by Jo Nesbo
An elderly woman with mousy hair hanging like a curtain around her head entered the room with mousy steps and a silver tray bearing two cups of coffee, which rattled ominously. The expression on her face suggested she was carrying a cross and a crown of thorns. She cast a glance at her son who jumped up in a flash and took the tray.
‘Thanks, Mother.’
‘Tie your shoelaces.’ She half turned to Harry. ‘Is anyone going to inform me who comes and goes in my house?’
‘This is Inspector Hole, Mother. He’d like to know where I was yesterday and three days ago.’
Harry stood up and stretched out his hand.
‘I remember, of course,’ she said, giving Harry a resigned look and a hand covered in liver spots. ‘We watched that discussion programme featuring your curling friend. And I didn’t like what he said about the royal family. What’s his name again?’
‘Arve Støp,’ Idar sighed.
The old lady leaned over towards Harry. ‘He said we should get rid of the royals. Can you imagine anything so dreadful? Where would we have been if it had not been for the royal family during the war?’
‘Right where we are now,’ Idar said. ‘Seldom has a head of state done so little during a war. And he also said that broad support for the monarchy was the final proof that most people believe in trolls and fairies.’
‘Isn’t that dreadful?’
‘Veritably, Mother.’ Idar smiled, placing a hand on her shoulder and catching sight of his watch at the same time, a Breitling, which seemed large and unwieldy on his thin wrist. ‘My goodness me! I have to go now, Hole. We’ll have to hurry this coffee along.’
Harry shook his head and smiled at fru Vetlesen. ‘I’m sure it’s delicious but I’ll have to save it for another day.’
She heaved a deep sigh, mumbled something inaudible, took the tray and shuffled out again.
When Idar and Harry were in the hall, Harry turned. ‘What did you mean by lucky?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said Mathias Lund-Helgesen wasn’t just a saintly bugger, he was lucky, too.’
‘Oh that! It’s this bit of stuff he’s fixed himself up with. Mathias is generally pretty helpless in this area, but she must have been with a couple of bad’uns in her life. Must have needed a God-fearer like him. Well, don’t tell Mathias I said that. Or, by the way, even mention it.’
‘By the way, do you know what anti-Scl 70 is?’
‘It’s an antibody in the blood. May suggest the presence of scleroderma. Do you know someone who’s got it?’
‘I don’t even know what scleroderma is.’ Harry realised he should let it go. He wanted to let it go. But he couldn’t. ‘So Mathias said she had been with some bad’uns, did he?’
‘My interpretation. St Mathias doesn’t use expressions like bad about people. In his eyes, every human has the potential to become a better person.’ Idar Vetlesen’s laughter echoed through the dark rooms.
After Harry had said his thank-yous, put on his boots and was standing on the step outside, he turned and watched – as the door slid to – Idar sitting bent over, tying his shoelaces.
On the way back, Harry rang Skarre, asked him to print out the picture of Vetlesen from the clinic website and go over to the Narcotics Unit to see if any of the undercover guys had seen him buying speed.
‘In the street?’ Skarre asked. ‘Don’t all doctors have that kind of thing in their medicine cabinets?’
‘Yes, but the rules governing the declaration of drug supplies are now so strict that a doctor would rather buy his amphetamines off a dealer in Skippergata.’
They rang off, and Harry called Katrine in the office.
‘Nothing for the moment,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving now. You on your way home?’
‘Yes.’ Harry hesitated. ‘What do you think the chances are of the court ruling that Vetlesen can waive his Hippocratic oath?’
‘With what we’ve got? Of course, I could put on an extra short skirt, pop over to the courthouse and find a judge of the right age. But, to be frank, I think we can forget it.’
‘Agreed.’
Harry headed for Bislett. Thinking about his flat, stripped bare. He looked at his watch. Changed his mind and turned down Pilestredet towards Police HQ.
It was two o’clock in the morning as once again Harry had Katrine, drowsy with sleep, on the phone.
‘What’s up now?’ she said.
‘I’m in the office and have had a look at what you’ve found. You said all the missing women were married with children. I think there could be something in that.’
‘What?’
‘I have no idea. I just needed to hear myself say that to someone. So that I could decide if it sounded idiotic.’
‘And how does it sound?’
‘Idiotic. Goodnight.’
Eli Kvale lay with her eyes wide open. Beside her, Andreas was breathing heavily without a care in the world. A stripe of moonlight fell between the curtains across the wall, on the crucifix she had bought during her honeymoon in Rome. What had woken her? Was it Trygve? Was he up? The dinner and the evening had gone just as she had hoped. She had seen happy, shiny faces in the candlelight, and they had all talked at the same time, they had so much to tell! Mostly Trygve. And when he talked about Montana, about his studies and friends there, she had stayed quiet just looking at this boy, this young man who was maturing into an adult, becoming whatever he would become, making his own life. That was what made her happiest: that he could choose. Openly and freely. Not like her. Not on the quiet, in secret.
She heard the house creaking, heard the walls talking to each other.
But there had been a different sound, an alien sound. A sound from outside.
She got out of bed, went over to the window and opened the curtains a crack. It had snowed. The apple trees had woollen branches and the moonlight was reflected on the thin white ground covering, emphasising every detail in the garden. Her gaze swept from the gate to the garage, unsure what it was she was looking for. Then it stopped. She gave a gasp of surprise and terror. Don’t start this again, she told herself. It must have been Trygve. He’s got jet lag, hasn’t been able to sleep and has gone out. The footprints went from the gate to right under the window where she was standing. Like a line of black dots in the thin coating of snow. A dramatic pause in the text.
There were no footprints leading back.
12
DAY 7.
The Conversation.
‘ONE OF THE NARC BOYS RECOGNISED HIM,’ SKARRE SAID. ‘When I showed him the picture of Vetlesen, the detective said he’d seen him several times on the crossroads between Skippergata and Tollbugata.’
‘What’s at the crossroads?’ asked Gunnar Hagen who had insisted on joining the Monday-morning meeting in Harry’s office.
Skarre looked at Hagen uncertainly to check if the POB was joking.
‘Dealers, whores, punters,’ he said. ‘It’s the new in place after we chased them out of Plata.’
‘Only there?’ Hagen asked, jutting out his chin. ‘I was told it was more widespread now.’
‘It’s like the centre,’ Skarre said. ‘But of course you’ll find them down towards the Stock Exchange and up towards Norges Bank. Round the Astrup Fearnley Art Museum, Gamle Logen Concert Hall and the Church Mission café …’ He stopped when Harry yawned out loud.
‘Sorry,’ Harry apologised. ‘It was a hard weekend. Go on.’
‘The detective couldn’t remember seeing him buy dope. He thought Vetlesen was frequenting Hotel Leon.’
At that moment Katrine Bratt came through the door. She was unkempt, pale, and her eyes were slits, but she sang out a cheery Bergensian greeting as she searched the room for a chair. Bjørn Holm leapt up from his, flourished a hand and went to look for another.
‘Leon in Skippergata?’ Hagen queried. ‘Is that somewhere where they sell drugs?’
‘Could well be,’ Skarre said. ‘But I’ve seen loads of black hookers going in there, so I su
ppose it must be a so-called massage place.’
‘Hardly,’ Katrine Bratt said, standing with her back to them as she hung her coat on the coat stand. ‘Massage parlours are part of the indoor market, and the Vietnamese have got that now. They stay in the suburbs, in discreet residential areas, use Asian women and keep away from the territory of the African outdoor market.’
‘I think I’ve seen a poster for cheap rooms hanging outside,’ Harry said. ‘Four hundred kroner a night.’
‘That’s right,’ Katrine said. ‘They have small rooms which are officially hired out by the day, but in practice on an hourly basis. Black money. Customers don’t exactly ask for a receipt. But the hotel owner, who earns the most, is white.’
‘Lady’s spot on,’ Skarre grinned at Hagen. ‘Strange that Bergen Sexual Offences Unit should suddenly be so well up on Oslo brothels.’
‘They’re the same everywhere,’ Katrine said. ‘Want a bet on anything I said?’
‘The owner’s a Paki,’ Skarre said. ‘Two hundred kronerooneys.’
‘Done.’
‘OK,’ Harry said, clapping his hands. ‘What are we sitting here for?’
The owner of Leon Hotel was Børre Hansen, from Solør, in the east, with skin as greyish-white as the slush the so-called guests brought in on their shoes and left on the worn parquet floor by the counter underneath the sign saying RESEPTION in black letters. As neither the clientele nor Børre were particularly interested in spelling, the sign had remained there, uncontested, for as long as Børre had had it: four years. Before that, he had travelled up and down Sweden selling Bibles, trying his hand at border trade with discarded porno films in Svinesund and acquiring an accent that sounded like a cross between a dance musician and a preacher. It was in Svinesund that he had met Natasha, a Russian erotic dancer, and they had only escaped from her Russian manager by the skin of their teeth. Natasha had been given a new name and now she lived with Børre in Oslo. He had taken over the Leon from three Serbians who for a variety of reasons were no longer able to stay in the country, and he continued where they left off, since there had been no reason to alter the business model: hiring out the rooms on a short-term – often extremely short-term – basis. The revenue generally came in the form of cash, and the guests were undemanding with regard to standards and maintenance. It was a good business. A business he did not want to lose. Consequently he disliked everything about the two people standing in front of him, most of all their ID cards.
The tall man with the cropped hair placed a picture on the counter. ‘Seen this man?’
Børre Hansen shook his head, relieved in spite of everything that it was not him they were after.
‘Sure?’ said the man, resting his elbows on the counter and leaning forward.
Børre looked at the picture again, thinking he should have scrutinised the ID card more closely; this guy seemed more like one of the dopeheads hanging round the streets than a policeman. And the girl behind him didn’t look like a policewoman, either. True, she had that hard look, the whore look, but the rest of her was lady, all lady. If she had got herself a pimp who didn’t rob her, she could have earned five times her wage, at least.
‘We know you’re running a brothel here,’ the policeman said.
‘I’m running a legit hotel, I’ve got a licence and all my papers are in order. Do you want to see?’ Børre pointed to the little office directly behind the reception area.
The policeman shook his head. ‘You hire out rooms to prostitutes and their clients. It’s against the law.’
‘Listen here,’ Børre said, swallowing. The conversation had taken the course he had feared. ‘I’m not interested in what my guests get up to so long as they pay their bills.’
‘But I am,’ said the policeman in a low voice. ‘Have a closer look at the picture.’
Børre looked. The photo must have been taken some years before because he seemed so young. Young and carefree, without a trace of despair or anguish.
‘Last time I checked, prostitution in Norway was not illegal,’ Børre Hansen said.
‘No,’ the policewoman said. ‘But running a brothel is.’
Børre Hansen did his best to assume an indignant expression.
‘As you know, at regular intervals the police are obliged to check that hotel regulations are being complied with,’ the policeman said. ‘Such as emergency exits from all rooms in case of fire.’
‘Submission of foreign guests’ registration forms,’ added the policewoman.
‘Fax machine for incoming police inquiries about guests.’
‘VAT account.’
He was teetering. The policeman delivered the knockout blow.
‘We’re considering bringing in the Fraud Squad to check the accounts you hold for certain customers who undercover police have observed coming and going in recent weeks.’
Børre Hansen could feel the nausea coming. Natasha. The mortgage. And incipient panic at the thought of freezing cold, pitch-black winter evenings on unfamiliar steps with Bibles under his arms.
‘Or we might not,’ the policeman said. ‘It’s a question of priorities. A question of how to use the police’s limited resources. Isn’t it, Bratt?’
The policewoman nodded.
‘He rents a room twice a week,’ Børre Hansen said. ‘Always the same room. He’s there all evening.’
‘All evening?’
‘He has several visitors.’
‘Black or white?’ the woman asked.
‘Black. Only black.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know. It varies. Eight. Twelve.’
‘At the same time?’ the policewoman exclaimed.
‘No, they change. Some come in pairs. They’re often in pairs on the street as well of course.’
‘Jesus,’ the policeman said.
Børre Hansen nodded.
‘What name does he sign in under?’
‘Don’t remember.’
‘But we’ll find it in the guest book, won’t we? And in the accounts?’
The back of Børre Hansen’s shirt was soaked with sweat under his shiny suit jacket. ‘They call him Dr White. The women who ask for him, that is.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Nothing to do with me. He …’ Børre Hansen hesitated. He didn’t want to say any more than he had to. On the other hand, he wanted to show a willingness to cooperate. And this was already a lost customer. ‘He carries one of those big doctor’s bags with him. And always asks for … extra towels.’
‘Oooh,’ said the woman. ‘Sounds dodgy. Have you seen any blood when you clean the room?’
Børre didn’t answer.
‘If you clean the room,’ the policeman corrected. ‘Well?’
Børre sighed. ‘Not much, not more than …’ He paused.
‘Than usual?’ the woman asked sarcastically.
‘I don’t think he hurts them,’ Børre Hansen hastened to say, and regretted it instantly.
‘Why not?’ the policeman snapped.
Børre shrugged. ‘They wouldn’t come back, I suppose.’
‘And it’s just women?’
Børre nodded. But the policeman must have noticed something. A nervous tautening of his neck muscles, a little twitch in the bloodshot membrane of his eye.
‘Men?’ he asked.
Børre shook his head.
‘Boys?’ asked the policewoman who clearly scented the same as her colleague.
Børre Hansen shook his head again, but with that little, almost imperceptible delay that arises when the brain has to choose between alternatives.
‘Children,’ said the policeman, lowering his forehead as if about to charge. ‘Has he had children here?’
‘No!’ Børre shouted, feeling the sweat break out over his whole body. ‘Never! I draw the line at that. There have only been the two times … And they didn’t come in. I threw them back out on the street!’
‘African?’ the man asked.
‘Yes.’
>
‘Boys or girls?’
‘Both.’
‘Did they come alone?’ the woman asked.
‘No, with women. The mothers, I believe. But, as I said, I didn’t let them go up to his room.’
‘You said he comes here twice a week. Does he have fixed times?’
‘Monday and Thursday. From eight to midnight. And he’s always on time.’
‘Tonight too?’ the man said, looking at his colleague. ‘OK, thanks for your assistance.’
Børre released the air from his lungs and discovered that his legs were aching – he had been standing on his toes the whole time. ‘Glad to help,’ he said.
The police officers walked towards the door. Børre knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t receive an assurance.
‘But …’ he said as they were leaving, ‘… but then we have a deal, don’t we?’
The policeman turned, with one eyebrow raised in surprise. ‘About what?’
Børre swallowed. ‘About these … inspections?’
The policeman rubbed his chin. ‘Are you implying that you have something to hide?’
Børre blinked twice. Then he heard his own high-pitched nervous laughter as he gushed: ‘No, no, of course not! Ha – ha! Everything here’s in order.’
‘Excellent, so you have nothing to fear when they come. Inspections are not my responsibility.’
They left with Børre opening his mouth, about to protest, to say something, he just didn’t know what.
The telephone welcomed Harry on his return to the office.
It was Rakel wanting to give him back the DVD she had borrowed off him.
‘The Rules of Attraction?’ Harry repeated, taken aback. ‘Have you got it?’
‘You said it was on your list of most underrated modern films.’
‘Yes, but you never like those films.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘You didn’t like Starship Troopers.’
‘That’s because it’s a crap macho film.’
‘It’s satire,’ Harry said.
‘Of what?’
‘American society’s inherent fascism. The Hardy Boys meet Hitler Youth.’