day you arrived with the photo, we agreed she would give me an alibi.'
'And why are you giving up the alibi now?'
Albu laughed. 'Does it matter? We're two people talking, with the moon as a silent witness. I can deny everything afterwards. To be frank, I don't think you have anything you can use against me, anyway.'
'Why don't you tell me all the rest while you're at it then?' 'That I killed her, you mean?' He laughed, louder this time. 'It's your job to find out, isn't it?' They had come to the gates.
'You just wanted to see how I would react, didn't you.' Albu rubbed the cigarette against the marble. 'And you wanted to exact your revenge, that was why you told my wife. You were angry. An angry little boy who hits out at whatever comes in his way. Are you happy?'
'When I find the e-mail address, I've got you,' Harry said. He wasn't angry any more. Just tired.
'You won't find any e-mail address,' Albu said. 'Sorry, old chap. We can continue this game, but you can't win.'
Harry struck out. The sound of knuckles on flesh was dull and brief. Albu staggered back a pace, holding his brow.
Harry could see his own grey breath in the darkness of the night. 'You'll have to get that sewn up,' he said.
Albu looked at his blood-stained hand and guffawed. 'My God, Harry, what a terrible loser you are. Is it OK if we use first names? I think this has brought us closer together, don't you?'
Harry didn't answer, and Albu laughed louder.
'What did she see in you, Harry? Anna didn't like losers. At least she wouldn't let them fuck her.'
The laughter rose higher and higher as Harry walked back to the taxi, and the jagged edges of the car keys cut into his skin as his hand closed tighter and tighter around them.
23
Horsehead Nebula
Harry woke up to the telephone ringing and squinted at the clock. 7.30. It was 0ystein. He had left Harry's flat only three hours ago. Then he had located the server in Egypt and now he had made further progress.
'I've e-mailed an old friend. He lives in Malaysia and does a bit of small-time hacking. The ISP is in El Tor, on the Sinai peninsula. They have quite a few ISPs there, it's a sort of centre. Were you asleep?'
'Kind of. How will you find our client?'
'There's only one way, I'm afraid. Go there with a thick wad of American greenbacks.' 'How much?'
'Enough to make someone tell you who to talk to. And to make the person you talk to tell you who you really have to talk to. And to make the person you really—'
'I've got you. How much?'
'A grand should make some headway.'
'Do you think so?'
'Off the top of my head. What the fuck do I know?' 'OK. Will you take the job?'
'Course.'
'I pay shit. You travel on the cheapest plane and stay in a crap hotel.' 'Deal.'
It was twelve o'clock and the Police HQ canteen was packed. Harry clenched his teeth and went in. He didn't dislike his colleagues on principle; he disliked them by instinct. And, as the years went by, it was getting worse.
'Completely normal paranoia,' Aune had called it. 'I feel the same myself. I think all psychologists are after me, whereas in reality it is probably no more than half of them.'
Harry scanned the room and spotted Beate with her packed lunch and the back of someone keeping her company. Harry tried not to notice the looks he received from the tables he passed. Someone mumbled a 'Hi', but Harry assumed it was meant ironically and didn't answer.
'Am I disturbing?'
Beate looked up at Harry as if he had caught her in the act. 'Not at all,' said a familiar voice, getting up. 'I was about to go anyway.'
The hairs on Harry's neck rose - not on principle, but by instinct.
'See you this evening then.' Tom Waaler smiled, a white flash to Beate's beetroot face. He took his tray, nodded to Harry and left. Beate stared down into her goat's cheese as she tried her best to assume a sensible expression while Harry took a seat.
'Well?'
'Well what?' she chirped, overdoing the failure to understand.
'You said on my answerphone you had something new,' Harry said. 'I gathered it was urgent.'
'I've worked it out.' Beate drank from the glass of milk. 'The drawings the program made of the Expeditor's face. I've been racking my brains who they reminded me of.'
'Do you mean the printouts you showed me? There's nothing even remotely like a face, it's just random lines on paper.' 'Nevertheless.'
Harry shrugged. 'You're the one with the fusiform gyrus. Out with it.'
'Last night it came to me who it was.' She took another mouthful of milk and wiped her milky smile on the serviette. 'Well?'
'
Trond Grette.'
Harry stared at her. 'You're kidding, aren't you?'
'No,' she said. 'I just said there was a certain likeness. After all, Grette was not far from Bogstadveien at the time of the murder. But, as I said, I've worked it out.'
'And how . . . ?'
'I checked with Gaustad hospital. If it's the same person who held up the DnB branch in Kirkeveien, it can't be Grette. At that time he was sitting in the TV room with at least three carers. And I sent off a couple of boys from Krimteknisk to Grette's place to get a fingerprint. Weber has just compared it with the print on the Coca-Cola bottle. It is definitely not his print.'
'So you were wrong for once?'
