by Jo Nesbo
“It’s probably to do with work,” he said. “Go back to sleep, darling, I’ll go and answer.”
Krohn closed his eyes for a moment and tried to take deep, calm breaths. He hadn’t slept well, had just stared into the darkness all night as his brain chewed over the same question: How on earth was he going to stop Svein Finne?
He, the master tactician of the courtroom, hadn’t managed to come up with an answer.
If he arranged for Finne to get Alise to himself, he would be making himself an accomplice to a crime. Which was bad enough in itself, both for Alise and for him. And if he made himself an accomplice, that would only give Finne an even stronger hand when—and there was no question that it would be when—he showed up with more demands. Unless he could somehow persuade Alise to have sex with Finne, of course, so that it was voluntary. Was that a possibility? And what would he have to promise Alise in return? No, no, it was an impossible idea, as impossible as the one Frida had spontaneously suggested as a way of solving the problem in the fictitious case: hiring a hitman to get rid of Finne.
Should he confess his misdemeanour to Frida instead? A confession. The truth. Atonement. The thought was liberating. But it was no more than a brief, soothing puff of wind under the blazing sun in a desert with an unbroken horizon of hopelessness. She would leave him, he knew that. The firm, the courtroom victories, the newspaper articles, his reputation, the admiring glances, the parties, the women, the offers, to hell with all that. Frida and the children, they were all he had, they always had been. And when Frida was alone, when she was no longer his, hadn’t Finne more or less said straight out that she would be open game, that he would take her? If you looked at it like that, didn’t he have a moral obligation to bear his heavy secret alone and make sure that Frida didn’t leave him, for her own safety’s sake? Which in turn meant that he would have to let Finne have Alise, and the next time Finne…Oh, it was a fiendish Gordian knot! He needed a sword. But he had no sword, just a pen and a babbling mouth.
He swung his legs out of bed and put them into his slippers.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said. As much to himself as Frida.
He went downstairs and through the hall towards the oak door.
And knew that when he opened it, he needed to have his answer ready for Finne.
I’ll say no, Johan Krohn thought. And then he’ll shoot me. Fine.
Then he remembered that Finne used a knife and changed his mind.
A knife.
He cut his victims open.
And he didn’t kill them, he just wounded them. Like a landmine. Mutilated them for the rest of their life, a life they had to live even when death would be preferable. On the terrace Finne had claimed to have raped a young girl from Huseby. The bishop’s daughter. Had that been a subtle threat against his own children? Finne hadn’t been risking anything by admitting the rape. Not only because Krohn was his lawyer, but because the case must have passed the statute of limitations. Krohn couldn’t remember any rape case, but he did remember Bishop Bohr, who people said died of grief because his daughter had drowned herself in a river. Was he going to let himself be terrorised by someone who had made it his life’s work to ruin other people’s? Johan Krohn had always managed to find a socially defensible, professional and occasionally also an emotional justification to fight tooth and nail for his clients. But now he gave up. He detested the man standing on the other side of the door. He wished with all his heart, as well as all his brain, that the pestilential, ruinous Svein Finne might die a soon and not necessarily painless death. Even if it meant that he got dragged down with him.
“No,” Krohn muttered to himself. “I’m saying no, you fucking bastard.”
He was still wondering about whether or not to swear as he opened the door.
He stared speechless at the man in front of him, who was looking him up and down. He felt the biting morning chill against his naked, scrawny body and realised that he hadn’t put his dressing gown on, and was standing there wearing nothing but the boxer shorts Frida gave him every Christmas, and the slippers the children had given him. Krohn had to clear his throat before he could make a sound: “Harry Hole? But aren’t you…”
The policeman, if it was him, shook his head and gave him a wry smile. “Dead? Not quite. But I need a bloody good lawyer. And I’ve heard that you could do with some help too.”
Part 4
51
It was lunchtime at the Statholdergaarden restaurant. On the street outside, a young busker blew on his fingers before he started to play. A lonely job, Sung-min Larsen thought as he watched him. He couldn’t hear what he was playing, or if he was any good. Alone and invisible. Perhaps the older buskers who ruled Karl Johans gate had exiled the poor kid out here, to the presumably less lucrative Kirkegata.
He looked up when the waiter snapped the napkin open like a flag in the wind before letting the white damask settle on Alexandra Sturdza’s lap.
“I should have made an effort,” she laughed.
“You look like you did.” Sung-min smiled, and leaned back as the waiter repeated the same gesture with his napkin.
“This?” she said, pointing at her tight skirt with both hands. “These are my work clothes. I just don’t dress as informally as my colleagues. And you’ve made an effort. You look like you’re going to a wedding.”
“I’ve just come from a funeral,” Sung-min said, and saw Alexandra flinch as if he’d slapped her.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. Bjørn Holm?”
“Yes. Did you know him?”
“Yes and no. He worked in forensics, so obviously we spoke to each other over the phone from time to time. They’re saying he killed himself?”
“Yes,” Sung-min said. He replied “yes” rather than “it looks like it” because there really wasn’t any doubt. His car had been found parked at the side of a grit track at the top of a ridge with a view over the farmland of Toten, not far from his childhood home. The doors were locked, the key was in the ignition. A few people had been confused that Bjørn Holm had been sitting in the back seat, and that he had shot himself in the temple with a pistol whose serial number couldn’t be traced back to anyone. But his widow, Katrine Bratt, had explained that Holm’s idol, Something-or-other Williams, had died in the back seat of his car. And it wasn’t particularly unlikely that a forensics officer had access to a weapon with no registered owner. The church had been full of family and colleagues, from both Police Headquarters and Kripos, because Bjørn Holm had worked for both. Katrine Bratt had seemed composed—more composed, in fact, than when they had met at Norafossen.
After she had efficiently worked her way through the queue of people offering condolences, she had come over to him and said there were rumours that he wasn’t happy where he was. That was the word she had used, pronounced in her distinct Bergen accent. Happy. And said they should have a chat. She had an empty position that needed to be filled. It had taken him a moment to realise that she was talking about Harry Hole’s job. And he wondered if it was doubly inappropriate for her to be talking shop after her own husband’s funeral, and to offer Sung-min the job of a man who was still only missing. But presumably she needed whatever distractions she could find to take her mind off the pair of them. Sung-min said he’d think about it.
“I hope Kripos’s budget can handle this,” Alexandra had said when the waiter brought the first course and told them it was raw scallop, black pepper mayonnaise, Ghoa cress and a soy-butter sauce. “Because Forensic Medicine can’t.”
“Oh, I think I’ll be able to justify the expense, if you can keep the promise you made over the phone.”
Alexandra Sturdza had called him the previous evening. Without beating around the bush, she had told him that she had information regarding the Rakel Fauke case. That she was calling him because the implications were sensitive, and that she had decided she trust
ed him after their first encounter. But that she would prefer not to discuss it over the phone.
Sung-min had suggested lunch. And booked a table somewhere she had rightly guessed wasn’t within the price range covered by Kripos. He would have to pay for it himself, but he had told himself it was a wise investment, a way of nurturing a professional contact in the Forensic Medicine Institute that could turn out to be useful if and when he needed a favour. A DNA analysis that needed to be prioritised. Something like that. Probably. Somewhere at the back of his mind he had an idea that there was more to it than that. What? He hadn’t had time to give the matter too much thought. Sung-min glanced at the busker, who was in full flow now. People were rushing past, paying him no attention. Hank. That was what his colleague had said. Hank Williams. He would have to google him when he got home.
“I’ve analysed Harry Hole’s blood from the trousers he was wearing on the night of the murder,” she said. “It contains Rohypnol.”
Sung-min looked back from the street and focused on her.
“Enough to knock a man out for four or five hours,” she said. “That got me thinking about the time of the murder. Our medical officer narrowed it down to between 22:00 and 02:00, of course. But that was based on body temperature. There were other indications, such as the discolouration around the wounds, which suggest that it could”—she held up a long forefinger, which looked even longer because of the vivid pink of her fingernail—“and I repeat could, have happened earlier.”
Sung-min remembered that she hadn’t been wearing nail polish last time. Had she painted them specially?
“So I checked with the company that supplies electricity to Rakel Fauke’s home. It turns out that consumption went up by seventy kilowatts between 20:00 and 24:00. All that electricity suggests an increase in temperature, and if that happened in the living room, it would mean a rise in temperature of five degrees. My medical officer says that if that was the case, she would have given the time of death as between 18:00 and 22:00.”
Sung-min blinked. He had read somewhere that the human brain can only process sixty kilobits per second. And that that makes the brain a very weak computer. But the fact that it can work as fast as that depends on how data already stored there is organised. That most of our conclusions rely on recalling memories and patterns and using them rather than thinking new thoughts. Perhaps that was why it was taking him so long. He was having to think new thoughts. Completely new. He heard Alexandra’s voice as if it were coming from far away:
“From what Ole Winter has said in the papers, Harry Hole was in a bar with witnesses until 22:30. Is that correct?”
Sung-min stared down at his crayfish. It stared back disinterestedly.
“So the question now has to be whether you have ever had anyone else in your sights? Someone you might have ignored because they had an alibi for the time it was assumed Rakel was murdered. But who may not have had an alibi between 18:00 and 22:00.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Alexandra.” Sung-min stood up, then realised he’d forgotten his napkin, which fell to the floor. “Please, finish your lunch. I need…I’ve got some things I need to get on with. Another day we can…you and I can…”
He saw from her smile that they could.
He walked away, gave the maître d’ his card and asked him to send him the bill, then hurried out into the street. The busker was playing a song Sung-min had heard, something about a car crash, an ambulance and Riverside, but he wasn’t interested in music. Songs, lyrics, names, for some reason none of them stuck. But he remembered every word, every moment of the transcription of the interview with Svein Finne. He had arrived at the maternity ward at 21:30. In other words, Svein Finne had had three and a half hours in which to murder Rakel Fauke. The problem was that no one knew where Finne was.
So why was Sung-min running?
He was running because it was quicker.
What difference did it make if he was quicker, if everyone was already trying to find Svein Finne?
Sung-min wanted to try harder. And he was better. And extremely motivated.
Ole Winter, the useless scavenger, would soon be choking on his big fat team victory.
* * *
—
Dagny Jensen got off the metro at Borgen. She stood there for a moment, looking out across Western Cemetery. But that wasn’t where she was going; she didn’t know if she would ever go into a cemetery again. Instead she walked down Skøyenveien to Monolitveien, where she turned right. She walked past the white wooden houses behind picket fences. They looked so empty. Afternoon, a weekday. People were are work, at school, doing things, being active. She was static. On sick leave. Dagny hadn’t asked for it, but her psychologist and the head teacher had told her to take a few days off to compose herself, and see how she really felt after the attack in the women’s toilet. As if anyone wanted to think about how they really felt!
Well, at least now she knew how bloody awful she felt.
She heard her phone buzz in her bag. She took it out and saw that it was Kari Beal, her bodyguard, again. They would be looking for her now. She pressed Reject and tapped out a message: Sorry. No danger. Just need some time alone. Will be in touch when I’m done.
Twenty minutes earlier Dagny and Kari Beal had been in the city centre when Dagny said she wanted to buy some tulips. She had insisted that the police officer wait outside while she went into the florist’s, which she knew had another door in the next street. From there, Dagny had made her way to the metro station behind Stortinget and took the first train heading west.
She looked at the time. He had told her to be there by two o’clock. Which bench she should sit on. That she should wear something different from what she usually wore, to make her harder to recognise. What direction she should be looking in.
It was madness.
It was what it was. He had called her from an unknown number. She had answered and not been able to hang up. And now, as if she had been hypnotised and had no will of her own, she was doing as he had instructed, the man who had used and deceived her. How was that possible? She had no answer to that. Just that she must have had something in her that she didn’t know was there. A cruel, animalistic urge. Well, it was what it was. She was a bad person, as bad as him, and now she was letting him drag her down with him. She felt her heart beat faster. Oh, she was already longing to be down there, where she would be cleansed by fire. But would he come? He had to come! Dagny heard her own shoes hitting the pavement, harder and harder.
Six minutes later she was in position, on the bench she had been told about.
It was five minutes to two. She had a view of Smestaddammen. A white swan was gliding over the water. Its head and neck formed a question mark. Why was she having to do this?
* * *
—
Svein Finne was walking. Long, calm, terrain-conquering strides. Walking like that, in the same direction, for hour after hour, was what he had missed most during his years in prison. Oh well. Spilled milk.
It took him just under two hours to walk from the cabin he had found in Sørkedalen into the centre of Oslo, but he guessed it would have taken most people three.
The cabin lay at the top of a vertical rock face. Because there were bolts drilled into the cliff and he had found rope and carabiners in the cabin, he guessed it had been used by climbers. But there was still snow on the ground, and meltwater was trickling down the red and grey-black granite when the sun was shining, and he hadn’t seen any climbers.
But he had seen evidence of the bear. So close to the cabin that he had bought what he needed and set a trap with a tripwire and some explosives. When the last of the snow melted and the climbers began to appear, he would find himself a place deeper in the forest, build himself a teepee. Hunt. Go fishing in the lakes. Only as much as he needed. Killing anything you weren’t going to eat was murder, and he wasn’t a murderer.
He was already looking forward to it.
He walked through the grey, urine-stinking pedestrian tunnel beneath the Smestad junction, emerged into the daylight and carried on towards the lake.
He saw her as soon as he entered the park. Not that he—even with his sharp eyesight—could recognise her from this distance, but he could tell by her posture. The way she was sitting. Waiting. A little scared, probably, but mostly excited.
He didn’t walk directly towards the bench, but took a detour to check that there were no police around. That was what he did when he visited Valentin’s grave. He quickly concluded that he was alone on this side of the lake. There was someone sitting on a bench on the other side, but they were too far away to see or hear much of what was about to happen, and they wouldn’t have time to intervene. Because this was going to happen quickly. Everything was ready, the scene was set and he was ready to burst.
“Hello,” he said as he approached the bench.
“Hello,” she said, and smiled. She seemed less frightened than he had expected. But of course she didn’t know what was about to happen. He glanced around once more to make sure they were alone.
“He’s running a bit late,” Alise said. “That sometimes happens. You know, being a successful lawyer.”
Svein Finne smiled. The girl was relaxed because she thought Johan Krohn was going to be joining them. That must be the explanation Krohn had given her for why she should be sitting on a bench beside Smestaddammen at two o’clock. That she and Krohn were going to be meeting Svein Finne, but because their client was currently being sought by the police, the meeting couldn’t take place in the office. All of this had been in the note Finne had found pinned to the ground with a knife in front of Valentin’s grave, signed by Johan Krohn. Krohn had also used a splendid knife, and Finne had put it in his pocket to add to his collection. It would come in useful in the cabin. Then he had opened the letter. It looked like Krohn had thought of pretty much everything to let both Finne and Krohn himself walk free afterwards. Apart from the consequences of having given his mistress to Finne, of course. Krohn didn’t know it yet, but he would never again be able to love Alise the way he had before. And he would never be free. Krohn had, after all, entered into a pact with the devil, and, as everyone knows, the devil is in the detail. Finne was never going to have to worry about getting hold of anything he needed again, whether it be money or pleasure.