by Jo Nesbo
35
The Dive
THE MIST DRIFTED ACROSS THE SHINY, BLACK SURFACE OF Lake Lyseren. Along the banks the trees stood with bowed shoulders like sombre, silent witnesses. The tranquillity was broken by shouted commands, radio communication and splashes as divers toppled backwards off rubber dinghies. They had started on the shore closest to the ropery. The heads of the search-and-recovery teams had sent their divers out in a fan formation, and now they were standing on land, crossing off the squares on the defined search grid they had covered, and signalling with a pull on the lifelines when they wanted the divers to stop or come back. The professional divers, such as Jarle Andreassen, also had wires in the lines which went up to full-face masks, allowing them to stay in verbal contact.
It was only six months since Jarle had taken his rescue course, and his pulse was still up during these dives. And a high pulse meant higher oxygen consumption. The more experienced men at Briskeby Fire Station called him ‘The Float’ as he had to rise to the surface and exchange oxygen cylinders so often.
Jarle knew that there was still good daylight at the top, but down here it was as black as night. He tried to swim at the regulation one and a half metres above the lakebed, yet he still stirred up mud, which reflected the light from his torch and partially blinded him. Even though he knew there were other divers a few metres away on either side, he felt alone. Alone and frozen to the marrow. And there were probably still hours of diving ahead of them. He knew he had less air left than the others and cursed to himself. Being the first fire station diver to change cylinders was fine by him, but he feared he would have to surface before the voluntary club divers as well. He refocused in front of him and stopped breathing. Not as a conscious action to reduce consumption. But because in the middle of his torch beam, inside the swaying forest of stalks that grew in the muddy bed closer to land, he could see a form floating free. A form that did not belong down here, that would be unable to live here. An alien feature. That was what made it so fascinating and at the same time so frightening. Or perhaps it was the light from his torch shining on the dark eyes that made it look as if it were alive.
‘Everything OK, Jarle?’
It was the team head. One of his tasks was to listen to his divers’ breathing. Not just to be sure they were breathing, but to hear if there were signs of anxiety. Or excessive calm. At twenty metres the brain began to store so much nitrogen that the so-called rapture of the deep could emerge, the nitrogen narcosis that meant you began to forget things, that simple jobs became more difficult and could, at greater depths, produce dizziness, tunnel vision and downright irrational behaviour. Jarle didn’t know if they were just yarns that did the rounds, but he had heard of divers who had pulled off their masks with a smile at fifty metres below. So far the only narcosis he had experienced was the cosy red-wine-induced serenity that he enjoyed with his partner late on Saturday nights.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Jarle Andreassen said and started breathing again. He sucked in the mixture of oxygen and nitrogen and heard it rumble past his ears as he released clusters of bubbles that fought their way desperately to the surface.
It was a large red stag. It was hanging upside down, its huge antlers apparently caught on the rock face. It must have been feeding on the bank and fallen. Or perhaps something or someone had chased it into the water. What else would it have been doing there? It had probably got tangled up in the rushes and the long stems of the water lilies, tried to struggle free, with the result that it had only got even more enmeshed in the tough, green tentacles. And then it must have gone under and wrestled on until it drowned. Sunk to the bottom and lain there until the bacteria and the body’s chemistry had filled it with gas and it had risen towards the top again, but the antlers had snagged on the lattice of green plants growing down here. In a few days the gas would have drained from the cadaver and it would have sunk again. Just like a drowned human body. The same thing was as likely to have happened to the person they were looking for, and that was why the body had not been found: it had never floated to the surface. If so, it would be lying down here somewhere, probably covered with a layer of mud. Mud which inevitably swirled upwards as they approached, which meant that even small defined search areas such as this could keep their secrets concealed for all eternity.
Jarle Andreassen took out his large diver’s knife, swam over to the stag and cut the stems obstructing the antlers. He had an inkling his boss would not appreciate that, but he couldn’t bear the thought of this handsome beast being held under water. The cadaver rose half a metre, but then there were more stems holding it back. Jarle was careful not to let his lifeline get snarled in the reeds and made some hurried slashes. Then he felt a pull on the line. Hard enough for him to feel irritation. Hard enough for him to lose concentration for a moment. The knife slipped out of his hand. He shone his torch downwards and caught a glimpse of the blade before it was lost from view in the mud. Cautiously he swam after it. Thrust his hand into the mud drifting up towards him like ash. Groped along the bottom. Felt stones, branches, slippery, rotten and green. And something hard. Chain. Probably from a boat. More chain. Something else. Solid. The contours of something. A hole, an opening. He heard the sudden hiss of bubbles before his brain could formulate the thought. That he was afraid.
‘Everything OK, Jarle? Jarle?’
No, everything was not OK. For even through thick gloves, even with a brain that seemed unable to absorb enough air, he had no doubts about where his hand had strayed. Into the open mouth of a human body.
PART FOUR
36
Helicopter
MIKAEL BELLMAN ARRIVED AT THE LAKE IN A HELICOPTER. The rotor blades whisked the mist into candyfloss as he dashed, bent double, from the passenger seat across the field to the ropery. Kolkka and Beavis followed at a half-run. From the opposite direction came four men carrying a stretcher. Bellman stopped them and lifted the blanket. The stretcher-bearers averted their faces as Bellman leaned over and studiously examined the naked, white bloated body.
‘Thank you,’ he said and let them continue towards the helicopter.
Bellman stopped at the top of the slope and looked down on the people standing between the building and the water. Among the divers divesting themselves of their equipment and dry suits he could see Beate Lønn and Kaja Solness. Further away was Harry Hole, talking to a man Bellman guessed was Skai, the local County Officer.
The POB signalled to Beavis and Kolkka that they should wait, and with lithe, nimble steps, he glided down the slope.
‘Hello, Skai,’ Bellman said, brushing twigs off his long coat. ‘Mikael Bellman, Kripos, we’ve spoken on the phone.’
‘Correct,’ Skai said. ‘The night his people found some rope here.’ He jerked his thumb back towards Harry.
‘And now it seems he’s here again,’ Bellman said. ‘The question is, of course, what he’s doing at my crime scene.’
‘Well,’ Harry said, clearing his throat, ‘firstly, this is hardly a crime scene. Secondly, I’m looking for a missing person. And it does seem as if we’ve found what we were looking for. How’s the triple murder going? Found anything? You got our information about the Håvass cabin, did you?’
The County Officer acknowledged a glance from Bellman and absented himself in discreet haste.
Bellman surveyed the lake while running a forefinger along his lower lip as if to rub in some ointment. ‘Alright, Hole, you are aware, are you, that you have just ensured that both you and your superior officer, Gunnar Hagen, have not only lost your jobs but will also be charged with dereliction of duty?’
‘Mm, because we do the job we’ve been entrusted with?’
‘I think the Minister of Justice will be demanding a pretty detailed explanation as to why you initiated a search for a missing person right outside the ropery which supplied the rope that was used to kill Marit Olsen. I gave you Crime Squad people a chance. You won’t get another. Game over, Hole.’
‘Then we’ll have
to give the Minister of Justice a pretty detailed explanation, Bellman. Naturally, it will include information about how we found out where the rope came from, how we got onto the trail of Elias Skog and the Håvass cabin, how we found out that there was a fourth victim called Adele Vetlesen and how we found her here today. A job Kripos, with all its manpower and resources, failed to carry out over two months. Eh, Bellman?’
Bellman didn’t answer.
‘Frightened it might affect the Minister of Justice’s decision on who is best suited to investigate murders in this country, are you?’
‘Don’t overplay your hand, Hole. I’ll crush you just like that.’ Bellman flicked his fingers.
‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Neither of us has a winning hand, so what if I pass over the kitty?’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘You get everything. Everything we have. We don’t take credit for anything.’
Bellman looked askance at Harry. ‘And why should you help us?’
‘Simple,’ Harry said, plucking the last smoke from the pack. ‘I get paid for helping to catch the killer. That’s my job.’
Bellman grimaced and his head and shoulders moved as if he were laughing, but not a sound issued forth. ‘Come on, Hole, what do you want?’
Harry lit his cigarette. ‘I don’t want Gunnar Hagen, Kaja Solness or Bjørn Holm to take the rap for this. Your prospects in the force won’t be affected.’
Bellman squeezed his full lower lip between thumb and first finger. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘And I want to be part of this. I want access to all the material you have and to resources for the investigation.’
‘That’s enough!’ Bellman said, raising a hand. ‘Are you hard of hearing, Hole? I told you to stay away from this case.’
‘We can catch this killer, Bellman. Right now that should be more bloody important than who’s in charge afterwards, shouldn’t it?’
‘Don’t you …!’ Bellman shouted, but held back when he saw a couple of heads turn in their direction. He took a step closer to Harry and lowered his voice. ‘Don’t you talk to me as if I were an idiot, Hole.’
The wind blew the smoke from Harry’s cigarette into Bellman’s face, but he didn’t blink. Harry shrugged.
‘Do you know what, Bellman? I don’t think this has much to do with power or politics. You’re a little boy who wants to be the hero who saves the day. Simple as that. And you’re scared I’ll ruin the epic. But there’s an easy way of resolving this. What about unzipping and seeing who can piss as far as the divers’ dinghy?’
When Mikael Bellman laughed this time, it was for real, with volume and everything. ‘You should read the warning signs, Harry.’
His right hand shot out, so quickly that Harry didn’t manage to react, struck the cigarette between his lips and knocked it away. It hit the water with a hiss.
‘Smoking kills. Have a good day.’
Harry heard the helicopter take off as he watched his last cigarette floating in the water. The grey, wet paper, the black, dead tip.
Night had started to fall as the diving team’s boat dropped Harry, Kaja and Beate ashore by the car park. There was sudden movement amid the trees followed by camera flashes. Harry instinctively held up an arm, and he heard Roger Gjendem’s voice from out of the darkness.
‘Harry Hole, there are rumours flying around that you’ve found a young woman’s body. What’s her name and how sure are you that this is connected with the other murders?’
‘No comment,’ Harry said, ploughing his way through, half blinded. ‘For the moment this is a missing persons case, and the only thing we can say is that a woman has been found who might be the missing person. As far as the murder cases I assume you’re referring to are concerned, talk to Kripos.’
‘Woman’s name?’
‘She has to be identified first and relatives informed.’
‘But you’re not ruling out—’
‘As usual, I’m not ruling out anything, Gjendem. Press conference to follow.’
Harry got into the car; Kaja had already started the engine and Beate Lønn was sitting on the back seat. They trundled onto the main road to the flashes of cameras behind them.
‘Now,’ Beate Lønn said, leaning forward between the seats, ‘I still haven’t been given an explanation as to how your search for Adele Vetlesen led here.’
‘Deductive logic, pure and simple,’ Harry said.
‘Goes without saying,’ Beate sighed.
‘In fact, I’m embarrassed I didn’t twig before,’ Harry said. ‘I went round wondering why the killer had made the effort to go all the way out to a disused ropery just for a piece of rope. Especially since that rope – unlike what he could have bought in a shop – could be traced back here. The answer was, of course, obvious. Nevertheless, it was only when I sat looking into a deep African lake that I realised. He didn’t come here for the rope. He must have used the rope for something here – because it happened to be lying around – and then taken it home where he later used it to kill Marit Olsen. The reason he came here was that he already had a body he needed to dispose of. Adele Vetlesen. The local man, Skai, spelt it out for us the first time we came here. This is the deep end of the lake. The killer filled her trousers with rocks, tied up the waist and legs with rope, then dropped her overboard.’
‘How do you know she was dead before she came here? He might have drowned her.’
‘There was a large cut around her neck. It’s my bet the post-mortem will show that there wasn’t any water in her lungs.’
‘And that ketanome is in her bloodstream, the same as with Charlotte and Borgny,’ Beate said.
‘I’m told ketanome is a fast-working anaesthetic,’ Harry said. ‘Strange I’d never heard of it before.’
‘Not so strange,’ Beate said. ‘It’s an old cheapo version of ketalar, which is used to anaesthetise patients with the advantage that they can still breathe by themselves,’ Beate said. ‘Ketanome was banned in the EU and Norway in the nineties because of side effects, so now you generally see it in underdeveloped countries. Kripos considered it a major clue for a while, but got nowhere with it.’
As they dropped Beate off at Krimteknisk in Bryn forty minutes later, Harry asked Kaja to hang on and got out of the car.
‘There was one thing I wanted to ask you,’ Harry said.
‘Oh yes?’ Beate said, shivering and rubbing her hands together.
‘What were you doing at a potential crime scene? Why wasn’t Bjørn there?’
‘Because Bellman assigned Bjørn to special duties.’
‘And what does that mean? Cleaning the latrines?’
‘No. Coordination of Krimteknisk and strategic planning.’
‘What?’ Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a bloody promotion.’
Beate shrugged. ‘Bjørn’s good. It wasn’t before time. Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye. Oh, by the way, just a moment. I asked you to tell Bellman where we’d found the rope. When did you pass the message on?’
‘You rang me at night, remember, so I waited until the following morning. Why’s that?’
‘No reason,’ Harry said. ‘No reason.’
When he got back into the car, Kaja quickly slipped her phone into her pocket.
‘News of the body’s already on the Aftenposten website,’ she said.
‘Oh yes?’
‘They say there’s a big pic of you with your full name and that you’re referred to as “heading the investigation”. And of course they’re linking this case with the other murders.’
‘So, that’s what they’re doing. Mm. Are you hungry?’
‘Quite.’
‘Have you got any plans? If not I’ll treat you to a meal.’
‘Great. Where?’
‘Ekeberg restaurant.’
‘Ooh. Exclusive. Any particular reason you chose that one?’
‘Well, it came to mind when
a pal of mine was recounting an old story.’
‘Tell me.’
‘There’s nothing to tell, it’s just the usual adolescence thi—’
‘Adolescence! Come on!’
Harry chuckled. And as they approached the city centre and it started snowing at the top of Ekeberg Ridge, Harry told her about Killer Queen, the darling of Ekeberg restaurant, once the most attractive functionalist building in Oslo. Which today – post renovation – it is again.
‘But in the eighties it was so run-down that people had actually given up on the place. It had become a boozy dance restaurant where you went to tables and asked for the pleasure, trying not to knock over the glasses. And then shuffled round the floor propping each other up.’
‘I see.’
‘Øystein, Tresko and I used to go to the top of the German bunkers on Nordstrand beach, drink beer and wait for puberty to pass. When we were seventeen we ventured over to the restaurant, lied about our ages and went in. You didn’t have to lie much – the place needed all the cash it could get. The dance band stank, but at least they played “Nights in White Satin”. And they had a star attraction who guested almost every night. We called her Killer Queen. A female man-o’-war, she was.’
‘A man-o’-war?’ Kaja laughed. ‘Set your cap at?’
‘Yup,’ Harry said. ‘Bore down on you like a galleon in full rig, mean, sexy and dead scary. Equipped like a fairground. Curves on her like a roller coaster.’
Kaja laughed even louder. ‘The local fun-fair, no less?’
‘In a way,’ Harry said. ‘But she went to Ekeberg restaurant primarily to be seen and adored, I think. And for the free drinks from faded dance-floor kings, of course. No one ever saw Killer Queen go home with any of them. Perhaps that was what fascinated us. A woman who’d had to go down a league or two for admirers, but in a way still had style.’
‘And then what?’
‘Øystein and Tresko said they would each buy me a whiskey if I dared ask her to dance.’
They crossed the tramlines and drove up the steep hill to the restaurant.