by Jo Nesbo
‘This is laughable, Harry. I hit that water pipe on Sunday, you just didn’t hear it.’
‘Perhaps because you were wearing this, which cushioned the blow …’ Harry pulled a black woollen hat from his pocket and put it on his head. On the front of the hat was a skull, and Katrine read the name St. Pauli. ‘But how can someone leave DNA, in the form of skin or blood or hair, when they’re wearing this pulled down over their forehead?’
Hallstein blinked hard.
‘The candidate isn’t answering,’ Harry said. ‘So let me answer for him. Hallstein Smith walked into that water pipe the first time he was there, which was a long time ago, before the vampirist set to work.’
In the silence that followed, Hallstein Smith’s low chuckle was the only sound.
‘Before I say anything,’ Smith said, ‘I think we should give former detective Harry Hole a generous round of applause for this fantastic story.’
Smith started to clap his hands, and a few others joined in before the applause died out.
‘But for this to be more than just a story, it requires the same thing as a doctoral thesis,’ Smith said. ‘Evidence! And you have none, Harry. Your entire deduction is based upon two highly dubious assumptions. That some very old scales in a barn shows exactly the right weight of a person who stands on it for barely a second, scales that I can tell you have a tendency to stick. And that because I was wearing a woollen hat I couldn’t have left DNA on the water pipe on Sunday. A hat that I can tell you I took off when I was going down those steps before I hit my head on the water pipe, and put on again seeing as it was colder down in the cellar. The fact that I have no scar on my forehead now is because I heal quickly. My wife can also confirm that I had a mark on my forehead when I returned home.’
Katrine saw the woman in the home-made, drab-coloured dress look at her husband with dark eyes in a blank face, as if she were suffering shock after a grenade explosion.
‘Isn’t that so, May?’
The woman’s mouth opened and closed. Then she nodded slowly.
‘You see, Harry?’ Smith tilted his head and looked at Harry with an expression of sad sympathy. ‘You see how easy it is to blow holes in your theory?’
‘Well,’ Harry said. ‘I respect your wife’s loyalty, but I’m afraid the DNA evidence is indisputable. The analysis from the Forensic Medical Institute not only proves that the organic matter matches your DNA profile, but also that it’s more than two months old, so couldn’t possibly have ended up there on Sunday.’
Katrine started in her chair and looked at Bjørn. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
‘As a result, Smith, it isn’t a theory that you were in Hell’s cellar sometime last autumn. It is a fact. Just as it’s a fact that you had the Ruger revolver in your possession, and that it was in your office when you shot the unarmed Valentin Gjertsen. Besides, we also have stylometrical analysis.’
Katrine looked at the battered yellow folder Harry had pulled out of the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘A computer program that compares word choices, sentence structure, textual style and punctuation to identify the author. It was stylometry that gave fresh life to the debate about which of his plays Shakespeare actually wrote. The success rate for identifying the correct author is between eighty and ninety per cent. In other words, not high enough for it to count as evidence. But the success rate for ruling out a particular author, such as Shakespeare, is 99.9 per cent. Our IT expert, Tord Gren, used the program to compare the emails that were sent to Valentin with thousands of Lenny Hell’s earlier emails to other people. The conclusion is …’ Harry passed the file to Katrine. ‘… that Lenny Hell didn’t write the instructions which Valentin Gjertsen received by email.’
Smith looked at Harry. His fringe had fallen forward over his sweating brow.
‘We’ll discuss this further in a police interview,’ Harry said. ‘But this is a disputation. And you still have the chance to give the adjudication committee an explanation that will stop them refusing to award your doctorate. Isn’t that right, Aune?’
Ståle Aune cleared his throat. ‘That’s right. Ideally, science is blind to the morality of the age, and this wouldn’t be the first doctorate to have been achieved by morally questionable or even directly illegal methods. What we on the adjudication committee need to know before we can approve the dissertation is whether or not there was anyone actually steering Valentin. If that isn’t the case, I can’t see how this thesis can be accepted by the adjudication committee.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry said. ‘So what do you say, Smith? Would you like to explain this to the adjudication committee here and now, before we arrest you?’
Hallstein Smith looked at Harry. His panting was the only sound that could be heard, as if he were the only person in the auditorium who was still breathing. A lone flashbulb went off.
A livid disputation chairman leaned towards Ståle and whispered in a hiss:
‘Holy Jeremiah, Aune, what’s going on here?’
‘Do you know what a monkey trap is?’ Ståle Aune asked, then settled back in his chair and folded his arms.
Hallstein Smith’s head jerked, as if he’d been given an electric shock. He laughed as he raised his arm and pointed at the ceiling. ‘What have I got to lose, Harry?’
Harry didn’t answer.
‘Yes, Valentin was steered. By me. Of course I wrote those emails. But the most important thing isn’t who was behind them, the scientific point is that Valentin was a genuine vampirist, as my research demonstrates, and nothing you’ve said invalidates my results. And if I had to adjust the circumstances to recreate laboratory conditions, that’s no more than researchers have always done. Is it?’ He looked around the audience. ‘But when it comes down to it, I’m not choosing what he does, he is. And six human lives isn’t an unreasonable price to pay for what this –’ Smith tapped his printed and bound thesis with his forefinger – ‘can save humanity from in future, in terms of murder and suffering. The signs and profiles are all laid out here. Valentin Gjertsen was the one who drank their blood, who killed them, not me. I just made it easier for him. When you just for once have the good fortune to encounter a real vampirist, you have a duty to make the most of it, you can’t let short-sighted moralistic attitudes stop you. You have to look at the bigger picture, consider what’s best for humanity. Just ask Oppenheimer, ask Mao, ask the thousands of lab rats with cancer.’
‘So you killed Lenny Hell and shot Marte Ruud for our sakes?’ Harry said.
‘Yes, yes! Sacrifices on the altar of research!’
‘The way you’re sacrificing yourself and your own humanity? To benefit humanity?’
‘Exactly, yes!’
‘So they didn’t die in order that you, Hallstein Smith, could be vindicated? So that the monkey could sit on the throne, get his name in the history books? Because that’s what’s been driving you all along, isn’t it?’
‘I have shown you what a vampirist is, and what one is capable of! Don’t I deserve to be thanked for that?’
‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘first and foremost, you’ve demonstrated what a humiliated man is capable of.’
Hallstein Smith’s head jerked again. His mouth opened and closed. But nothing more came out.
‘We’ve heard enough.’ The chair stood up. ‘This disputation is at an end. And can I ask any police officers present to arrest—?’
Hallstein Smith moved surprisingly quickly. With two rapid steps he reached the table and snatched up the revolver, then took a long stride towards the audience and aimed the revolver at the forehead of the nearest person.
‘Get up!’ he snarled. ‘And the rest of you remain seated!’
Katrine saw a blonde woman stand up. Smith turned her round so that she was standing in front of him like a shield. It was Ulla Bellman. Her mouth was open and she was looking in mute despair at a man in the front row. Katrine could only see the back of Mikael Bellman’s head and had no idea what his face was expressing, only that he was
sitting there as if frozen to the spot. There was a whimpering sound. It came from May Smith. She was leaning sideways slightly in her chair.
‘Let go of her.’
Katrine turned towards the gruff voice. It was Truls Berntsen. He had stood up from his chair in the back row and was walking down the steps.
‘Stop, Berntsen,’ Smith screamed. ‘Or I’ll shoot her and then you!’
But Truls Berntsen didn’t stop. In profile his jaw looked even heavier than usual, but his new muscles were also visible under his thick sweater. He reached the front, turned and walked along the front row, straight towards Smith and Ulla Bellman.
‘One step closer—’
‘Shoot me first, Smith, otherwise you won’t have time.’
‘As you wish.’
Berntsen snorted. ‘You fucking civilian, you wouldn’t d—’
Katrine felt sudden pressure against her ears, as if she were sitting in a plane that was rapidly losing altitude. It took a moment for her to realise that it was the blast from the heavy revolver.
Truls Berntsen had stopped and was standing there, swaying. His mouth was open, his eyes bulging. Katrine saw the hole in his sweater, waited for the blood. And then it came. It was as if Truls was making one last effort to stay upright as he looked directly at Ulla Bellman. Then he fell backwards.
Somewhere in the room a woman screamed.
‘No one move,’ Smith shouted, backing towards the exit with Ulla Bellman in front of him. ‘If I see a single one of you stand up, I’ll shoot her.’
Of course it was a bluff. And of course no one was going to take the risk that it wasn’t.
‘The keys to the Amazon,’ Harry whispered. He was still standing. He held his hand out towards Bjørn, who took a moment to react before putting the car keys in his hand.
‘Hallstein!’ Harry called, and started to move along the row. ‘Your car is parked in the university’s visitors’ car park, and right now it’s being examined by Forensics. I’ve got the keys to a car that’s parked right in front of this building, and I’m a better hostage for you.’
‘Because?’ Smith replied, still backing away.
‘Because I’ll stay calm, and because you have a conscience.’
Smith stopped. Looked thoughtfully at Harry for a few seconds.
‘Go over there and put the handcuffs on,’ he said, nodding towards the table.
Harry emerged from the row of seats, went past Truls, who was lying motionless on the floor, and stopped at the table with his back to Smith and the rest of the room.
‘So that I can see!’ Smith yelled.
Harry turned towards him and held his hands up so that he could see that they were held by the replica handcuffs with the chain between them.
‘Come here!’
Harry walked towards him.
‘One minute!’
Katrine saw Smith use his free hand to grab Harry, who was taller, by his shoulder, then turn him round and steer him out through the door, which he left ajar.
Ulla Bellman looked at the half-open door before she turned to her husband. Katrine saw Bellman beckon her to him. And Ulla started to walk towards him. With short, unsteady steps, as if she was walking on thin ice. But when she reached Truls Berntsen she sank to her knees. She rested her head against his bloody sweater. And in the silence of the auditorium the single painful sob that Ulla emitted sounded louder than the blast of the revolver.
Harry felt the barrel of the revolver against his back as he walked ahead of Smith. Damn, damn! He had been planning this in detail since yesterday, thinking through different scenarios, but he hadn’t seen this coming.
Harry shoved the door open, and the cold March air hit him in the face. Universitetsplassen was deserted, bathing in winter sunshine in front of them. The black paint of Bjørn’s Volvo Amazon glinted in the light.
‘Walk!’
Harry went down the steps out onto the open ground. With his second step his feet vanished from under him and he fell sideways without being able to brace his fall. Pain shot down his arm and back as his shoulder struck the icy ground.
‘Up!’ Smith hissed, grabbing the chain of the handcuffs and dragging him to his feet.
Harry used the momentum Smith had given him, aware that he was unlikely to get a better chance. He thrust his head forward as soon as he was standing, and headbutted Smith, who stumbled, took two steps back and fell down. Harry took a step closer to follow through, but Smith was lying on his back with both hands clutching the revolver, which was pointing straight at Harry.
‘Come on, Harry. I’m used to this, I ended up lying on the ground during every other break time at school. So come on!’
Harry stared down the barrel of the revolver. He had hit Smith’s nose, and a flash of white bone was visible through the broken skin. A trickle of blood ran down the side of one nostril.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Harry,’ Smith laughed. ‘He didn’t manage to kill Valentin from two and a half metres away. So come on, then! Or unlock the car.’
Harry’s brain did the necessary calculations. Then he turned round, slowly opened the driver’s door and heard Smith get to his feet. Harry got in and took his time inserting the key in the ignition.
‘I’ll drive,’ Smith said. ‘Move.’
Harry did as he said, moving slowly and clumsily across the gearstick to the passenger seat.
‘Then slip your feet over the handcuffs.’
Harry looked at him.
‘I don’t want the chain round my neck while I’m driving,’ Smith said, and raised the revolver. ‘It’s your bad luck if you’ve been skipping yoga classes. And I can see that you’re trying to delay us. You have five seconds, starting now. Four …’
Harry leaned back, as far as the rigid seat would let him, held his chained hands out in front of him and bent his knees.
‘Three, two …’
With difficulty Harry managed to tuck his smartly polished shoes through the chain of the handcuffs.
Smith got in, leaned across Harry. Pulled the old-fashioned seat belt across his chest and waist, fastened it, then tightened it with a hard tug so that Harry was literally strapped to the back of the seat. He fished Harry’s mobile from his jacket pocket. He fastened his own seat belt and turned the key. He revved the engine and wrestled with the gearstick. He figured the clutch out and reversed in a semi-circle. Rolled down the window and threw Harry’s phone out, followed by his own.
They pulled out onto Karl Johans gate, turning right so that the Palace filled their field of vision. Green at the lights. They turned left, roundabout, another green, past the Concert House. Aker Brygge. The traffic was flowing smoothly. Far too smoothly, Harry thought. The further he and Smith managed to get before Katrine alerted the patrol cars and police helicopter, the larger the area they would have to cover, and the more roadblocks they would need to set up.
Smith looked out across the fjord. ‘Oslo rarely looks more beautiful than it does on days like this, does it?’
His voice sounded nasal, and was accompanied by a faint whistle. His nose was probably broken.
‘A silent travelling companion,’ Smith said. ‘Well, you’ve done enough talking for today.’
Harry looked at the motorway ahead of them. Katrine couldn’t use their mobile phones to track them, but as long as Smith kept to the main roads there was still hope that they might be found quickly. From a helicopter, a car with a rally check across the roof and boot would be easy to distinguish from the others.
‘He came to see me, calling himself Alexander Dreyer, and wanting to talk about Pink Floyd and the voices he was hearing,’ Smith said, shaking his head. ‘But as you noticed, I’m good at reading people, and I soon realised that this was no ordinary person, but an extremely rare type of psychopath. So I used what he told me about his sexual preferences to check with colleagues who are experts in questions of morality and eventually figured out who I was dealing with. And what his dilemma was. That he was desper
ate to follow his hunting instinct, but that one single mistake, one faint suspicion, one silly little detail might give him away and put the police on to Alexander Dreyer. Are you following this, Harry?’ Smith cast a quick glance at him. ‘That if he was going to hunt again, it had to be in the knowledge that he was absolutely safe. He was perfect, a man with no options, it was just a matter of putting a leash on him and opening the cage and he’d eat – and drink – everything he was offered. But I couldn’t present myself as the person offering this, I needed a fictional puppet master, a lightning conductor to whom the trail would lead if Valentin was caught and confessed. Someone who would end up being uncovered at some point, regardless, to show that the terrain matched the map, who confirmed the theory in my dissertation of the impulsive, childishly chaotic vampirist. And Lenny Hell was the hermit who lived in an isolated house and never had any visitors. But one day he received a surprise visit from his psychologist. A psychologist with something on his head that made him look like a chickenhawk, and a big red revolver in his hand. Caw, caw, caw!’ Smith laughed loudly. ‘You should have seen Lenny’s face when he realised he was my slave! First I got him to take my patient records up to his office. Then we found a cage that the family had used to transport pigs, and we carried it down to the cellar. That must have been when I hit my head on that damn water pipe. We put a mattress inside for Lenny before I chained him up using handcuffs. And there he sat. I didn’t actually have any use for Lenny once I’d pumped him for details of all the women he’d stalked, got copies of the keys to their flats, and the password so I could email Valentin from Lenny’s computer. But I still had to wait before staging his suicide. If Valentin got caught or ended up dead and the police were led to Hell too soon, I had to make sure he had a watertight alibi for the first murder. Because of course I knew they’d check his alibi seeing as he’d been in contact with Elise Hermansen by phone. So I took Lenny to that local pizzeria at the time when I had instructed Valentin to kill Elise, and made sure people saw him. In fact I was so busy concentrating on holding that bolt gun against Lenny under the table that I didn’t notice there were nuts in the pizza bases until it was too late.’ More laughter. ‘As a result of that, Lenny had to spend a lot of time on his own in that cage. I had to laugh when you found Lenny Hell’s sperm on the mattress and concluded that he had abused Marte Ruud there.’