by Jo Nesbo
“Of course I make snowmen,” Støp said after the four seconds were up. “I make them on the roof terrace beside my swimming pool. I make each one look like a member of the royal family. That way—when spring comes—I can look forward to the unseasonable elements melting and disappearing.”
For the first time that evening Støp earned neither laughter nor applause. Oda thought Støp should have known that fundamentally antiroyalist comments never did.
Undaunted, Bosse broke the silence by introducing the pop star, who was to talk about her recent onstage breakdown and then conclude the show by singing the single that would be released on Monday.
“What the hell was that?” asked Gubbe, the producer, who had taken up a position directly behind Oda.
“Perhaps he isn’t sober after all,” Oda said.
“He’s a fucking goddamn policeman!”
At that moment Oda remembered he was hers. Her scoop. “But, Jesus, can he deliver the goods.”
The producer didn’t answer.
The pop star talked about psychological problems, explaining that they were inherited, and Oda looked at her watch. Forty seconds. This was too serious for a Friday night. Forty-three. Bosse interrupted after forty-six.
“What about you, Arve?” Bosse was usually on first-name terms with the main guest by the end of the broadcast. “Ever experienced madness or a serious hereditary illness?”
Støp smiled. “No, Bosse, I haven’t. Unless you count a craving for total freedom as an illness. In fact, it’s a family weakness.”
Bosse had come to round-up time; now he just had to sign off with the other guests before introducing the song. Final few words from the psychologist about the ludic in life. And then:
“And as the Snowman’s no longer with us, I suppose you’ll have time to play for a couple of days, Harry?”
“No,” Harry said. He had slumped so far down into his chair that his long legs almost reached over to the pop star. “The Snowman hasn’t been caught.”
Bosse frowned, smiled and waited for him to go on, waited for the punch line. Oda hoped to God it was better than his opening line promised.
“I never said Idar Vetlesen was the Snowman,” Harry said. “On the contrary. Everything points to the Snowman still being at large.”
Bosse gave a little chuckle. It was the laugh he used to smooth over a guest’s hapless attempt to be funny.
“I hope for the sake of my wife’s beauty sleep that you’re joking now,” Bosse said mischievously.
“No,” Harry said. “I’m not.”
Oda looked at her watch and knew the floor manager was standing behind the camera now, shifting nervously as she ran a finger across her throat to show Bosse that they were running over and he would have to begin the song if they were to manage the first verse before the credits started rolling. But Bosse was the best. He knew that this was more important than all the singles in the world. Thus he ignored the raised baton and leaned forward in his chair to show those who might have been in any doubt about what this was. The scoop. The sensational announcement. Here on his, on their, program. The quaver in his voice was almost genuine.
“Are you telling us here and now that the police have been lying, Hole? That the Snowman is out there and can take more lives?”
“No,” Harry said. “We haven’t been lying. New details have come to light.”
Bosse swiveled around in his chair, and Oda thought she could hear the technical director shouting for camera one, and then Bosse’s face was there, the eyes staring straight at them.
“And I would guess we’ll hear more about those details on the news tonight. Bosse is back next Friday. Thank you for watching.”
Oda closed her eyes as the band began to play the single.
“Jesus,” she heard the producer wheeze behind her. And then, “Jesus fucking Christ.” Oda just felt like howling. Howling with pleasure. Here, she thought. Here at the North Pole. We aren’t where it happens. We are what happens.
22
DAY 18
Match
Gunnar Hagen was standing inside the door at Schrøder’s, scanning the room. He had set out from home exactly thirty-two minutes and three telephone conversations after the credits had rolled on Bosse. He hadn’t found Harry in his apartment, at Kunstnernes Hus or in his office. Bjørn Holm had tipped him off that he might try Harry’s local, Schrøder’s. The contrast between the young, beautiful and almost-famous clientele at Kunstnernes Hus and Schrøder’s somewhat dissipated beer drinkers was striking. At the back, in the corner, by the window, alone at a table, sat Harry. With a large glass.
Hagen made his way to the table.
“I’ve been trying to call you, Harry. Have you switched off your mobile?”
The inspector looked up, bleary-eyed. “There’s been so much hassle. Loads of fucking reporters suddenly after me.”
“At NRK they said the Bosse crew and guests usually went to Kunstnernes Hus after the show.”
“The press was standing outside waiting for me. So I cleared out. What do you want, boss?”
Hagen plumped down onto a chair and watched Harry raise the glass to his lips and the golden-brown liquid slip down into his mouth.
“I’ve been talking to the chief super,” Hagen said. “This is serious, Harry. Leaking that the Snowman is still at large is a direct breach of his orders.”
“That’s right,” Harry said, taking another swig.
“Right? Is that all you’ve got to say? But in the name of all that’s sacred, Harry, why?”
“The public has a right to know,” Harry said. “Our democracy is built on openness, boss.”
Hagen banged his fist on the table and received a few encouraging looks from neighboring tables and an admonitory glance from the waitress passing them with an armful of sixteen-ounce glasses.
“Don’t mess with me, Harry. We’ve gone public and said the case was solved. You’ve put the force in a very bad light—are you aware of that?”
“My job is to catch villains,” Harry said. “Not to appear in a good light.”
“It’s two sides of the same thing, Harry! Our working conditions are dependent on how the public perceives us. The press is crucial!”
Harry shook his head. “The press has never hindered or helped me in solving a single case. The press is crucial only for individuals who want to be in the limelight. The people you report to are just concerned with having concrete results that will give them good press. Or prevent bad press. I want to catch the Snowman, period.”
“You’re a danger to your colleagues,” Hagen said. “Do you know that?”
Harry seemed to be considering the statement, then nodded slowly, drained his glass and signaled to the waitress that he wanted another.
“I’ve just been talking to the chief superintendent and the chief constable,” Hagen said, bracing himself. “I was told to find you instantly to muzzle you. From this very second. Understood?”
“Fine, boss.”
Hagen blinked in amazement, but Harry’s face revealed nothing.
“As of this moment, I’m going to be very hands-on, all the time,” said the POB. “I want regular reports. I know that you won’t do that, so I’ve spoken to Katrine Bratt and given her the job. Any objections?”
“None at all, boss.”
Hagen was thinking that Harry must be drunker than he looked.
“Bratt told me you’d asked her to go and see this assistant of Idar Vetlesen’s to check Arve Støp’s files. Without going through the public prosecutor. What the hell are you two doing? Do you know what we would have been exposed to if Støp had found out?”
Harry’s head shot up like a watchful animal’s. “What do you mean by if he had found out?”
“Fortunately there was no file on Støp. This secretary of Vetlesen’s said they never kept one.”
“Oh? And why not?”
“How should I know, Harry? I’m just relieved. We don’t want any more trouble now. Arv
e Støp, my God! Be that as it may, from now on Bratt will dog your every step so that she can report to me.”
“Mm,” Harry said, nodding to the waitress, who set down another glass for him. “Hasn’t she already been informed?”
“What do you mean?”
“When she started you told her I would be her—” Harry stopped in his tracks.
“Her what?” Hagen snapped.
Harry shook his head.
“What’s up? Something wrong?”
“Nothing,” Harry said, sinking half the glass in one big gulp and placing a hundred-krone note on the table. “Have a nice evening, boss.”
Hagen sat at the table until Harry had left the restaurant. Only then did he notice that there were no carbon dioxide bubbles rising in the half-empty glass. He stole a few sidelong glances and put the glass cautiously to his lips. It tasted tart. Nonalcoholic cider.
Harry walked home through silent streets. The windows of the old, low buildings shone like cats’ eyes in the night. He felt an urge to speak to Tresko to find out how things were going, but decided to let him have the night, as agreed. He rounded the corner to Sofies Gate. Deserted. He was heading for his building when he caught a movement and a tiny glint. Light reflecting off a pair of glasses. Someone standing by the line of vehicles parked along the pavement, apparently struggling to open a car door. Harry knew which cars generally parked at this end of the street. And this car, a blue Volvo C70, was not one of them.
It was too dark for Harry to see the face clearly, but he could tell from the way the person was holding his head that he was keeping an eye out for Harry. A journalist? Harry passed the car. In the side mirror of another, he glimpsed a shadow flit between the cars and approach from behind. Without any undue haste Harry slipped his hand inside his coat. Heard the footsteps coming. And his anger. He counted to three, then turned around. The person behind him froze on the pavement.
“Is it me you’re after?” Harry growled, stepping forward with gun raised. He collared the man, dragged him sideways, knocking him off balance, and launched himself at him, sending both of them over the hood of a car. Harry pressed his forearm against the man’s throat and thrust the barrel against one lens of his glasses.
“Is it me you want?” Harry hissed.
The man’s answer was drowned out by the car alarm going off. The sound filled the whole street. The man tried to free himself, but Harry had him in a tight grip and he gave up. His head hit the car’s hood with a soft thud and the light from the streetlamp fell on the man’s face. Then Harry let go. The man doubled up, coughing.
“Come on,” Harry shouted over the relentless howl, grabbed the man under the arm and dragged him over the road. He unlocked the front door and shoved the man inside.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Harry said. “And how do you know where I live?”
“I’ve been trying to call the number you gave me all evening. In the end I called directory assistance and got your address.”
Harry observed the man. That is, he observed the ghost of the man. Even in the remand cell there had been more of Professor Filip Becker left.
“I had to switch off my mobile,” Harry said.
Harry walked ahead of Becker up to his apartment, opened the door, kicked off his boots, went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle.
“I saw you on Bosse this evening,” Becker said. He had come into the kitchen, still wearing his coat and shoes. His face was ashen, lifeless. “You were brave. So I thought I should be brave, too. I owe you that.”
“Owe me?”
“You believed me when no one else did. You saved me from public humiliation.”
“Mm.” Harry pulled up a chair for the professor, but he shook his head.
“I’ll be off in a minute, but I’ll tell you something no one else must know. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the case, but it’s about Jonas.”
“Uh-huh?”
“I took some blood from him the night I visited Camilla Lossius.”
Harry remembered the bandage on Jonas’s forearm.
“Plus a mouth swab. Sent it to the paternity section of the Institute of Forensic Medicine for DNA testing.”
“Huh? I thought you had to go through a lawyer.”
“You did before. Now anyone can buy the test. Twenty-eight hundred kroner per person. Bit more if you want a quick answer. Which I did. And the answer came today. Jonas”—Becker paused and took a deep breath—“Jonas is not my son.”
Harry nodded slowly.
Becker rocked back on his heels as if about to start a race.
“I asked them to match him against all the data in the data bank. They found a perfect match.”
“Perfect? So Jonas was in the bank?”
“Yes.”
Harry pondered. It was starting to dawn on him what Becker meant.
“In other words, someone had already sent in a sample for Jonas’s DNA profile,” Becker said. “I was informed that the previous sample was seven years old.”
“And they confirmed it was Jonas?”
“No, it was anonymous. But they had the name of the client who had ordered the test.”
“And that was?”
“A medical center that no longer exists.” Harry knew the answer before Becker said it. “Marienlyst Clinic.”
“Idar Vetlesen,” Harry said, angling his head as though studying a picture to see if it was hanging straight.
“Right,” Becker said, clapping his hands together and smiling weakly. “That was it. All I wanted to say was that … I have no son.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Actually, I’ve had that feeling for a long time.”
“Mm. Why the hurry to come here and tell me?”
“I don’t know,” Becker said.
Harry waited.
“I … I had to do something tonight. Like this. If I hadn’t I don’t know what I would’ve done. I …” The professor hesitated before going on. “I’m alone now. My life no longer has much meaning. If the gun had been real …”
“Don’t,” Harry said. “Don’t even think it. The thought will only become more tempting the more you dwell on it. And you’re forgetting one thing. Even if your life has no meaning for you, it has meaning for others. For Jonas, for example.”
“Jonas?” Becker said with a bitter laugh. “The evidence of Birte’s infidelity? ‘Don’t dwell on it’—is that what they teach you at the police academy?”
“No,” Harry said.
They eyed each other.
“Whatever,” Becker said. “Now you know.”
“Thank you,” Harry said.
After Becker had left, Harry was still sitting there, trying to decide if the picture was hanging straight, not noticing that the water had boiled, the kettle had switched itself off and the little red eye under the ON button was slowly dying.
23
DAY 19
Mosaic
The thick, fluffy clouds concealed the dawn as Harry entered the corridor on the sixth floor of the high-rise in Frogner. Tresko had left his door ajar, and when Harry entered, Tresko had his feet up on the coffee table, his ass on the sofa and the remote control in his left hand. The images that flicked backward across the screen dissolved into a digital mosaic.
“Don’t want a beer, then?” Tresko repeated, lifting his half-empty bottle. “It’s Saturday.”
Harry thought he could discern bacterial gases in the air. Both ashtrays were full of cigarette butts.
“No thanks,” Harry said, taking a seat. “Well?”
“Well, I’ve just had one night on it,” Tresko said, stopping the DVD player. “It usually takes me a couple of days.”
“This person’s not a pro poker player,” Harry said.
“Don’t be too sure,” Tresko said and took a swig from the bottle. “He bluffs a lot better than most card players. This is the place where you ask him the question you reckoned he would answer with a lie, isn’t it?”
>
Tresko pressed PLAY and Harry saw himself in the TV studio. He was wearing a pinstriped suit jacket, a Swedish brand, slightly too tight. A black T-shirt that was a present from Rakel. Diesel jeans and Doc Martens boots. He was sitting in a strangely uncomfortable position, as if the chair had nails in the back. The question sounded hollow through the TV speakers. “Do you invite her for a bit of extracurricular in your hotel room?”
“No, I don’t think I would do that,” Støp answered, but froze as Tresko pressed the PAUSE button.
“And there you know he’s lying?” Tresko asked.
“Yup,” Harry answered. “He fucked a friend of Rakel’s. Women don’t usually like to boast. What can you see?”
“If I ran this on the computer I could enlarge the eyes, but I don’t need to. You can see the pupils have dilated.” Tresko pointed an index finger with a chewed nail at the screen. “That’s the classic sign of stress. And look at the nostrils. Can you see they’ve flared a tiny bit? We do that when we’re stressed and the brain needs more oxygen. But that doesn’t mean he’s lying; many people get stressed even when they’re telling the truth. Or don’t get stressed when lying. You can see, for example, that his hands are still.”
Harry noticed that Tresko’s voice had undergone a transformation; the jarring sounds were gone and it had become soft, almost pleasant. Harry looked at the screen, at Støp’s hands, which lay still in his lap, the left hand over the right.
“I’m afraid there are no immutable signs,” Tresko continued. “All poker players are different, so what you have to do is spot the differences. Find out what’s different in a person from when he’s lying and when he’s telling the truth. It’s like triangulation—you need two fixed points.”
