by Jo Nesbo
‘That’s just an hour ago,’ Harry said. ‘And you’ve been here half an hour. Seems as if everyone here has reacted unusually quickly.’
‘Well, not everyone,’ Waaler said.
Harry didn’t answer.
‘I’m thinking of the pathologist.’ Waaler smiled. ‘He should have been here by now.’
Beate finished taking photos and exchanged glances with Harry.
Waaler touched her arm.
‘Call me if there is anything. I’m going to the second floor to talk to the caretaker.’
‘OK.’
Harry waited until Waaler had left the room.
‘Can I…?’ heasked.
Beate nodded and moved.
Harry’s shoes squelched on the wet floor. There was condensation on all the surfaces in the room from the steam and it ran down in stripes. The mirror looked as if it had been weeping. Harry went into a squat, but had to hold onto the wall not to lose balance. He breathed in through his nostrils, but could detect only the smell of soap, none of the other smells he knew had to be there. Dysosmia it was called, according to the book Harry had borrowed from Aune, the Crime Squad’s resident psychologist. A condition of the brain when it refused to recognise some smells, it said; often the result of emotional trauma. Harry wasn’t so sure about that. He just knew that he couldn’t smell a dead body.
Camilla Loen was young. Somewhere between 27 and 30, he guessed. Good-looking. Full figure. Her skin was smooth and tanned, but with the pallor that dead bodies quickly acquire underneath. She had dark hair, which would certainly grow lighter in colour as it dried, and a small hole in her forehead that would soon disappear once the undertaker had done his job. There was not much else for him to do, just put some make-up over what seemed like a swelling in her right eye.
Harry concentrated on the black, circular hole in her forehead. It was hardly bigger than the hole in a one-krone coin. He was always surprised how small holes could be and still take a human life. Occasionally they were deceptive because skin grew over the entry wound. Harry assumed that the bullet in this case had been larger than the hole it left behind.
‘Shame she’s been lying in water,’ Beate said. ‘Otherwise we might have found the killer’s fingerprints, some threads or DNA on her.’
‘Mm. At any rate her forehead was above water. And it didn’t get too much water on it from the shower, either.’
‘Oh?’
‘There is black, congealed blood round where the bullet entered. And there are burn marks on the skin from the shot. Perhaps this little hole can tell us one or two things right now. Magnifying glass?’
Without taking his eyes off Camilla Loen, Harry reached out, felt the solid weight of a German optical instrument in his hand and began to study the area around the bullet wound.
‘What can you see?’
Beate’s low voice was right down by his ear. She was always keen to learn more. Harry knew it would not be long before there was nothing left to teach her.
‘The grey colouring of the burn marks suggests that the shot was fired from close range, but not pointblank,’ he said. ‘I would guess the shot was fired from about half a metre.’
‘Right.’
‘The lack of symmetry of the burn marks indicates that the person who fired the gun was taller than her and shot downwards at an angle.’
Harry carefully turned the dead girl’s head. Her forehead was not yet completely cold.
‘No exit wound,’ he said. ‘That supports the theory that the shot was fired down at an angle. Perhaps she was kneeling in front of the person who fired it.’
‘Can you tell what kind of weapon was used?’
Harry shook his head. ‘The pathologist will know all that, as well as the ballistics guys. But there are graduated burn marks and that would suggest a short-barrelled weapon such as a handgun.’
Harry systematically scanned the whole body; he tried to take note of everything, but he could feel that the residual alcoholic stupor was filtering away details that he could have used. No, they could have used. This was not his case. When he came to the hand, he saw that something was missing.
‘Donald Duck,’ he muttered, bending closer.
Beate looked at him quizzically.
‘They draw them like this in comics,’ Harry said. ‘With four fingers.’
‘I don’t read comics.’
The index finger had been removed. All that remained were black threads of coagulated blood and glistening tendon ends. The cut itself appeared to be even and clean. Harry placed a fingertip cautiously on the white shiny area in the pink flesh. The surface of the severed bone felt smooth and straight.
‘Pincers,’ he said. ‘Or an extremely sharp knife. Has the finger been found?’
‘Nope.’
Harry felt suddenly nauseous and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths. Then he opened his eyes again. There could be many reasons for nipping off the finger of a victim. There was no reason to think along the lines he already had.
‘Could be an extortioner,’ Beate said. ‘They like pincers.’
‘Yes, could be,’ Harry mumbled, getting up and discovering the white spaces under his shoes on what he had thought were pink tiles. Beate bent down and took a close-up of the dead girl’s face.
‘She certainly bled a lot.’
‘That’s because her hand was in the water,’ Harry said. ‘Water stops blood clotting.’
‘All that blood just from one severed finger?’
‘Yes. And do you know what that indicates?’
‘No, but I have a feeling I’m soon going to find out.’
‘It means that Camilla Loen probably had her finger cut off while her heart was still beating. In other words, before she was shot.’
Beate grimaced.
‘I’m going to have a chat with the people down-stairs,’ Harry said.
‘Camilla was living here when we first moved in,’ Vibeke Knutsen said, quickly looking at her partner. ‘We didn’t have much to do with her.’
They were with Harry in their sitting room on the fourth floor, directly beneath the attic flat. It looked for all the world as though it was Harry who lived there. The couple sat up straight on the edge of the sofa while Harry had slumped deep down into one of the armchairs.
They struck Harry as an odd couple. Both were somewhere in their thirties, but Anders Nygard was thin and wiry like a marathon runner. His light-blue shirt was freshly ironed and his hair short, for work. His lips were thin, his body language restless. Although his face was open and boyish, almost innocent, he exuded asceticism and austerity. The red-haired Vibeke Knutsen had deep dimples and a physical voluptuousness that was emphasised by a tight-fitting leopard-pattern top. She gave the impression that she had lived a little. The wrinkles over her lips suggested a lot of cigarettes and the wrinkles around her eyes a lot of fun.
‘What did she do?’ Harry asked.
Vibeke cast a glance at her partner, but when he didn’t answer, she replied:
‘So far as I know she was working in an advertising bureau. Design. Or something like that.’
‘Or something like that,’ Harry said, half-heartedly making notes on the pad in front of him.
It was a trick he used when he was questioning people. If you didn’t look at them, they relaxed more. If you gave the impression that what they said was not very interesting, they automatically made an effort to say something that would grab his attention. He should have been a journalist. He felt that there was more sympathy on offer for journalists who turned up drunk for work.
‘Boyfriends?’
Vibeke shook her head.
‘Lovers?’
Vibeke gave a nervous laugh and looked away from her partner.
‘We don’t spend our time eavesdropping,’ Anders Nygard said. ‘Do you think it was a lover who did this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Harry said.
‘I can see that you don’t know.’
Harry noticed
the irritation in his voice.
‘But those of us who live here would like to know if this looks like a personal matter or if we may have an insane killer running round the neighbourhood.’
‘You may have an insane killer running round the neighbourhood,’ Harry said, putting down his pen and waiting.
He saw Vibeke Knutsen’s startled reaction, but concentrated on Anders Nygard.
When people are frightened they lose their temper more easily. This was a lesson he had learned during his first year at Police College. As recruits they had been told not to excite frightened people unnecessarily, but Harry had discovered that the opposite was much more useful. Excite them. Angry people often said things they didn’t mean, or more to the point, things they didn’t mean to say.
Anders Nygard eyed him impassively.
‘But it’s more likely that the person who did this is a lover,’ Harry said. ‘A lover or someone she had a relationship with or someone she rejected.’
‘Why?’ Anders Nygard put his arm round Vibeke’s shoulders.
It was an amusing pose because his arm was so short and her shoulders were so broad.
Harry leaned back in his chair.
‘Statistics. Can I smoke in here?’
‘We’re trying to keep this a smoke-free zone,’ Anders Nygard said with a thin smile.
Harry noticed that Vibeke lowered her eyes as he stuffed the cigarette pack back in his trouser pocket.
‘What do you mean by statistics?’ the man asked. ‘What makes you think they’re valid in a case like this?’
‘Well, before I answer your two questions, do you know much about statistics, Mr Nygard? Gausian distribution, significance, standard deviation?’
‘No, but I -’
‘Fine,’ Harry interrupted. ‘Because in this case you don’t need to. Hundreds of years of crime statistics from all over the world have taught us one simple, basic thing. That she’s the typical victim. Or if she’s not typical, he’s the type to think she was. That’s the answer to your first question. And the second.’
Anders Nygard snorted and let go of Vibeke.
‘That’s completely unscientific. You know nothing about Camilla Loen.’
‘Right,’ Harry said.
‘So why did you say what you said?’
‘Because you asked. And if you’re finished with your questions, perhaps I can continue with mine?’
Nygard seemed to be on the point of saying something, but then changed his mind and glowered at the table. Harry could have been mistaken, but he thought he spotted a tiny smile form between Vibeke’s dimples.
‘Do you think Camilla Loen was taking drugs?’ Harry asked.
Nygard’s head shot up. ‘Why should we think that?’
Harry closed his eyes and waited.
‘No,’ Vibeke said. Her voice was soft and low. ‘We don’t think so.’
Harry opened his eyes and smiled at her gratefully. Anders Nygard sent her a somewhat surprised look.
‘Her door wasn’t locked, was it?’
Anders Nygard nodded.
‘Don’t you think that was strange?’ Harry asked.
‘Not particularly. She was at home after all.’
‘Mm. You have a simple lock on your door and I noticed that you…’ he nodded towards Vibeke, ‘… locked up when I came in.’
‘She’s a bit anxious now,’ Nygard said, patting his partner’s knee.
‘Oslo isn’t what it was,’ Vibeke said.
Her eyes met Harry’s for a brief moment.
‘You’re right,’ Harry said. ‘And it seems as if Camilla Loen shared your opinion. Her flat has a double lock and security chains on the inside. She doesn’t strike me as a woman who would have a shower with the door unlocked.’
Nygard shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whoever did it could have picked the lock.’
Harry shook his head. ‘People only pick locks in films.’
‘Someone might already have been in the flat with her,’ Vibeke said.
‘Who?’
Harry waited in silence. When he considered that no-one was going to break the silence, he got up.
‘Someone will call you in for questioning. For the moment, thank you.’
In the hallway, he turned round.
‘By the way, who called the police?’
‘It was me,’ Vibeke said. ‘I rang while Anders went to fetch the caretaker.’
‘Before you’d found her? How did you know…?’
‘There was blood dripping into the pan.’
‘Oh? How did you know that?’
Anders Nygard gave a loud, exaggerated sigh and rested a hand on Vibeke’s neck: ‘It was red, wasn’t it.’
‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘there are other things than blood which are red.’
‘That’s right,’ Vibeke said. ‘It wasn’t just the colour though.’
Anders Nygard threw her a look of astonishment. She smiled, but Harry noticed that she moved away from her partner’s hand.
‘I used to live with a chef and we ran a little eating house together. That’s when I learned a few things about food. One of which was that blood contains albumin, and if you pour blood into a pan of water over sixty-five degrees, the blood coagulates and becomes lumpy. Just like when an egg cracks in boiling water. When Anders tasted the lumps in the water and said that they tasted of egg, I knew it was blood. And that something terrible had happened.’
Anders Nygard’s mouth fell open. He went suddenly very pale under his tan.
‘Bon appetit,’ Harry mumbled and left.
5
Friday. Underwater.
Harry hated theme pubs: Irish pubs, topless pubs, novelty pubs or, worst of all, celebrity pubs where the walls were lined with portraits of regular customers of some notoriety. The theme of Underwater was a vaguely nautical mix of diving and the romanticism of old wooden ships. But at some point, well into his fourth beer, Harry couldn’t care less about gurgling aquariums of green water, diving helmets and the rustic interiors of creaking wood. It could have been worse. The last time he had been here people had suddenly burst into a round of operatic favourites; for a moment he had the feeling that the musical had finally caught up with reality. He took stock and confirmed with some relief that none of the four guests in the pub looked as though they were considering breaking into song for the time being.
‘Everyone on holiday?’ he asked the girl behind the bar as she put his beer in front of him.
‘It’s seven o’clock.’ She gave him change for a hundred-kroner note although he had given her two hundred.
He would have gone to Schroder if he could, but he had a hazy recollection that he was banned there and he didn’t have the nerve to go and find out. Not today. He remembered fragments of some scene there on Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday? Someone had dragged up the time when he had been on TV and had been referred to as the ‘Norwegian Police Hero’ because he had shot a gunman in Sydney. Some guy had made a few remarks and called him names. Some of what he said had been spot on. Did they end up coming to blows? It was not impossible, but of course the injuries to his knuckles and nose that he woke up with could just as easily have been caused by a fall on the cobblestones in Dovregata.
Harry’s mobile phone rang. He stared at the number and saw that it wasn’t Rakel this time, either.
‘Hello, boss.’
‘Harry? Where are you?’ Bjarne Moller sounded concerned.
‘Underwater. What’s up?’
‘Water?’
‘Water. Fresh water. Salt water. Tonic water. You sound… What’s the word? Frazzled.’
‘Are you drunk?’
‘Not drunk enough.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. The battery keeps going, boss.’
‘One of the officers at the crime scene threatened to write a report on you. He says you were visibly intoxicated when you arrived.’
‘Why “threatened” and not “is threatening”?’
�
��I persuaded him not to. Were you intoxicated, Harry?’
‘Of course I wasn’t, boss.’
‘Are you absolutely positive that you are telling me the truth now, Harry?’
‘Are you absolutely positive that you want to know?’
Harry heard Moller’s groan at the other end.
‘This cannot go on, Harry. I’ll be forced to put a stop to it.’
‘OK. Begin by taking me off this case.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. I don’t want to work with that bastard. Put someone else on the case.’
‘We haven’t got the personnel to…’
‘Then give me the boot. I don’t give a monkey’s.’
Harry put his phone back in his inside pocket. He could hear Moller’s voice gently vibrating against his nipple. Actually it was quite a pleasant feeling. He drained the rest of his glass, stood up and staggered out into the warm summer evening. The third taxi he hailed in Ullevalsveien stopped and picked him up.
‘Holmenkollveien,’ he said, settling his sweaty neck back against the cool leather of the back seat. As they went along he gazed out of the window at the swallows as they dissected the pale blue sky in their search for food. The insects had come out now. This was the swallows’ window of opportunity, their chance to live. From now until the sun went down.
The taxi pulled up below a large, dark timber-clad house.
‘Shall I drive up?’ the taxi driver asked.
‘No, we’ll just wait here for a bit,’ Harry said.
He stared up at the house. He thought he caught a glimpse of Rakel in the window. Oleg would probably be going to bed soon. He was probably making a fuss right now to stay up longer because it was…
‘It is Friday today, isn’t it?’
The taxi driver took a cautious look in his mirror and gave a slight nod.
The days. The weeks. My God, how quickly young lads grew up. Harry rubbed his face, tried to massage a bit of life into the wan death mask he walked around with. Last winter hadn’t been so bad. He had solved a couple of biggish cases, he had appeared as a witness in the Ellen Gjelten case, he was on the wagon, and he and Rakel had gone from being just a couple of new loves to doing family things together. And he had liked it; he liked the weekend trips and the company of children. Harry did the barbecuing. He liked having his father and Sis over for a Sunday meal, and seeing his sister, who had Down’s syndrome, and nine-year-old Oleg playing together. And best of all: they were very much in love. Rakel had even begun to throw out hints that it might be an idea if Harry moved in. She had used the argument that the house was too big for her and Oleg. Harry had not gone to any great pains to find counter-arguments.
