by Jo Nesbo
‘Harry . . .’
‘He might have had information. About someone.’
‘You like conspiracy theories up there on the sixth floor, don’t you? But can’t we deal with this on Monday, Harry?’
‘Since when have you been so particular about working hours?’
‘I’m in bed.’
‘At half past ten?’
‘I’m not on my own.’
Harry stopped pedalling. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that people around him might be listening to the conversation. He swivelled round. Luckily there were only a handful of people training at this late hour.
‘Is that the artist guy from Tørst?’ he whispered. ‘Mm.’
‘And how long have you two been bed pals?’
‘A while.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘Is he lying next to you now?’
‘Mm.’
‘Is he good?’
‘Mm.’
‘Has he told you he loves you yet?’
‘Mm.’
Pause. ‘Do you think about Freddie Mercury when you —’
‘Goodnight, Harry.’
44
Harry’s Office. 6 March 2000.
THE CLOCK IN RECEPTION SHOWED 8.30 AS HARRY ARRIVED at work. It wasn’t much of a reception area, more an entrance which functioned as a funnel. The funnel boss was Linda, who looked up from her computer and greeted him with a cheery ‘Good morning’. Linda had been in POT longer than anyone and, strictly speaking, she was the only person in security Harry needed to have any contact with in order to carry out his daily work. Apart from being the ‘funnel boss’, the tiny fast-talking woman of fifty functioned as a kind of communal secretary, receptionist and general factotum. It had occurred to Harry a couple of times that if he were a spy for a foreign power and had to tap someone in POT for information, he would choose Linda. Furthermore, she was the only person in POT, apart from Meirik, who knew what Harry was doing there. He had no idea what the others thought. During his extremely rare visits to the canteen to buy a yoghurt or cigarettes (which they didn’t sell, it turned out) he had caught the looks from the tables. He hadn’t tried to interpret them, however; he had merely scuttled back to his office.
‘Someone phoned for you,’ Linda said. ‘Spoke English. I’ll just have a look . . .’
She took a yellow Post-it off her computer monitor.
‘Hochner.’
‘Hochner?’ Harry exclaimed.
Linda looked at the slip of paper, uncertain. ‘Yes, that was what she said.’
‘She? He, don’t you mean?’
‘No, it was a woman. She said she would call back . . .’ Linda turned and looked at the clock behind her, ‘. . . now. She seemed pretty keen to get hold of you. While I’ve got you here, Harry – have you been round to introduce yourself yet?’
‘Haven’t had time. Next week, Linda.’
‘You’ve been here for a whole month. Yesterday Steffensen asked me who the tall blond guy was he’d met in the toilet.’
‘Really? And what did you tell him?’
‘I said it was on a need-to-know basis.’ She laughed. ‘And you have to come to the department do on Saturday.’
‘So I understand,’ he mumbled, picking up two pieces of paper from his pigeon-hole. One was a reminder about the party, the other an internal note about the new arrangement for reps. Both sailed into the bin as soon as he had closed his office door.
Then he sat down, pressed rec and pause on the answerphone and waited. After about thirty seconds the telephone rang. Harry picked up, expecting Hochner.
‘Harry Hole speaking.’
‘Herry? Spicking?’ It was Ellen.
‘Sorry. I thought it was someone else.’
‘He’s an animal,’ she said before he could say anything else. ‘Føcking ønbelivebel, he is.’
‘If you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about, I would prefer you to stop right there, Ellen.’
‘Wimp. Who were you expecting a call from, by the way?’
‘A woman.’
‘At last!’
‘Forget it. It’s probably a relative or the wife of a guy I’ve interviewed.’ She sighed. ‘When are you going to meet someone, Harry?’
‘You’re in love now, are you?’
‘Well guessed! Aren’t you?’
‘Me?’
Ellen’s joyous screech pierced his eardrum.
‘You didn’t deny it! I’ve caught you, Harry Hole! Who is it, who, who?’
‘Stop it, Ellen.’
‘Tell me I’m right!’
‘I haven’t met anyone, Ellen.’
‘Don’t lie to Mummy.’
Harry laughed. ‘Tell me more about Hallgrim Dale. How far has the investigation got now?’
‘Don’t know. Talk to Kripos.’
‘I will, but what does your intuition tell you about the murder?’
‘That he’s a pro. It isn’t a passion killing. And despite the fact that I said the murder seemed neat and tidy, I don’t believe that it was carefully planned in advance.’
‘No?’
‘The killing was efficient and there were no clues left behind, but the scene of the crime was a poor choice. He could easily have been seen from the street or in the back alley.’
‘The other line is bleeping. I’ll call you back.’
Harry pressed the pause button on the answering machine and checked that the tape was now running before he switched to the other line.
‘Harry.’
‘Hello, my name is Constance Hochner?’
‘How do you do, Ms Hochner.’
‘I’m Andreas Hochner’s sister.’
‘I see.’
Even on the bad line he could hear she was nervous. Nevertheless, she went straight to the point.
‘You had an agreement with my brother, Mr Hole. And you haven’t kept your part of the deal.’
She spoke with a strange accent, the same as Andreas Hochner’s. Automatically, Harry tried to visualise her, a habit he had adopted early on as a detective.
‘Well, Ms Hochner, I can’t do anything for your brother before I have verified the information he gave us. For the time being, we have not found anything to corroborate what he said.’
‘But why should he lie, Mr Hole? A man in his predicament?’
‘That is precisely why, Ms Hochner. If he doesn’t know anything he could be desperate enough to pretend that he does.’
There was a pause on the crackly line from ...where? Johannesburg? Constance Hochner was speaking again. ‘Andreas warned me that you might say something like that. That’s why I’m calling you, to tell you I have more information from my brother that you may be interested in.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘But you cannot have the information unless your government does something about my brother’s case first.’
‘We’ll do what we can.’
‘I’ll contact you again when there is evidence that you’re helping us.’
‘As you know, Ms Hochner, it doesn’t work like that. First of all, we have to see the results of the information we receive. Then we can help him.’
‘My brother must have guarantees. The legal proceedings against him start in two weeks.’
Her voice failed her somewhere in the middle, and Harry knew she was close to tears.
‘The only thing I can give you is my word that I’ll do as much as I can.’
‘I don’t know you. You don’t understand. They intend to sentence Andreas to death. They —’
‘Nevertheless, that is all I can offer you.’
She began to cry. Harry waited. After a while she was quiet.
‘Do you have children, Ms Hochner?’
‘Yes,’ she sniffled. ‘And you know what your brother has been accused of ?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Then you’ll also know that he will need all the absolution
he can get. As he can help us, via you, to stop a killer, he will have done some good. And you will have too, Ms Hochner.’
She was breathing heavily over the telephone. Harry thought she was going to cry again.
‘Do you promise to do as much as you can, Mr Hole? My brother hasn’t done all the things they are accusing him of.’
‘I promise.’
Harry heard his own voice. Calm and steady. While crushing the receiver.
‘OK,’ Constance Hochner said softly. ‘Andreas says that the person who took delivery of the weapon and paid for it at the harbour that night is not the same as the person who ordered it. The man who ordered it was a fairly regular customer, a youngish man. He spoke good English with a Scandinavian accent. And he insisted that Andreas used the code name ‘the Prince’ with him. Andreas said you should start by focusing on groups of guys fixated with guns.’
‘Is that everything?’
‘Andreas has never seen him, but he says that he would recognise his voice immediately if you sent him a tape.’
‘Excellent,’ Harry said, hoping she wouldn’t hear how disappointed he was. He instinctively straightened his shoulders as if to steel himself before serving up the lie.
‘If I discover anything, I’ll start pulling the strings here.’
The words smarted like caustic soda in his mouth. ‘Thank you, Mr Hole.’
‘Nothing to thank me for, Ms Hochner.’
He repeated the last phrase a couple of times to himself after putting down the receiver.
‘That’s too much,’ Ellen said on hearing the story about the Hochner family.
‘See if your brain can forget it’s in love for a while and let it perform some of its tricks,’ Harry said. ‘Now at least you’ve got your cues.’
‘Illegal importation of arms, regular customer, the Prince, arms freaks. That’s only four.’
‘That’s all I have.’
‘Why do I agree to this?’
‘Because you love me. Now I have to be off.’
‘Wait. Tell me about the woman you —’
‘Hope your intuition is better with solving crime, Ellen. Take care.’
Harry rang the Drammen number directory enquiries had given him.
‘Mosken speaking.’ A self-assured voice.
‘Edvard Mosken?’
‘Yes. To whom am I speaking?’
‘Inspector Hole, POT. I have a couple of questions.’
It struck Harry that this was the first time he had introduced himself as an inspector. For some reason it felt like a lie.
‘Has something happened to my son?’
‘No. Would it be convenient to visit you at midday tomorrow, herr Mosken?’
‘I’m a pensioner. And single. There’s hardly a moment when it wouldn’t be convenient, Inspector.’
Harry called Even Juul and brought him up to date on what had happened.
Harry was considering what Ellen had said about the murder of Hallgrim Dale as he walked to the canteen to buy a yoghurt. He would ring Kripos to find out more about the case, although he had a strong feeling that Ellen had already told him everything worth knowing. Nevertheless. The statistical probability of being murdered in Norway was about one in ten thousand. When a person you’re looking for turns up dead in a four-month-old murder case, it is difficult to believe that it is a coincidence. Could the murder be linked in any way with the purchase of the Märklin rifle? It was barely 9 a.m. and Harry already had a headache. He hoped Ellen would be able to come up with something on the Prince. Anything at all. If nothing else, it would be a place to begin.
45
Sogn. 6 March 2000.
AFTER WORK HARRY DROVE UP TO THE SHELTERED HOUSING in Sogn. Sis was waiting for him. She had put on a bit of weight in the last year, but her boyfriend Henrik, who lived further down the corridor, liked her like that, she claimed.
‘But then Henrik is a mongo.’
She usually said that when she had to explain Henrik’s minor idiosyncrasies. She, for her part, was not a mongo. There was obviously an almost invisible though sharp distinction somewhere. And Sis liked to explain to Harry which of the residents were mongos, and those who were only almost.
She told Harry about the usual things: what Henrik had said last week (which could on occasion be quite remarkable), what they had seen on TV, what they had eaten and where they planned to go on holiday. They were always planning holidays. This time it was Hawaii and Harry could only smile at the thought of Sis and Henrik in Hawaiian shirts at the airport in Honolulu.
He asked if she had talked to Dad, and she said he had visited her two days ago.
‘That’s good,’ Harry said.
‘I think he’s forgotten Mum now,’ Sis said. ‘That’s good.’
Harry stayed in his chair for a moment, thinking about what she had said. Then Henrik knocked on the door and said Hotel Caesar, a soap opera, was beginning on TV2 in three minutes, so Harry put on his coat and promised to phone soon.
The traffic by the lights at Ullevål Stadium was as sluggish as usual, and he realised too late that he would have to turn right at the ring road because of roadworks. He thought about what Constance Hochner had told him. Uriah had used a middleman, probably a Norwegian. It meant there was someone out there who knew who Uriah was. He had already asked Linda to go through the secret archives to find someone with the nickname ‘the Prince’, but he was fairly sure she wouldn’t find anyone. He had a definite feeling that this man was smarter than the average criminal. If it was true what Andreas Hochner said – that the Prince was a regular customer – it meant that he had managed to build up his own clientele without POT or anyone else finding out. Something like that takes time and requires care, cunning and discipline – none of which were characteristics of the gangsters Harry knew. Of course, he might have had more than his share of good fortune, since he hadn’t been arrested. Or he might have a position which protected him. Constance Hochner had said that he spoke good English. He could be a diplomat, for example – someone who could travel in and out of the country without being stopped at customs.
Harry came off the ring road at Slemdalsveien and drove up towards Holmenkollen.
Should he ask Meirik if he could have Ellen provisionally transferred to POT? Meirik seemed more intent on him counting neo-Nazis and going to social events than chasing wartime ghosts.
Harry had driven right up to her house before he realised where he was. He stopped the car and stared between the trees. It was fifty or so metres to the house from the main road. There was light in the windows on the ground floor.
‘Idiot,’ he said aloud and started at the sound of his own voice. He was about to drive off when he saw the front door open and light fall on the steps. The thought that she might see and recognise his car put him in a state of panic. He slotted the car into reverse so that he could back quietly and discreetly up the hill and out of sight, but he didn’t have his foot hard enough on the accelerator and the engine died. He heard voices. A tall man in a long, dark coat had come out on to the steps. He was talking, but the person he was talking to was hidden by the door. Then he leaned in towards the door opening and Harry could no longer see them.
They’re kissing, he thought. I’ve driven up to Holmenkollen to spy on a woman I’ve talked to for fifteen minutes kissing her boyfriend.
Then the door closed, and the man got into an Audi and drove past him down to the main road.
On his way home Harry wondered how he should punish himself. It had to be something severe, something that would have a deterrent effect for the future. An aerobics class at Focus.
46
Drammen. 7 March 2000.
HARRY HAD NEVER UNDERSTOOD EXACTLY WHY DRAMMEN came in for so much criticism. The town wasn’t a beauty, but was it so much uglier than most of the other overgrown villages in Norway? He considered stopping for a cup of coffee at Børsen, but a quick check of his watch revealed that he didn’t have enough time.
Edvar
d Mosken lived in a red wooden house with a view of the trotting track. An oldish Mercedes estate was parked outside the garage. Mosken himself was standing at the front door. He examined Harry’s ID carefully before saying anything.
‘Born in 1965? You look older than that, Inspector Hole.’
‘Bad genes.’
‘Bad luck for you.’
‘Well, they let me into eighteen-certificate films when I was fourteen.’
It was impossible to discern whether Edvard Mosken appreciated the joke or not. He motioned for Harry to go in.
‘You live alone?’ Harry asked as Mosken led the way to the sitting room. The flat was clean and well-kept; few personal ornaments and just as exaggeratedly neat as some men like to be when they are allowed to choose for themselves. It reminded Harry of his own flat.
‘Yes. My wife left me after the war.’
‘Left?’
‘Upped sticks. Cleared off. Went on her way.’
‘I see. Children?’
‘I had a son.’
‘Had?’
Edvard Mosken stopped and turned round.
‘Am I not expressing myself clearly, Inspector Hole?’
One white eyebrow was raised, forming a sharp angle on the high, open forehead.
‘No, it’s me,’ Harry said. ‘I have to be spoonfed.’
‘OK. I have a son.’
‘Thank you. What did you do before you retired?’
‘I owned a few lorries. Mosken Transport. Sold the business seven years ago.’
‘Did it go well?’
‘Well enough. The buyers kept the name.’
They sat down, each on their own side of the coffee table. Harry knew that there would be no question of coffee. Edvard sat on the sofa, leaning forward with his arms crossed as if to say: Let’s get this over with.
‘Where were you on the night of 21 December?’
Harry had decided on the way over to open with this question. By playing the only card he had before Mosken had a chance to sound out the terrain and deduce that they didn’t have anything, Harry could at least hope to flush out a reaction, which might tell him something. If Mosken had anything to hide, that was.
