by Jo Nesbo
Then Harry had rung the second number he had been given, the number in Stavanger. He had tried four times, but no one had answered. He knew, of course, that this did not mean anything in itself. Not everyone slept with their mobile switched on beside them. But Kaja Solness clearly did. She answered on the second ring, and when Harry said they were going to Stavanger on the first flight and that she should be on the airport express by five past six, she had uttered one word: ‘OK.’
They had arrived at Oslo’s Gardemoen Airport at half past six and Harry had tried the number again, without success. An hour later they had landed at Sola Airport, and Harry rang with the same result. On their way to the taxi queue, Kaja managed to contact the employer, who said that the person they were looking for had not turned up for work at the usual time. She had informed Harry, and he had gently placed his hand on the small of her back and led her firmly past the taxi queue and into a taxi in the face of loud protests, which he met with: ‘Thanking you, and may you have a wonderful day, folks.’
It was exactly 8.16 when they arrived at the address, a white timber house in Våland. Harry let Kaja pay, got out and left the door open. Studied the house front, which revealed nothing. Inhaled the damp, fresh, though still mild Vestland air. Braced himself. Because he already knew. He might be mistaken, of course, but he knew with the same certainty that he knew Kaja would say ‘Thank you’ after being given the receipt.
‘Thank you.’ The car door closed.
The name was next to the middle of the three bells, by the front door.
Harry pressed the button and heard the bell ring somewhere in the house’s innards.
One minute and three attempts later he pressed the bottom bell.
The old lady who opened the door smiled at them.
Harry noted that Kaja instinctively knew who should speak. ‘Hello, I’m Kaja Solness. We’re from the police. The floor above you isn’t answering. Do you know if anyone is at home?’
‘Probably. Even though it’s been quiet there this morning,’ the lady said. And, on seeing Harry’s elevated eyebrows, hastened to add: ‘You can hear everything here, and I heard people last night. Since I rent out the flat I think I ought to keep an ear open.’
‘Keep an ear open?’ Harry queried.
‘Yes, but I don’t stick …’ The lady’s cheeks flushed pink. ‘There’s nothing wrong, I trust? I mean, I’ve never had any problems at all with—’
‘We don’t know,’ Harry said.
‘The best thing to do would be to check,’ Kaja said. ‘So if you have a key …’ Harry knew a variety of set phrases would be whirring around Kaja’s brain now, and waited for the continuation with interest. ‘… then we would like to assist you in ensuring that everything is in order.’
Kaja Solness was a bright woman. If the house owner agreed to the proposal and they found something, the report would say they were summoned. There was no question of them having forced their way in or having ransacked the place without a warrant.
The woman hesitated.
‘But you can also let yourself in after we’ve gone,’ Kaja smiled. ‘And then call the police. Or the ambulance. Or …’
‘I think it’s best if you come with me,’ the woman said after a deep furrow of concern entrenched itself in her brow. ‘Wait here and I’ll fetch the keys.’
The flat they entered one minute later was clean, tidy and almost completely unfurnished. At once Harry recognised the silence that is so present, so oppressive, in bare flats in the morning, when the hustle and bustle of the working day is a scarcely audible noise on the outside. But there was also a smell he recognised. Glue. He spotted a pair of shoes, though no outdoor clothing.
In the kitchenette there was a large teacup in the sink, and on the shelf above tins proclaiming they contained teas of unknown origin to Harry: oolong, Anji Bai Cha. They advanced through the flat. On the sitting-room wall was a picture Harry thought was K2, the popular killing machine of a mountain in the Himalayas.
‘Check that one, will you?’ Harry asked, nodding to the door with a heart on it and walked to what he assumed must be the bedroom door. He took a deep breath, pressed down the handle and pushed open the door.
The bed was made. The room tidy. A window was ajar, no smell of glue, air as fresh as a child’s breath. Harry heard the landlady take up a position in the doorway behind him.
‘So odd,’ she said. ‘I heard them last night, I did. But there was only one person’s steps.’
‘Them?’ Harry said. ‘You’re sure there was more than one person?’
‘Yes, I heard voices.’
‘How many?’
‘Three, I would say.’
Harry peered into the wardrobe. ‘Men? Women?’
‘You can’t hear absolutely everything, I’m afraid.’
Clothes. A sleeping bag and a rucksack. More clothes.
‘Why would you say there were three?’
‘After one left, I heard noises from up here.’
‘What sort of noises?’
The landlady’s cheeks flushed again. ‘Banging. As if … well, you know.’
‘But no voices?’
The landlady considered the question. ‘No, no voices.’
Harry walked out of the room. And to his surprise saw that Kaja was still standing in the hall by the bathroom door. There was something about the way she was standing – as though facing a strong headwind.
‘Something up?’
‘Not at all,’ Kaja said quickly, lightly. Too lightly.
Harry went over and stood beside her.
‘What is it?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘I … just have a tiny problem with closed doors.’
‘OK,’ Harry said.
‘That’s … that’s just how I am.’
Harry nodded. And that was when he heard the sound. The sound of allotted time, of a line running out, of seconds disappearing, a quick, hectic drumming of water that doesn’t quite flow and doesn’t quite drip. A tap on the other side of the door. And he knew he had not been mistaken.
‘Wait here,’ Harry said. He pushed open the door.
The first thing he noticed was that the smell of glue was even stronger inside.
The second was that a jacket, a pair of jeans, pants, a T-shirt, two black socks, a hat and a thin wool jumper were lying on the floor.
The third was that water was dripping in an almost continuous line from the tap into a bathtub filled so full that water was escaping down the overflow at the side.
The fourth was that the water in the bath was red, blood from what he could tell.
The fifth was that the glazed eyes above the taped mouth of the naked, corpse-white person lying at the bottom of the bath faced the side. As if trying to glimpse something in the blind spot, something he hadn’t seen coming.
The sixth was that he couldn’t see any indications of violence, no external injuries that would explain all the blood.
Harry cleared his throat and wondered how he could ask the landlady in the most considerate way possible to come in and identify her lodger.
But he didn’t have to; she was already at the door.
‘OhmyGod!’ she groaned. And then – stressing every single syllable: ‘Oh my God!’ And, finally, in a wailing tone invoking even greater emphasis: ‘Oh my Lord God Almighty …’
‘Is it …?’ Harry began.
‘Yes,’ the woman said with a tear-filled voice. ‘That’s him. That’s Elias. Elias Skog.’
25
Territory
THE WOMAN HAD CLASPED HER HANDS IN FRONT OF HER mouth, and mumbled through her fingers. ‘But what have you done, dear Elias? A vein?’
‘I’m not sure he did anything,’ Harry said, leading her from the bathroom to the front door of the flat. ‘Could I ask you to ring the police station in Stavanger and tell them to send forensics officers? Tell them we have a crime scene here.’
‘Crime scene?’ Her eyes were large and black with shock.
> ‘Yes, say that. Use the emergency number, 112, if you like. OK?’
‘Y-yes.’
They heard the woman stomping down the stairs to her flat.
‘We’ve got about a quarter of an hour before they get here,’ Harry said. They removed their shoes, put them in the hall and walked into the bathroom in stockinged feet. Harry looked around. The sink was full of long blond hair, and on the bench a tube was squeezed flat.
‘That looks like toothpaste,’ Harry said, bending over the tube, trying not to touch it.
Kaja went closer. ‘Superglue,’ she stated. ‘Strongest there is.’
‘That’s the stuff you shouldn’t get on your fingers, isn’t it?’
‘Works in no time. If your fingers are pressed together for too long, they’ll be stuck. Then you’ll either have to cut them apart or tug until the skin comes off.’
Harry stared first at Kaja. Then at the body in the bath.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said slowly. ‘This can’t be true …’
POB Gunnar Hagen had had his doubts. Perhaps it was the most stupid thing he had done since he came to Police HQ. Forming a group to run an investigation against the ministry’s orders could get him into trouble. Making Harry Hole the leader was asking for trouble. And trouble had just knocked on the door and walked in. Now it was standing in front of him in the shape of Mikael Bellman. And as Hagen listened, he noticed the strange marks on the Kripos POB’s face shining whiter than usual, as if they were illuminated by something red hot inside, cooled fission in a nuclear reactor, a potential explosion that was under control for the moment.
‘I know for certain that Harry Hole and two of his colleagues have been to Lake Lyseren to investigate the murder of Marit Olsen. Beate Lønn from Krimteknisk asked us to carry out a cabin-to-cabin search in the area around an old ropery. One of her officers was said to have found out that the rope used to hang Marit Olsen originates from there. So far so good …’
Mikael Bellman rocked back on his heels. He hadn’t even taken off his floor-length trench coat. Gunnar Hagen steeled himself for what was to follow. Which came in painfully protracted form, with somewhat perplexed intonation.
‘But when we spoke to the officer in Ytre Enebakk, he told me that the herostratic Harry Hole was one of three officers involved in the investigation. Hence, one of your men, Hagen.’
Hagen didn’t answer.
‘I assume you are aware of the consequences of placing yourself above Ministry of Justice orders, Hagen.’
Hagen still didn’t answer, but he met Bellman’s glare.
‘Listen,’ Bellman said, loosening a button on his coat and sitting down after all. ‘I like you, Hagen. I think you’re a good policeman, and I will need good men.’
‘When Kripos has total power, you mean?’
‘Exactly. I could benefit from having someone like you in a prominent position. You have a military academy background, you know the importance of thinking tactically, of avoiding battles you can’t win, of realising when retreat is the best way to win …’
Hagen nodded slowly.
‘Good,’ Bellman said, rising to his feet. ‘Let’s say Harry Hole inadvertently found himself by Lake Lyseren; it was a coincidence, had nothing to do with Marit Olsen. And such coincidences are hardly likely to reoccur. Can we agree on that … Gunnar?’
Hagen flinched involuntarily when he heard his first name in the other man’s mouth, like an echo of a first name he himself had once spoken, his predecessor’s, in an attempt to create a joviality for which there was no basis. But he let it go. For he knew that this was the kind of battle Bellman had been talking about. And that, furthermore, he was about to lose the war. And that the conditions of surrender which Bellman had offered him could have been worse. A lot worse.
‘I’ll have a word with Harry,’ he said and took Bellman’s outstretched hand. It was like squeezing marble: hard, cold and lifeless.
Harry took a swig and unhooked the final joint of his forefinger from the handle of the landlady’s translucent coffee cup.
‘So you’re Inspector Harry Hole from Oslo Police District,’ said the man sitting on the opposite side of the landlady’s coffee table. He had introduced himself as Inspector Colbjørnsen, with a ‘c’, and now he repeated Harry’s title, name and affiliation with the stress on Oslo. ‘And what brings Oslo Police to Stavanger, herr Hole?’
‘The usual,’ Harry said. ‘Fresh air, beautiful mountains.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘The fjord. Base jumping from Pulpit Rock, if we have time.’
‘So Oslo have sent us a comedian, have they? You’re participating in an extreme sport, I can tell you that much. Any good reason why we were not informed of this visit?’
Inspector Colbjørnsen’s smile was as thin as his moustache. He was sporting one of those funny little hats only very old men and super-self-aware hipsters have. Harry was reminded of Popeye Doyle in The French Connection. And guessed that Colbjørnsen would not shy away from sucking a lollipop or stopping on his way out of the door with an ‘Oh, just one more thing’.
‘I reckon there must be a fax at the bottom of the in tray,’ Harry said, looking up at the man in the white outfit as he came in. The material of the forensics officer’s overalls rustled as he took off the white hood and plumped down into a chair. He looked straight at Colbjørnsen and muttered a local profanity.
‘Well?’ asked Colbjørnsen.
‘He’s right,’ the crime scene officer said and nodded in Harry’s direction, without glancing at him. ‘The lad up there has been stuck to the bottom of the bath with superglue.’
‘Has been?’ said Colbjørnsen, looking at his subordinate with a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Passive form. Aren’t you a bit premature in ruling out the possibility that Elias Skog did it himself?’
‘And managed to turn on the tap so he would drown in the slowest, most painful manner conceivable?’ Harry suggested. ‘After taping up his mouth so that he couldn’t scream?’
Colbjørnsen sent Harry another razor-thin smile. ‘I’ll tell you when you can interrupt, Oslo.’
‘Stuck fast from top to toe,’ the officer continued. ‘The back of his head was shaved and smeared with glue. The same with his shoulders and back. Buttocks. Arms. Both legs. In other words—’
‘In other words,’ Harry said, ‘when the killer was finished with the glueing job, Elias had been lying there for a while and the adhesive had been hardening. He turned the tap a little way and left Elias Skog to a slow death by drowning. And Elias began his fight against time and death. The water rose slowly but his strength was ebbing away. Until mortal fear had him in its grip and gave him the energy for a last desperate attempt to pull himself free. And he did. He freed the strongest of his limbs from the bottom of the bathtub. His right leg. He simply tore it off and you can see the skin left on the bath surface. Blood spurted into the water as Elias banged his foot to rouse the landlady downstairs. And she heard the banging.’
Harry nodded towards the kitchen where Kaja was trying to calm and console the elderly lady. They could hear her bitter sobs.
‘But she misunderstood. She thought her lodger was bonking a girl who had accompanied him home.’
He looked at Colbjørnsen, who had turned pale and no longer exhibited any signs of wanting to interrupt.
‘And all the time Elias was losing blood. A lot of blood. All the skin from his leg was gone. He became weaker, more tired. In the end, his determination began to fade. He gave up. Perhaps he was already unconscious from loss of blood as the water rose into his nostrils.’ Harry fixed his eyes on Colbjørnsen. ‘Or perhaps not.’
Colbjørnsen’s Adam’s apple was running a shuttle service.
Harry looked down at the dregs in the coffee cup. ‘And now I think Detective Solness and I should thank you for your hospitality and return to Oslo. Should you have any more questions, you can reach me here.’ Harry jotted down a number in the margin of a newspaper, tore off a section and passed
it over the table. Then he got to his feet.
‘But …’ said Colbjørnsen, getting to his feet as well. Harry towered twenty centimetres over him. ‘What was it you wanted with Elias Skog?’
‘To save him,’ Harry said, buttoning up his coat.
‘Save? Was he mixed up in something? Wait, Hole, we have to get to the bottom of this.’ But there was no longer the same authority in Colbjørnsen’s use of the imperative form.
‘I’m sure you officers in the Stavanger force are perfectly capable of working this out for yourselves,’ Harry said, walking to the kitchen door and motioning to Kaja that they were leaving. ‘If not, I can recommend Kripos. Say hello to Mikael Bellman from me, if you have to.’
‘Save him from what?’
‘From what we were unable to save him from,’ Harry said.
In the taxi on the way to Sola, Harry stared out of the window at the rain hammering down on the unnaturally green fields. Kaja didn’t say a word. For which he was grateful.
26
The Needle
GUNNAR HAGEN WAS IN HARRY’S CHAIR WAITING FOR THEM when Harry and Kaja stepped into the hot, damp office.
Bjørn Holm, who was sitting behind Hagen, shrugged and gestured that he didn’t know what the POB wanted.
‘Stavanger, I hear,’ Hagen said, getting up.
‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t get up, boss.’
‘It’s your chair. I’ll be going soon.’
‘Uh-uh?’
Harry inferred that it was bad news. Bad news of a certain significance. Bosses don’t hasten down the culvert to Botsen Prison to tell you your travel invoice has been completed incorrectly.
Hagen remained standing, so Holm was the only person in the room to be seated.
‘I’m afraid I have to inform you that Kripos has already discovered that you are working on the murders. And I have no choice but to close the investigation.’
In the ensuing silence Harry could hear the boiler rumbling in the adjacent room. Hagen ran his eyes over them, meeting each gaze in turn and stopping at Harry. ‘I can’t say this is an honourable discharge, either. I gave you clear instructions that this was to be a discreet operation.’