by Jo Nesbo
‘Was sleeping badly anyway.’
‘Hello?’
‘Dr Engelsohn? I have a question about a body. My name’s—’
‘I don’t give a damn who you are, it’s . . . three o’clock in the morning, and you can ask Dr Hansson, who’s on duty. Goodnight.’
‘Are you deaf? I said Goo—’
‘This is Holy. Don’t ring off again, please.’
. . .
‘The Holy?’
‘I’m glad that you seem to have remembered my name at last, Doctor. I’ve discovered something interesting in the flat where Andrew Kensington was found dead. I have to see him – that is, I have to see the clothes he was wearing when he died. You do still have them, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Meet me outside the mortuary in half an hour.’
‘My dear Mr Holy, I really can’t see that—’
‘Don’t make me repeat myself, Doctor. How would you like to be struck off by the Australian Medical Association, sued by relatives, and then there are the newspaper headlines . . . shall I go on?’
‘Well, I can’t get there in half an hour.’
‘There’s very little traffic at this time of night, Doctor. I have a suspicion you’ll make it.’
42
A Visitor
McCORMACK WENT INTO the office, closed the door behind him and took up a stance by the window. Sydney’s summer weather certainly was changeable; it had rained all night. McCormack was over sixty, had passed police retirement age and had, as pensioners are wont to do, started to talk to himself.
Mostly it was minor everyday observations he doubted others apart from himself really knew how to appreciate. Such as: ‘Looks like it’s going to clear up today as well, yep.’ He stood rocking back and forth on his heels looking across his town. Or: ‘First to arrive again today, oh yes.’
Only as he was hanging his jacket in the wardrobe behind the desk did he notice the sounds coming from the sofa. A man was levering himself up into a sitting position.
‘Holy?’ McCormack stared in amazement.
‘Sorry, sir. Hope it was all right to borrow your sofa . . .’
‘How did you get in?’
‘I never had time to return my ID, so the night porter let me in. The door to your office was open, and since it was you I wanted to talk to I had a nap here.’
‘You should be in Norway. Your boss called. You look terrible, Holy.’
‘What did you tell him, sir?’
‘You were staying for Kensington’s funeral. As the Norwegian representative.’
‘But how . . .?’
‘You’d given your phone number here to the airline, so when they rang half an hour before departure because you hadn’t shown up, I got the picture. A call to the Crescent Hotel and a confidential conversation with the hotel manager supplied the rest. We’ve been trying to get hold of you without any luck. I understand how it is, Holy, and I suggest we don’t make any more fuss. Everyone knows there’s a reaction after such events. The important thing is you’ve got yourself together and we put you on a plane.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘No worries. I’ll ask my secretary to speak to the airline.’
‘Just a couple of things before you do, sir. We’ve been doing a bit of work overnight, and the final results won’t be known until Forensics turn up and check it. I’m pretty sure about the outcome, though, sir.’
The old fan, despite the lubrication, had finally given up the ghost and been replaced by a new, bigger and quieter one. Harry could confirm the world was continuing, even in his absence.
Of those present only Watkins and Yong did not know the details now, but Harry took it from the top anyway.
‘We didn’t give it a moment’s thought when we found Andrew because it was the middle of the day. It didn’t even occur to me when I found out the time of death. It was only later that it struck me the light was off when we arrived at Rechtnagel’s flat. If things happened the way we had assumed, this would have been the course of events: Andrew switched off the light by the door, groped his way to the chair in a heroin haze – the room is pitch black at two in the morning – balanced on the wobbly chair and put the loop over his head.’
In the ensuing silence it was obvious that even with new technology it was hard to manufacture a fan that didn’t make an irritating noise, however low the buzz.
‘That doesn’t sound right,’ Watkins said. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t pitch black, perhaps the street lamps or something else lit the room from outside?’
‘Lebie and I were there at two in the morning and checked. The sitting room was as dark as a grave.’
‘Could the light have been on when you arrived without your noticing?’ Yong asked. ‘After all, it was the middle of the day. An officer may have turned off the light later.’
‘We cut Andrew down with a knife,’ Lebie said. ‘I would have got an electric shock, so I checked the light was off.’
‘OK,’ Watkins said. ‘Let’s assume he chose to hang himself in the dark, so Kensington is a bit of an unusual bloke. What else is new?’
‘But he didn’t hang himself in the dark,’ Harry said.
McCormack coughed from the back of the room.
‘Here’s what we found in Rechtnagel’s flat,’ Harry said, holding up a light bulb. ‘See the brown stain? That’s scorched rayon.’ He held up a white garment. ‘And this is the shirt Andrew was wearing when we found him. Drip-dry. Sixty per cent rayon. Rayon melts at 260 degrees Celsius. A light bulb is about 450 degrees on the surface. Can you see the brown stain over the breast pocket? That’s where the bulb was touching the shirt when we found him.’
‘Impressive physics, Holy,’ Watkins said. ‘Now tell us what you think happened.’
‘One of two things,’ Harry said. ‘Someone was there before us, saw Andrew hanging from the cable, switched off the light and left. The snag is, the only two registered keys for the flat were found on Otto and Andrew.’
‘The flat has a snap lock, doesn’t it?’ Watkins said. ‘Maybe this person unlocked the door and put the key in Andrew’s poc— . . . no, then Andrew wouldn’t have been able to get in.’ He blushed.
‘You may still have a point,’ Harry said. ‘My theory is that Andrew didn’t have a key to the flat. He was let in by someone who was already there or who arrived at the same time, someone who had the other key. This person was present when Andrew died. Afterwards he put the key in Andrew’s pocket so that it would look as if he had entered the flat alone. The fact that the key isn’t on the ring with the others suggests that. Then he switched off the light and closed the door after him as he left.’
Silence.
‘Are you saying Andrew Kensington was murdered?’ Watkins asked. ‘If so, how?’
‘I think Andrew was forced to inject himself with heroin, an overdose, probably at gunpoint.’
‘Why couldn’t he have done that before he arrived?’ Yong asked.
‘Firstly, I don’t believe that a controlled, seasoned addict like Andrew would suddenly give himself an overdose by accident. Secondly, Andrew didn’t have enough of his own supplies for an overdose.’
‘So why hang him?’
‘Giving an overdose is not an exact science. It’s not always easy to say how a hardened body will react. Perhaps he would have survived long enough for someone to find him alive. Though probably it was more to drug him up, so that he wouldn’t resist when he was stood on the chair with the cable round his neck. Ah, speaking of the cable. Lebie?’
Lebie manoeuvred the toothpick to the corner of his mouth with a bit of tongue-and-lip gymnastics.
‘We got the boys in Forensics to check the cable. Ceiling-lamp cables are rarely washed, right, and we thought it would be easy to get fingerprints. But it was as clean as a . . . er . . .’ Lebie fluttered a hand.
‘As something very clean?’ Yong suggested helpfully.
‘Right. The only prints to be found were our own.�
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‘So, unless Andrew wiped the cable before hanging himself,’ Watkins concluded, ‘and slipped his head into the loop without using his fingers, someone else did it for him. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Looks like it, boss.’
‘But if this bloke’s as smart as you make out why did he switch off the light as he left?’ Watkins splayed his palms and scanned the faces at the table.
‘Because,’ Harry said, ‘it’s an automatic reaction. He does it without thinking. The way people do, leaving their flats. Or a flat they have a key to, where they have been used to coming and going as they like.’
Harry leaned back in his chair. He was sweating like a pig, unsure how much longer he could wait for another drink.
‘I think the man we’re looking for is Otto Rechtnagel’s secret lover.’
Lebie stood beside Harry in the lift.
‘Going out for lunch?’ he asked.
‘Thought I would,’ Harry said.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all.’
Lebie was good company if you didn’t want to talk much.
They found a table at Southern’s in Market Street. Harry ordered a Jim Beam. Lebie looked up from the menu.
‘Two barramundi salads, black coffee and nice, fresh bread, please.’
Harry eyed Lebie with surprise. ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll pass this time,’ he said to the waiter.
‘The order stands,’ Lebie smiled. ‘My friend will change his mind when he tastes the barramundi here.’
The waiter left and Harry watched Lebie. He had placed both hands on the table with fingers spread, looking from one to the other as if comparing.
‘When I was young I hitched up the coast to Cairns, along the Great Barrier Reef,’ he said to the smooth backs of his hands. ‘At a hostel for backpackers I met two German girls who were travelling round the world. They had hired a car and driven all the way from Sydney and told me in great detail about all the places they had been, how long for and why they had been there and how the rest of the trip was planned. It was clear not much had been left to chance. Perhaps that’s the German mindset. So, when I asked if they’d seen any kangaroos on the trip they laughed and assured me they had. It was of course implicit that they had ticked that off on their “things-to-do” list. “Did you stop and feed them?” I asked, but they looked at each other dumbfounded, and then at me. “No, ve did not!” “Why not? They’re quite cute, you know.” “Aber, zey vere dead!”’
Harry was so astonished at Lebie’s long monologue that he forgot to smile.
The waiter came and put the Jim Beam in front of Harry. Lebie looked at the glass.
‘The day before yesterday I saw a girl who was so pretty I felt like stroking her cheek and saying something nice to her. She was twenty-odd, wore a blue dress and was bare-legged. Aber, she was dead. As you know, she was blonde, had been raped and had bruising around her neck from strangulation.
‘And last night I dreamt these meaninglessly young and pointlessly beautiful girls were filling up all the roadside verges around the whole of Australia – from Sydney to Cairns, from Adelaide to Perth, from Darwin to Melbourne. And all for one solitary reason. We had closed our eyes because we couldn’t face the truth. We hadn’t done enough. We had allowed ourselves to be weak and human.’
Harry knew where Lebie was heading. The waiter came with the fish.
‘You’re the one who’s come closest to him, Harry. You’ve had your ear to the ground, and you may recognise the vibrations of his feet if he approaches again. There will always be a hundred good reasons to get drunk, but if you’re chucking up in a hotel room, you’re no use to anyone. He isn’t human. So we can’t be human. We have to show our powers of endurance, we have to show our powers of resistance.’ Lebie spread out his serviette. ‘But we have to eat.’
Harry put the whiskey glass to his mouth and watched Lebie as he slowly drained it. Then he put the empty glass on the table, grimaced and grabbed the knife and fork. The rest of the meal passed in silence.
43
A Big Fish
SANDRA WAS STANDING in her usual spot. She didn’t recognise him until he was close.
‘Nice to see you again,’ she said, her eyes distant with small pupils.
They walked over to Bourbon & Beef, where the waiter immediately ran over and held the chair out for her.
Harry asked Sandra what she would like, and ordered a Coke and a double whiskey.
‘Christ, I thought he’d come to turf me out,’ she said, relieved.
‘I’m a kind of regular,’ Harry explained.
‘How’s your girlfriend?’
‘Birgitta?’ Harry was quiet. ‘I don’t know. She won’t talk to me. Feeling terrible, I hope.’
‘Why do you hope she’s feeling terrible?’
‘I hope she loves me, of course.’
Sandra emitted a rasping laugh. ‘And how are you, Harry Holy?’
‘Terrible.’ Harry smiled sadly. ‘But I may feel a lot better if I can trap a murderer.’
‘And you think I can help you?’ she said, lighting a cigarette. Her face was, if possible, even paler and more drawn than before, and her eyes were red-rimmed.
‘We’re lookalikes,’ Harry said, pointing to their reflections in the blackened window beside the table.
Sandra said nothing.
‘I remember, if a bit unclearly, that Birgitta threw your bag on the bed and the contents fell out. At first I thought you kept a Pekinese in your bag.’ Harry paused. ‘Tell me, what do you need a blonde wig for?’
Sandra stared out of the window. That is, she was staring at the window, possibly at their reflections.
‘A customer bought it for me. He wanted me to wear it when he was with me.’
‘Who . . .?’
Sandra shook her head. ‘Forget it, Harry. I’m not saying. There aren’t many rules in my profession, but keeping your mouth shut about punters is one of them. And it’s a good rule.’
Harry sighed. ‘You’re frightened,’ he said.
Sandra’s eyes flashed. ‘Don’t try it, Harry. You won’t get anything from me, OK?’
‘You don’t need to tell me who it is, Sandra. I know. I just wanted to check first if you were frightened of saying.’
‘I know,’ Sandra aped, clearly furious. ‘And how do you know then?’
‘I saw the stone roll out of your bag, Sandra. The green crystal. I recognised the sign painted on it. He gave it to you. It’s from his mother’s shop, the Crystal Castle.’
She rested her big black eyes on him. Her red mouth had stiffened into an ugly sneer. Harry placed a careful hand on her arm.
‘Why are you so frightened of Evans White, Sandra? Why won’t you give him to us?’
Sandra tore her arm away. She turned back to the window. Harry waited. She sniffled and Harry passed her the handkerchief which, unaccountably, he had in his pocket.
‘There are plenty of other people who feel terrible, you know,’ she whispered at length. Her eyes were redder still as she turned to him. ‘Do you know what this is?’ She drew up the sleeve of her dress and showed him a white forearm with nasty, red marks, some of them encrusted.
‘Heroin?’
‘Morf. Morphine,’ Sandra said. ‘Not many people in Sydney can manage it, so most end up on heroin anyway. But I’m allergic to heroin. My body can’t take it. I’ve tried it and I almost died. So my poison is morphine. And last year there was only one person in King’s Cross able to supply it in sufficient quantity. And he takes his payment through a kind of role play. I make myself up and don a white wig. OK by me, I don’t give a shit what kicks he gets out of it, so long as I get what I need. Anyway, there are bigger sickos than those who want you to dress up as their mother.’
‘Mother?’
‘I think he hates his mother. Or loves her more than is normal. One of the two, I don’t know for sure, he won’t talk about it, and Christ knows I don’t want to, either!’
She gave a hollow laugh.
‘Why do you think he hates her?’
‘The last few times he was rougher than usual. He bruised me.’
‘Round your neck?’
Sandra shook her head. ‘He tried. Soon after the murder of the Norwegian girl was in the paper, the strangling. He put his hands round my throat and told me to lie still and not to be frightened. I didn’t give it any more thought afterwards.’
‘Why not?’
Sandra shrugged. ‘People are influenced by what they read and see. Take 9½ Weeks, for example, when it was on at the cinema. Suddenly there were loads of punters who wanted us to crawl around naked on the floor while they sat watching.’
‘Shit film,’ Harry said. ‘What happened?’
‘He put his hands round my throat and ran his thumbs over my voice box. Nothing violent. But I took off the wig and said I wasn’t up for that game. He came to his senses and said that was fine. It had just come over him. Didn’t mean anything.’
‘And you believed him?’
Sandra rolled her shoulders. ‘You don’t know how a bit of independence can affect the way you see things,’ she said, finishing the whiskey.
‘Don’t I?’ Harry said, eyeing the still untouched Coke bottle with disapproval.
McCormack was drumming his fingers with impatience. Harry was sweating even though the fan was on full. Otto Rechtnagel’s neighbour had had a lot to say when Yong turned up. Much too much. Sadly, nothing of what she said had been of any interest. Yong seemed to have found it hard to behave as a good listener in her less than convivial company.
‘Fat arse,’ he answered with a smile when Watkins asked him what kind of an impression she had made on him.
‘Anything new about the girl in Centennial Park?’ McCormack said.
‘Not much,’ Lebie said. ‘But she wasn’t the apple of Mummy’s eye – she took speed and she had just started work at a strip joint in King’s Cross. She was on her way home when she was murdered. We have two witnesses who say they saw her going into the park.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not so far, sir.’
‘Harry,’ said McCormack, wiping away the sweat, ‘what’s your theory?’