The Devil's star hh-5

by Jo Nesbo

  On the way out Moller noticed the head of Kripos squeeze Waaler’s hand and flash him a warm smile of gratitude. The way you thank a colleague for loyalty, Moller mused. The way you tacitly appoint a Crown Prince.

  Police Officer Bjorn Holm from Forensics felt a complete fool standing there with a microphone in his hand looking at the Japanese faces staring expectantly back at him. His palms were sweaty, and not just from the heat. Quite the contrary, the temperature in the air-conditioned luxury bus standing outside Hotel Bristol was several degrees lower than the temperature in the morning sun outside. It was from having to speak into a microphone. In English.

  He had been introduced by the guide as a Norwegian police officer and an old man with a smile on his face had pulled out his camera as if Bjorn Holm was an integral part of the sightseeing tour. He looked at his watch: 7.00. He had more groups to see, so it was simply a question of pressing on. He took a deep breath and started the sentence he had rehearsed on the way:

  ‘We have checked the schedules with all the tour operators here in Oslo,’ Holm said. ‘And this is one of the groups that visited Frogner Park around five o’clock on Saturday. What I want to know is: how many of you took pictures there?’

  No reaction.

  Holm was disconcerted and glanced over to the guide.

  He bowed with a smile, relieved him of the microphone and gave the passengers what Holm could only assume was roughly the same message he had given, in Japanese. He concluded with a small bow. Holm surveyed all the outstretched arms. They were going to have a busy day at the photo lab.

  Roger Gjendem was humming a song about ‘turning Japanese’ as he locked his car. The distance from the car park to Aftenposten ’s new offices in the Post House was short, but still he knew he would jog in, not because he was late, quite the opposite. The reason was that Roger Gjendem was one of the lucky few who looked forward to going to work every day, who could not wait until he had all the familiar things around him that reminded him of work: the office with the telephone and the computer, a pile of the day’s newspapers, the hum of colleagues’ voices, the gurgling coffee machine, the gossip in the smokers’ room, the alert atmosphere at the morning meeting. He had spent the previous day outside Olaug Sivertsen’s house with nothing more than a picture of her in the window to show for it. But it was good. He liked difficult tasks. And there were more than enough of those in the crime section. A crime junkie. That was what Devi had called him. He didn’t like her using those words. Thomas, his little brother, was a junkie. Roger was a hard worker who had studied political science and happened to like working as a crime reporter. That apart, she had a point of course, in that there were aspects of the job that were reminiscent of an addiction. After working with politics he had subbed in the crime section of the paper and it was not long before he felt the rush that only the daily adrenalin kick of stories about life and death can give. The same day he talked to the chief editor and was immediately transferred on a permanent basis. The editor had obviously seen it happen to others before him. And from that day on Roger jogged from his car to work.

  On this day, however, he was pulled up before he got into his stride.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the man who had appeared from nowhere and who now stood in front of him. He was wearing a short, black leather jacket and aviator sunglasses even though it was fairly dark in the multi-storey car park. Roger knew a policeman when he saw one.

  ‘Good morning,’ Roger said.

  ‘I’ve got a message for you, Gjendem.’

  The man’s arms hung straight down. His hands were covered in black hair. Roger thought that he would have appeared more natural if he had kept them in the pockets of his leather jacket. Or behind his back. Or folded in front of him. As it was, you had the impression he was about to use his hands for something, but it was impossible to guess what.

  ‘Yeah?’ Roger asked. He heard the echo of his own ‘e’ vibrate briefly between the walls, the sound of a question mark.

  The man leaned forward.

  ‘Your brother’s doing time in Ullersmo,’ the man said.

  ‘So what?’

  Roger knew that the morning sun was shining outside in Oslo, but down in the car catacombs it had suddenly turned ice cold.

  ‘If you care about what happens to him, you need to do us a favour. Are you listening, Gjendem?’

  Roger nodded in amazement.

  ‘If Inspector Harry Hole rings you, we want you to do the following. Ask where he is. If he won’t tell you, arrange to meet him. Say that you won’t risk printing his story until you’ve met him face to face. The meeting must be arranged before midnight tonight.’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘He might make unfounded allegations against a police inspector whose name I cannot reveal, but you needn’t bother about that. It’ll never get into print anyway.’

  ‘But -’

  ‘Are you listening? After he rings, I want you to phone this number and tell us where Hole is or where and when you’ve arranged to meet him. Is that clear?’

  He put his left hand in his pocket and passed Roger a slip of paper.

  Roger read the number and shook his head. As frightened as he was, he could feel laughter bubbling up inside him. Or maybe his fear was precisely the reason.

  ‘I know you’re a policeman,’ Roger said, repressing his smile. ‘You must know that this won’t wash. I’m a journalist, I can’t -’

  ‘Gjendem.’

  The man took off his sunglasses. Even though it was dark, the pupils were just small dots in the grey irises.

  ‘Your little brother’s in cell A107. Every Tuesday – like most of the other old lags – he has his junk smuggled in. He injects it straightaway, never checks it. That’s been fine so far. Do you see what I mean?’

  Roger wondered if his ears had deceived him. He knew they had not.

  ‘Good,’ the man said. ‘Any questions?’

  Roger had to moisten his lips before he could answer.

  ‘Why do you think that Harry Hole will call me?’

  ‘Because he’s desperate,’ said the man, putting his sunglasses back on. ‘And because you gave him a business card in front of the National Theatre yesterday. Have a good day, Gjendem.’

  Roger did not move until the man had gone. He breathed in the clammy, dusty underground air of the car park. And he walked the short distance to the Post House with slow, reluctant steps.

  The telephone numbers hopped and danced on the screen in front of Klaus Torkildsen in the control room at Telenor Operations Centre, Oslo region. He had told his colleagues that he was not to be disturbed and had locked the door.

  His shirt was drenched with sweat. Not because he had been jogging to work. He had walked – neither particularly quickly nor slowly – and he had been heading for his office when the receptionist had called his name and stopped him. His surname. He preferred that.

  ‘Visitor,’ she had said, pointing to a man sitting on the sofa in reception.

  Klaus Torkildsen was stunned. Stunned because he had a job that did not include receiving visitors. This was not by chance; his choice of profession and private life were controlled by a desire to avoid all direct contact with human beings other than was absolutely necessary.

  The man on the sofa had got up, told him he was from the police and then asked him to sit down. Klaus had sunk into a chair, sunk further and further down as he felt the sweat breaking out over his whole body. The police. He had not had anything to do with them for 15 years and, even though he had only received a fine, he still reacted with immediate paranoia whenever he saw a uniform in the street. From the moment the man had opened his mouth, his pores had flowed.

  The man went straight to the heart of the matter and told him they needed him to trace a mobile phone for them. Klaus had done a similar job for them before. It was relatively simple. A mobile phone, when it is switched on, transmits a signal every half-hour, and this is registered by the phone masts scattered around
town. In addition, the phone masts pick up and register all the conversations of subscribers, calls both in and out. From the coverage of individual phone masts they could take cross-bearings to pinpoint the location of a mobile phone to within a square kilometre. That was what had caused such a stink the one time he had been involved, in the nature reserve near Kristiansand.

  Klaus had said that wire tapping had to be ratified by the boss, but the man had said it was urgent, that they didn’t have time to go through official channels. In addition to monitoring a particular mobile phone number (which Klaus had discovered belonged to a certain Harry Hole) the man also wanted him to monitor the lines belonging to a number of people whom the wanted man might conceivably contact. He had also given Klaus a list of telephone numbers and e-mail addresses.

  Klaus asked him why they had specifically come to him. After all, there were other people who had more experience of this than he. The sweat froze on his back and he began to shiver a little in the air-conditioned reception area.

  ‘Because we know that you’ll keep your mouth shut about this, Torkildsen. Just as we will keep our mouths shut to your superiors and colleagues about the time you were literally caught with your trousers down in Stens Park in January 1987. The undercover policewoman said you were stark naked under the coat. Must have been damned cold…’

  Torkildsen swallowed hard. They had said that it would be taken off public records after a few years.

  He swallowed again.

  It seemed absolutely impossible to trace the mobile phone. It was switched on; he knew that as he received a signal every half-hour, but it came from a different place every time, as if it were trying to tease him.

  He concentrated on the addresses on the list. One was an internal number at Kjolberggata 21. He checked the number. It was Krimteknisk, the Forensics department.

  Beate picked up the phone as soon as it rang.

  ‘Well?’ said a voice at the other end.

  ‘Not looking good so far,’ she said.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘I have two men developing the photographs and they’ll land on my desk the second they’re finished.’

  ‘And no Sven Sivertsen.’

  ‘If he was by the Fountain in Frogner Park when Barbara Svendsen was killed, he was unlucky. He’s definitely not in any of the photographs I’ve seen and we’re talking close on a hundred so far.’

  ‘White, short-sleeved shirt and blue -’

  ‘You’ve said all that before, Harry.’

  ‘No faces even similar?’

  ‘I’ve got a good eye for faces, Harry. He isn’t in any of the photos.’

  ‘Mm.’

  She waved in Bjorn Holm with a new stack of photographs stinking of developer reagent. He dumped them down on her desk, pointed to one, gave a thumbs-up and disappeared.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got some new ones in. They’re from the group who were there on Saturday at five o’clock. Now let me see…’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Yes indeed. Gosh… Guess who I’m sitting looking at now?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Sven Sivertsen as large as life, as tall as ever. In profile in front of Vigeland’s six giants. Looks as if he’s walking past.’

  ‘Has he got a brown polythene bag in his hand?’

  ‘The picture is cut off too high to see.’

  ‘OK, but at least he was there.’

  ‘Yes, but no-one was killed on a Saturday, Harry. So that’s no alibi for anything.’

  ‘It means that at least something of what he said is true.’

  ‘Well, the best lies are ninety per cent truth.’

  Beate could feel the lobes of her ears getting warm as she realised that that was a direct quote from The Gospel According to Harry. She had even used his intonation.

  ‘Where are you?’ she added quickly.

  ‘As I said, it’s best for us both that you don’t know.’

  ‘Sorry, slipped up there.’

  Pause.

  ‘We… er, we’ll keep checking the photos,’ Beate said. ‘Bjorn’s got hold of a list of tourist groups who were in Frogner Park at the times of the other murders.’

  Harry rang off with a grunt, which Beate interpreted as a ‘thank you’.

  Harry put his thumb and first finger in the corners of his eyes on each side of the ridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Including the two hours he had slept this morning, he had had six hours’ sleep in the last three days. And he knew it might be a long time before he had any more. He had dreamed about streets. He had seen the map slide into his view and he had dreamed about street names in Oslo. Sons gate, Nittedalgata, Sorumgata, Skedsmogata, all the twisting little streets in Kampen. And then he had dreamed it was night, snow was falling and he was walking along a street in Grunerlokka (Markveien? Toftes gate?) and a red sports car was parked there with two people in it. As he drew closer, he saw that one person was a woman with the head of a pig, wearing an old-fashioned dress. He called her name, he called out ‘Ellen’, but when she turned round and opened her mouth to answer, it was full of gravel and the gravel spilled out.

  Harry stretched his stiff neck from side to side. ‘Listen,’ he said, attempting to focus on Sven Sivertsen, who was lying on a mattress on the floor. ‘The person I just talked to on the phone has set some machinery in motion for your and my sake that could lead to her not only losing her job, but also being imprisoned for acting as an accomplice. I need something that can give her peace of mind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I want her to see a copy of one of the pictures you have of you and Waaler in Prague.’

  Sivertsen laughed.

  ‘Are you hard of hearing, Harry? This is the only card I have to bargain with, I’m telling you. If I play it now, you can just cancel Operation Save Sivertsen.’

  ‘We may do that sooner than you imagine. They’ve found a picture which proves you were in Frogner Park on Saturday. But nothing for the day Barbara Svendsen was killed. Rather odd considering that the Japanese have had the Fountain under flash attack all summer, don’t you think? It’s bad news for your story anyway. That’s why I want you to ring your girl and get her to mail or fax the picture to Beate Lonn in Forensics. She can censor Waaler’s face if you think you have to keep what you claim is your trump card, but I want to see a picture of you and someone else in that square, someone who could be Tom Waaler.’

  ‘Vaclav Square.’

  ‘Whatever. She’s got an hour to do it, starting now. If not, our agreement is history. Understand?’

  Sivertsen fixed Harry with a long stare before he answered.

  ‘I don’t know if she’ll be at home.’

  ‘She doesn’t work,’ Harry said. ‘Worried, pregnant girlfriend. How is she not going to be at home waiting for a telephone call from you? Let’s hope so anyway, for your sake. Fifty-nine minutes left.’

  Sivertsen’s gaze took in a whistle-stop tour of the room, but rested on Harry again in the end. He shook his head.

  ‘I can’t, Hole. I can’t drag her into this. She’s innocent. For the moment, Waaler knows nothing about her or where we live, but if this fails I know he’ll find out. And then he’ll go after her as well.’

  ‘And what will she think about being left alone to bring up a child while the father’s serving a life sentence for four murders? You’re caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, Sivertsen. Fifty-eight.’

  Sivertsen put his face in his hands.

  ‘Fuck…’

  When he looked up again Harry was holding out the mobile phone.

  He bit his bottom lip. Then he took the phone, punched in the number and pressed the red phone against his ear. Harry checked his watch. The second hand was stuttering its way round. Sivertsen shifted with unease. Harry counted 20 seconds.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She may have gone to her mother’s in Brno,’ Sivertsen said.

  ‘Pity. For you,’ Harry said with his e
yes still on his watch. ‘Fifty-seven.’

  He heard the phone fall to the floor. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of Sivertsen’s contorted face before feeling a hand close around his neck. Harry brought both arms up quickly. He hit Sivertsen’s wrists and Sivertsen lost his grip. Then Harry lunged at the face ahead of him and hit something; he felt it give way. He struck again and felt warm sticky blood running between his fingers and made a bizarre association: that the blood was like freshly stirred strawberry jam off slices of bread at his grandmother’s house. He raised his hand to strike again. He saw the handcuffed, defenceless man try to cover his body, but it only made him even more furious. Tired, frightened and furious.

  ‘ Wer ist da? ’

  Harry froze. He and Sivertsen stared at each other. Neither of them said anything. The nasal sound came from the mobile phone on the floor.

  ‘ Sven? Bist du es, Sven? ’

  Harry grabbed the phone and held it to his ear.

  ‘Sven is here,’ he said slowly. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘ Eva,’ said the indignant woman’s voice. ‘ Bitte, was ist passiert? ’

  ‘Beate Lonn.’

  ‘Harry. I -’

  ‘Hang up and call my mobile.’ She rang off.

  Ten seconds later he had her on what he would insist on calling ‘the line’.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’re being monitored.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’ve got an anti-hacking software package and it shows that all our phone calls and e-mails are being monitored by a third party. It’s meant to protect us against criminals, but Bjorn says it looks like the ISP is doing it.’

  ‘Listening in?’

  ‘Hardly. But all our conversations and e-mails are being recorded.’

  ‘That’s Waaler and his boys.’

  ‘I know. So now they know that you’re ringing me, which in turn means that I cannot help you any more, Harry.’

  ‘Sivertsen’s girl is sending you a picture of a meeting Sivertsen and Waaler had in Prague. The picture shows Waaler from the back and can’t be used as evidence of any kind, but I want you to look at it and tell me if it seems genuine. She has the photo on her computer, so she can mail it to you. What’s the e-mail address?’