by Jo Nesbo
‘Sorry if I was a bit rough in the car in town.’
She hadn’t heard him coming and gave a start. She was holding the receiver, but hadn’t yet dialled the number.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s me who is a little, well . . . you know.’
‘Premenstrual?’
She peered up at him and knew it was not a joke. He was actually trying to be understanding.
‘Maybe,’ she said. Why was he in her office now when he had never come in before?
‘Shift’s over, Gjelten.’ He inclined his head towards the clock on the wall. It said 10.00. ‘I’ve got the car here. Let me drive you home.’
‘Thank you very much, but I have to make a call first. You go on.’
‘Private call?’
‘No, it’s just . . .’
‘Then I’ll wait here.’
Waaler settled into Harry’s old office chair, which screamed in protest. Their eyes met. Damn! Why hadn’t she said it was a private call? Now it was too late. Did he know that she had stumbled on to something? She tried to read his expression, but she seemed to have lost the ability since the panic had seized her. Panic? Now she knew why she had never felt comfortable with Tom Waaler. It wasn’t because of his coldness, his views on women, blacks, flashers and homosexuals or his tendency to grab every legal opportunity to use violence. Off the top of her head, she could list the names of ten other policemen who would run Tom Waaler close on such matters, but still she had been able to find some positives about them which allowed her to get on with them. With Tom Waaler, though, there was something else and now she knew what it was: she was scared of him.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘It can wait until Monday.’
‘Fine.’ He stood up again. ‘Let’s get going.’
Waaler had one of those Japanese sports cars which Ellen thought looked like cheap Ferrari imitations. It had bucket seats which scrunched your shoulders up and loudspeakers that seemed to fill half the car. The engine purred affectionately and the light from the street lamps swept through the compartment as they drove up Trondheimsveien. A falsetto voice she was becoming familiar with sidled out of the loudspeakers.
Prince. The Prince.
‘I can get out here,’ Ellen said, trying to make her voice sound natural.
‘Out of the question,’ Waaler said, looking in the mirror. ‘Door-to-door service. Where are we going?’
She resisted the impulse to tear open the door and jump out.
‘Turn left here,’ Ellen said, pointing.
Be at home, Harry.
‘Jens Bjelkes gate,’ Waaler read out the street sign on the wall and turned.
The lighting here was frugal and the pavements deserted. Out of the corner of her eye Ellen saw small squares of light flit across his face. Did he know she knew? And could he see she was sitting with her hand in her bag? Did he realise she was clutching the black gas spray she had bought in Germany? She had shown it to him in the autumn when he had insisted she was putting herself and her colleagues at risk by refusing to carry a weapon. Hadn’t he discreetly intimated that he could get hold of a neat little gun which could be hidden anywhere on the body? It wasn’t registered and therefore couldn’t be traced back to her, should there be an ‘accident’. She hadn’t taken his words so seriously at that time; she had thought it was one of those semi-macabre macho jokes and laughed it off.
‘Stop next to the red car there.’
‘But number 4 is in the next block,’ he said.
Had she told him she lived at number 4? Possibly. She might have forgotten. She felt transparent, like a jellyfish, as if he could see her heart thumping away much too fast.
The engine purred in neutral. He had stopped. She hunted feverishly for the door handle. Bloody Japanese nerds! Why couldn’t they just design a plain, easy-to-recognise handle for the door?
‘See you Monday,’ she heard Waaler’s voice say behind her as she found the handle, stumbled out and inhaled the toxic March Oslo air as if coming to the surface after a long time under water. When she slammed her heavy front door she could still hear the smooth, well-lubricated sound of Waaler’s car idling outside.
She charged up the stairs, her boots stamping down hard on every step, holding the keys in front of her like a divining rod. Then she was in her flat. As she dialled Harry’s number she memorised Sverre Olsen’s message word for word.
This is Sverre Olsen. I’m still waiting for the ten big ones as commission for the shooter for the old guy. Ring me at home.
Then he rang off.
It had taken her a nanosecond to realise the connection. The fifth clue to the puzzle about who the middleman was in the Märklin deal. A policeman. Tom Waaler. Of course. Ten thousand in commission to a nobody like Olsen – that had to be a big job. The old man. Arms freaks. Sympathies with the extreme right. The Prince who would soon be a chief inspector. It was crystal clear, so self-evident that for a moment she had been shocked that she, with her ability to register sub-tones inaudible to others, had not realised it before. She knew paranoia had had her in its grip for some time, but still she hadn’t managed to refrain from thinking the thought through to the end as she waited for him to come out of the restaurant: Tom Waaler had every possibility of climbing higher, of pulling strings from ever-more important positions, sheltering beneath the wings of power. Who knows what alliances he had already struck and with whom at Police HQ. If she put her mind to it, there were of course several people she could never imagine becoming involved. But the only person she could count on 100 – one hundred – per cent was Harry.
Got through. It wasn’t engaged. It was never engaged at his place. Come on, Harry!
She also knew it was only a question of time before Waaler would talk to Olsen and find out what had happened, and she didn’t doubt for a second that her life would be in jeopardy from that moment on. She would have to act fast, but she couldn’t afford to make a single mistake. A voice interrupted her reasoning.
‘This is Hole. Speak to me.’
Bleep.
‘Sod you, Harry! This is Ellen. We’ve got him now. I’ll ring you on your mobile.’
She held the receiver between shoulder and chin as she flicked through the index of numbers for H, dropped the book on to the floor with a bang, swore and finally found Harry’s mobile number. Fortunately he always had his mobile on him.
Ellen Gjelten lived on the second floor of a recently renovated block of flats together with a tame great tit called Helge. The walls of the flat were half a metre thick and the windows were double-glazed. Nevertheless, she could have sworn that she heard the purring sound of a car in neutral.
Rakel Fauke laughed.
‘If you’ve promised Linda a dance, you won’t get away with a quick sweep of the floor.’
‘Mm. The alternative is to make a run for it.’
A pause ensued and Harry realised that what he had said was open to misinterpretation. He hurriedly filled the silence with a question.
‘How did you start at POT?’
‘Via Russian,’ she said. ‘I joined the Ministry of Defence Russian course and worked for two years as an interpreter in Moscow. Kurt Meirik recruited me then and there. After finishing my law degree I went straight into pay grade thirty-five. I thought I’d caught the goose that laid the golden egg.’
‘Hadn’t you?’
‘Are you kidding? Today the students I studied with earn three times more than I’ll ever get.’
‘You could stop, and do what they do.’
She arched her shoulders forward. ‘I like what I do. Not all of them can say the same.’
‘Good point.’
Silence.
Good point. Was that really the best he could muster? ‘What about you, Harry? Do you like what you do?’
They stood facing the dance floor, but Harry could feel her eyes on him, measuring him up. All sorts of thoughts scurried through his brain. She had small laughter lines next to her eyes. Mosken’s chalet
was not far from where they had found the empty cartridges from the Märklin rifle. According to Dagbladet, 40 per cent of women living in towns were unfaithful. He should ask Even Juul’s wife if she remembered three Norwegian soldiers in the Norge regiment being wounded or killed by a hand-grenade thrown from a plane, and he should have gone for it at the New Year menswear sales Dressman advertised on TV3. But did he like what he did?
‘Some days I do,’ he said.
‘What do you like about it?’
‘I don’t know. Does that sound stupid?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m not saying that because I haven’t thought about why I’m a policeman. I have. And I don’t know. Perhaps I just enjoy catching naughty boys and girls.’
‘So what do you do when you’re not catching naughty boys and girls?’ she asked.
‘Watch The Robinson Expedition.’
She laughed again. And Harry knew he was prepared to say the silliest things if there was a chance he could make her laugh like that. He pulled himself together and talked relatively seriously about his current situation, but since he took care not to mention the unpleasant aspects of his life, there wasn’t a great deal to tell. When she still seemed interested he went on to talk about his father and Sis. Why did he always end up talking about Sis when someone asked him to talk about himself ?
‘Sounds like a nice girl,’ she said. ‘The nicest,’ Harry said. ‘And the bravest. Never afraid of new things. A test pilot of life.’
Harry told her about the time Sis had put in a spontaneous offer for a flat in Jacob Aalls gate – because the wallpaper in the picture she had seen on the property page in Aftenposten reminded her of her childhood room in Oppsal – and had been told the asking price was two million kroner, a record square-metre price for Oslo that summer.
Rakel Fauke laughed so much she spilled tequila on Harry’s suit jacket.
‘The best thing about her is that after a crash landing she picks herself up, brushes herself down and is immediately ready for the next kamikaze mission.’
She dried the lapels of his jacket with a handkerchief. ‘And you, Harry, what do you do when you crash land?’
‘Me? Well. I probably lie still for a second. And then I get up because there’s no other option, is there?’
‘Good point.’
He looked up smartly to see if she was making fun of him. Amusement was dancing in her eyes. She radiated strength, but he doubted that she had had much experience of crash landings.
‘Your turn to tell something about yourself.’
Rakel had no sister to fall back on, she was an only child. So she talked about her work instead.
‘But we rarely catch anyone,’ she said. ‘Most cases are settled amicably with a telephone call or at a cocktail party at an embassy.’
Harry smiled sardonically.
‘And how was the matter of the Secret Service agent I shot smoothed over?’ he asked. ‘Telephone call or cocktail party?’
She studied him pensively while putting her hand in the glass to fish out a lump of ice. She held it up, between two fingers. A drop of melted water ran slowly down her wrist, under a thin gold chain towards the elbow.
‘Dance, Harry?’
‘As far as I remember, I’ve just spent at least ten minutes explaining how much I hate dancing.’
She angled her head again.
‘I mean – would you dance with me?’
‘To this music?’
An almost inert pan pipe version of ‘Let it Be’ oozed like thick syrup out of the speakers.
‘You’ll survive. Look on it as a warm-up for the great Linda test.’ She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘Are we flirting now?’ Harry asked. ‘What did you say, Inspector?’
‘Sorry, but I’m so bad at reading hidden signals that I asked if we were flirting.’
‘Highly improbable.’
He placed his hand around her waist and took a tentative dance step.
‘It feels like losing my virginity, this does,’ he said. ‘But it’s probably inevitable – sooner or later every Norwegian male has to go through something like this.’
‘What are you talking about?’ she laughed.
‘Dancing with a colleague at an office party.’
‘I’m not forcing you.’
He smiled. It could have been anywhere, they could have been playing ‘The Birdie Song’ backwards on a ukulele – he would have killed for this dance.
‘Wait – what have you got there?’ she asked.
‘Well, it’s not a pistol and I am glad to see you, but . . .’
Harry unclipped his mobile from his belt and released his hand from her waist to go over and put the mobile on the speaker. Her arms were raised towards him when he returned.
‘Hope we haven’t got any thieves here,’ he said. It was a hoary old joke at Police HQ, she must have heard it a hundred times before, but she laughed softly into his ear anyway.
Ellen let the phone ring until it stopped before putting down the receiver. Then she tried again. She stood by the window, looking down on to the street. No car. Of course not. She was overwrought. Tom was probably on his way home to bed. Or someone else’s bed.
After three attempts she gave up on Harry, and rang Kim instead. He sounded tired.
‘I took the taxi back at seven this evening,’ he said. ‘I’ve done twenty hours’ driving today.’
‘I’ll just have a shower first,’ she said. ‘Only wanted to know if you were there.’
‘You sound stressed.’
‘It’s nothing. I’ll be there in three quarters of an hour. I’ll have to use your phone by the way. And stay the night.’
‘Fine. Would you mind nipping into the 7-Eleven in Markveien and buying some cigarettes?’
‘Sure. I’ll take a cab.’
‘Why?’
‘Explain to you afterwards.’
‘You know it’s Saturday night? You’ll never get through to Oslo Taxis. And it’ll take you four minutes to run up here.’
She wavered.
‘Kim?’ she said.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Do you love me?’
She heard his low chuckle and could imagine the half-closed, sleepy eyes and that lean, almost emaciated body of his under the duvet in the miserable flat in Helgesens gate. He had a view of the river Akerselva. He had everything she wanted. And for an instant she almost forgot Tom Waaler. Almost.
‘Sverre!’
Sverre Olsen’s mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, shouting at the top of her lungs, as she had done for as long as he could remember.
‘Sverre! Telephone!’
She shouted as if she needed help, as if she was drowning or something like that.
‘I’ll take it up here, Mum!’
He swung his legs down from the bed, picked the phone up from the desk and waited for the click that told him his mother had put down the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me.’ Prince in the background. Always Prince.
‘I guessed it had to be,’ Sverre said.
‘Why’s that?’
The question came like greased lightning. So quickly that Sverre was immediately on the defensive, as if it was he who owed money and not the other way around.
‘You’re probably ringing because you got my message?’ Sverre said.
‘I’m ringing because I’m looking at a list of calls received on my mobile. I see that you talked to someone at 20.32 this evening. What message were you wittering on about?’
‘About the cash. I’m getting short, and you promised —’
‘Who did you talk to?’
‘Eh? The lady on your answerphone, I suppose. Pretty neat. Is it a new one of . . . ?’
No answer. Just Prince on low volume. You sexy motherfucker . . . The music abruptly came to an end.
‘Tell me what you said exactly.’
‘I just said that —’
‘No! Exac
tly. Word for word.’
Sverre repeated it as exactly as he was able. ‘I guessed as much,’ the Prince said. ‘You’ve just given away our whole operation to an outsider, Olsen. If we don’t plug the leak right away, we’ve had it. Do you understand?’
Sverre Olsen didn’t understand anything.
The Prince was utterly composed as he explained that his mobile phone had fallen into the wrong hands.
‘It was no answering machine you heard, Olsen.’
‘Who was it then?’
‘Let’s say the enemy.’
‘Monitor. Is there someone sniffing around?’
‘The person in question is on her way to the police. It’s your job to stop her.’
‘Me? I just want my money and —’
‘Shut your mouth, Olsen.’
Olsen shut his mouth. ‘This is about the Cause. You’re a good soldier, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘And a good soldier clears up afterwards, doesn’t he?’
‘I’ve just been running messages between you and the old codger. You’re the one who —’
‘Especially when the soldier has a three-year rap hanging over him, made conditional on a technicality.’
Sverre could hear himself swallow.
‘How do you know that?’ he started.
‘Don’t you bother about that. I only want you to realise that you have as much to lose because of this as the rest of the brotherhood.’
Sverre didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
‘Look on the bright side, Olsen. This is war. And there’s no place for cowards and traitors. Furthermore, the brotherhood rewards its soldiers. On top of the ten thousand you’ll get forty more when the job’s done.’
Sverre mulled it over. Mulled over what clothes he should wear.
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Schous plass in twenty minutes. Bring whatever you need with you.’
‘Don’t you drink?’ Rakel asked.
Harry looked around him. Their last dance had been so tight it might have caused eyebrows to rise. Now they had withdrawn to a table at the back of the canteen.
‘I’ve given it up,’ Harry said.
She nodded.
‘It’s a long story,’ he added.
‘I’ve got plenty of time.’
‘This evening I only feel like hearing funny stories,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s talk about you instead. Have you had the kind of childhood you can talk about?’