by Jo Nesbo
“That’s a big job,” Skarre said.
“Guess who you need to ask,” Harry said.
“Beate Lønn,” Holm said.
“Correct. Say hello.”
Holm nodded, and Harry felt a pang of bad conscience. Skarre’s mobile went off with the La’s “There She Goes” as a ringtone.
They watched as Skarre listened. Harry reflected on how he had put off calling Beate for a long time now. Since the one visit in the summer, after the birth, he hadn’t seen her. He knew she didn’t blame him for Jack Halvorsen’s being killed in the line of duty. But it had been a bit too much for him: seeing Beate and Halvorsen’s child, the child the young officer never got to see, and knowing deep down that Beate was wrong. He could—he should—have saved Halvorsen.
Skarre hung up.
“A woman up in Tveita’s been reported missing by her husband. Camilla Lossius, twenty-nine years old, no children. It came in only a couple of hours ago, but there are a few worrying details. There’s a shopping bag on the countertop, nothing has been put in the fridge. The mobile phone was left in the car, and according to the husband she never goes anywhere without it. And one of the neighbors told the husband she saw a man hanging around their property and garage as if waiting for someone. The husband can’t say whether anything’s missing, not even toiletries or suitcases. These are the types who have a villa outside Nice and so many possessions they don’t notice if something’s missing. Understand what I mean?”
“Mm,” Harry said. “What does the Missing Persons Unit think?”
“That she’ll turn up. They just wanted to keep us posted.”
“OK,” Harry said. “Let’s go on, then.”
No one commented on the report for the rest of the meeting. However, Harry could feel it was in the air, like the rumble of distant thunder that might—or might not—come closer. After being allocated names off the call list, the group dispersed from Harry’s office.
Harry went back to the window and gazed down at the park. The evenings were drawing in earlier and earlier; it was almost tangible as the days passed. He thought about Idar Vetlesen’s mother when he had told her about the free medical help he had given to black prostitutes in the evenings. And for the first time she had dropped her mask—not in grief but in fury—and screamed it was lies, her son did not tend Negro whores. Perhaps it was better to lie. Harry thought about what he had told the chief superintendent the day before, that the bloodbath was over for the time being. In the gathering darkness beneath him he could just make it out under his window. The kindergarten classes often played there, especially if snow had fallen, as it had last night. At least that was what he had thought when he saw it on his way to work this morning. It was a big grayish white snowman.
Above the Liberal editorial offices in Aker Brygge, on the top floor, with a view of the Oslo Fjord, Akershus Fortress and the village of Nesoddtangen, were situated 2,500 of Oslo’s most expensive privately owned square feet. They belonged to the owner and editor of Liberal, Arve Støp. Or just Arve, as it said on the door where Harry rang the bell. The stairway and landing had been decorated in a functional, minimalist style, but there was a hand-painted jug on either side of the oak door, and Harry caught himself wondering what the net gain would be if he made off with one of them.
He had rung once, and now at last he could hear voices inside. One was a bright twitter, and one deep and calm. The door opened and a woman’s laughter tinkled out. She was wearing a white fur hat—synthetic, Harry assumed—from which cascaded long blond hair.
“I’m looking forward to it!” she said, turning and only then catching sight of Harry.
“Hello,” she said in a neutral tone, until recognition caused her to replace it with an enthusiastic “Well, hi!”
“Hi,” said Harry.
“How are you?” she asked, and Harry could see she had just recalled their last conversation. The one that ended against the black wall in the Hotel Leon.
“So you and Oda know each other?” Arve Støp stood in the hallway with his arms crossed. He was barefoot and wearing a T-shirt with a barely perceptible Louis Vuitton logo and green linen trousers that would have looked feminine on any other man. For Arve Støp was almost as tall and broad as Harry and had a face an American presidential candidate would have killed for: determined chin, boyish blue eyes edged with laughter lines and thick gray hair.
“We’ve just exchanged greetings,” Harry said. “I was on their talk show once.”
“I have to go, guys,” Oda said, imparting air-kisses on the run. Her footsteps drummed down the stairs as if her life depended on it.
“Yes, this was about that damn talk show, too,” Støp said, beckoning Harry in and grasping his hand. “My exhibitionism is approaching pathetic levels, I’m afraid. This time I didn’t even ask what the topic was before agreeing to take part. Oda was here doing her research. Well, you’ve done this, so you know how they work.”
“In my case, they just phoned,” Harry said, still feeling the heat from Støp’s hand on his skin.
“You sounded very serious on the telephone, Hole. What can a miserable journalist help you with?”
“It’s about your doctor and curling colleague, Idar Vetlesen.”
“Aha! Vetlesen. Of course. Shall we go in?”
Harry wriggled out of his boots and followed Støp down the corridor to a living room that was two steps lower than the rest of the apartment. One look was enough to tell Harry where Idar had found the inspiration for his waiting room. The moonlight glittered on the fjord outside the window.
“You’re running kind of an a priori investigation, I understand?” Støp said, flopping into the smallest item of furniture, a single molded plastic chair.
“I beg your pardon?” Harry said, sitting on the sofa.
“You’re starting with the solution and working backward to find out how it happened.”
“Is that what ‘a priori’ means?”
“God knows—I just like the sound of Latin.”
“Mm. And what do you think of our solution? Do you believe it?”
“Me?” Støp laughed. “I don’t believe anything. But that’s my profession, of course. As soon as something begins to resemble an established truth, it’s my job to argue against it. That’s what liberalism is.”
“And in this case?”
“Oof. I can’t see that Vetlesen had any rational motive. Or was crazy in a way that would defy standard definitions.”
“So you don’t think Vetlesen is the murderer?”
“Arguing against the belief that the world is round is not the same as believing it to be flat. I assume you have evidence. An alcoholic beverage? Coffee?”
“Yes, coffee, please.”
“I was teasing.” Støp smiled. “I’ve got only water and wine. No, I tell a lie—I’ve got some sweet cider from Abbediengen Farm. And you have to taste that whether you want to or not.”
Støp scuttled into a kitchen and Harry stood up to inspect his surroundings.
“Quite an apartment you’ve got here, Støp.”
“It was in fact three apartments,” Støp shouted from the kitchen. “One belonged to a successful shipowner who hanged himself out of boredom more or less where you’re sitting now. The second, where I am, belonged to a stockbroker who was indicted for insider trading. He found deliverance in prison, sold the apartment to me and gave all the money to an Inner Mission preacher. But that’s a kind of insider trading, too, if you know what I mean. Still, I’ve heard the man is a lot happier now, so why not?”
Støp came into the living room carrying two glasses with pale yellow contents. He passed one to Harry.
“The third apartment was owned by a plumber from Østensjø who decided when they were planning the Aker Brygge harbor area that this was where he would live. A kind of class journey, I guess. After scrimping and saving—or working in the black market and overcharging—for ten years, he bought it. But it cost so much he couldn’t afford a mo
ving company and did the move himself with a couple of pals. He had a safe weighing eight hundred pounds. I suppose he must have needed it for all his black market money. They had reached the final landing and there were only eighteen steps left when the infernal safe slipped. The plumber was dragged under it, broke his back and was paralyzed. Now he lives in a nursing home in the area he came from, with a view of Lake Østensjøvannet.” Støp stood by the window, drank from his glass and gazed thoughtfully across the fjord. “True, it’s only a lake, but it’s still a view.”
“Mm. We were wondering about your connection with Idar Vetlesen.”
Støp spun around theatrically, as nimble in his movements as a twenty-year-old. “Connection? That’s a damned strong word. He was my doctor. And we happened to curl together. That is, we curled. What Idar did can at best be described as pushing a stone and cleaning the ice.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I know, he’s dead, but that’s how it was.”
Harry put the glass of cider on the table untouched. “What did you talk about?”
“By and large about my body.”
“Huh?”
“He was my doctor, for Christ’s sake.”
“And you wanted to change parts of your body?”
Arve Støp laughed heartily. “I’ve never felt a need for any of that. Of course I know that Idar performed these ridiculous plastic surgery operations, liposuction and all that, but I recommend prevention rather than repair. I play sports, Inspector. Don’t you like the cider?”
“It contains alcohol,” Harry said.
“Really?” Støp said, contemplating his glass. “That I can’t imagine.”
“So which parts of the body did you discuss?”
“The elbow. I have tennis elbow and it bothers me when we curl. He prescribed the use of painkillers before training, the idiot. Because it also suppresses inflammation. And therefore I strained my muscles every time. Well, I suppose I don’t need to issue any medical warnings since we’re talking about a dead doctor here, but you shouldn’t take pills for pain. Pain is a good thing; we would never survive without it. We should be grateful for pain.”
“Should we?”
Støp tapped his index finger on a windowpane so thick that it didn’t let in a single sound from the town. “If you ask me, it’s not the same as a view of fresh water. Or is it, Hole?”
“I haven’t got a view.”
“Haven’t you? You should. A view gives perspective.”
“Speaking of perspectives, Telenor gave us a list of Vetlesen’s recent telephone calls. What did you talk about the day before he died?”
Støp fixed an inquisitive eye on Harry while leaning back and finishing off the cider. Then he took a deep, contented breath. “I had almost forgotten we spoke, but I suppose it was about elbows.”
Harry’s childhood friend Tresko had once explained that the poker player who bases his game on his ability to intuit a bluff is bound to lose. It’s true that we all give ourselves away with superficial mannerisms when lying; however, you have no chance of exposing a good bluffer unless you coldly and calculatedly chart all these mannerisms against each individual, in Tresko’s opinion. Harry tended to think Tresko was right. And so he didn’t base his conviction that Støp was lying on the man’s expression, his voice or his body language.
“Where were you between four and eight o’clock the day Vetlesen died?” Harry asked.
“Hey!” Støp raised an eyebrow. “Hey! Is there something about this case I or my readers ought to know?”
“Where were you?”
“That sounds manifestly like you haven’t caught the Snowman after all. Is that right?”
“I would appreciate it if you would let me ask the questions, Støp.”
“Fine, I was with …”
Arve paused. And his face suddenly lit up in a boyish smile.
“No, hang on a moment. You’re insinuating that I could have had something to do with Vetlesen’s death. If I were to answer I would be conceding the premise of the question.”
“I can easily register that you refused to answer the question, Støp.”
Støp raised his glass in a toast. “A familiar countermove, Hole. One that we press people use every single day. Hence the name. Press. People. But please note that I’m not refusing to answer, Hole. I’m just refraining from doing so at this minute. In other words, I’m giving it some thought.” He nodded to himself. “I’m not refusing—I just haven’t decided whether to answer or indeed what. And in the meantime you’ll have to wait.”
“I’ve got plenty of time.”
Støp turned. “And I don’t mean to waste it, Hole, but I have declared in the past that Liberal’s only capital and means of production is my personal integrity. I hope you appreciate that I as a pressman have an obligation to exploit this situation.”
“Exploit?”
“Hell, I know I’m sitting on a little atomic bomb of a news scoop here. I assume no newspapers have been tipped off that there’s something fishy about Vetlesen’s death. If I were to give you an answer now that would clear me of suspicion, I would have already played my hand. And then it’s too late for me to ask for relevant information before I answer. Am I right, Hole?”
Harry had an inkling where this was leading. And that Støp was a smarter bastard than he had anticipated.
“Information isn’t what you need,” Harry said. “What you need is to be told that you can be prosecuted for consciously obstructing the police in the course of their duties.”
“Touché.” Støp laughed, distinctly enthusiastic now. “But as a pressman and a liberalist I have principles to consider. The issue here is whether I, as a declared anti-establishment watchdog, should unconditionally make my services available to the ruling power’s forces of law and order.” He spat out the words without concealing the sarcasm.
“And what would your preconditions be?”
“Exclusivity on the background information, of course.”
“I can give you exclusivity,” Harry said. “Together with a ban on passing the information to a single soul.”
“Hm, well, that doesn’t take us anywhere. Shame.” Støp stuffed his hands in the pockets of his linen trousers. “But I already have enough to question whether the police have apprehended the right man.”
“I’m warning you.”
“Thank you. You’ve already done that.” Støp sighed. “Consider, however, whom you’re dealing with, Hole. On Saturday we’re having the mother of all parties at the Plaza. Six hundred guests are going to celebrate twenty-five years of Liberal. That’s not bad for a magazine that has always pushed the boundaries of our freedom of speech, that has navigated in legally polluted waters every day of its existence. Twenty-five years, Hole, and we have yet to lose a single case in the courts. I’ll take this up with our lawyer, Johan Krohn. I fancy the police know him, Hole?”
Harry nodded glumly. Støp indicated with a discreet flourish toward the door that he regarded the visit over.
“I promise to assist in any way that I’m able,” Støp said as they stood in the hall by the door. “If you in the force assist us.”
“You know quite well that it’s impossible for us to make such a deal.”
“You have no idea what deals we’ve already made, Hole.” Støp smiled, opening the door. “You really don’t. I expect to see you again soon.”
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Harry said, holding the door open.
Rakel trotted up the last steps to his apartment.
“Yes, you did,” she said, stealing into his arms. Then she shoved him inside, kicked the door shut with her heel, grabbed his head with both hands and kissed him greedily.
“I hate you,” she said while slackening his belt. “You know I didn’t need this in my life right now.”
“Go, then,” Harry said, unbuttoning her coat and then her blouse. Her trousers had a zip at the side. He undid it and slipped his hand in, right to the bottom of her
spine, over her cool, silky-smooth panties. It was quiet in the hall, just their breathing and a single click of her heel on the floor as she moved her foot to allow him in.
In bed afterward, sharing a cigarette, Rakel accused him of being a drug dealer.
“Isn’t that how they do it?” she said. “The first doses are free. Until they’re hooked.”
“And then they have to pay,” Harry said, blowing one large and one small ring toward the ceiling.
“A lot,” Rakel said.
“You’re only here for sex,” Harry said. “Aren’t you? Just so that I know.”
Rakel stroked his chest. “You’ve got so thin, Harry.”
He didn’t answer. He waited.
“It’s not working so well with Mathias,” she said. “That is, he works well. He works perfectly. It’s me who doesn’t work.”
“What’s the problem?”
“If only I knew. I look at Mathias and I think, There’s your dream guy. And I think, He lights my fire, and I try to light his, I almost attack him because I want some pleasure—do you understand? It would be so good, so right. But I can’t do it …”
“Mm. I have some difficulty imagining that, but I hear what you’re saying.”
She pulled his earlobe hard. “The fact that we were always hungry for each other wasn’t necessarily a hallmark of quality for our relationship, Harry.”
Harry watched as the smaller smoke ring caught up with the larger one and formed a figure eight. Yes, it was, he thought.
“I’ve started looking for pretexts,” she said. “Take this amusing physical quirk that Mathias inherited from his father, for example.”
“What?”
“It’s nothing special, but he’s a bit embarrassed about it.”
“Come on, tell me.”
“No, no, it has absolutely no significance, and to start with I thought his embarrassment was just sweet. Now I’ve started to think it’s annoying. As if I’m trying to make a flaw out of this bagatelle of Mathias’s, an excuse for … for …” She fell silent.
“For being here,” Harry completed.
She hugged him tight. Then she got up.
