by Jo Nesbo
OK, Katrine knew she was being unfair. They were—as they were now—on opposite sides of the table, and it wasn’t Krohn’s job to feel empathy for the victims. Perhaps it was a prerequisite for the judicial system that defense lawyers had the capacity to switch off their sympathy for the victim and only focus on what was best for their clients. The way it had been a prerequisite for Krohn’s personal success. That was probably why it bothered her. That, and the fact that she had lost too many cases against him.
Krohn glanced at the Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist as he held his right hand out to the young woman sitting beside him wearing a discreet but ridiculously expensive Hermès outfit and presumably equipped with top grades from law school. Katrine realised that the dry Danish pastries she’d salvaged from a meeting yesterday weren’t going to be eaten today either.
As if it was a carefully practised move, like a nurse passing a surgeon a scalpel, the young woman placed a yellow folder in Krohn’s hand.
“This case has obviously attracted a lot of media attention,” Krohn said. “Something that does no favours either to you or my client.”
But it does favour you, Katrine thought, wondering if she was expected to pour coffee for the visitors and the Chief of Police.
“So I assume it’s in everyone’s interests for us to come to an agreement as quickly as possible.” Krohn opened the folder, but didn’t look down at it. Katrine didn’t know if it was true or just a myth that Krohn had a perfect photographic memory, and that his party trick at law school had been to ask fellow students to give him a page number between 1 and 3,760, and then he would proceed to recite the entire contents of that page of Norwegian law. Nerd parties. The only type of party Katrine had been invited to when she was a student. Because she was pretty but still an outsider, with her leather clothes and punk hair. She didn’t hang out with punks, and she didn’t hang out with straight, well-dressed students. So the staring-at-their-shoes gang had invited her into the warm. But she had turned them down, she didn’t want to fulfill the classic “pretty girl teams up with attractive but socially inadequate nerds” role. Katrine Bratt had had enough to deal with. More than enough. She had been bombarded with psychiatric diagnoses. But somehow she had coped.
“In the wake of my client being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Rakel Fauke, three accusations of rape have come to light,” Krohn said. “One of these is from a heroin addict who has already received rape victim’s compensation twice before on, frankly, very thin grounds, and without any conviction on either of those occasions. The second has, as I understand it, today asked to withdraw her accusation. The third, Dagny Jensen, has no case as long as there is no forensic evidence, and my client’s explanation is that intercourse was entirely consensual. Even a man with a previous conviction must have the right to a sex life without being an open target for the police and any woman who feels guilty afterwards?”
Katrine looked for signs of a reaction from the young woman next to Krohn, but saw nothing.
“We know how much of the police’s resources get swallowed up by such ambiguous rape cases, and here we have three of them,” Krohn went on, with his eyes focused on a point in front of him, as if an invisible script was hanging in the air. “Now it isn’t my job to defend the interests of society, but in this specific instance I believe that our interests might coincide. My client has declared himself willing to confess to murder, if no rape charges are brought. And this is a murder investigation in which I understand that all you have is”—Krohn looked down at his papers as if he needed to check that what he was about to say really was true—“a breadboard, a confession acquired under torture, and a video clip that could be of anyone, possibly taken from a film.” Krohn looked up again with a questioning expression.
Gunnar Hagen looked at Katrine.
Katrine cleared her throat. “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Krohn scratched—or perhaps smoothed—one eyebrow carefully with his forefinger. “My client would also—assuming we can reach an agreement—consider withdrawing his charge against Inspector Harry Hole for unlawful imprisonment and physical assault.”
“The title of inspector is irrelevant under current circumstances,” Hagen muttered. “Harry Hole was acting as a private citizen. If any of our officers broke Norwegian law while on duty, I would report them myself.”
“Of course,” Krohn replied. “I certainly don’t mean to call the integrity of the police into question, I merely wish to suggest that it looks unseemly.”
“Then you’re no doubt also aware that it isn’t normal practice for the Norwegian police to engage in the sort of horse-trading you’re suggesting. Negotiations for a reduced sentence, of course. But writing off the accusation of rape…”
“I appreciate that you might have objections, but can I remind you that my client is well over seventy years old, and that in the event of a guilty verdict the likelihood is that he would die in prison. I can’t honestly see that it makes a great deal of difference if at that point he is in there for murder or rape. So instead of clinging to principles that don’t benefit anyone, how about asking the people who have accused my client of rape what they would prefer: that Svein Finne dies in a cell sometime within the next twelve years, or that they see him on the street again in four years? As far as compensation for the rape victims is concerned, I’m sure my client and the supposed victims could reach a suitable settlement outside of the legal process.”
Krohn passed the folder back to the female solicitor, and Katrine saw her glance up at him with a mixture of fear and infatuation. She was fairly certain the pair of them had made use of the law firm’s dark leather furniture after office hours.
“Thank you,” Hagen said, standing up and holding his hand across the table. “You’ll be hearing from us soon.”
Katrine stood up and shook Krohn’s surprisingly clammy and soft hand. “And how is your client taking it?”
Krohn looked at her seriously. “Naturally, he’s taking it very hard.”
Katrine knew she shouldn’t, but couldn’t help herself. “Perhaps you could take him one of these pastries, to cheer him up? They’ll only be thrown away otherwise.”
Krohn looked at her for a moment before turning back towards the Chief of Police. “Well, I hope to hear from you later today.”
Katrine noted that Krohn’s female appendage was wearing such a tight skirt that she had to take at least three steps for each of his as they walked out of the Police Chief’s office. She briefly considered the possible consequences of throwing the Danish pastries at them out of the sixth-floor window as they left Police Headquarters.
“Well?” Gunnar Hagen said when the door had closed behind the visitors.
“Why are defense lawyers always presented as the lone defenders of justice?”
Hagen murmured, “They’re the necessary counterweight to the police, Katrine, and objectivity has never been your strong suit. Or self-control.”
“Self-control?”
“Cheer him up?”
Katrine shrugged. “What do you think about his proposal?”
Hagen rubbed his chin. “It’s problematic. But of course the pressure in the Rakel Fauke case is growing by the day, and if we failed to get Finne convicted it would be the defeat of the decade. But on the other hand, there’s all the reports of rapists going free over the past few years, and we’d be dropping three cases…What do you think, Katrine?”
“I hate the guy, but his proposal makes sense. I think we should be pragmatic and look at the bigger picture. Let me talk to the women who have reported him.”
“OK.” Hagen cleared his throat tentatively. “Talking about objectivity…”
“Yes?”
“Your attitude isn’t in any way affected by the fact that it would mean Harry going free as well?”
“What?”
“You’ve worked c
losely together, and…”
“And?”
“And I’m not blind, Katrine.”
Katrine walked over to the window and looked down at the path that led away from Police Headquarters, through Botsparken, where the snow was finally in full retreat, and down towards the sluggish traffic at Grønlandsleiret.
“Have you ever done anything you regretted, Gunnar? I mean, really regretted?”
“Hm. Are we still talking professionally?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
Katrine thought about how liberating it would be to tell someone. That someone knew. She had thought that the burden, the secret, would become easier to bear with time, but it was the other way around, it felt heavier with each passing day.
“I understand him,” she said quietly.
“Krohn?”
“No, Svein Finne. I understand that he wants to confess.”
22
Dagny Jensen put her palms down on the cold desk and looked at the dark-haired police officer sitting at the school desk in front of her. It was break time, and in the playground outside the windows she could hear the pupils shouting and laughing. “I appreciate that this isn’t an easy decision,” the woman said. She had introduced herself as Katrine Bratt, head of the Crime Squad Unit of the Oslo Police District.
“It sounds like the decision has already been made for me,” Dagny said.
“Naturally we can’t force you to retract an accusation,” Bratt said.
“But that’s exactly what you’re doing in practice,” Dagny said. “You’re handing the responsibility for him being convicted of murder over to me.”
The police officer looked down at the desk.
“Do you know what the main purpose of the Norwegian education system is?” Dagny said. “To teach the pupils to become responsible citizens. That it’s a responsibility as much as a privilege. Of course I’ll retract the accusation if it means Svein Finne can be locked up for the rest of his life.”
“When it comes to rape victims’ compensation…”
“I don’t want any money. I just want to forget it.” Dagny looked at her watch. Four minutes until the next lesson started. She was happy. Yes, she was—even after ten years teaching she was still happy, happy to be able to give young people something she genuinely thought would help them to have a better future. It felt meaningful, in a relatively straightforward way. And that was basically all she wanted. That, and to forget. “Can you promise me that you’ll get him convicted?”
“I promise,” the police officer said, and stood up.
“Harry Hole,” Dagny said. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“I don’t know, but hopefully Finne’s lawyer will drop the charge of kidnapping.”
“Hopefully?”
“What he did was obviously unlawful, and not how a police officer is supposed to act,” Katrine said. “But he sacrificed himself to make sure Finne was caught.”
“Like he sacrificed me, so he could get his own personal vengeance?”
“As I said, I can’t defend Harry Hole’s behaviour in this matter, but the fact remains that without him Svein Finne would probably have been able to go on terrorising you and other women.”
Dagny nodded slowly.
“I need to get back and prepare for an interview. Thank you for agreeing to help us. I promise you won’t regret it.”
23
“No, you’re not disturbing me at all, Mrs. Bratt,” Johan Krohn said, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he buttoned his shirt. “So all three accusations have been dropped?”
“How soon can you and Finne be ready for questioning?”
Johan Krohn enjoyed hearing her rolling Bergen “r”s. Bratt’s accent wasn’t strong, but there was still a trace of it there. Like a skirt that was long but not too long. He liked Katrine Bratt. She was pretty, smart and she offered some resistance. The fact that she had a wedding ring on her finger didn’t have to mean that much. He himself was living proof of that. And he found it rather exciting that she sounded so nervous. The same nervousness a buyer feels after he hands over the money and is waiting for the dealer to give him the bag of dope. Krohn went over to the window, put his thumb and forefinger between the slats of the blind, opened up a gap and looked down at Rozenkrantz’ gate, six floors below the law firm’s offices. It was only just after three o’clock, but in Oslo that meant rush hour. Unless you worked in law. Krohn sometimes wondered what would happen when the oil ran out and the Norwegian people had to face up to the demands of the real world again. The optimist in him said things would be fine, that people adapt to new situations quicker than you think, you just had to look at countries that had been at war. The realist in him said that in a country without any tradition of innovation and advanced thinking, there would be a slippery slope straight back to where Norway had come from: the bottom division of European economies.
“We can be there in two hours,” Krohn said.
“Great,” Bratt said.
“See you then, Mrs. Bratt.”
Krohn ended the call and stood for a moment, uncertain where to put his mobile.
“Here,” a voice said from the darkness over by the Chesterfield sofa. He walked over to her and took his trousers.
“Well?”
“They’ve taken the bait,” Krohn said, checking there were no stains on his trousers before putting them on.
“Is it bait? As in, they’re on the hook?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m just following my client’s instructions for the time being.”
“But you think there’s a hook there?”
Krohn shrugged his shoulders and looked around for his shoes. “From yourself shall you know others, I suppose.”
He sat down at the sturdy desk made of Quercus velutina, black oak, that he had inherited from his father. Called one of the numbers he had on speed dial.
“Mona Daa.” The energetic voice of VG’s crime reporter crackled across the room from the speaker.
“Good afternoon, Miss Daa. This is Johan Krohn. Ordinarily you call me, but I thought I’d be a bit proactive this time. I’ve got something I think might warrant an article in your paper.”
“Is it about Svein Finne?”
“Yes. I’ve just received confirmation from the Oslo Police that they’re dropping their investigation into the baseless accusations of rape that have been tossed about in the chaos surrounding the accusation of murder.”
“And I can quote you on that?”
“You can quote me as confirming the rumours that have spread about it, which I presume are the reason you’ve called me.”
A pause.
“I understand, but I can’t write that, Krohn.”
“Then say that I’ve made it public to preempt the rumours. Whether or not you’ve heard the rumours is irrelevant.”
Another pause.
“Fine,” Daa said. “Can you give me any details about—”
“No!” Krohn interrupted. “You can have more this evening. And hold off publishing anything until after five o’clock today.”
“Cards on the table, Krohn. If I can have an exclusive on this—”
“This is all yours, my dear. Speak later.”
“Just one last thing. How did you get my number? It’s not available anywhere.”
“Like I said, you’ve called my mobile before, so your number appeared on the screen.”
“So you stored it?”
“Yes, I suppose I must have.” He ended the call and turned towards the leather sofa. “Alise, my little friend, if you could put your blouse back on, we’ve got some work to do.”
* * *
—
Bjørn Holm was standing on the pavement outside the Jealousy Bar in Grünerl�
�kka. He opened the door and could tell by the music streaming out that he was probably going to find him here. He pulled the pram behind him into the almost empty bar. It was a medium-sized English-style pub with simple wooden tables in front of a long bar, with booths along the walls. It was only five o’clock; it would get busier later in the evening. During the brief period that Øystein Eikeland and Harry had run the bar, they had managed to achieve something rare: a pub where people came to listen to the music being played on the sound system. There was no fancy DJ, just track after track, chosen according to the themed evenings announced on the weekly list on the door. Bjørn had been allowed to act as a consultant on the country evenings and Elvis evenings. And—most memorably—when they were putting together the playlist of “songs that were at least forty years old by artists and bands from American states beginning with M.”
Harry was sitting at the bar with his head bowed, his back to Bjørn. Behind the bar, Øystein Eikeland raised a half-litre glass towards the new arrival. That didn’t bode well. But Harry was at least sitting upright.
“Minimum age is twenty, mate!” Øystein called above the music: “Good Time Charlie’s Got The Blues,” early seventies, Danny O’Keefe’s only real hit. Not typical Harry music, but a typical track for Harry to brush the dust off and play at the Jealousy Bar.
“Even when accompanied by an adult?” Bjørn asked, parking the pram in front of one of the booths.
“Since when have you been an adult, Holm?” Øystein put his glass down.
Bjørn smiled. “You become an adult the moment you see your kid for the first time and realise he’s utterly helpless. And is going to need a fuckload of adult help. Same as this guy.” Bjørn put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. He noticed that Harry was sitting with his head bowed, reading on his mobile.