by Jo Nesbo
She dreamed about avalanches.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Harry and Joe had left Goma at seven, crossed the border to Rwanda without any problems and Harry was standing in an office on the first floor of the terminal building at Kigali Airport. Two uniformed officers were giving him the once-over. Not in an unfriendly way, but to check that he really was who he claimed to be: a Norwegian policeman. Harry put his ID card back in his jacket pocket and felt the smooth paper of the coffee-brown envelope he had there. The problem was that there were two of them. How do you bribe two public servants at once? Ask them to share the contents of the envelope and politely request them not to snitch on one another?
One officer, the same one who had inspected Harry’s passport two days before, pulled his beret back on his head. ‘So you want a copy of whose landing card? Could you repeat the date and the name?’
‘Adele Vetlesen. We know she arrived at this airport on the 25th of November. And I’ll pay a finder’s fee.’
The two officers exchanged glances, and one left the room on the other’s cue. The remaining officer walked over to the window and surveyed the runway, the little DH8 that had landed and which in fifty-five minutes would be transporting Harry on the first phase of his journey home.
‘Finder’s fee,’ the officer repeated quietly. ‘I assume you know it is illegal to try to bribe a public servant, Mr Hole. But you probably thought: Shiit, this is Africa.’
It struck Harry that the man’s skin was so black it seemed like gloss paint.
He felt his shirt sticking to his back. The same shirt. Perhaps they sold shirts at Nairobi airport. If he got that far.
‘That’s right,’ Harry said.
The officer laughed and turned. ‘Tough guy, eh! Are you a hard man, Hole? I saw you were a policeman when you arrived.’
‘Oh?’
‘You examined me with the same circumspection that I examined you.’
Harry shrugged.
The door opened. The other officer was back accompanied by a woman dressed like a secretary with clickety-clack heels and glasses on the tip of her nose.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said in impeccable English, clocking Harry. ‘I’ve checked the date. There was no Adele Vetlesen on that flight.’
‘Mm. Could there be a mistake?’
‘Unlikely. Landing cards are filed by date. The flight you’re talking about is a thirty-seven-seater DH8 from Entebbe. It didn’t take long to check.’
‘Mm. If that’s the case, may I ask you to check something else for me?’
‘You may ask of course. What is it?’
‘Could you see if any other foreign women arrived on that flight?’
‘And why should I do that?’
‘Because Adele Vetlesen was booked onto that flight. So either she used a false passport here—’
‘I doubt that very much,’ the passport officer said. ‘We check all the passport photos very carefully before they are scanned by a machine that matches the passport number against the international ICAO register.’
‘—or someone else was travelling in Adele Vetlesen’s name and then used their own, genuine passport to pass through here. Which is more than possible, as passport numbers are not checked before passengers board the aircraft.’
‘True,’ the chief passport official said, pulling at his beret. ‘Airline staff only make sure the name and photo match more or less. For that purpose you can have a false passport made for fifty dollars anywhere in the world. It’s only when you get off the plane at your final destination and have to go through checks that your passport number is matched and false passports are revealed. But the question is the same: why should we help you, Mr Hole? Are you on an official mission here and have you got the papers to support that?’
‘My official mission was in the Congo,’ Harry lied. ‘But I found nothing there. Adele Vetlesen is missing, and we fear she may have been murdered by a serial killer who has already murdered at least three other women, among them a government MP. Her name is Marit Olsen – you can verify that on the Net. I’m conscious that the procedure now is for me to return home and go through formal channels, as a result of which we will lose several days and give the killer a further head start. And time to kill again.’
Harry saw that his words had made some impression on them. The woman and the chief official conferred, and the woman marched off again.
They waited in silence.
Harry looked at his watch. He hadn’t checked in on the flight yet.
Six minutes had passed when they heard the click-clack heels coming closer.
‘Eva Rosenberg, Juliana Verni, Veronica Raul Gueno and Claire Hobbes.’ She spat out the names, straightened her glasses and put four landing cards on the table in front of Harry before the door slammed behind her. ‘Not many European women come here,’ she said.
Harry’s eyes ran down the cards. All of them had given Kigali hotels as their address, but not the Gorilla Hotel. He looked at their home addresses. Eva Rosenberg had given an address in Stockholm.
‘Thank you,’ Harry said, noting down the names, addresses and passport numbers on the back of a taxi receipt he found in his jacket pocket.
‘I regret that we can’t be of any more assistance,’ the woman said, pushing her glasses up again.
‘Not at all,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve been a great help. Really.’
‘And now, Mr Policeman,’ said the tall, thin officer, with a smile that lit up his black-as-night face.
‘Yes?’ Harry said in anticipation, ready to take out the coffee-brown envelope.
‘Now it’s time we got you checked in on the flight to Nairobi.’
‘Mm,’ Harry said, looking at his watch. ‘I may have to catch the next one.’
‘Next one?’
‘I have to go back to the Gorilla Hotel.’
Kaja was sitting in the Norwegian railway’s so-called ‘comfort coach’ which – apart from free newspapers, two cups of free coffee and a socket for your laptop – meant that you sat like sardines in a can instead of in the almost empty economy areas. So when her phone rang and she saw it was Harry, that was where she hurried.
‘Where are you?’ Harry asked.
‘On the train. Passing Kongsberg right this minute. And you?’
‘Gorilla Hotel in Kigali. I’ve had a look at Adele Vetlesen’s hotel registration card. I won’t get away now before the afternoon flight, but I’ll be home early tomorrow. Could you ring your friend, pumpkin head, at Drammen police station, and see if we can borrow the postcard Adele wrote? You can ask him to come to the station with it. The train stops at Drammen, doesn’t it?’
‘You’re pushing your luck. I’ll try anyway. What are we going to do with it?’
‘Compare the handwriting. There’s a handwriting expert called Jean Hue who worked at Kripos before he retired. Get him to the office for seven tomorrow.’
‘So early? D’you think he’ll—’
‘You’re right. I’ll scan Adele’s registration card and email it to you so you can go to Jean’s place with both this evening.’
‘This evening?’
‘He’ll be happy to see you. If you had any other plans, they are hereby cancelled.’
‘Great. By the way, sorry about the late call last night.’
‘No worries. Entertaining story.’
‘I was a bit tipsy.’
‘Thought so.’
Harry rang off.
‘Thanks for all your help,’ he said.
The receptionist responded with a smile.
The coffee-brown envelope had finally found a new owner.
Kjersti Rødsmoen went into the common room and over to the woman looking out of the window at the rain falling on Sandviken’s timber houses. In front of her was an untouched slice of cake with a little candle on.
‘This phone was found in your room, Katrine,’ she said softly. ‘The ward sister brought it to me. You know they’re forbidden, don’t you?’
>
Katrine nodded.
‘Anyway,’ Rødsmoen said, passing it over, ‘it’s ringing.’
Katrine Bratt took the vibrating mobile phone and pressed answer.
‘It’s me,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘I’ve got four women’s names here. I’d like to know which of them was not booked on flight RA101 to Kigali on the 25th of November. And to receive confirmation that this person was not in any booking system for a Rwandan hotel that same night.’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Auntie.’
Silence for a second.
‘I see. Ring when you can.’
Katrine passed the phone back to Rødsmoen. ‘My auntie wishing me many happy returns.’
Kjersti Rødsmoen shook her head. ‘Rules say the use of phones is forbidden. So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a phone, so long as you don’t use it. Just make sure the ward sister doesn’t see it, OK?’
Katrine nodded, and Rødsmoen left.
Katrine sat looking out of the window for a while, then got up and went towards the Hobbies Room. The ward sister’s voice reached her as she was about to cross the threshold.
‘What are you going to do, Katrine?’
Katrine answered without turning. ‘Play solitaire.’
33
Leipzig
GUNNAR HAGEN TOOK THE LIFT DOWN TO THE BASEMENT.
Down. Downer. Downtrodden. Downsized.
He got out and set off through the culvert.
But Bellman had kept his promise, he hadn’t blabbed. And he had thrown him a line, a top-management post in the new, expanded Kripos. Harry’s report had been short and to the point. No results. Any idiot would have realised it was time to start swimming towards the lifebuoy.
Hagen opened the door at the end of the culvert without knocking.
Kaja Solness smiled sweetly while Harry Hole – sitting in front of the computer screen with a telephone to his ear – didn’t even turn round, just sang out ‘siddown-boss-want-some-crap-coffee?’ as though the unit head’s doppelgänger had announced his forthcoming arrival.
Hagen stood in the doorway. ‘I received the message that you were unable to find Adele Vetlesen. Time to pack up. Time was up ages ago, and you’re needed for other cases. At least you are, Kaja Solness.’
‘Dankeschön, Günther,’ Harry said on the telephone, put it down and swivelled round.
‘Dankeschön?’ Hagen repeated.
‘Leipzig Police,’ Harry said. ‘By the way, Katrine Bratt sends her regards, boss. Remember her?’
Hagen eyed his inspector with suspicion. ‘I thought Bratt was in a mental institution.’
‘No doubt about that,’ Harry said, getting up and making for the coffee machine. ‘But the woman’s a genius at searching the Net. Speaking of searches, boss . . .’
‘Searches?’
‘Could you see your way to giving us unlimited funds to mount a search?’
Hagen’s eyes almost popped out. Then he burst out laughing. ‘You’re bloody incredible, Harry, you are. You’ve just wasted half the travel budget on a fiasco in the Congo and now you want a police search operation? This investigation comes to a halt right now. Do you understand?’
‘I understand . . .’ Harry said, pouring coffee into two cups and passing one to Hagen, ‘… so much more. And soon you will too, boss. Grab my chair and listen to this.’
Hagen looked from Harry to Kaja. Stared sceptically at the coffee. Then he sat down. ‘You’ve got two minutes.’
‘It’s quite simple.’ Harry said. ‘According to Brussels Airlines passenger lists Adele Vetlesen travelled to Kigali on the 25th of November. But according to passport control no one of that name entered the country. What happened is that a woman with a false passport made out in Adele’s name travelled from Oslo. The false passport would have worked without a hitch until she reached her final destination in Kigali, because that’s where it’s computer-checked and the number’s matched, isn’t it? So this mysterious woman must have used her own passport, which was genuine. Passport control officials don’t ask to see the name on your ticket, so any mismatch between passport and ticket is not discovered. So long as no one looks, of course.’
‘But you did?’
‘Yup.’
‘Couldn’t it just be an administrative oversight? They forgot to register Adele’s arrival?’
‘Indeed. But then there’s the postcard . . .’
Harry nodded to Kaja, who held up a card. Hagen saw a picture of something akin to a smoking volcano.
‘This was posted in Kigali the same day she was supposed to have arrived,’ Harry said. ‘But first of all, this is a picture of Nyiragongo, a volcano situated in the Congo, not Rwanda. Secondly, we got Jean Hue to compare the handwriting on this card with the check-in card the alleged Adele Vetlesen filled in at the Gorilla Hotel.’
‘He established beyond doubt what even I can see,’ Kaja said. ‘It’s not the same person.’
‘Alright, alright,’ Hagen said. ‘But where are you going with all of this?’
‘Someone has gone to great effort to make it seem as if Adele Vetlesen went to Africa,’ Harry said. ‘My guess is that Adele was in Norway and was forced to write the card. Then it was taken to Africa by a second person who sent it back. All to give the impression that Adele had travelled there and written home about her dream guy and that she wouldn’t be back before March.’
‘Any idea who the impersonator might be?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘The immigration authorities at Kigali Airport found a card made out in the name of Juliana Verni. But our friendly fruitcake in Bergen says this name was not registered on any airline passenger lists to Rwanda or at any hotels with modern, electronic booking equipment on the date in question. But she is on the Rwandan passenger list from Kigali three days later.’
‘Would I like to know how you acquired this information?’
‘No, boss. But you would like to know who and where Juliana Verni is.’
‘And that is?’
Harry looked at his watch. ‘According to the information on the landing card, she lives in Leipzig, Germany. Ever been to Leipzig, boss?’
‘No.’
‘Nor me. But I know it’s famous for being the home town of Goethe, Bach plus one of the waltz kings. What’s his name again?’
‘What has this got to do with … ?’
‘Well, you see, Leipzig is also famous for holding the main archives of the Stasi, the security police. The town was in the old GDR. Did you know that over the forty years the GDR existed the German spoken in the East developed in such a way that a sensitive ear can hear the difference between East and West Germans?’
‘Harry . . .’
‘Sorry, boss. The point is that in late November a woman with an East German accent was in the town of Goma in the Congo, which is just a three-hour drive from Kigali. And I’m positive that, while there, she bought the murder weapon that took the lives of Borgny Stem-Myhre and Charlotte Lolles.’
‘We’ve been sent a copy of the form the police keep when passports are issued,’ Kaja said, passing Hagen a sheet of paper.
‘Matches Van Boorst’s description of the buyer,’ Harry said. ‘Juliana Verni had big rust-red curls.’
‘Brick red,’ Kaja said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Hagen said.
Kaja pointed to the sheet. ‘She’s got one of the old-fashioned passports with hair colour listed. They called it “brick red”. German thoroughness, you know.’
‘I’ve also asked the police in Leipzig to confiscate her passport and check it has a stamp from Kigali on the date in question.’
Gunnar Hagen stared blankly at the printout. He appeared to be trying to absorb what Harry and Kaja had said. At length he looked up with one raised bushy eyebrow. ‘Are you telling me … are you telling me that you may have the person who . . .’ The POB swallowed, struggled to find an indirect way of saying it, terrified that this miracle, t
his mirage might vanish if he said it aloud. But he gave up the attempt. ‘… is our serial killer?’
‘I’m not saying any more than what I’m saying,’ Harry said. ‘For the moment. My colleague in Leipzig is going through her personal data and criminal records now, so we’ll soon know a bit more about Fräulein Verni.’
‘But this is fantastic news,’ Hagen said, sending a gleam from Harry to Kaja, who gave him a nod of encouragement.
‘Not . . .’ Harry said, with a swig from his cup of coffee, ‘… for Adele Vetlesen’s family.’
Hagen’s smile faded. ‘True. Do you think there’s any hope for … ?’
Harry shook his head. ‘She’s dead, boss.’
‘But . . .’
At that moment the telephone rang.
Harry took it. ‘Ja, Günther!’ And repeated with a strained smile: ‘Ja, Dirty Harry. Genau.’
Gunnar Hagen and Kaja observed Harry as he listened in silence. Harry rounded off the conversation with a ‘Danke’ and cradled the receiver. Cleared his throat.
‘She’s dead.’
‘Yes, you said that,’ Hagen said.
‘No, Juliana Verni is. She was found in the River Elster on the 2nd of December.’
Hagen cursed under his breath.
‘Cause of death?’ Kaja asked.
Harry stared into the distance. ‘Drowning.’
‘Might have been an accident.’
Harry shook his head slowly. ‘She didn’t drown in water.’
In the ensuing silence they heard the rumble of the boiler in the adjacent room.
‘Wounds in the mouth?’ Kaja asked.
Harry nodded. ‘Twenty-four to be precise. She was sent to Africa to bring back the instrument that would kill her.’
34
Medium
‘SO JULIANA VERNI WAS FOUND DEAD IN LEIPZIG THREE days after she flew home from Kigali,’ Kaja said. ‘Where she’d travelled as Adele Vetlesen, booked in at the Gorilla Hotel as Adele Vetlesen and sent a postcard written by the real Adele Vetlesen, probably dictated.’
