by Jo Nesbo
‘Just Mick and Keith.’
‘What?’
‘The world’s greatest band.’
‘Øystein.’
‘Yep?’
‘The Stones are not the world’s greatest band. Not even the world’s second greatest band. What they are is the world’s most overrated band. And it wasn’t Keith or Mick who wrote “Wild Horses”. It was Gram Parsons.’
‘That’s lies and you know it! I’m ringing off –’
‘Hello? Øystein?’
‘Say something nice to me. Quickly.’
‘“Under My Thumb” is not a bad tune. And “Exile On Main Street” has its moments.’
‘Fine. What do you want?’
‘I need help.’
‘It’s three o’clock in the morning. Shouldn’t you be asleep now?’
‘Can’t do it,’ Harry said. ‘I’m terrified every time I close my eyes.’
‘Same nightmare as before?’
‘The listeners’ request from hell.’
‘The stuff with the lift?’
‘I know exactly what’s coming and I’m just as frightened every time. How quickly can you get here?’
‘I don’t like this, Harry.’
‘How quickly?’
Øystein sighed.
‘Give me six minutes.’
Harry was standing in the doorway wearing just his jeans when Øystein came up the stairs.
They sat down in the sitting room without putting on the lights.
‘Have you got a beer?’ Øystein took off his black cap with the PlayStation logo and brushed back a thin, sweaty lock of hair.
Harry shook his head.
‘Take this,’ Øystein said and placed a black camera-film tube on the table.
‘This is on me. Flunipam. Definite knockout. One pill is more than enough.’
Harry stared at the tube.
‘That’s not why I asked you to come, Øystein.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘No. I need to know how to crack a code. How you go about it.’
‘Do you mean hacking?’ Øystein sent Harry a surprised look. ‘Have you got to crack a password?’
‘In a way. Have you read about the serial killer in the newspaper? I think he’s sending us codes.’
Harry switched on a lamp. ‘Look at this.’
Øystein perused the sheet of paper Harry had put on the table.
‘A star?’
‘A pentagram. He left signs at two of the crime scenes. One was carved into a beam over a bed and the other traced in the dust on a TV screen in a shop opposite the murder scene.’
Øystein examined the star and nodded. ‘And you think I can tell you what it means?’
‘No.’ Harry held his head in his hands. ‘But I hoped you could tell me something about the principles behind cracking codes.’
‘The codes I cracked were mathematical codes, Harry. With interpersonal codes there’s a completely different semantics. For example, I still can’t decode what women are actually saying.’
‘Imagine that this is both. Simple logic and a subtext.’
‘OK, let’s talk about cryptography. Ciphers. To see that you need both logical and what is called analogical thinking. The latter means that you use the subconscious and intuition, in other words, what you don’t realise you already know. And then you combine linear thinking with the recognition of patterns. Have you heard of Alan Turing?’
‘No.’
‘Englishman. He cracked the German codes during the war. In a nutshell, he lost them the Second World War. He said that in order to crack codes, first of all you have to know what dimension your opponent is operating in.’
‘And that means?’
‘If I can put it this way, it is the level that lies above letters and numerals. Above language. The answers that don’t tell you how, but why. Do you understand?’
‘No, but tell me how you do it.’
‘No-one knows. It has something in common with religious visions and is more like a gift.’
‘Let’s assume that I know why. What happens after that?’
‘You can take the long road. Going through all the permutations until you die.’
‘It’s not me who’s going to die. I’ve only got time for the short road.’
‘I only know of one method.’
‘Yes?’
‘A trance.’
‘Of course, a trance.’
‘I’m not kidding. You keep staring at the data until you stop thinking conscious thoughts. It’s like straining a muscle until it gets cramp and starts doing its own thing. Have you ever seen a climber’s leg go into convulsions when he is stuck in the mountains? No, well, it’s like that. In ’88 I got into the accounts of Den Danske Bank in four nights, on a few frozen drops of LSD. If your subconscious cracks the code, you’ll get there. If it doesn’t . . .’
‘Yes?’
Øystein laughed. ‘It’ll crack you. Psychiatric departments are full of people like me.’
‘Mm. Trance?’
‘Trance. Intuition. And a tiny bit of pharmaceutical help . . .’
Harry took the black tube and held it up in front of him.
‘Do you know what, Øystein?’
‘What?’
He threw the tube over the table and Øystein caught it.
‘I was lying about “Under My Thumb”.’
Øystein put the tube on the edge of the table as he tied the laces of a pair of unusually battered Puma trainers bought long before the fashion for retro.
‘I know. Do you see anything of Rakel?’
Harry shook his head.
‘That’s what bothers you, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been offered a job. I don’t know that I can turn it down.’
‘Well, it’s obviously not the job my boss offered you that you’re talking about.’
Harry smiled.
‘Sorry, I’m not the right man to ask about career advice,’ Øystein said and got up. ‘I’ll put the tube here. Do what you like with it.’
21
Thursday. Pygmalion
The head waiter scrutinised him from top to toe. Thirty years in the job had given him a bit of a nose for trouble and this man stank from a long way off. Not that all trouble was bad. A good scandal from time to time was, in fact, what customers at the Viennese Theatre Café had come to expect. It had to be the right kind of trouble, though, such as when young, aspiring artists sang from the gallery in the Theatre Café that they were the next big thing or when a drunken ex-romantic lead from the National Theatre loudly proclaimed that the only positive remark he could make about the famous financier on the neighbouring table was that he was a homosexual, and therefore unlikely to reproduce himself. The person standing in front of the head waiter, however, did not seem as if he had anything witty or original to say; his appearance suggested more the tedious kind of trouble: unpaid bill, pissed and a scuffle. The external indications – black jeans, red nose and skinhead – had made him think he was one of the drunken stage hands who belonged in the cellar at Burns. But when the man asked to speak to Wilhelm Barli he knew he had to be one of the sewer rats from the journalists’ pub Tostrupkjelleren, which was under the aptly named openair restaurant the Loo Lid. He had no respect for the vultures who had gorged so uninhibitedly on what remained of poor Barli after his charming wife had so tragically disappeared.
‘Are you sure that the gentleman in question is here?’ the head waiter asked, looking in the reservations book even though he knew perfectly well that Barli had turned up at 10.00 on the dot, as always, and sat down at his usual table on the glass veranda facing Stortingsgata. The unusual thing – which gave the head waiter some cause for concern about Barli’s mental state – was that the jovial producer had made a mistake with the day and come on a Thursday instead of on his regular day, Wednesday.
‘Forget it. I can see him,’ the man in front of him said. And he was gone.
Harry had recognised Wi
lhelm Barli by his mane of hair, but as he drew closer he began to wonder if he was mistaken.
‘Herr Barli?’
‘Harry!’
Wilhelm’s eyes lit up, but died just as quickly. His cheeks were sunken and the healthy, suntanned skin of just a few days before was now covered with a layer of white, lifeless powder. Wilhelm Barli seemed to have shrunk; even his broad shoulders appeared to be narrower.
‘Herring?’ Wilhelm pointed to the table in front of him. ‘Oslo’s best. I eat them every Wednesday. Good for the heart, they say. But that presupposes that you have one, and the people who come to this café . . .’ Wilhelm spread out his arm to present the almost deserted room.
‘No, thanks,’ Harry said, taking a seat.
‘Have a piece of bread, anyway.’ Wilhelm held out the bread basket. ‘This is the only place in Norway where you can get genuine fennel bread with whole fennel seeds. Perfect for herring.’
‘Just coffee, thank you.’
Wilhelm signalled to the waiter.
‘How did you find me here?’
‘I went to the theatre.’
‘Oh? They were told to say I was out of town. The journalists . . .’
Wilhelm imitated a stranglehold. Harry was not sure if that was supposed to demonstrate Wilhelm’s own situation or what he would like to do to the journalists.
‘I showed them police ID and said it was important,’ Harry said.
‘Good. Good.’
Wilhelm’s attention was focused somewhere in front of Harry when the waiter arrived with a second cup and poured coffee from the pot already on the table. The waiter withdrew, and Harry cleared his throat. Wilhelm gave a start, and his attention returned.
‘If you’ve come with bad news I want it straightaway, Harry.’
Harry shook his head while drinking his coffee.
Wilhelm closed his eyes and mumbled something inaudible.
‘How’s the play going?’ Harry asked.
Wilhelm smiled weakly.
‘A woman rang from the culture desk at Dagbladet yesterday and asked exactly the same question. I explained how the artistic side of things was going, but then it turned out that what she really wanted to know was if all the publicity surrounding Lisbeth’s mysterious disappearance and her sister’s jumping into the breech was good for ticket sales.’
He rolled his eyes.
‘Well,’ said Harry, ‘is it?’
‘Are you crazy, man?’
Wilhelm’s voice boomed forebodingly.
‘It’s summer. People want to have fun, not mourn for some woman they don’t even know. We have lost our main attraction: Lisbeth Barli, the undiscovered singing star from C&W land. Losing her just before opening night is not good for business!’
A couple of heads deeper into the room turned, but Wilhelm continued in the same loud voice.
‘We’ve sold almost no tickets. Well, apart from for the opening night – for that the tickets went like hot cakes. People are so bloodthirsty, they can smell a scandal. Basically, Harry, we are entirely dependent on rave reviews to pull this one off. But right now . . .’
Wilhelm banged a fist on the white tablecloth and the coffee jumped in the air.
‘. . . I can’t think of anything less important than bloody business!’
Wilhelm stared at Harry. All the signs were that the outburst would continue when, without any prior indication, an invisible hand wiped the fury from his expression. He was dazed for a moment, as if he didn’t know where he was. Then his face fell apart and he quickly hid it in his hands. Harry saw the head waiter send them a strange, hope-filled look.
‘I apologise,’ Wilhelm mumbled from behind his fingers. ‘I don’t usually . . . I’m not asleep . . . Oh shit, I’m so theatrical!’
He sobbed, a sound that was somewhere between laughing and crying, he hit the table again with his hand and pulled a grimace which he managed to twist into a kind of desperate smirk.
‘What can I help you with, Harry? You look sorry for yourself.’
‘Sorry for myself?’
‘Saddened. Melancholic. Cheerless.’
Wilhelm shrugged and piled a forkful of herring and bread into his open mouth. The skin of the fish glistened. The waiter glided soundlessly by the table and poured Chatelain Sancerre from a bottle into Wilhelm’s glass.
‘I have to ask about something that is perhaps unpleasantly intimate,’ Harry said.
Wilhelm shook his head as he washed down the food with wine.
‘The more intimate, the less unpleasant, Harry. Remember, I’m an artist.’
‘Fine.’
Harry took another gulp of coffee to give himself a mental run-up.
‘We found traces of excrement and blood under Lisbeth’s nail. Preliminary analyses match your blood group. I would like to know if we need to run a DNA test on it.’
Wilhelm stopped chewing, put the index finger of his right hand against his lips and stared pensively into the air.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to bother.’
‘So her finger has been in contact with your . . . excrement.’
‘We made love the night before she disappeared. We make love every night. We would have made love during the day too, if it hadn’t been so hot in the flat.’
‘And then . . .’
‘You’re wondering if we practise postillioning?’
‘Eh . . . ?’
‘If she fingerfucks me up the backside? As often as she can. But carefully. Like sixty per cent of Norwegian men of my age, I have haemorrhoids. That was why Lisbeth never let her nails grow too long. Do you practise postillioning, Harry?’
Harry choked on his coffee.
‘On yourself or with others?’ Wilhelm asked.
‘You should, Harry. As a man especially. Letting yourself be penetrated touches on absolutely fundamental things. If you dare, you will discover that you have a much greater emotional range than you imagine. If you clench up, you close others out and yourself in. But by opening yourself, making yourself vulnerable and showing trust, you quite literally give others the chance to come inside you.’
Wilhelm was waving his fork around.
‘Of course, it is not without risk. They can destroy you, cut you up from the inside. But they can also love you. And then you embrace all their love, Harry. It’s yours. We say that the man takes possession of the woman during sexual intercourse, but is that true? Who takes possession of whose sex? Think about it, Harry.’
Harry thought about it.
‘It’s the same for artists. We have to open up, make ourselves vulnerable, let them in. To have the chance of being loved we have to take a chance on being destroyed inside. We’re talking about serious high-risk sports, Harry. I’m glad I don’t dance any more.’
As Wilhelm smiled, two tears rolled down – one from each eye in turn – in a jerky parallel slalom down his cheeks where they disappeared into his beard.
‘I miss her, Harry.’
Harry concentrated on the tablecloth. He considered whether he should leave, but stayed put.
Wilhelm pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud trumpeting sound before he poured the rest of the bottle of wine into his glass.
‘I don’t wish to impose myself, Harry, but when I said you looked sorry for yourself I realised that you always look sorry for yourself. Is it a woman?’
Harry fidgeted with his coffee cup.
‘Several?’
Harry was going to give an answer that would fend off further questions, but something made him change his mind. He nodded.
Wilhelm raised his glass.
‘It’s always women. Have you noticed that? Whom did you lose?’
Harry looked at Wilhelm. There was something in the expression of the bearded producer, a pained sincerity, an unguarded openness he recognised and which said he could trust him.
‘My mother fell ill and died when I was young,’ Harry said.
‘And you miss her?’
‘But there are several, aren’t there?’
Harry hunched his shoulders.
‘Six months ago a female colleague of mine was killed. Rakel, my girl . . .’
Harry paused.
‘Yes?’
‘This is hardly of any interest.’
‘I guess we’ve got to the heart of the matter,’ Wilhelm sighed. ‘You’re going your separate ways.’
‘We aren’t. She is. I’m trying to make her change her mind.’
‘Aha. And why does she want to go?’
‘Because I am the way I am. It’s a long story, but the short version is that I am the problem. And she would like me to be different.’
‘Do you know what? I’ve got an idea. Take her to my production.’
‘Why?’
‘Because My Fair Lady is based on a Greek myth about the sculptor Pygmalion, who falls in love with one of his sculptures, the beautiful Galatea. He begs Venus to bring the statue to life so that he can marry her, and his prayer is heard. The performance will perhaps show Rakel what can happen when you try to change another person.’
‘That it goes wrong?’
‘On the contrary. Pygmalion, in the form of Professor Higgins, is entirely successful in his intentions in My Fair Lady. I only put on shows that have happy endings. That’s my motto in life. If there is no happy ending, I make one.’
Harry shook his head and gave a lopsided smile.
‘Rakel is not trying to change me. She’s a smart woman. She’ll go her own way instead.’
‘Something tells me that she wants you back. I’ll send you two tickets for opening night.’
Wilhelm signalled to the waiter for the bill.
‘What on earth makes you think she wants me back?’ Harry asked. ‘You don’t know anything about her.’
‘You’re right. I’m talking rubbish. White wine with brunch is a good idea, but only in theory. I’m drinking more than I should at the moment. My apologies.’
The waiter came with the bill. Wilhelm signed it without even looking and asked him to put it with the others. The waiter left.
‘Taking a woman to a play on opening night with top-class tickets can never go completely awry, though.’ Wilhelm smiled. ‘Believe me; I have tested this one out thoroughly.’
Wilhelm’s smile reminded Harry of his father’s sad, resigned smile, the smile of a man looking backwards because that’s where the things that made him smile were.