by Jo Nesbo
The eight people there constituted what Bellman declared the inner core of the investigative unit. Harry knew only two of them: Bjørn Holm and a robust, down-to-earth but not very imaginative female detective known as the Pelican who had once worked at Crime Squad. Bellman had introduced Harry to everyone, including Ærdal, a man in horn-rimmed glasses and a brown suit of the ready-made variety that led one’s thoughts to the German Democratic Republic. He sat at the far end of the table cleaning his nails with a Swiss army knife. Harry conjectured a background in the military police. They had given their reports. Which all supported Harry’s contention: that the case was in a rut. He noted the defensive attitude, particularly in the report on the search for Tony Leike. The officer responsible went through which passenger lists had been checked with which companies, to no avail, and which authorities in which telephone company had told them that none of their base stations had picked up signals from Leike’s phone. He informed them that no hotels in town had anyone on their books under the name of Leike, but naturally the Captain (even Harry knew the self-appointed and overenthusiastic police informant-cum-receptionist at Hotel Bristol) rang to say he had seen a person answering Tony Leike’s description. The officer gave a report that went into an impressive level of detail, but failed to notice that what emerged was a defence of the result. Zilch. Nada.
Bellman sat at the head of the table with crossed legs and trouser creases that were still as sharp as a knife. He thanked the officers for their reports and made a more formal introduction of Harry by reading quickly from a kind of CV: graduation from Police College, FBI course on serial killers in Chicago, the clown murder case in Sydney, promotion to Inspector and of course the Snowman investigation.
‘So Harry is a part of this team with effect from today,’ Bellman said. ‘He reports to me.’
‘And is subject to only your orders as well?’ the Pelican boomed. Harry recalled that what she was doing now was precisely what had given her the nickname, the way she pushed her chin forward, the long, beak-like nose and the protracted, thin neck as she peered over her glasses. Sceptical and voracious at the same time, considering whether she wanted you on the menu or not.
‘He is not subject to anyone’s orders,’ Bellman said. ‘He has a free role in the team. We may consider Inspector Hole a consultant. Isn’t that right, Harry?’
‘Why not?’ Harry said. ‘An overpaid, overrated guy who thinks he knows something you don’t.’
Cautious titters around the table. Harry exchanged glances with Bjørn Holm, who sent him a nod of encouragement.
‘Except that in this instance he does,’ Mikael Bellman said. ‘You’ve been talking to Iska Peller, Harry.’
‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘But first I’d like to hear more about your plan to use her as a decoy.’
The Pelican cleared her throat. ‘It hasn’t been formulated in detail. For the time being, our plan is to bring her to Norway, make it public that she’s staying at a place where it’s obvious to the killer that she would be easy prey. And then sit back and hope he swallows the bait.’
‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘Simple.’
‘Experience tells us simplicity works,’ said the Swiss army knife man in the GDR suit concentrating on the nail of his index finger.
‘Agreed,’ Harry said. ‘But in this instance the decoy won’t play ball.’
Groans and sighs of despair.
‘So I suggest we make it even simpler,’ Harry said. ‘Iska Peller asked why, if we were paid to catch the monster, we couldn’t be the bait ourselves.’
He looked around the table. At least he had their attention. Convincing them would be harder.
‘You see, we have an advantage over the killer. We assume he has the page torn from the Håvass guest book, so he has Iska Peller’s name. But he doesn’t know what she looks like. We’re working on the assumption he was at the cabin that night but Iska and Charlotte Lolles got there first. And Iska was ill and spent the evening alone in a bedroom she shared solely with Charlotte. She stayed there until all the others had left. In other words, we can set up a little role play with one of our own number acting the part of Iska, without the killer being any the wiser.’
Another sweeping scan of the table. The scepticism on their faces was layers thick.
‘And how had you envisaged getting someone to come to this performance?’ Ærdal asked, snapping the knife shut.
‘By Kripos doing what they do best,’ Harry said.
Silence.
‘Which is?’ asked the Pelican at length.
‘Press conferences,’ Harry said.
The silence in the room was tangible. Until the laughter shattered it. Mikael Bellman’s. They looked at their boss in astonishment. And realised that Harry Hole’s plan had already been given the go-ahead.
‘So …’ Harry began.
After the meeting Harry took Bjørn Holm aside.
‘Nose still sore?’ Harry asked.
‘That you trying to apologise?’
‘No.’
‘I … well, you were lucky my nose didn’t break, Harry.’
‘Could have been an improvement, you know.’
‘Are you apologising or not?’
‘Sorry, Bjørn.’
‘Great. And I suppose that means you want a favour?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that is?’
‘I was wondering if you’ve been to Drammen to check Adele’s clothes for DNA. She did meet this guy she was at the cabin with a few times.’
‘We’ve been through her wardrobe, but the problem is that the clothes have been washed, worn and probably been in contact with lots of other people afterwards.’
‘Mm. She wasn’t a skier as far as I know. Checked her skiing gear, have you?’
‘She didn’t have any.’
‘What about the nurse’s uniform? Perhaps it was only used once and may still have sperm stains on.’
‘She didn’t have that, either.’
‘No cheeky miniskirt and bonnet with a red cross?’
‘Nope. There was a pair of light blue hospital trousers and top there, but nothing to get you going exactly.’
‘Mm. Perhaps she couldn’t get hold of the miniskirt variety. Or couldn’t be bothered. Could you examine the hospital stuff for me?’
Holm sighed. ‘As I said, we went through all the clothes there, and whatever could be washed had been washed. Not so much as a stain or a hair.’
‘Could you take it to the lab? Give it a thorough going-over?’
‘Harry …’
‘Thanks, Bjørn. And I was only kidding, you’ve got a terrific conk. Really.’
It was four o’clock when Harry fetched Sis in the Kripos car Bellman had placed at his disposal until further notice. They drove to Rikshospital and talked to Dr Abel. Harry translated the bits Sis didn’t understand, and she shed some tears. Then they went to see their father who had been moved to another room. Sis squeezed Olav’s hand and whispered his name again and again as if to rouse him gently from sleep.
Sigurd Altman popped by, put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, not too long, and said a few words, not too many.
After dropping off Sis at her little flat by Lake Sognsvann, Harry drove to the city centre where he kept going, twisting this way and that through one-way streets, roadworks and dead ends. He drove through the red-light district, the shopping area, the drugs zone and it wasn’t until he had emerged and the town lay beneath him that he was aware he had been on his way to the German bunkers. He rang Øystein, who appeared ten minutes later, parked his taxi beside Harry’s car, opened the door, turned up the music, came over and sat on the brick wall next to Harry.
‘Coma,’ Harry said. ‘Not the worst thing that could happen, I suppose. Got a smoke?’
They sat listening to Joy Division. ‘Transmission’. Ian Curtis. Øystein had always liked singers who died young.
‘Shame I never got to talk to him after he fell ill,’ Øystein said, taking a deep drag.
‘You wouldn’t have done, however long it had taken,’ Harry said.
‘No, that’ll have to be my consolation.’
Harry laughed. Øystein sent him a sideways glance, smiled, unsure whether you were allowed to laugh when fathers lay on their deathbeds.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Øystein asked. ‘Go on a bit of a binge? I can ring Tresko and—’
‘No,’ Harry said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘I have to work.’
‘You’d prefer death and depravity to a glass or two?’
‘You can drop by and say goodbye while he’s still breathing, you know.’
Øystein shivered. ‘Hospitals give me the creeps. Anyway, he can’t hear jackshit, can he?’
‘It wasn’t him I was thinking about, Øystein.’
Øystein screwed up his eyes against the smoke. ‘The little upbringing I had, Harry, I got from your father. D’you know that? My own dad wasn’t worth a bloody fly’s droppings. Go there tomorrow, I will.’
‘Good for you.’
He stared up at the man above him. Saw his mouth move, heard the words issuing forth, but something must have been damaged, he couldn’t assemble them into anything sensible. All he understood was that the time had come. The revenge. That he would have to pay. And in a way it was a relief.
He was sitting on the floor with his back to the large, round wood burner. His arms were forced backwards around the stove, his hands tied with two ski belts. He threw up from time to time, probably due to concussion. The bleeding had stopped and sensation had returned to his body, but there was a mist over his vision that came and went. Nonetheless, he was not beset by doubt. The voice. It was a ghost’s voice.
‘You’re going to die quite soon,’ it whispered. ‘As she did. But there is still something to gain. You see, you still have to choose how. Unfortunately, there are only two options. Leopold’s apple …’
The man held up a metal ball perforated with holes and a small loop of wire hanging from one of them.
‘Three of the girls have tasted it. None of them liked it much. But it’s pain-free and swift. And you only need to answer this: How? And who else knows? Who have you been working with? Believe me, the apple is preferable to the alternative. Which you, as an intelligent man, have probably worked out is …’
The man stood up, flailed his arms in an exaggerated manner, to keep warm, and put on a broad smile. The whisper was all there was to break the silence.
‘It’s a bit cold in here, don’t you think?’
Then he heard a scraping sound followed by a low hiss. He stared at the match. At the unwavering, yellow, tulip-shaped flame.
55
Turquoise
EVENING CAME, A STARRY SKY AND BITINGLY COLD.
Harry parked the car on the hill outside the Voksenkollen address he had been given. In a street consisting of large expensive houses this one stood out. The building was like something out of a fairy tale, a royal palace with black timbers, immense wooden pillars at the entrance and turf on the roof. In the garden there were two other buildings plus a Disney version of a Norwegian storehouse supported on pillars. Harry thought it unlikely that the shipowner Anders Galtung did not possess a big enough fridge.
Harry rang the doorbell, noticed a camera high up the wall and said his name when requested by a female voice. He walked up a floodlit gravel drive that sounded as if it was eating what was left of his boot soles.
A middle-aged woman with turquoise eyes, wearing an apron, received him at the door and led him into an unoccupied living room. She did it with such an elegant mixture of dignity, superiority and professional friendliness that even after she had left Harry with a ‘Coffee or tea?’ he was unsure whether this was fru Galtung, a servant or both.
When foreign fairy tales came to Norway, kings and nobility did not exist, so in Norwegian versions the king was represented by a well-to-do farmer in ermine. And that was exactly what Harry saw when Anders Galtung came into the living room: a fat, smiling, gentle and somewhat sweaty farmer in a traditional Norwegian sweater. However, after a handshake, the smile was replaced by a concerned expression, more fitting for the occasion. His question – ‘Anything new?’ – was followed by heavy breathing.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’
‘Tony has a habit of disappearing, I understand from my daughter.’
Harry thought he detected a certain reluctance to articulate the first name of his future son-in-law. The shipowner fell heavily into a rose-painted chair opposite Harry.
‘Have you … any personal theories, herr Galtung?’
‘Theories?’ Anders Galtung shook his head, making his jowls quiver. ‘I don’t know him well enough to form theories. Gone to the mountains, gone to Africa, what do I know?’
‘Mm. In fact, I came here to speak to your daughter—’
‘Lene’ll be right here,’ Galtung interrupted. ‘I just wanted to enquire first.’
‘Enquire about what?’
‘About what I said, whether there was anything new. And … and whether the police are sure the man has a clear conscience.’
Harry noticed that ‘Tony’ had been exchanged for ‘the man’ and knew his first instinct had not deceived him: the father-in-law was not enamoured of his daughter’s choice.
‘Do you think he has, Galtung?’
‘Me? I would have thought I was showing trust. After all, I am in the process of investing a considerable sum in this Congo project of his. A very considerable sum.’
‘So a lad in rags knocks on the door and gets a princess plus half a kingdom, like in a fairy tale, does he?’
Within two seconds flat the living room was quiet, as Galtung eyed Harry.
‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘And maybe your daughter is exerting some pressure on you to invest. The venture is pretty dependent on finance, isn’t it?’
Galtung opened his arms. ‘I’m a shipowner. Risk is what I live off.’
‘And could die of.’
‘Two sides of the same coin. In risk markets one man’s loss is another man’s gain. So far the others have lost, and I hope this trend will continue.’
‘Other people losing?’
‘Shipowning is a family business, and if Leike is going to be family we have to ensure …’ He paused as the door opened. She was a tall, blonde girl with her father’s coarse features and her mother’s turquoise eyes, but without her father’s bluff farmer-made-good air or her mother’s dignified superiority. She walked with a hunched bearing, as if to reduce her height, so as not to stand out, and she observed her shoes rather than Harry when she shook hands and introduced herself as Lene Gabrielle Galtung.
She didn’t have a lot to say. And even less to ask. She seemed to cower under her father’s gaze every time she answered Harry’s questions, and Harry wondered whether his assumption that she had forced her father to invest might be wrong.
Twenty minutes later Harry expressed his gratitude, stood up and, right on invisible cue, there she was again, the woman with the turquoise eyes.
When she opened the front door for him, the cold surged in and Harry stopped to button up his coat. He looked at her.
‘Where do you believe Tony Leike is, fru Galtung?’
‘I don’t believe anything,’ she said.
Perhaps she answered too quickly, perhaps there was a twitch at the corner of her eye, perhaps it was just Harry’s intense desire to find something, anything, but he was convinced she was telling the truth. The second thing she said did not allow any room for doubt.
‘And I am not fru Galtung. She is upstairs.’
Mikael Bellman adjusted the microphone in front of him and surveyed the audience. There was a hushed whisper, but all eyes were directed towards the podium, fearful of missing anything. In the packed room he recognised the journalist from Stavanger Aftenblad and Roger Gjendem from Aftenposten. He could hear Ninni, who was wearing a freshly ironed uniform, as usual. Someone counted down the seconds to th
e start, which was normal for live broadcasts of press conferences.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. We have called this press conference to give you an update on what we are doing. Any questions …’
Chuckles all round.
‘… will be answered at the end. I will pass over now to the officer leading the investigation, POB Mikael Bellman.’
Bellman cleared his throat. Full turnout. The TV channels had been given permission to place their microphones on the podium table.
‘Thank you. Let me start by being a party-pooper. I can see from the attendance and your faces that we may have ratcheted up your expectations a little too high in calling you here. There will be no announcement of a final breakthrough in the investigation.’ Bellman saw the disappointment on their faces and heard scattered groans. ‘We are here in order to fulfil the desire you expressed to be kept informed. I apologise if you had more important things planned for today.’
Bellman gave a wry smile, heard a few journalists laugh and knew that he had already been forgiven.
Mikael Bellman gave them the gist of where the investigation stood. That is, he repeated their success stories, such as the rope being traced to a building by Lake Lyseren, finding another victim, Adele Vetlesen, and identifying the murder weapon used in two of the murders: a so-called Leopold’s apple. Old news. He saw one of the journalists stifle a yawn. Mikael Bellman looked down at the papers in front of him. At the script. Because that was what it was, a script for a bit of theatre, each and every word written down, weighed carefully, gone over. Not too much, not too little; the bait should smell, but it shouldn’t stink.
‘Finally, something about the witnesses,’ he began and the press corps sat up in their chairs. ‘As you know, we have asked anyone who was at the Håvass cabin on the same night as the murder victims to come forward. And one person by the name of Iska Peller has come forward. She is arriving by plane from Sydney tonight, and she will proceed to the cabin with one of our detectives tomorrow. We will try to reconstruct the crime scene as faithfully as possible.’