by Jo Nesbo
Six minutes later Harry stood on the edge with his back to the chasm, binoculars around his neck and a cigarette smoking from his mouth.
‘Nervous?’ Bellman smiled.
‘Nope,’ Harry said. ‘Scared shitless.’
Bellman checked the rope ran through the brake without a hitch, round the narrow tree trunk behind them and to Harry’s harness.
Harry closed his eyes, breathed in and concentrated on leaning backwards, overriding the body’s evolution-conditioned protest, formed from millions of years of experience that the species cannot survive if it steps off cliffs.
The brain won over the body by the smallest possible margin.
For the first few metres he could support his legs against the rock face, but as it jutted in he was left hanging in the air. The rope was released in fits and starts, but its elasticity softened the tightening of the harness against his back and thighs. Then the rope came more evenly, and after a while he had lost sight of the top and was alone, hovering between the white snowflakes and the black cliff faces.
He leaned to the side and peered down. And there, twenty metres below, he glimpsed sharp black rocks protruding from the snow. Steep scree. And in the midst of all the black and white, something yellow.
‘I can see the snowmobile!’ Harry shouted and the echo ricocheted between the rock walls. It was upside down with the skis in the air. Since he and the rope were unaffected by the wind, he could judge that the vehicle lay about three metres further along. More than seventy metres down. The snowmobile must therefore have been travelling at an unusually slow speed before it took off.
The rope went taut.
‘More!’ Harry shouted.
The resonant answer from above sounded as if it had come from a pulpit. ‘There is no more rope.’
Harry stared down at the snowmobile. Something was sticking out from under it to the left. A bare arm. Black, bloated, like a sausage that had been on the grill for too long. A white hand against a black rock. He tried to focus, to force his eyes to see better. Open palm, the right hand. Fingers. Distorted, crooked. Harry’s brain rewound. What had Tony Leike said about his illness? Not contagious, just hereditary. Arthritis.
Harry glanced at his watch. Detective’s reflex. The dead man was found at 17.54. Darkness covered the walls down in the scree.
‘Up!’ Harry shouted.
Nothing happened.
‘Bellman?’
No answer.
A gust of wind twirled Harry round on the rope. Black rocks. Twenty metres. And all of a sudden, without warning, he felt his heart pound and he automatically grabbed the rope with both hands to make sure it was still there. Kaja. Bellman knew.
Harry breathed in deep, three times, before shouting again.
‘It’s getting dark, the wind’s picking up and I’m freezing my balls off, Bellman. Time to find shelter.’
Still no answer. Harry closed his eyes. Was he frightened? Frightened that an apparently rational colleague would kill him on a whim because circumstances happened to be propitious? Course he was bloody frightened. For this was no whim. It wasn’t chance that he stayed behind to go into the frozen wastes with Harry. Or was it? He took a deep breath. Bellman could easily arrange for this to look like an accident. Climb down afterwards and remove the harness and rope, say that Harry had missed his footing in the snow. His throat had gone dry. This was not happening. He hadn’t dug his way out of a sodding avalanche just to be dropped down a ravine twelve hours later. By a policeman. This didn’t bloody happen, this …
The pressure from the harness was gone. He was falling. Free fall. Fast.
‘The rumour is that Bellman is supposed to have manhandled a colleague,’ Gjendem said. ‘Just because the guy had danced a couple of times too many with her at the police Christmas party. The guy wanted to report a broken jaw and a cracked skull, but had no evidence – the attacker had been wearing a balaclava. But everyone knew it was Bellman. Trouble was brewing so he applied for a move to Europol to get away.’
‘Do you believe there is anything to these rumours, Gjendem?’
Roger shrugged. ‘It certainly looks as if Bellman has a certain … um, predilection for that kind of transgression. We’ve looked into Jussi Kolkka’s background following the avalanche at Håvass. He beat up a rapist under interrogation. And Truls Berntsen, Bellman’s sidekick, is not exactly a mummy’s boy, either.’
‘Good. I want you to cover this duel between Kripos and Crime Squad. I want you to let off a few bombshells. Preferably about a psychopathic management style. That’s all. Then let’s see how the Minister of Justice reacts.’
Without any gestures, or parting salutations, Bent Nordbø put on his newly polished spectacles, unfolded the newspaper and started to read.
Harry didn’t have time to think. Not one thought. Nor did he see his life passing before him, faces of people he should have said he loved, or feel impelled to walk towards any light. Possibly because you don’t get that far when you fall five metres. The harness tightened against his groin and back, but the elasticity in the rope allowed him a gentle slackening of speed.
Then he felt himself being hoisted up again. The wind was blowing snow in his face.
‘What the fuck happened?’ Harry asked when, fifteen minutes later, he was standing on the edge of the ravine swaying in the wind as he untied the rope from the harness.
‘Scared then, were you?’ Bellman smiled.
Instead of putting the rope down, Harry wound it round his right hand. Checked that he had enough slack in the rope to have a swing. A short uppercut to the chin. The rope meant he would be able to use his hand again tomorrow, not like when he hit Bjørn Holm and suffered two days of painful knuckles.
He took a step towards Bellman. Saw the POB’s surprised expression when he noticed the rope around Harry’s fist, saw him retreat, stagger and fall backwards in the snow.
‘Don’t! I … I just had to tie a knot at the end of the rope so that it wouldn’t slide through the brake …’
Harry continued towards him, and Bellman – who was cowering in the snow – automatically raised his arm in front of his face.
‘Harry! There … there was a gust of wind and I slipped …’
Harry stopped, eyed Bellman in surprise. Then he continued past the trembling POB and lumbered through the snow.
The icy wind blew through outer clothing, underclothes, skin, flesh, muscles and into the bones. Harry grabbed a ski pole strapped to the snowmobile, cast around for some other material he could tie to the top, but found nothing, and sacrificing anything he was wearing was out of the question. Then he speared the pole into the snow to mark the site. God knows how long it would take them to find it again. He pressed the button on the electric starter. Found the lights, turned them on. And Harry knew at once. Saw it in the snow blowing horizontally into the cones of light and forming an impenetrable white wall: they would never get out of this labyrinth and back to Ustaoset.
62
Transit
KIM ERIK LOKKER WAS THE YOUNGEST FORENSICS OFFICER at Krimteknisk. Accordingly, he was often given jobs of a less forensic nature. Such as driving to Drammen. Bjørn Holm had mentioned that Bruun was a homosexual of the flirtier kind, but that Kim Erik only had to hand over the clothes and then leave.
When the satnav woman in the car declared ‘You have arrived at your destination’, he found himself outside an old block of flats. He parked and wandered through open doors up to the second floor, to the door marked with the names GEIR BRUUN/ADELE VETLESEN on a sheet of paper stuck down with two bits of tape.
Kim Erik pressed the doorbell once, twice, and at last heard the sounds of someone stomping through the hall.
The door swung open. The man was wearing no more than a towel around his waist. He was unusually pale, and his smooth crown was wet and shiny with sweat.
‘Geir Bruun? H-hope I’m not interrupting,’ said Kim Erik Lokker, holding the plastic bag with outstretched arm.
&nbs
p; ‘Not at all, I’m only screwing,’ he said in the affected voice Bjørn Holm had imitated. ‘What is this?’
‘The clothes we borrowed. We’ve had to keep the ski pants until further notice, I’m afraid.’
‘Really?’
Kim Erik heard the door behind Geir Bruun open. And an extremely feminine voice chirp: ‘What is it, darling?’
‘Just someone delivering something.’
A figure nestled up behind Geir Bruun. She hadn’t even bothered with a towel, and Kim Erik was able to establish that the tiny creature was one hundred per cent woman.
‘Hello there,’ she twittered over Geir Bruun’s shoulder. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’d like him back.’ She raised a small, graceful foot and kicked. The glass in the door was shaking and rattling long after the door had slammed shut.
Harry had stopped the snowmobile and was staring into the drifting snow.
Something had been there.
Bellman had put his arms around Harry’s waist and his head behind his back to shelter from the wind.
Harry waited. Stared.
There it was again.
A cabin. Notched logs. And a storehouse.
Then it was gone again, erased by the snow, as though it had never existed. But Harry had the direction.
So why didn’t he just accelerate and head towards it, save their skins, why did he hesitate? He didn’t know. But there was something about the cabin, something he had sensed in the few seconds it became visible. Something about the black windows, the feeling that he was looking at a building that was infinitely abandoned and yet inhabited. Something that was not right. And which made him press the accelerator gently so as not to be heard above the wind.
63
The Storehouse
HARRY PUT A LOG IN THE WOOD BURNER.
Bellman sat by the table, his teeth chattering. The white stains had taken on a bluish sheen. They had hammered on the door and shouted in the howling wind for a while before smashing a window to an empty bedroom. A bedroom with an unmade bed and a smell that caused Harry to wonder whether someone had slept there very recently. He almost placed a hand on the bed to see if it was still warm. And even though the sitting room would have felt warm anyway – they were so cold – Harry put a hand inside the wood burner to feel if there might be any warm embers under the black ash. But there were not.
Bellman moved closer to the stove. ‘Did you see anything apart from the snowmobile down in the ravine?’
They were the first words he had uttered since running after Harry, begging not to be left behind and throwing himself on the back of the snowmobile.
‘An arm,’ Harry said.
‘Whose arm?’
‘How should I know?’
Harry stood up and went to the bathroom. Checked the toiletries. The few there were. Soap and a razor. No toothbrush. One person, one man. Who either didn’t clean his teeth or had gone away on a trip. The floor was damp, even along the skirting boards, as if someone had hosed it down. Something caught his attention. He crouched down. Half hidden by the skirting board there was something dark. Pebble? Harry picked it up, studied it. It wasn’t lava anyway. He put it in his pocket.
In the kitchen drawers he found coffee and bread. He pressed the bread. Relatively fresh. In the fridge there were two jars of jam, some butter and two beers. Harry was so hungry he imagined he could smell roast pork. He rummaged through the cupboards. Nothing. Shit, did the guy live off bread and jam? He found a packet of biscuits on a pile of plates. Same type of plates they had at the Håvass cabin. Same furniture, too. Could this be a Tourist Association cabin? Harry stopped. He wasn’t just imagining it, he could smell roast – correction: burnt pork.
He went back into the sitting room.
‘Can you smell it?’
‘What?’
‘The smell,’ Harry said, squatting down by the wood burner. Beside the door, on an embossed stag, there were three unidentifiable black bits burned to the cast iron and they were smoking.
‘Did you find any food?’ Bellman asked.
‘Depends what you mean by food,’ Harry said pensively.
‘There’s a storehouse on the other side of the yard. Maybe …’
‘Instead of “maybe” perhaps you should go and check.’
Bellman nodded, got up and went out.
Harry walked over to the desk to see if there was anything he could use to scrape off the burned bits. He pulled out the top drawer. Empty. Harry pulled out the others, all empty. Apart from a sheet of paper in the bottom one. He picked it up. It wasn’t paper but a photograph, face down. The first thing that struck Harry was that it was strange to have a family portrait in a Tourist Association cabin. The photo had been taken in the summer, in front of a farmhouse. A woman and a man sitting on a step with a boy between them. The woman in a blue dress and headscarf, no make-up, a tired smile. The man, with a pinched mouth, stern expression and the serious, closed face you find on embarrassed men who look as though they’re hiding a dark secret. But it was the boy in the middle who caught Harry’s attention. He resembled the mother; he had her open smile and gentle eyes. But he looked like someone else, too. Those large, white teeth …
Harry went back to the wood burner, he was suddenly cold again. The stench of smoking pork … He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply and calmly through his nose a couple of times, but felt the nausea coming nonetheless.
At that moment Bellman stomped in with a broad smile on his face. ‘Hope you like venison.’
Harry woke wondering what had roused him. Was it a sound? Or the absence of sound? For he realised the room was utterly still; the wind had stopped blowing outside. He threw off the blanket and stood up from the sofa.
Walked over to the window and peered outside. It was as if someone had waved a magic wand over the countryside. What, six hours previously, had been hard, merciless wilderness was now gentle, maternal, almost beautiful in the bewitching moonlight. Harry realised he was looking for prints in the snow. He had heard a sound. It could have been anything. A bird. An animal. He listened and heard light snoring from behind one bedroom door. So it wasn’t Bellman who had got up. His gaze followed the footprints leading from the cabin to the storehouse. Or from the storehouse to the cabin? Or both, there were many. Could they be Bellman’s from six hours ago? When had it stopped snowing?
Harry pulled on his boots, went out and looked towards the toilet. No tracks there. He turned his back on the storehouse and pissed against the cabin wall. Why did men do that, why did they have to piss on something? The remnants of a territory-marking instinct? Or … Harry became aware that it wasn’t what he was pissing on, it was what he had his back to that was important. The storehouse. He suspected he was being observed from there. He buttoned up, turned and looked at it. Then he moved towards it. Grabbed the spade as he passed the snowmobile. The plan had been to walk straight in, but instead he stood in front of the plain stone steps to the low door. Listened. Nothing. What the hell was he doing? There was no one here. He went up the steps, tried to raise his hand and grasp the handle, but it wouldn’t move. What the hell was going on? His heart was beating so hard in his chest that it hurt, as if it wanted to burst out. He was sweating and his body refused to obey orders. And it slowly dawned on Harry that this was exactly how he had heard it described. A panic attack. It was the anger that saved him. He kicked open the door with immense force and crashed into the dark. The door swung shut. There was a strong smell of fat, smoked meat and dried blood. Something moved in the stripe of moonlight and a pair of eyes flashed. Harry swung the spade. And he hit something. Heard the dead sound of meat, felt it give. The door behind him fell open again and the moonlight streamed in. Harry stared at the dead deer hanging in front of him. At the other animal carcasses. He dropped the spade and sank to his knees. Then it came, all at once. The wall cracking, the snow consuming him alive, panicking that he couldn’t breathe, the long gasp of pure white fear as he fell towards the blac
k rocks. So lonely. For they had all gone. His father was in a coma, in transit. And Rakel and Oleg were silhouettes against the light at an airport, also in transit. Harry wanted to go back. Back to the dripping room. The solid, damp walls. The sweaty mattress and the sweet smoke that transported him to where they were. Transit. Harry bowed his head and felt hot tears streaming down his face.
I have printed a photo of Jussi Kolkka from Dagbladet’s web page and pinned it up on the wall next to the others. There wasn’t a word in the news about Harry Hole and the other police officers who were there. Or Iska Peller, for that matter. Was it a bluff? They’re trying anyway. And now there is a dead policeman. They’re going to try harder. They HAVE to try harder. Do you hear me, Hole? No? You should do. I’m so close I could whisper it in your ear.
PART SEVEN
64
State of Health
OLAV HOLE’S CONDITION WAS UNCHANGED, DR ABEL HAD said.
Harry sat by the hospital bed looking at his unchanged father while a heart monitor played its beep-beep song interspersed with skipped beats. Sigurd Altman came in, greeted Harry and noted down the figures from the screen onto a pad.
‘Actually, I’m here to visit a Kaja Solness,’ Harry said, getting up. ‘But I don’t know which ward she’s in. Could you …?’
‘Your colleague who was brought in by helicopter the other night? She’s in intensive care. Only until they’ve got all the test results. She’d been buried in the snow for quite a while. When they said Håvass I assumed she must have been this witness from Sydney the police were talking about on the radio.’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Altman. While Kaja was lying in the snow the Australian lady was safe and warm in Bristol, with her own guards and full room service.’
‘Hang on.’ Altman scrutinised Harry. ‘Were you buried in the snow as well?’
‘What makes you say that?’