by Jo Nesbo
‘You can tell me now or come to the station for questioning.’
Tears welled up in her eyes, and the barely audible voice came from somewhere at the back of her throat. ‘She was meeting someone there.’
‘Who?’
Onny Hetland inhaled with a tremble. ‘Laila told me only the first name and profession. And that it was a secret; no one was to know. Especially not Bastian.’
Rafto looked down into his notebook to hide his excitement. ‘And the first name and profession were?’
He noted down what Onny said. Peered at his pad. It was a relatively common name. And a relatively common profession. But since Bergen was a relatively small town, he thought this would be enough. He knew with the whole of his being that he was on the right track. And by ‘the whole of his being’ Gert Rafto meant thirty years of police work and a knowledge of humanity based on general misanthropy.
‘Promise me one thing,’ Rafto said. ‘Don’t tell what you have just told me to a soul. Not to anyone in the family. Not to the press. Not even to any other police officers you might talk to. Have you understood?’
‘Not to … police officers?’
‘Definitely not. I’m leading the investigation, and I must have full control over this information. Until I tell you anything different, you know nothing.’
At last, thought Rafto, standing outside on the step again. Glass glinted as a window swung open further along the alley, and again he had the feeling he was being watched. But then so what? Revenge was his. His alone. Gert Rafto buttoned up his coat, hardly noticing the pissing rain as, in silent triumph, he strode down the slippery streets to Bergen town centre.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and the rain trickled over Bergen from a sky with a blown gasket. On the desk in front of Gert Rafto was a list of names he had requested from the professional organisation. He had started looking for candidates with the right first name. Just three so far. It was only two hours since he had been with Onny Hetland, and Rafto was thinking that soon he would know who had killed Laila Aasen. Case solved in less than twelve hours. And no one could take that away from him, the honour was his, and his alone. Because he was going to inform the press in person. The country’s major media had flown in over the mountains and were already besieging Police HQ. The Chief Constable had given orders that no details about the body were to be released, but the vultures had already scented a bloodbath.
‘There must have been a leak,’ the Chief had said, looking at Rafto, who hadn’t answered, nor formed the grin that yearned to surface. For there they were sitting out there now, ready to make their reports. And soon Gert Rafto would be king of Bergen Police HQ again.
He turned down the radio from which Whitney Houston had insisted all autumn that she would always love you, but before he could lift the telephone, it rang.
‘Rafto,’ he said with irritation, impatient to get going.
‘It’s me you’re looking for.’
The voice was what immediately told the discredited detective that this was not just a hoax or a crank. It was cool and controlled with clear, businesslike diction, which excluded the usual nutters and drunks. But there was something else about the voice, too, which he couldn’t quite place.
Rafto coughed aloud, twice. Took his time, as if to show that he had not been taken aback. ‘Who am I talking to?’
‘You know.’
Rafto closed his eyes and cursed silently and roundly. Damn, damn, damn, the killer was going to give himself in. And that would not have anywhere near the same impact as if he, Rafto, arrested the perpetrator.
‘What makes you think I’m looking for you?’ the policeman asked between clenched teeth.
‘I just know,’ said the voice. ‘And if we can do this my way, you’ll get what you want.’
‘And what do I want?’
‘You want to arrest me. And you’ll be able to. Alone. Are you listening now, Rafto?’
The officer nodded before he could gather himself to say yes.
‘Meet me by the totem pole in Nordnes Park,’ the voice said. ‘In exactly ten minutes.’
Rafto tried to think. Nordnes Park was by the Aquarium; he could get there in under ten minutes. But why meet there of all places, in a park at the end of a headland?
‘So that I can see if you come alone,’ the voice said, as if in answer to his thoughts. ‘If I see any other police or you’re late, I’ll be gone. For ever.’
Rafto’s brain processed, calculated and drew a conclusion. He would not be able to organise an arrest team in time. He would have to explain in his written report why he had been forced to undertake the arrest on his own. It was perfect.
‘OK,’ said Rafto. ‘What happens now?’
‘I’ll tell you everything and give you the conditions for my surrender.’
‘What sort of conditions?’
‘I don’t want to wear handcuffs at the trial. The press will not be allowed in. And I serve my time somewhere where I don’t have to mix with other prisoners.’
Rafto almost choked. ‘OK,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘Wait, there are more conditions. TV in my room, all the books I might wish for.’
‘We’ll arrange that,’ Rafto said.
‘When you’ve signed the deal with my conditions, I’ll go with you.’
‘What about—?’ Rafto began, but an accelerated beep beep beep told him that the other person had rung off.
Rafto parked his car by Bergen shipyard. It wasn’t the shortest route, but it meant he would have a better view of Nordnes when he went in. The big park was on undulating terrain with well-trodden paths and hillocks of yellow, withered grass. The trees pointed with black gnarled fingers to heavy clouds sweeping in from the sea behind the island of Askøy. A man hurried away behind a nervy Rottweiler on a taut lead. Rafto felt the Smith&Wesson revolver in his coat pocket as he strode past Nordnes seawater pool: the empty white basin looked like an oversized bath by the water’s edge.
Beyond the bend he could make out the ten-metre-high totem pole, a two-ton gift from Seattle on the occasion of Bergen’s nine hundredth anniversary. He could hear his own breathing and the squelch of wet leaves beneath his shoes. It started to rain. Small, pin-like droplets drove into his face.
A solitary figure stood by the totem pole facing Rafto as if the person had known that Rafto would come from that direction and not the other end.
Rafto squeezed the revolver as he walked the last few steps. Two metres away, he stopped. Pinched his eyes against the rain. It could not be true.
‘Surprised?’ said the voice he could place only now.
Rafto didn’t answer. His brain had started processing again.
‘You thought you knew me,’ the voice said. ‘But it was just me who knew you. That was how I guessed you would try to do this alone.’
Rafto stared.
‘It’s a game,’ the voice said.
Rafto cleared his throat. ‘A game?’
‘Yes. You like playing games.’
Rafto closed his hand around the stock of the revolver, held it in such a way he could be sure it would not snag on his pocket if he had to draw quickly.
‘Why me particularly?’ he asked.
‘Because you were the best. I only play against the best.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Rafto whispered, regretting it immediately.
‘Of that,’ the other said with a tiny smile, ‘there is little doubt. But you’re also crazy, my man. We’re all crazy. We’re restless spirits that cannot find their way home. It’s always been like that. Do you know why the Indians made these?’
The person in front of Rafto banged the knuckle of a begloved index finger against the tree; the carved figures perched on top of each other stared across the fjord with large, blind, black eyes.
‘To watch over the souls,’ the person continued. ‘So that they don’t get lost. But a totem pole rots. And it should rot, that’s part of the point. And when it’s gone, the
soul has to find a new home. Perhaps in a mask. Perhaps in a mirror. Or perhaps in a newborn child.’
The sound of hoarse cries came from the penguin run at the Aquarium.
‘Will you tell me why you killed her?’ Rafto said and noticed that he too had gone hoarse.
‘Shame the game’s over, Rafto. It’s been fun.’
‘And how did you find out that I was on your trail?’
The other person raised a hand, and Rafto automatically stepped back a pace. There was something hanging from it. A necklace. At the end there was a green, tear-shaped stone with a black crack. Rafto felt his heart pounding.
‘In fact, Onny Hetland wouldn’t say anything at first. But she allowed herself … what shall we say? … to be persuaded.’
‘You’re lying.’ Rafto said it without breathing and without conviction.
‘She said you instructed her not to tell your colleagues. That was when I knew you would accept my offer and come here alone. Because you thought this would be the new home for your soul, your resurrection. Didn’t you.’
The cold, thin rain lay like sweat on Rafto’s face. He had placed his finger on the trigger of his revolver and concentrated on speaking slowly and with restraint.
‘You chose the wrong place. You’re standing with your back to the sea and there are police cars on all the roads out of here. No one can escape.’
The person facing him sniffed the air. ‘Can you smell it, Gert?’
‘What?’
‘Fear. Adrenalin has quite a distinctive smell. But you know all about that. I’m sure you smelt it on the prisoners you beat up. Laila smelt like that, too. Especially when she saw the tools I would use. And Onny even more. Probably because you told her about Laila, so she knew what would happen to her. It’s quite a stimulating smell, don’t you think? I’ve read that it’s the smell some carnivores use to find their prey. Imagine the trembling victim trying to hide, but knowing that the smell of its own fear will kill it.’
Rafto saw the other’s begloved hands hanging down, empty. It was broad daylight, close to the centre of Norway’s second-largest city. Despite his age, after the last years without alcohol he was in good physical shape. His reflexes were fast, and his combat techniques were more or less intact. Drawing the revolver would take a fraction of a second. So why was he so frightened that his teeth were chattering in his mouth?
6
DAY 2.
Cellular Phone.
POLICE OFFICER MAGNUS SKARRE LEANED BACK IN HIS swivel chair and closed his eyes. And the image that immediately appeared to him wore a suit and stood facing the other way. He opened his eyes again in a flash, and checked his watch. Six. He decided that he deserved a break since he had been through the standard procedure for locating missing persons. He had rung all the hospitals to hear if they had admitted a Birte Becker. Rung two taxi firms, Norgestaxi and Oslotaxi, and checked the journeys they had made near the Hoff address the previous night. Spoken to her bank and received a confirmation that she had not taken out large amounts from her account before disappearing, nor were there withdrawals registered for the previous evening or today. The police at Gardemoen Airport had been allowed to see passenger lists for last night, but the only passenger called Becker they found was her husband Filip on the Bergen flight. Skarre had also spoken to the ferry companies sailing to Denmark and England, although she could hardly have gone to England if her husband kept her passport and had showed it to them. The ambitious officer had sent the usual security fax to all the hotels in Oslo and Akershus, and finally instructed all operational units, including the patrol cars, in Oslo to keep their eyes peeled.
The only thing left was the question of the mobile phone.
Magnus rang Harry and informed him of the situation. The inspector was out of breath, and in the background he heard the shrill twittering of birds. Harry asked a couple of questions about the mobile before ringing off. Then Skarre got up and went into the corridor. The door to Katrine Bratt’s office was open and the light was on, but no one was there. He climbed the stairs to the canteen on the floor above.
No food was being served, but there was warmish coffee in a Thermos and crispbread and jam on a trolley by the door. Only four people were sitting in the room, but one of them was Katrine Bratt at a table by the wall. She was reading documents in a ring binder. In front of her was a glass of water and a lunch box containing two open sandwiches. She was wearing glasses. Thin frames, thin glass, you could hardly see them against her face.
Skarre poured himself some coffee and went over to her table.
‘Planned to do some overtime, did you?’ he asked, taking a seat.
Magnus Skarre thought he heard a sigh before she looked up from the sheet.
‘How I guessed?’ he smiled. ‘Home-made sandwiches. You knew before you left home that our canteen would close at five and you would be working late. Sorry, but that’s how you get when you’re a detective.’
‘Do you?’ she said without batting an eyelid as she sought to return to the pages in her file.
‘Yep,’ Skarre said, slurping his coffee and using the occasion to get a good look at her. She was leaning forward and he could see the lace trim of her bra down the front of her blouse. ‘Take this missing persons case today. I don’t have any information that anyone else hasn’t got. Yet I’m sitting here and thinking that she might still be in Hoff. Perhaps she’s lying under snow or foliage somewhere. Or perhaps in one of the many small lakes or streams there.’
Katrine Bratt didn’t answer.
‘And do you know why I think that?’
‘No,’ she answered in a monotone, without raising her eyes from the file.
Skarre stretched across the table and placed a mobile phone directly in front of her. Katrine raised her face with a resigned expression.
‘This is a mobile phone,’ he said. ‘You think, I assume, it’s a pretty new invention. But back in April 1973 the father of the mobile phone, Martin Cooper, had the first conversation on one, with his wife at home. And, of course, he had no idea that this invention would become one of the most important ways in which we in the police force can find missing persons. If you want to become an OK detective, you have to listen and learn these things, Bratt.’
Katrine removed her glasses and looked at Skarre with a small smile which he liked, but couldn’t quite interpret. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘Good,’ said Skarre. ‘Because Birte Becker is the owner of a mobile phone. And a mobile phone sends out signals that can be picked up by base stations in the area where it is located. Not only when you ring, but in fact when you carry a phone on you. That’s why the Americans called it a cellular phone from the very start. Because it is covered by base stations in small areas, in other words, cells. I’ve checked with Telenor, and the base station covering Hoff is still receiving signals from Birte’s phone. But we’ve been through the whole house, and there’s no phone. And she could hardly have lost it by the house, that would be too much of a coincidence. Ergo …’ Skarre raised his hands like a conjuror after pulling off a trick. ‘After this coffee I’m going to contact the Incident Room and send out a search party.’
‘Good luck,’ Katrine said, passing him the mobile phone and turning the page.
‘That’s one of Hole’s old cases, isn’t it?’ Skarre said.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘He thought a serial killer was on the rampage.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you? So perhaps you know that he was wrong as well? And it wasn’t the first time. He’s morbidly obsessed with serial killers, Hole is. He thinks this is the USA. But he still hasn’t found his serial killer in this country.’
‘There are several serial killers in Sweden. Thomas Quick. John Asonius. Tore Hedin …’
Magnus Skarre laughed. ‘You’ve done your homework. But if you’d like to learn a couple of things about proper crime detection, I suggest you and I go for a beer.’
‘Thank you, I’m not –
’
‘And maybe a bite to eat. It wasn’t a big lunch box.’ Skarre finally caught her eye and kept it. Her gaze had a strange gleam, as if deep inside there was a fire smouldering. He had never seen a gleam like that before. And he thought he was responsible for it; he had lit the fire and through the conversation he had moved up into her league.
‘You could view it as …’ he began and pretended to be searching for the right word, ‘training.’
She smiled. A broad smile.
Skarre felt his pulse racing; he was hot, thinking he could already feel her body against his, a stockinged knee against his fingertips, the crackle as his hand slid upwards.
‘What do you want, Skarre? To check out the new skirt in the unit?’ Her smile became even broader and the gleam even fiercer. ‘To shag her as soon as you can, the way boys spit on the biggest slices of birthday cake so they can enjoy them in peace before the others?’
Magnus Skarre had a feeling his jaw had dropped.
‘Let me give you a few well-intentioned tips, Skarre. Keep away from women at work. Don’t waste your time drinking coffee in the canteen if you think you’ve got a hot lead. And don’t try to tell me you can call the Incident Room. You ring Inspector Hole, and he’s the one who decides whether a search party will be set up. And then he’ll ring the Emergency Operations Centre where there are people ready, not just a team from here.’
Katrine scrunched up the greaseproof paper and lobbed it towards the rubbish bin behind Skarre. He didn’t even need to turn to know that she hadn’t missed. She packed her file and stood up, but by then Skarre had managed to collect himself to some degree.
‘I don’t know what you’re imagining, Bratt. You’re a married slag who maybe doesn’t get enough at home and so you’re hoping a guy like me can be bothered … can be bothered to …’ He couldn’t find the words. Shit, he couldn’t find the words. ‘I’m just offering to teach you a thing or two, you whore.’
Something happened to her face – it was like a curtain being drawn aside to allow him to see into the flames. For a moment he was convinced that she would hit him. But nothing happened. And when she spoke again, he realised that everything had happened in her eyes alone, she hadn’t lifted a finger and her voice was totally under control.