by Jo Nesbo
Harry flicked his cigarette away and it flew like a firefly through the night.
‘Next week I won’t be a policeman any more. Perhaps I ought to feel that there is something to celebrate, but I don’t.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Something else.’ Harry got up. ‘Something completely different.’
Waaler caught up with Harry in the car park.
‘Off so soon, Harry?’
‘Tired. What’s the taste of fame like?’
‘It was just a couple of photos for the papers. You’ve been there yourself, so you know what it’s like.’
‘If you’re thinking of that time in Sydney, they made me out to be trigger happy because I shot the man. You managed to catch yours alive. You’re the kind of police hero a social democracy likes to have.’
‘Do I detect the merest hint of sarcasm?’
‘Not at all.’
‘OK. I don’t care who they turn into a hero. If it improves the image of the police force, as far as I am concerned, they can paint a falsely romantic picture of people like me. At the station, we still know who the real hero was this time.’
Harry pulled out his car keys and stopped in front of his white Escort.
‘That was what I wanted to say, Harry. On behalf of everyone who was working with you. You solved the case, not me or anyone else.’
‘I was just doing my job, wasn’t I.’
‘Your job, yes. That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. Shall we sit in the car for a second?’
There was the sweet stench of petrol in the car. A hole rusted through somewhere, Harry guessed. Waaler refused a cigarette.
‘Your first task is arranged,’ Waaler said. ‘It isn’t easy and it’s not without danger, but if you carry it off, we’ll agree to make you a full partner.’
‘What is it?’ Harry said, blowing smoke over the rear-view mirror.
Waaler ran the tips of his fingers along the wires coming out of the hole in the dashboard where the radio had once been.
‘What did Marius Veland look like?’ he asked.
‘After four weeks in a plastic bag, what do you think?’
‘He was twenty-four years old, Harry. Twenty-four years old. Can you remember what you dreamed of when you were twenty-four, what you expected from life?’
Harry remembered.
Waaler gave a rueful smile.
‘The summer I turned twenty-two I went inter-railing with Geir and Solo. We ended up at the Italian Riviera, but the hotels were so expensive that we couldn’t afford to stay anywhere. Even though Solo had brought with him the whole of the takings from the till in his father’s kiosk the day we left. So we pitched our tent on the beach at night and spent the days walking round staring at the women, the cars and the boats. The strange thing was that we felt wealthy. Because we were twenty-two. We thought everything was for us, presents lying under the Christmas tree just waiting for us. Camilla Loen, Barbara Svendsen, Lisbeth Barli, they were all young. Perhaps they hadn’t got to the stage of being disappointed yet, Harry. Perhaps they were still waiting for Christmas.’
Waaler ran his hand over the dashboard.
‘I’ve just interrogated Sven Sivertsen, Harry. You can read the report later, but all I can tell you now is what’s going to happen. He’s a cold, calculating devil. He’s going to play insane. He’s going to fool the jury and create so much doubt for the psychologists that they won’t dare to send him to prison. In short, he’ll end up in a psychiatric department where he’ll show such sensational progress that he’ll be released after a few years. That’s what it’s like now, Harry. That’s how we deal with the human detritus we’re surrounded by. We don’t clean it up, we don’t throw it away; we just move it around a little. And we don’t see that when the house is a stinking, rat-infested hole, it’s too late. Just look at other countries where criminality has a firm foothold. Unfortunately we live in a country that is so rich at the moment that the politicians compete with each other to be the most open-handed. We’ve become so soft and nice that no-one dares to take the responsibility for doing unpleasant things any more. Do you understand?’
‘So far.’
‘That’s where we come in, Harry. We take the responsibility. We see it as the sanitation job that society dare not take on.’
Harry sucked so hard that the cigarette paper crackled.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, inhaling.
‘Sven Sivertsen,’ Waaler said, keeping a lookout through the window. ‘Human detritus. You have to get rid of him.’
Harry bent double and coughed the smoke back out.
‘Is that what you do? What about the other stuff? Smuggling?’
‘All our activities are carried out to finance this.’
‘Your cathedral?’
Waaler nodded slowly. Then he leaned across to Harry and Harry felt him put something in his jacket pocket.
‘An ampoule,’ Waaler said. ‘It’s called “Joseph’s Blessing”. Developed by the KGB during the Afghan War for assassinations, but best known as a means of committing suicide for captured Chechen soldiers. It stops your breathing, but unlike Prussic acid there’s no taste and there’s no smell. The ampoule fits nicely up the rectum or under the tongue. If he drinks the contents dissolved in water, he’ll die in seconds. Have you understood the job?’
Harry straightened up. He wasn’t coughing any more, but the tears stood in his eyes.
‘So, it’s supposed to look like suicide?’
‘Witnesses in the custody block will confirm that they omitted to search the rectum when he was brought in. It’s all arranged. Don’t worry.’
Harry breathed in deeply. The fumes from the petrol were making him feel nauseous. The whine of a siren rose and died in the distance.
‘You thought about shooting him, didn’t you?’
Waaler didn’t answer. Harry saw a police car roll up in front of the entrance to the custody block.
‘You never intended to arrest him. You had two guns because you planned to put the other one in his hand after you had shot him to make it look as though he’d threatened you. You put Beate and the mother in the kitchen, then you shouted so that they could testify afterwards that they’d heard you shout and that you had acted in self-defence. But Beate came into the hall too early and your plan went down the drain.’
Waaler gave a deep sigh.
‘We’re cleaning up, Harry. The same way you got rid of the murderer in Sydney. The legal system doesn’t work; it was made for a different time, a more innocent time. And until it is changed we cannot allow Oslo to be taken over by criminals. But you must know all that since you see it at close quarters every day?’
Harry studied the glow of his cigarette in the dark. Then he nodded.
‘I just needed to have the whole picture,’ he said.
‘OK, Harry, listen. Sven Sivertsen will be in cell number nine in the custody block up to and including tomorrow night. Until Monday morning, in other words. Then he’ll be moved to a secure cell in Ullersmo where we will not be able to get at him. The key to cell number nine is on the reception desk on the left. You’ve got until midnight tomorrow, Harry. Then I’ll ring Custody to be told that the Courier Killer has received his deserved punishment. Understood?’
Harry nodded again.
Waaler smiled.
‘Do you know what, Harry? Even though I’m happy that we’re finally on the same team, there is a little part of me that is a tiny bit sad. Do you know why?’
Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Because you thought there were things that money couldn’t buy?’
Waaler laughed.
‘Nice one, Harry. It’s because I feel I’ve lost a good enemy. We’re similar. You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘“Isn’t it wonderful to have someone to hate?”’
‘What?’
‘Michael Krohn. Raga Rockers.’
‘Twenty-four hours, Harry. Good luck.’<
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Part Five
32
Sunday. The Swallows.
Rakel was in the bedroom studying herself in the mirror. The window was open so that she could listen out for the car and steps on the gravel leading up to the house. She looked at the photograph of her father on the dressing table in front of the mirror. It always struck her how young and innocent he seemed in the picture.
She had her hair held in place with a hairslide, as always. Should she do it differently? The dress was her mother’s, a red muslin dress she had had altered. She hoped she wasn’t overdressed. When she was small her father often used to tell her about the first time he saw her mother in this dress and Rakel never grew tired of hearing that it had been like in a fairy tale.
Rakel undid the hairslide and shook her head from side to side so that her dark hair fell over her face. The doorbell rang. She could hear Oleg’s footsteps as he ran down the hall. She could hear the enthusiasm in his voice and Harry’s deep laugh. Then she took a last look in the mirror. She could feel her heart beating faster. She went out the door.
‘Mummy, Harry’s…’
Oleg’s shout died when Rakel appeared at the top of the stairs. She placed one foot cautiously on the top stair – her high heels suddenly felt unsteady, wobbly – but then she found her balance and looked up. Oleg was standing at the foot of the stairs and staring at her open-mouthed. Harry was standing beside him. His eyes were shining so much that she could feel the heat from them burning in her own cheeks. He was holding a bunch of roses in his hand.
‘You’re beautiful, Mummy,’ Oleg whispered.
Rakel closed her eyes. Both side windows were rolled down and the wind brushed against her hair and skin as Harry carefully steered the Escort through the bends on the way down Holmenkollen. The faint smell of washing-up liquid lingered. Rakel moved the sun visor down to check her lipstick and noticed that even the little mirror on the inside had been buffed up.
She smiled at the thought of the first time they had met. He had offered to drive her to work and she had had to help push the car to get it started.
It was incredible really that he still had the same unroadworthy vehicle as then.
She observed him out of the corner of her eye.
And the same sharp bridge of the nose. And the same gently curved, almost feminine lips that contrasted with the other hard masculine features. And the eyes. He could hardly be called good-looking, not in the classical sense. However, he was – what was the word? – real. Real. It was his eyes. No, not his eyes. The expression in his eyes.
He turned towards her as if he could hear her thoughts.
He smiled. And there it was. The childlike softness in his eyes. The boy sitting behind them and laughing at her. There was a certain ingenuousness about the way he looked at her. An uncorrupted sincerity. Honesty. Integrity. It was a look you could rely on. Or you wanted to rely on.
Rakel smiled back.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked and had to get his eyes back on the road.
‘This and that.’
She had had plenty of time to think over the last few weeks. Time enough to realise that Harry had never made her a promise he hadn’t kept. He had never promised that he would not go to pieces again. He had never promised that work would not continue to be the most important thing in his life. He had never promised that it would be easy with him. All these were promises he had made to himself. She could see that now.
Olav Hole and Sis were standing at the entrance waiting for them when they arrived at the house in Oppsal. Harry had talked so much about it that Rakel occasionally felt that it was her who had grown up there in the small house.
‘Hi, Oleg,’ Sis said, looking adult and big-sister-like. ‘We’ve made meatballs.’
‘Have you?’ Oleg pushed impatiently at the back of Rakel’s seat to try to get out.
On the way back Rakel leaned her head back in her seat and said that she thought he was good-looking, but that he shouldn’t let it go to his head. He replied that he thought she was better looking and that she could let it go to her head as much as she liked as far he was concerned. When they reached the slopes of Ekeberg and Oslo lay below them, she saw black Vs intersecting the sky beneath.
‘Swallows,’ Harry said.
‘They’re flying low,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t it mean that it’s going to rain?’
‘Yes, rain is forecast.’
‘Oh, that’ll be wonderful. Is that why they’re out flying, to tell everyone?’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘They’re doing a more useful job than that. They’re clearing the air of insects. Pests and so on.’
‘But why are they so busy? They seem almost hysterical, don’t they?’
‘It’s because they haven’t got much time. The insects are out now, but when the sun goes down the hunt for pests has to be over.’
‘ Is over, you mean?’
She turned towards him. He was staring ahead, lost in thought.
‘Harry?’
‘Yes. Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was gone there for a minute.’
The audience for the play had assembled in the now shaded square in front of the National Theatre. Celebrities were making conversation with celebrities while journalists were swarming around and cameras were whirring. Apart from rumours about some summer romance, the topic of conversation was the same for everyone: the previous day’s arrest of the Courier Killer.
Harry’s hand lay lightly against the small of Rakel’s back as they rushed towards the entrance. She could feel the heat from the tips of his fingers through the thin material. A face appeared in front of them.
‘Roger Gjendem from Aftenposten. Sorry, but we’re conducting a survey about what people think about the capture of the man who kidnapped the woman chosen to play the lead this evening.’
They stopped and Rakel noticed that the hand on her back was suddenly no longer there.
The journalist’s rictus smile was there, but his eyes were roaming.
‘We’ve met before, Inspector Hole. I work on crime reports. We chatted a couple of times when you returned after the case in Sydney. You once said that I was the only journalist who reported what you said accurately. Do you remember me now?’
Harry studied Roger Gjendem’s face thoughtfully and nodded.
‘Mm. Finished with crime?’
‘No, no!’ The journalist shook his head energetically. ‘I’m just standing in. National holidays. Could I have a comment from Harry Hole, the policeman?’
‘No.’
‘No? Not even a couple of words?’
‘I mean, no, I’m not a policeman,’ Harry said.
The journalist seemed taken aback.
‘But I saw you…’
Harry quickly panned around him before leaning forwards.
‘Have you got a business card?’
‘Yes…’
Gjendem passed him a white card with the blue Gothic letters of Aftenposten on; Harry put it in his back pocket.
‘The deadline’s eleven o’clock.’
‘We’ll see,’ Harry said.
Roger Gjendem stood still with a puzzled expression on his face as Rakel went up the steps with Harry’s warm fingers back in position.
A man with a large beard was standing by the entrance smiling at them through tear-stained eyes. Rakel recognised the face from the newspapers. It was Wilhelm Barli.
‘I’m so glad to see that you’re here together,’ he boomed and opened his arms. Harry hesitated, but was caught.
‘You must be Rakel.’
Wilhelm Barli twinkled at her over Harry’s shoulder as he hugged the tall man like a teddy bear he had lost and found again.
‘What was that?’ Rakel asked when they had found their seats in the fourth row.
‘Male affection,’ Harry said. ‘He’s arty.’
‘Not that. All that stuff about you not being a policeman.’
‘I did my last day’s work as a policeman yesterday.’
/>
She stared at him. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I did say something. In the garden that time.’
‘And what are you going to do now?’
‘Something else.’
‘What then?’
‘Something completely different. A friend has made me an offer and I have accepted. I hope I’m going to have better times. I can tell you more about it later.’
The curtain went up.
There was a roar of applause as the curtain fell and it continued with undiminished vigour for almost ten minutes.
The actors came out and went back in consistently new formations until there were no rehearsed moves left and they just stood and received the applause. Shouts of ‘Bravo’ reverberated around whenever Toya Harang stepped forward to bow yet again, and in the end everyone who had had any connection with the performance was called up onto the stage and Toya was embraced by Wilhelm Barli, and tears were flowing both in the cast and in the audience.
Even Rakel had to take out her handkerchief as she squeezed Harry’s hand.
‘You look weird,’ Oleg said from the back seat. ‘Is something up or what?’
Rakel and Harry twisted their heads round in unison.
‘Are you friends again? Is that it?’
Rakel smiled. ‘We’ve never fallen out, Oleg.’
‘Harry?’
‘Yes, boss?’ Harry looked in the mirror.
‘Does that mean that we can go to the cinema again soon? To see boys’ films?’
‘Maybe. If it’s a decent boys’ film.’
‘Oh yes,’ Rakel said. ‘And what will I do?’
‘You can play with Olav and Sis,’ Oleg enthused. ‘It’s really cool, Mummy. Olav taught me how to play chess.’
Harry swung into the drive and pulled up in front of the house. He let the engine idle. Rakel gave Oleg the house key and let him out. They watched him as he sprinted across the gravel.
‘My God, how he’s grown,’ Harry said.
Rakel rested her head against Harry’s shoulder. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘Not now. There’s one last thing I have to do at work.’
She stroked his face with her hand. ‘You can come later. If you’d like.’
