by Jo Nesbo
Bellman saw Leike swallow, saw him bare his white milestone-sized teeth in an attempted smile, saw the confusion in his eyes and knew that they had already won.
‘I didn’t ring any Elias Skog,’ Leike said.
Bellman sighed. ‘Do you want me to show you the listed calls from Telenor?’
Leike shrugged. ‘I didn’t ring. I lost a mobile phone a while back. Maybe someone rang him using that?’
‘Don’t try to be smart, Leike. We’re talking about your landline.’
‘I didn’t ring him, I’m telling you.’
‘I heard. According to official records, you live alone.’
‘Yes, I do. That is—’
‘Your fiancée sleeps over now and then. And sometimes you get up earlier than her and go to work while she’s still in your apartment?’
‘That happens. But I’m at hers more often than not.’
‘Well, now. Has Galtung’s heiress daughter got a more luxurious pad than you, Leike?’
‘Maybe. Cosier, at any rate.’
Bellman crossed his arms and smiled. ‘Nonetheless, if you didn’t call Skog from your house, she must have done. I’m giving you five seconds to start talking sense to us, Leike. In five seconds, a patrol car on the streets of Oslo will receive orders to drive with sirens blaring to that cosy little pad of hers, cuff her, bring her here and allow her to phone her father to tell him you’re accusing her of ringing Skog. So that Anders Galtung can gather the meanest pack of hardbitten solicitors in Norway for his daughter, and you have got yourself a real adversary. Four seconds, three seconds.’
Leike shrugged again. ‘If you reckon that’s enough to issue an arrest warrant on a young woman with a perfect, unblemished record, go ahead. But I somehow doubt it would be me who gained an adversary.’
Bellman observed Leike. Had he underrated him after all? He was more difficult to read now. Anyway, that was step one over. Without a confession. Fine, there were eight left. Step two in the nine-step model was to sympathise with the suspect by normalising actions. But that presupposed he knew the motive or he was working with something he could normalise. A motive for killing all the guests who had happened to stay over at a skiing cabin was not self-evident, over and above the obvious truism that most serial killers’ motives are hidden in the psyche where the majority of us never go. In his preparations Bellman had therefore decided to tread lightly on the sympathy step before jumping straight into the motivation step: giving the suspect a reason to confess.
‘My point, Leike, is that I’m not your adversary. I’m just someone who wants to understand why you do what you do. What makes you tick. You’re clearly an able, intelligent person; you only have to look at what you’ve achieved in business. I’m fascinated by how people set themselves objectives and pursue them regardless of what others think. People who set themselves apart from the madding crowd of mediocrity. I may even say that I can recognise myself in that bracket. Maybe I understand you better than you think, Tony.’
Bellman had asked a detective to ring one of Leike’s stock exchange buddies to find out whether Leike preferred his first name pronounced as ‘Toeuny’, ‘Tony’ or ‘Tonny’. The answer was ‘Tony’. Bellman hit the right pronunciation, caught his eye and attempted to hold it.
‘Now I’m going to say something perhaps I shouldn’t, Tony. Because of a number of internal issues we can’t devote a lot of time to this case, and that is why I would like a confession. Normally we wouldn’t offer a deal to a suspect with such overwhelming evidence against him, but it would expedite procedures. And for a confession – which, in fact, we do not even need to obtain a conviction – I will offer you a reduced sentence, which will be considerable. I am afraid I’m restricted by the legal framework with regards to offering a specific figure, but let’s just say between you and me that it will be con-sid-er-able. Alright, Tony? It’s a promise. And now it’s on tape.’ He pointed to the red light on the table between them.
Leike subjected Bellman to a long, reflective look. Then he opened his mouth. ‘The two who brought me in told me your name was Bellman.’
‘Call me Mikael, Tony.’
‘They also said you were a very intelligent man. Tough, but trustworthy.’
‘I think you will discover that to be borne out, yes.’
‘You said considerable, didn’t you?’
‘You have my word.’ Bellman felt his pulse rising.
‘Alright,’ Leike said.
‘Good,’ said Mikael Bellman lightly, touching his lower lip with thumb and forefinger. ‘Shall we start at the beginning?’
‘Fine,’ Leike said, taking from his back pocket a piece of paper that Truls and Jussi must have let him keep. ‘I was given the dates and times by Harry Hole so this should be quick. Borgny Stem-Myhre died somewhere between 10 and 11 p.m. on the 16th of December in Oslo.’
‘Correct,’ Bellman said, sensing an incipient exultation in his heart.
‘I checked the calendar. At that time I was in Skien, in the Peer Gynt Room, Ibsen House, where I was talking about my coltan project. This can be confirmed by the person who hired the room and roughly one hundred and twenty potential investors who were present. I assume you know it takes about two hours to drive there. The next was Charlotte Lolles between … let’s see … it says between eleven o’clock and midnight on the 3rd of January. At that time I was having dinner with a few minor investors in Hamar. Two hours by car from Oslo. By the way, I took the train, and I tried to find the ticket, but sadly without any luck.’
He smiled in apology to Bellman, who had stopped breathing. And for a second Leike’s milestone teeth appeared between his lips as he concluded: ‘But I hope that at least some of the twelve witnesses present during the dinner may be regarded as reliable.’
‘Then he said there was a possibility he could be charged with the murder of Marit Olsen, because even though he had been at home with his fiancée he had, in fact, also been alone for two hours skiing on the floodlit course in Sørkedalen that evening.’
Mikael Bellman shook his head and stuffed his hands even deeper into his coat pockets as he examined The Sick Child.
‘At the time when Marit Olsen died?’ Kaja asked, inclining her head and looking at the mouth of the pale, presumably dying girl. She generally concentrated on one thing whenever they met at the Munch Museum. Sometimes it could be the eyes, another time the landscape in the background, the sun or simply Edvard Munch’s signature.
‘He said that neither he nor the Galtung woman—’
‘Lene,’ Kaja corrected.
‘—could remember exactly when, but it could have been quite late, it usually was because he liked to have the course to himself.’
‘So Tony Leike could have been in Frogner Park instead. If he was in Sørkedalen he would have passed through the toll stations twice, on the way out and back in. If he’s got an electronic pass on his windscreen the time is automatically recorded. And then—’
She had turned and stopped abruptly when she met his frigid eyes.
‘… But of course you’ve already checked that,’ she said.
‘We didn’t need to,’ Mikael said. ‘He hasn’t got an AutoPASS, he stops and pays cash. And so there is no record of the journey.’
She nodded. They strolled on to the next picture, stood behind a few Japanese tourists who were noisily pointing and gesticulating. The advantage of meeting at the Munch Museum in the week – apart from the fact that it lay between Kripos in Bryn and Police HQ in Grønland – was that it was one of those tourist destinations where you were guaranteed never to meet colleagues, neighbours or acquaintances.
‘What did Leike say about Elias Skog and Stavanger?’ Kaja asked.
Mikael shook his head again. ‘He said he could probably be charged with that one, too. Since he had slept alone that night, and thus had no alibi. So I asked him if he had gone to work the next day and he answered that he couldn’t remember, but he assumed he had turned up at seven as usual. And
that I could check with the receptionist at the shared office block if I considered it important. I did, and it transpired that Leike had booked one of the meeting rooms for a quarter past nine. And talking with a few of the investor types in the office, I found out that two of them had been to the meeting with Leike. If he had left Elias Skog’s place at three in the morning he would have needed a plane to make it. And his name is not on any passenger lists.’
‘That doesn’t mean much. He may have been travelling under a false name and ID. And anyway, we still have his phone call to Skog. How did he explain that away?’
‘He didn’t even try, he just denied it,’ Bellman snorted. ‘What is it that people reckon is so good about The Dance of Life? They haven’t even got proper faces. Look like zombies, if you ask me.’
Kaja studied the dancers in the painting. ‘Perhaps they are,’ she said.
‘Zombies?’ Bellman chuckled. ‘Do you mean that?’
‘People who go around like dancers, but feel dead inside, buried, decomposing. No question.’
‘Interesting theory, Solness.’
She hated it when he used her surname, which he did as a rule when he was angry or simply found it appropriate to remind her of his intellectual superiority. Which she let him do because it was obviously important for him. And perhaps he was intellectually superior. Wasn’t it part of what had made her fall for him, his conspicuous intelligence? She didn’t have a clear recollection any more.
‘I have to go back to work,’ she said.
‘And do what?’ Mikael asked, looking at the security guard standing behind the rope at the back of the room and yawning. ‘Count files and wait for Crime Squad to be wound up? You know you’ve given me a massive problem with this Leike, don’t you?’
‘I have?’ she burst out, incredulous.
‘Keep it down, dear. You were the one who tipped me off about what Harry had dug up on Leike. Told me he was going to arrest him. I trusted you. I trusted you so much that I arrested Leike on the basis of your tip-off and subsequently as good as told the press the case was in the bag. And now this shit has exploded in our bloody faces. The guy has a water-tight alibi for at least two of the murders. We’re going to have to let him go at some point today. Daddy-in-law Galtung is no doubt already considering the lawyers from hell to sue us, and the Minister of Justice will want to know how the fuck we could have committed such a blunder. And now the head on the block won’t be yours, Hole’s or Hagen’s, but mine, Solness. Do you understand? Mine alone. And we’re going to have to do something about that. You’re going to have to do something about it.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Not much, a trifle, and we’ll sort out the rest. I want you to take Harry out. Tonight.’
‘Out? Me?’
‘He likes you.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Didn’t I tell you I saw you two sitting and smoking on the veranda?’
Kaja went pale. ‘You arrived late, but you didn’t say anything about having seen us.’
‘You were so preoccupied with each other you didn’t hear the car, so I parked and watched. He likes you, my love. Now I want you to take him somewhere. For a couple of hours, no more.’
‘Why?’
Mikael Bellman smiled. ‘He’s spending too much time sitting at home. Or lying. Hagen should never have given him time off; people like Hole can’t deal with it. And we don’t want him to drink himself to death up in Oppsal, do we now. Take him to eat somewhere. Cinema. A beer. Just make sure he isn’t at home between eight and ten. And be careful. I don’t know if he’s sharp or just paranoid, but he examined my car very closely the night he left yours. Alright?’
Kaja didn’t answer. Mikael’s smile was the one she could dream about in the long periods when he wasn’t there, when job and family obligations prevented him from meeting her. So how come the same smile now made her feel as if her stomach was being turned inside out?
‘You … you weren’t thinking of …’
‘I’m thinking of doing whatever I have to,’ Mikael said, looking at his watch.
‘Which is?’
He shrugged. ‘What do you think? Swapping the head on the block, I reckon.’
‘Don’t ask me to do this, Mikael.’
‘But I’m not asking you, dear. I’m ordering you.’
Her voice was barely audible. ‘And if … if I were to refuse?’
‘Then I’ll not only crush Hole, I’ll crush you, too.’
The light from the ceiling fell on the tiny white patches on his face. So handsome, she thought. Someone should paint him.
The marionettes are dancing as they should now. Harry Hole found out I rang Elias Skog. I like him. I think perhaps we could have been friends if we had met when we were children or in our teens. We have a couple of things in common. Like intelligence. He is the only detective who seems to have the ability to see behind the veil. That also means, of course, I will have to be careful with him. I am looking forward to seeing how this develops. With childlike glee.
PART FIVE
46
Red Beetle
HARRY OPENED HIS EYES AND STARED UP AT A LARGE, SQUARE red beetle crawling towards him between the two empty bottles while purring like a cat. It stopped, then purred again, tapped its way a further five centimetres towards him along the glass coffee table leaving a tiny trail in the ash. He stretched out his hand, grabbed it and put it to his ear. Heard his own voice sound like a rock being crushed. ‘Stop ringing me, Øystein.’
‘Harry …’
‘Who the hell is this?’
‘It’s Kaja. What are you doing?’
He looked at the display to make sure the voice was telling the truth. ‘Resting.’ He felt his stomach preparing to evacuate its contents. Again.
‘Where?’
‘On the sofa. I’ll ring off now unless it’s important.’
‘Would that mean you’re at home in Oppsal?’
‘Well, let me see. The wallpaper’s right anyway. Kaja, I have to go.’
Harry threw the phone to the end of the sofa, lurched to his feet, stooped to find his centre of gravity and staggered forwards using his head as a navigation aid and battering ram. It led him into the kitchen without any collisions of consequence, and he placed his hands on both sides of the sink before the fountain of vomit gushed from his mouth.
Opening his eyes again, he saw that the plate rack was still in the sink. The thin, yellowish green vomit was running down a single upright plate. Harry turned on the tap. One of the advantages of being an alcoholic back off the wagon was that by day two your sick stops blocking the drain.
Harry drank a little water from the tap. Not much. Another advantage the experienced alcoholic possesses is a knowledge of what his stomach can tolerate.
He went back to the living room, legs akimbo, as if he had just filled his pants. Which, as a matter of fact, he had not yet checked. He lay down on the sofa and heard a low croak coming from the far end. A small voice from a miniature person was calling his name. He groped between his feet and put the red mobile to his ear again.
‘What’s up?’
He wondered what he should do with the gall that was burning his throat like lava, cough it up or swallow it. Or let it burn, as he deserved.
He listened as she explained she wanted to see him. Would he meet her at Ekeberg restaurant? Like now. Or in an hour’s time.
Harry looked at the two empty bottles of Jim Beam on the coffee table and then at his watch. Seven. The Vinmonopol was closed. Restaurant bar.
‘Now,’ he said.
He clicked off, and the phone rang again. He looked at the display and pressed answer. ‘Hi, Øystein.’
‘Now you’re answering! Shit, Harry, I was beginning to wonder if you’d done a Hendrix.’
‘Can you drive me to Ekeberg restaurant?’
‘What the hell d’you think I am? A sodding taxi driver?’
Eighteen minutes later Ø
ystein’s car stood outside the steps to Olav Hole’s house and he called through the opened window with a grin. ‘Need any help locking the bloody door, you drunken sot?’
‘Dinner?’ Øystein exclaimed as they drove by Nordstrand. ‘To fuck her or because you have fucked?’
‘Calm down. We work together.’
‘Exactly. As my ex-wife used to say: “You want what you see every day.” She must have read it in a glossy mag. Only she didn’t mean me, but that bastard at the office.’
‘You haven’t been married, Øystein.’
‘Could have been. The guy wore a Norwegian sweater and a tie and spoke nynorsk. Not dialect, but fucking national-romantic Nynorsk, Ivar Aasen style, I kid you not. Can you imagine what it’s like to sleep alone thinking that right now your could-have-been-wife is busy shagging on a desk. You visualise a coloured sweater and a bare white arse going hammer and tongs, until it stops and seems to suck in its cheeks and the clod howls: EG KJEM! I’ve come! In Nynorsk.’
Øystein glanced at Harry, but there was no reaction.
‘Christ, Harry, this is great humour. Are you that pissed?’
Kaja sat by the window, deep in thought, taking stock of the town, when a low cough made her turn. It was the head waiter; he had that apologetic it’s-on-the-menu-but-the-kitchen-says-we-don’t-have-it look, and had stooped very low over her, but spoke in such muffled tones that she could still hardly hear him.
‘I regret to say that your company has arrived.’ Then he amended his statement with a blush. ‘I mean, I regret to say we could not admit him. He’s a tad … animated, I’m afraid. And our policy in such—’
‘Fine,’ Kaja said, getting up. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s outside waiting. I’m afraid he bought a drink from the bar on the way in, and he’s got it with him. Perhaps you might be so kind as to bring the glass back in. We could lose our licence for that sort of thing, you know.’
‘Of course, just get me my coat, would you, please?’ said Kaja, hurrying through the restaurant with the waiter nervously tripping along after her.
On emerging, she saw Harry. He was standing, swaying, next to the low wall by the slope where they had stood last time.