The Leopard

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘Hey!’ came a shout from the back seat. ‘If you’ve finished, perhaps we might . . .’

  The lights changed to green, and Øystein accelerated away.

  ‘Are you coming then? It’s at Tresko’s place.’

  ‘Stinks of toe-fart there, Øystein.’

  ‘He’s got a full fridge.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not in a party mood.’

  ‘Party mood?’ Øystein snorted, smacking the wheel with his hand. ‘You don’t know what a party mood is, Harry. You always backed off parties. Do you remember? We’d bought some beers, intending to go to some fancy address in Nordstrand with loads of women. And you suggested you, me and Tresko went to the bunkers instead and drank on our own.’

  ‘Hey, this isn’t the way to the airport express!’ came a whine from the back seat.

  Øystein braked for red again, tossed his wispy shoulder-length hair to the side and addressed the back seat. ‘And that was where we ended up. Got rat-arsed and that fella started singing “No Surrender” until Tresko chucked empty bottles at him.’

  ‘Honest to God!’ the man sobbed, tapping his forefinger on the glass of a TAG Heuer watch. ‘I just have to catch the last plane to Stockholm.’

  ‘The bunkers are great,’ Harry said. ‘Best view in Oslo.’

  ‘Yep,’ Øystein said. ‘If the Allies had attacked there, the Germans would’ve shot them to bits.’

  ‘Right,’ Harry grinned.

  ‘You know, we had a standing agreement, him and me and Tresko,’ Øystein said, but the suit was now desperately scanning the rain for vacant taxis. ‘If the sodding Allies come, we’ll bloody shoot the meat off their carcasses. Like this.’ Øystein pointed an imaginary machine gun at the suit and fired a salvo. The suit stared in horror at the crazy taxi driver whose chattering noises were causing small, foam-white drops of spit to land on his dark, freshly ironed suit trousers. With a little gasp he managed to open the car door and stumble out into the rain.

  Øystein burst into coarse, hearty laughter.

  ‘You were missing home,’ Øystein said. ‘You wanted to dance with Killer Queen at Ekeberg restaurant again.’

  Harry chuckled and shook his head. In the wing mirror he saw the man charging madly towards the National Theatre station. ‘It’s my father. He’s ill. He hasn’t got long left.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Øystein pressed the accelerator again. ‘Good man, too.’

  ‘Thank you. Thought you would want to know.’

  ‘Course I bloody do. Have to tell my folks.’

  ‘So, here we are,’ Øystein said, parking outside the garage and the tiny, yellow timber house in Oppsal.

  ‘Yup,’ Harry said.

  Øystein inhaled so hard the cigarette seemed to be catching fire, held the smoke down in his lungs and let it out again with a long, gurgling wheeze. Then he tilted his head slightly and flicked the ash into the ashtray. Harry experienced a sweet pain in his heart. How many times had he seen Øystein do exactly that, seen him lean to the side as though the cigarette were so heavy that he would lose balance. Head tilted. The ash on the ground in a smokers’ shed at school, in an empty beer bottle at a party they had gatecrashed, on cold, damp concrete in a bunker.

  ‘Life’s bloody unfair,’ Øystein said. ‘Your father was sober, went walking on Sundays and worked as a teacher. While my father drank, worked at the Kadok factory, where everyone got asthma and weird rashes, and didn’t move a millimetre once he was ensconced on the sofa at home. And the guy’s as fit as a fuckin’ fiddle.’

  Harry remembered the Kadok factory. Kodak backwards. The owner, from Sunnmøre, had read that Eastman had called his camera factory Kodak because it was a name that could be remembered and pronounced all over the world. But Kadok was forgotten and it shut down several years ago.

  ‘All things pass,’ Harry said.

  Øystein nodded as though he had been following his train of thought.

  ‘Ring if you need anything, Harry.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Harry waited until he heard the wheels crunching on the gravel behind him and the car was gone before he unlocked the door and entered. He switched on the light and stood still as the door fell to and clicked shut. The smell, the silence, the light falling on the coat cupboard, everything spoke to him, it was like sinking into a pool of memories. They embraced him, warmed him, made his throat constrict. He removed his coat and kicked off his shoes. Then he started to walk. From room to room. From year to year. From Mum and Dad to Sis, and then to himself. The boy’s room. The Clash poster, the one where the guitar is about to be smashed on the floor. He lay on his bed and breathed in the smell of the mattress. And then came the tears.

  21

  Snow White

  IT WAS TWO MINUTES TO EIGHT IN THE EVENING WHEN Mikael Bellman was walking up Karl Johans gate, one of the world’s more modest parades. He was in the middle of the kingdom of Norway, at the mid-point of the axis. To the left, the university and knowledge; to the right, the National Theatre and culture. Behind him, in the Palace Gardens, the Royal Palace situated upon high. And right in front of him: power. Three hundred paces later, at exactly eight o’clock, he mounted the stone steps to the main entrance of Stortinget. The parliament building, like most of Oslo, was not particularly big or impressive. And security was minimal. There were only two lions carved from Grorud granite standing on either side of the slope which led to the entrance.

  Bellman went up to the door, which opened noiselessly before he had a chance to push. He arrived at reception and stood looking around. A security guard appeared in front of him with a friendly but firm nod towards a Gilardoni X-ray machine. Ten seconds later it had revealed that Mikael Bellman was unarmed, there was metal in his belt, but that was all.

  Rasmus Olsen was waiting for him, leaning against the reception desk. Marit Olsen’s thin widower shook hands with Bellman and walked ahead as he automatically switched on his guide voice.

  ‘Stortinget, three hundred and eighty employees, a hundred and sixty-nine MPs. Built in 1866, designed by Emil Victor Langlet. A Swede, by the way. This is the hall known as Trappehallen. The stone mosaics are called Society, Else Hagen, 1950. The king’s portrait was painted . . .’

  They emerged into Vandrehallen, which Mikael recognised from the TV. A couple of faces, neither familiar, flitted past. Rasmus explained to him that there had just been a committee meeting, but Bellman was not listening. He was thinking that these were the corridors of power. He was disappointed. Fine to have all the gold and red, but where was the magnificence, the stateliness, that was supposed to instil awe at the feet of those who ruled? This damned humble sobriety; it was like a weakness, of which this tiny and, not so long ago, poor democracy in Northern Europe could not rid itself. Yet he had returned. If he had not been able to reach the top where he had tried first, among the wolves of Europol, he would certainly succeed here, in competition with midgets and second-raters.

  ‘This entire room was Reichskommissar Terboven’s office during the war. No one has such a large office nowadays.’

  ‘What was your marriage like?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You and Marit. Did you row?’

  ‘Er … no.’ Rasmus Olsen looked shaken, and he started walking faster. As if to leave the policeman behind, or at least to move beyond the hearing range of others. It was only when they were sitting behind the closed office door in the group secretariat that he released his trembling breath. ‘Of course we had our ups and downs. Are you married, Bellman?’

  Mikael Bellman nodded.

  ‘Then you know what I mean.’

  ‘Was she unfaithful?’

  ‘No. I think I can count that one out.’

  Since she was so fat? Bellman felt like asking, but he dropped it. He had what he was after. The hesitation, the twitch at the corner of his eye, the almost imperceptible contraction of the pupil.

  ‘And you, Olsen, have you been unfaithful?’

  Same reaction. Plus
a certain flush to the forehead under the receding hairline. The answer was brief and resolute. ‘No, in fact I haven’t.’

  Bellman angled his head. He didn’t suspect Rasmus Olsen. So why torment the man with this type of question? The answer was as simple as it was exasperating. Because he had no one else to question, no other leads to follow. He was merely taking out his frustration on this poor man.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’ Bellman, said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Are you unfaithful?’

  ‘My wife is too beautiful,’ Bellman smiled. ‘Furthermore, we have two children. You and your wife were childless, and that encourages a little more … fun. I was talking to a source who said that you and your wife were having problems a while ago.’

  ‘I assume that’s the next-door neighbour. Marit chatted quite a bit with her, yes. There was a jealous patch some months ago. I had recruited a young girl to the party on a shop-steward course. That was how I met Marit, so she . . .’

  Rasmus Olsen’s voice disintegrated, and Bellman saw that tears were welling up in his eyes.

  ‘It was nothing. But Marit went to the mountains for a couple of days to think things over. Afterwards everything was fine again.’

  Bellman’s phone rang. He took it out, saw the name on the display and answered with a curt ‘yes’. And felt his pulse and fury increase as he listened to the voice.

  ‘Rope?’ he repeated. ‘Lyseren? That’s … Ytre Enebakk? Thanks.’

  He stuffed the phone in his coat pocket. ‘I have to be off, Olsen. Thank you for your time.’

  On his way out Bellman briefly stopped and looked around the room Terboven, the German Nazi, had occupied.

  It was one o’clock in the morning and Harry was sitting in the living room listening to Martha Wainwright singing ‘Far Away’, ‘… Whatever remains is yet to be found’.

  He was exhausted. In front of him on the coffee table was his mobile phone, the lighter and the silver foil containing the brown clump. He hadn’t touched it. But he had to sleep soon, find a rhythm, have a break. In his hand he was holding a photo of Rakel. Blue dress. He closed his eyes. Smelt her scent. Heard her voice. ‘Look!’ Her hand exerted a light squeeze. The water around them was black and deep, and she floated, white, soundless, weightless on the surface. The wind raised her veil and showed the white feathers beneath. Her long, slim neck formed a question mark. Where? She stepped ashore, a black iron skeleton with chafing, wailing wheels. She entered the house and vanished from sight. And reappeared on the first floor. She had a noose around her neck and there was a man by her side wearing a black suit with a white flower on his lapel. In front, with his back to them, stood a priest in a white cloak. He was reading slowly. Then he turned. His face and hands were white. Made of snow.

  Harry awoke with a start.

  Blinked in the dark. Sound. But not Martha Wainwright. Harry grabbed the luminous, vibrating phone on the coffee table.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a voice like sludge.

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  He sat up. ‘You’ve got what?’

  ‘The link. And there aren’t three dead. There are four.’

  22

  Search Engine

  ‘FIRST OF ALL, I TRIED THE THREE NAMES YOU GAVE ME,’ said Katrine Bratt. ‘Borgny Stem-Myhre, Charlotte Lolles and Marit Olsen. But the search didn’t produce anything sensible. So I put in all the missing persons in Norway over the last twelve months as well. And then I had something to work with.’

  ‘Wait,’ Harry said. He was wide awake now. ‘Where the hell did you get the missing persons from?’

  ‘Intranet at Missing Persons Unit, Oslo Police District. What did you think?’

  Harry groaned, and Katrine went on.

  ‘There was one name that in fact linked the other three. Are you ready?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘The missing woman is called Adele Vetlesen, twenty-three years old, living in Drammen. She was reported missing by her partner in November. A connection appeared on the NSB ticketing system. On the 7th of November Adele Vetlesen booked a train ticket online from Drammen to Ustaoset. The same day Borgny Stem-Myhre bought a train ticket from Kongsberg to the same place.’

  ‘Ustaoset’s not exactly the centre of the universe,’ Harry said.

  ‘It’s not a place, it’s a chunk of mountain. Where Bergen families have built their mountain cabins with old money and the Tourist Association has built cabins on the peaks, so that Norwegians can preserve Amundsen and Nansen’s heritage and trudge from cabin to cabin with skis on their feet, twenty-five kilos on their backs and a taste of mortal fear in the hinterland of the mind. Adds spice to life, you know.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been there.’

  ‘My ex-husband’s family has a cabin in the mountains. They’re so rich and revered that they have neither electricity nor running water. Only social climbers have a sauna and a jacuzzi.’

  ‘The other connections?’

  ‘There wasn’t a train ticket in the name of Marit Olsen. However, a payment was registered on the cash dispenser in the restaurant car on the corresponding train the day before. At 14.13. According to the railway timetable that would be somewhere between Ål and Geilo, in other words before Ustaoset.’

  ‘Less convincing,’ Harry said. ‘The train goes right through to Bergen. Perhaps she was going there.’

  ‘Do you think … ?’ Katrine Bratt started, then faltered, waited and went on in hushed tones. ‘You think I’m stupid? The hotel at Ustaoset booked an overnight stay in a double room for one Rasmus Olsen who, according to the Civil Registration System, is resident at the same address as Marit Olsen. So I assumed that—’

  ‘Yes, that’s her husband. Why are you whispering?’

  ‘Because the night porter just walked past, OK? Listen, we’ve placed two murder victims and one missing person in Ustaoset on the same day. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Well, it’s a significant coincidence, but we can’t exclude the possibility that it’s pure chance.’

  ‘Agreed. So here’s the rest. I searched for Charlotte Lolles plus Ustaoset, but didn’t get a hit. So I concentrated on the date to see where Charlotte Lolles might have been when the other three were in Ustaoset. Two days before, Charlotte had paid for diesel at a petrol station outside Hønefoss.’

  ‘That’s a long way from Ustaoset.’

  ‘But it’s in the right direction from Oslo. I tried to find a car registered in her name or a possible partner’s. If they have an AutoPASS and have driven through several toll stations you can follow their movements.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘The problem is that she had neither a car nor a live-in partner, not officially anyway.’

  ‘She had a boyfriend.’

  ‘It’s possible. But the search engine found a car in a Europark garage in Geilo, paid for by an Iska Peller.’

  ‘That’s just a few kilometres away. But who’s … er, Iska Peller?’

  ‘According to the credit card info she’s a resident of Bristol, Sydney, Australia. The point is that she scores high on a relational search with Charlotte Lolles.’

  ‘Relational search?’

  ‘It works like this, OK. Based on the last few years, names come up for people paying with a card at the same restaurant at the same time, which suggests that they have eaten together and split the bill. Or for people who are members of the same gym with matching enrolment dates or have plane seats next to each other more than once. You get the picture.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ Harry repeated, copying her Bergensian intonation. ‘And I’m sure you’ve checked out the make of car and whether it uses—’

  ‘Yes, I have, and it uses diesel,’ Katrine answered sharply. ‘Do you want to hear the rest or not?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘You can’t pre-book beds in these self-service Tourist Association cabins. If all the beds are taken when you arrive, you just have to doss down on the floo
r, on a mattress or in a sleeping bag with your own mat. It only costs a hundred and seventy a night, and you can either put cash into a box at the cabin, or leave an envelope with an authorisation to charge your account.’

  ‘In other words you can’t see who has been in which cabins when?’

  ‘Not if they pay cash. But if they’ve left an authorisation, afterwards there would be a transaction on their account between them and the Tourist Association. Mentioning the cabin used and the date the payment was for.’

  ‘I seem to remember it’s a pain searching through bank transactions.’

  ‘Not if the engine is given the right criteria by a sharp human brain.’

  ‘Which is the case, I take it?’

  ‘That’s the general idea. Iska Peller’s account was charged for two beds at four of the Tourist Association cabins on the 20th of November, each a day’s march from the next.’

  ‘A four-day skiing trip.’

  ‘Yes. And they stayed at the last one, the Håvass cabin, on the 7th of November. It’s only half a day’s walk from Ustaoset.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘What’s really interesting is that there are two other accounts that were charged for overnight stays at the Håvass cabin on the 7th of November. Guess whose?’

  ‘Well, it’ll hardly be Marit Olsen’s or Borgny Stem-Myhre’s since I assume Kripos would have found out that two of the murder victims had recently stayed at the same place the same night. So it must be the missing girl’s. What was her name?’

  ‘Adele Vetlesen. And you’re spot on. She paid for two people, but there’s no way of knowing who the other person was.’

  ‘Who’s the other person who paid with an authorisation slip?’

  ‘Not so interesting. From Stavanger.’

  Nevertheless Harry picked up a pen and noted the name and address of the individual concerned and also of Iska Peller in Sydney. ‘Sounds like you rate search engines,’ he said.

  ‘Yep,’ she said. ‘It’s like flying an old bomber. Bit rusty and slow to get going, but when you’re in the air … my goodness. What do you think of the results?’