by Jo Nesbo
'You heard him arrive and you heard him go into Anna's?'
'My study is right next to the corridor. You can hear everything that goes on there. This block's quiet; not much happens here.'
'Did you hear any other movements near Anna's flat?'
She hesitated. 'I thought I heard someone creeping up to Anna's after the policeman had gone. But it sounded like a woman. High heels, you see. They make a different sound. But I think it was fru Gundersen on the third.'
'Oh?'
'She usually creeps in when she's had a few at Gamle Major.' 'Did you hear any shots?'
Astrid shook her head. 'The walls between flats are well insulated.'
'Do you remember the number of the taxi?'
'No.'
'What was the time when you heard the crashing in the corridor?'
'A quarter past eleven.'
'Are you absolutely sure, Astrid?'
She nodded. Took a deep breath.
Waaler was surprised by the sudden firmness in her voice as she said: 'He killed her.'
He could feel his pulse quicken. A tad. 'What makes you say that, Astrid?'
'I knew something was wrong when I heard Anna was supposed to have committed suicide that night. There was that person lying dead drunk on the stairs, wasn't there, and she didn't answer the door. I considered contacting the police, but then he came here . . .' She looked at Tom Waaler as if she was drowning and he was a lifeguard. 'The first thing he asked me was if I recognised him. And of course I knew what he meant by that.'
'What did he mean by that, Astrid?'
Her voice rose half an octave. 'A murderer asking the sole witness if she recognises him? What do you think? He came to warn me what would happen if I gave him away. I did what he wanted. I told him I had never seen him.'
'But you said he came back later to ask you about Arne Albu?'
'Yes, he wanted me to foist the blame on someone else. You must understand how frightened I was. I pretended I didn't realise and played along . . .' He could hear sobs begin to catch hold of her vocal cords.
'But now you would be willing to tell us about this? In a court of law, on oath as well?'
'Yes, if you're . . . if I know I'm safe.'
The ping of an e-mail arriving sounded from another room. Waaler checked his watch. 4.30. He would have to move fast, this evening if possible.
At 4.35, Harry unlocked the door to his apartment and instantly realised he had forgotten that he and Halvorsen had arranged a bike session at the gym. He kicked off his shoes, went into the sitting room and pressed play on the flashing answer machine. It was Rakel. 'Court makes its decision on Wednesday. I've booked tickets for Thursday. We'll be in Gardemoen at eleven. Oleg asked if you could come and pick us up.'
Us. She had said the decision would have immediate effect. If they lost, there would be no us to pick up, just someone who had lost everything.
She hadn't left a number for him to ring back, to be told it was all over and she wouldn't need to keep looking over her shoulder any more. He sighed and slumped into the green armchair. Closed his eyes and saw her there. Rakel. The white sheet which was so cold it burned his skin, the curtains which barely moved against the open window and let in a strip of moonlight which fell on her naked arm. He ran the tips of his fingers so gently across her eyes, her hands, her narrow shoulders, her long, slim neck, her legs entangled in his. He felt her calm, warm breath against his neck, heard the breathing from the sleeping body imperceptibly change rhythm as he gently caressed the small of her back. Her hips which also imperceptibly began to move towards his as if she had only been hibernating, waiting.
At 5.00, Rune Ivarsson picked up the phone in his 0steras home to tell the caller that his family had just sat down to eat. Meals were holy in their house; would they mind ringing back later?
'Apologies for the disturbance, Ivarsson. This is Tom Waaler.'
'Hi, Tom,' Ivarsson said with a half-chewed potato in his mouth. 'Listen . . .'
'I need a warrant for the arrest of Harry Hole. Along with a warrant to search his apartment. Plus five people to do the search. I have reason to believe Hole is implicated in a murder case in a very unfortunate way.'
The potato went down the wrong way.
'It's urgent,' Waaler said. 'There's a risk that evidence will be destroyed.'
'Bjarne Moller,' was all Ivarsson could splutter between coughing fits.
'Right, I know strictly speaking this is Moller's responsibility,' Waaler said. 'But I bet you agree with me that he is prejudiced. He and Harry have worked together for ten years.'
'You've got a point. But we had another job to do last thing today, so my lads have their hands tied.'
'Rune . . .' This was Ivarsson's wife. He was reluctant to provoke her; he had arrived home twenty minutes late after the champagne celebration and then the alarm had gone off at the Grensen branch of Den norske Bank.
'I'll get back to you, Waaler. I'll ring the police solicitors and see what I can do.' He cleared his throat and added in a voice loud enough for his wife to hear: 'After we've eaten.'
Harry woke up to hear banging on the door. His brain automatically concluded that the person had been banging for a while and was sure Harry was at home. He looked at his watch. 5.55. He had been dreaming about Rakel. He stretched and rose from the chair. More banging. Hard.
'Alright, alright,' Harry shouted, walking to the door. He could see the outline of a figure through the wavy glass in the door. It must be one of the neighbours, Harry thought, since they hadn't used the intercom.
He had just put his hand on the door handle when he felt himself pause. A prickling at the back of his neck. Spots in front of his eyes. Pulse rushing. Rubbish. He opened the door.
It was Ali. Deeply furrowed brow.
'You promised you would clean out your storeroom in the cellar by today,' he said.
Harry slapped his forehead with his hand.
'Shit! Sorry, Ali. I'm a good-for-nothing scatterbrain.'
'That's alright, Harry. I can help you if you've got time this evening.'
Harry eyed him with surprise. 'Help me? I can remove what I have in ten seconds. To be honest, I can't remember a single thing I've got down there, but fine.'
'They're valuable items, Harry.' Ali shook his head. 'You're crazy to keep stuff like that down in the cellar.'
'I don't know about that. I'm off to Schroder's for a bite to eat. I'll pop by afterwards, Ali.'
Harry closed the door, sank back in the chair and pressed the remote control. The news in sign language. Harry had been on a case when several deaf people had been brought in for questioning and he had learned a couple of the signs. He tried to match the reporter's gesticulations with the lines that came up. All quiet on the Middle Eastern front. An American was to be court-martialled for fighting for the Taliban. Harry gave up. Schroder's menu of the day, a coffee, a smoke, he mused. Down to the cellar and then straight to bed. He took the remote and was about to switch off when he saw the signer point outstretched fingers and raise a thumb at him. That was a sign he remembered. Someone had been shot. Harry automatically thought of Arne Albu, but he had been suffocated. His eyes moved down to the subtitles. He froze in his chair. And frantically started pressing the remote. This was bad - perhaps very bad news. Teletext didn't say a lot more than the subtitles:
Bank clerk shot in raid. Raider shot a cashier at the Grensen branch of DnB in Oslo this afternoon. Bank clerk's condition is critical.
Harry went into his bedroom and switched on the computer. The bank robbery was the headline on his home page. He double-clicked:
The branch was closing for the day when a masked raider came in brandishing a gun and ordered the female branch manager to empty the ATM. As this didn't happen in the time specified, he shot a 34-year-old bank clerk. The state of the wounded woman is said to be critical. PAS Rune Ivarsson says the police have no leads at present and would not comment on suggestions that the raid followed a similar pattern to raids carried out by
the man dubbed the Expeditor. Police informed us this week he had been found dead in d'Ajuda, Brazil.
Could be a coincidence. Of course it could. But it wasn't. No chance. Harry ran his hand across his face. This was what he had been fearing the whole time. Lev Grette had only held up one bank. The following hold-up had been done by someone else. Someone who was well into their stride now. So well that he prided himself on copying the original Expeditor down to the last gory detail.
Harry tried to derail his train of thought. He didn't want to brood over any more bank raids now. Or bank staff being shot. Or the consequences of there turning out to be two Expeditors. The risk that he might have to work under Ivarsson and postpone the Ellen case again.
Stop. No more thinking today. Tomorrow.
But his legs still carried him out into the hall where his fingers dialled Weber's number all on their own. 'Harry here. Had any luck?'
'We certainly have.' Weber sounded surprisingly cheerful. 'Good boys and girls are always lucky in the end.'
'News to me,' Harry said. 'Let's have it then.'
'Beate Lonn rang me from the House of Pain while we were in the bank. She had just started looking at the tapes of the robbery when she saw something interesting. The man was standing close to the Plexiglas over the counter when he was talking. She suggested we check for spit. It was only half an hour after the raid and so there was still a realistic chance of finding something.'
'And?' Harry asked impatiently.
'No spit on the glass.'
Harry groaned.
'But a micro-drop of condensed breath.'
'Really?'
'Yes, indeed.'
'Someone must have been saying their evening prayers recently. Congratulations, Weber.'
'I reckon we'll have the DNA profile in three days. Then we can start comparing. My guess is we'll have him before the week's out.' 'I hope you're right.' 'I am.'
'Well, thanks for rescuing my appetite.'
Harry switched off and put on his jacket. He was about to leave when he remembered he hadn't turned off the computer and went back to the bedroom. As he went to press the shut down button, he saw it. His heart slowed and the blood in his veins thickened. He had an e-mail. Of course he could have shut down the computer anyway. should have done, there was no urgency. It could be from anyone. There was only one person it could not be from. Harry would have loved to be on his way to Schroder's right now. Padding down Dovregata, wondering about the old pair of shoes floating between heaven and earth, enjoying the images from his dream about Rakel. That sort of thing. It was too late now, though; his fingers had taken over again. The machine innards whirred. Then the e-mail appeared. It was a long one.
Hi Harry,
Why such a long face? Perhaps you thought you wouldn't be hearing from me again. Well, life is full of surprises, Harry. Something Arne Albu will have discovered by the time you read this. You and I, we made life unbearable for him, didn't we? If I'm not much mistaken, I bet his wife has taken the kids and left him. Brutal, isn't it? Taking a man's family away from him, especially when you know it's the most important thing in a person's life. But he only has himself to blame. Infidelity cannot be punished severely enough, don't you agree, Harry? Anyway, my little vendetta stops here.
But since you have been dragged into this as an innocent party, perhaps I owe you an explanation. The explanation is relatively simple. I loved Anna. I really did. What she was and what she gave me.
Unfortunately she didn't love what I gave her. The Big H. The Big Sleep. Did you know she was a pedigree junkie? Life is, as I said, full of surprises. I introduced her to drugs after one of her - let's not mince words - failed art exhibitions. And the two of them were made for each other; it was love at first stab. Anna was my client and secret lover for four years. It was impossible to separate the two roles, so to speak.
Confused, Harry? Because you didn't see any syringe marks when you stripped her, eh? Yes, well, 'love at first stab' was just a way of speaking. Anna couldn't stand syringes, you see. We smoked our heroin out of the silver paper off Cuban chocolate. It's more expensive than injecting it. On the other hand, Anna got it at wholesale price as long as she was with me. We were - what's the word? - inseparable. I still have tears in my eyes when I think about those times. She did everything a woman can do for a man: she fucked, fed, watered, amused and consoled me. And begged me. Basically, the only thing she didn't do was love me. How can that be so bloody difficult, Harry? After all, she loved you and you didn't do shit for her.
She even managed to love Arne Albu. And there was me thinking he was just a tosser she was milking to pay for junk at market prices, and to get away from me for a while.
But then one May evening I rang her. I'd just done three months for petty offences, and Anna and I hadn't spoken for a long time. I said we should celebrate. I had taken delivery of the purest stuff in the world from the factory in Chang Rai. I could immediately tell from her voice that something wasn't right. She said it was over. I asked whether she was referring to H or me, and she replied both. You see, she had started on this work of art which she would be remembered for, she said, and it needed a clear mind. As you know, Anna was an obstinate devil when she set her mind on something, so I would bet you never found any junk in her blood. Right?
Then she told me about this guy, Arne Albu. They had been seeing each other and planned to move in together. First, he had to sort things out with his wife. Heard that one before, Harry? Well, me, too.
Isn't it strange how your mind can focus when the world is crashing around you? I knew what was required before I put down the phone. Revenge. Primitive? Not at all. Revenge is the thinking man's reflex, a complex blend of action and consistency no other animal species has so far succeeded in evolving. Evolutionally speaking, the practice of taking revenge has shown itself to be so effective that only the most vengeful of us have survived. Vengeance or death. It sounds like the title of a western, right, but remember it was the logic of retaliation that created the constitutional state. The enshrined promise of an eye for an eye, the sinner burning in hell or at least dangling from the gallows. Revenge is basically the foundation of civilisation, Harry.
So I sat down that same evening and worked out a plan.
I made it simple.
I ordered a key for Anna's flat from Trioving. I won't tell you how. After you left her flat, I went in. Anna had already gone to bed. She, a Beretta M92 and I had a long, enlightening chat. I asked her to find something she had been given by Arne Albu - a card, a letter, a business card, anything. The plan was to leave it on her body to help you connect the murder with him, but all she had was a photograph of his family at their chalet, which she had taken from his album. I guessed that might be a touch too cryptic and you might need a little more help. So I had an idea. Signor Beretta persuaded her to tell me how to get into Albu's chalet. The key was in the outside lamp.
After shooting her - I won't go into detail as it was a disappointing anticlimax (no sign of fear or regret) - I put the picture in her shoe and immediately left for Larkollen. I planted - as I am sure you have realised by now - Anna's spare key in the chalet. I thought about glueing it to the inside of the cistern in the toilet, that's my favourite place, where Michael hid the gun in The Godfather. But you probably wouldn't have had the imagination to search there and there was no point anyway. So I put it in the bedside-table drawer. Easy, wasn't it?
The stage was thus set, and you and the other marionettes could make your entrances. Hope, by the way, you weren't offended by the little nudges I gave you on the way. The intellectual level of you policemen is not exactly unnerving. Unnervingly high, that is.
I take my leave here. Thank you for the company and the help. It has been a pleasure working with you, Harry.
S2MN
34
Pluvianus Aegyptius
A police car was parked by the door to Harry's apartment building and another blocked the Dovregata entrance to Sofies gate.
Tom Waaler had given instructions not to use sirens or blue lights.
Over the walkie-talkie, he checked everyone was in position and received quick-fire, crackly confirmation by return. The word from Ivarsson was that the blue sheet - the arrest document and search warrant - from the police solicitor had arrived exactly forty minutes ago. Waaler had said quite clearly he didn't want the Delta group, he would lead the party himself and already had the people he needed on standby. Ivarsson had not made any fuss.
Tom Waaler rubbed his hands. Partly because of the icy-cold wind sweeping down the street from Bislett stadium, but mostly out of glee. Making arrests was the best part of the job. He had already realised that when he was small, and he and Joakim had lain in wait in their parents' orchard on autumn evenings for the riff-raff from the housing co-op on an apple-scrumping raid. And they came. Usually eight to ten of them in the gang. It made no difference how many there were, however, because it was total mayhem when he and Joakim shone their torches and yelled through their home-made megaphones. They followed the same principles as wolves hunting reindeer: they picked out the smallest and weakest. But it was the arrest - the cornering of the prey - which fascinated Tom, the punishment which appealed to Joakim, whose creativity in this area had advanced so far that Tom occasionally had to stop him. Not because Tom felt any sympathy for the thieves, but because, unlike Joakim, he could keep a clear head and assess the consequences. Tom often thought it was not chance that brought him and Joakim together as it had. He was now a deputy judge on the Oslo Law Court circuit with a glittering career beckoning.
