by Jo Nesbo
‘Same as always, pal,’ the hairdresser said in a Pakistani accent, ushering him into one of the salon’s two free chairs. In the third sat a man Truls immediately categorised as an Arab. Dark terrorist eyes beneath a fringe plastered to his forehead. Eyes that darted away in fear after meeting Truls’s in the mirror. Perhaps the man could smell bacon, or recognised the police look. In which case perhaps he was one of those selling drugs down by Brugata. Just hash. The Arabs were cautious with harder drugs. Maybe the Koran equated speed and heroin with a pork chop? Pimp maybe – the gold chain suggested as much. Small-time one, if so. Truls knew the faces of all the big-timers.
On with the babies’ bib.
‘Hair’s got long, pal.’
Truls didn’t like being called ‘pal’ by Pakis, especially not Paki poofs and extra-especially not Paki poofs who would soon be touching you. But the advantage of these powder-puffs was that at least they didn’t rest their hips against your shoulder, tilt their heads, run a hand through your hair, look into your eyes in the mirror and ask whether you want it like this or like that. They just got down to it. They didn’t ask if you wanted your greasy hair washed, they just sprayed it with water, ignored any instructions you might have and went for it with scissors and comb as if it were the Australian sheep-shearing championships.
Truls looked at the front page of the newspaper lying on the shelf below the mirror. It was the same refrain: what was the so-called cop killer’s motive? Most of the speculation centred on a crazy police-hater or an extreme anarchist. Some mentioned foreign terrorism, but terrorists usually claimed the honour of a successful action, and no one had come forward. No one doubted that the two murders were connected – the dates and the crime scenes saw to that – and for a while the police had searched for a criminal both Vennesla and Nilsen had arrested, questioned or offended in some way. But no such connection could be found. So in the interim they had worked on a theory that Vennesla’s murder was one individual’s revenge after an arrest, a bout of jealousy, an inheritance or any of the standard motives. And Nilsen’s murder was another individual with a different motive, but he had been clever enough to copy Vennesla’s murder to fool the police into thinking a serial killer was at work and stop them looking in the obvious places. But then the police had done exactly that, searched in the obvious places as though these were two separate murders. And they didn’t find anything there either.
So the police had gone back to square one. A police murderer. And the press had done the same and kept nagging: why can’t the police catch the person who has killed two of their own?
Truls felt both satisfaction and anger when he saw these headlines. Mikael had probably been hoping that by Christmas and New Year the press would have forgotten the murders and started focusing on other things, allowing them to work in peace. Letting him continue to be the sexy new sheriff in town, the whizz-kid, the town’s guardian. And not someone who failed, who messed up, who sat in front of the flashing cameras with a loser’s face radiating dejected Norwegian Rail-style incompetence.
Truls didn’t need to look at the papers, he had read them at home. He had laughed out loud at Mikael’s feeble statement about where the investigation stood. ‘At this moment in time it’s not possible to say . . .’ and ‘There is no information regarding . . .’ They were sentences taken directly from the chapter about handling the press in Bjerknes and Hoff Johansen’s Investigative Methods, which had been a set text at Police College and in which it said police officers should use these generic quasi-sentences because journalists got so frustrated with ‘no comment’. And also that they should avoid adjectives.
Truls had checked the photos for traces of desperation on Mikael’s face, the expression he used to wear when the big boys in Manglerud reckoned it was time to shut the poncy upstart’s gob, and Mikael needed help. Truls’s help. And of course Truls stepped up. And he was the one who went home with black eyes and thick lips, not Mikael. No, his good looks were spared. For Ulla.
‘Don’t cut off too much,’ Truls said. He watched his hair falling from his pale, slightly protruding forehead in the mirror. The forehead and the sturdy underbite often led people to assume he was stupid. Which on occasion was an advantage. On occasion. He closed his eyes. Trying to decide whether Mikael’s desperate expression was there in the press conference photos or if he saw it only because he wanted to see it.
Suspension. Expulsion. Rejection.
He was still getting his salary. Mikael had been apologetic. Placed a hand on his shoulder and said it was in everyone’s best interest, Truls’s too. Until it was decided what the consequences would be for a policeman who had received money he couldn’t or wouldn’t account for. Mikael had even made sure that Truls was entitled to keep some allowances. So it wasn’t as if he had to go to cheap hairdressers. He had always come here. But he liked it even better now. He liked having exactly the same haircut as the Arab in the next chair. The terrorist cut.
‘What are you laughing at, pal?’
Truls stopped abruptly when he heard his own grunted guffaws. Those which had given him the sobriquet Beavis. No, Mikael had given it to him. During the school party, to the amusement of everyone else, as they discovered, holy shit, that Truls Berntsen did indeed look and sound like the MTV cartoon character! Had Ulla been there? Or was Mikael sitting with his arm round another girl? Ulla with the gentle eyes, with the white sweater, with the slender hand she had once placed on his neck and drawn his head closer, shouted in his ear to drown the roars of the Kawasakis one Sunday in Bryn. She only wanted to ask where Mikael was. But he could still remember the warmth of her hand, it had felt as if it would melt him, make his knees buckle under him on the bridge over the motorway, then and there in the morning sun. And with her breath in his ear and on his cheek, his senses had been working overtime. Even surrounded by the stench of petrol, exhaust and burnt rubber from motorbikes below he could identify her toothpaste, tell her lip gloss was strawberry flavour and that her sweater had been washed in Milo. That Mikael had kissed her. Had had her. Or had he been imagining it? He definitely remembered he had answered he didn’t know. Even though he did. Even though part of him had wanted to tell her. Had wanted to crush the gentleness, the purity, the innocence and the naivety in her eyes. To crush him, Mikael.
But of course he hadn’t.
Why would he? Mikael was his best friend. His only friend. And what would he have achieved by telling her Mikael was up at Angelica’s house. Ulla could get anyone she wanted, and she didn’t want him, Truls. As long as she was with Mikael he would at least have a chance to be in her presence. He’d had the opportunity, but not the motive.
Not then.
‘That do you, pal?’
Truls looked at the back of his head in the round plastic mirror the poof was holding.
Terrorist cut. Suicide bomber cut. He grunted. Got up, chucked a 200-krone note on the newspaper to avoid hand-to-hand contact. Went out into the March day that was still no more than a rumour that spring was on its way. Glanced up at Police HQ. Started walking towards the metro in Grønland. The haircut had taken nine and a half minutes. He lifted his head, walked faster. He had no deadlines. Nothing to do. Oh, yes, he did have something. But it didn’t require much work, and he had his usual resources: time to plan, hatred, the determination to lose everything. He glanced at the shop window in one of the district’s Asian food outlets. And confirmed he finally looked like what he was.
Gunnar Hagen sat gazing at the wallpaper above the Chief of Police’s desk and empty chair. Focused on the darker patches from the photos that had hung there for as long as anyone could remember. There had been pictures of former police chiefs, probably meant as sources of inspiration, but Mikael Bellman was clearly able to do without them. Without the inquisitorial stares at their successor.
Hagen wanted to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair, but there weren’t any arms. Bellman had changed the chairs as well. For hard, low wooden ones.
Hagen
had been summoned, and the assistant in the anteroom had shown him in and said the Chief of Police would be along soon.
The door opened.
‘There you are!’ Bellman rushed round the desk and slumped into the chair. Interlaced his hands behind his head.
‘Anything new?’
Hagen coughed. He knew Bellman was aware that there was nothing new, as Hagen had standing orders to pass on the smallest development in the two murder cases. But he did as he was asked, explained that they still didn’t have any clues in the cases viewed in isolation, or a connection between the murders, beyond the obvious, that the victims were two policemen who had been found at scenes of earlier unsolved murders they themselves had investigated.
Bellman got up in the middle of Hagen’s account and stood by the window with his back to him. Rocked on his heels. Pretended to listen for a while before breaking in.
‘You’ve got to fix this, Hagen.’
Gunnar Hagen stopped. Waited for him to continue.
Bellman turned. There was a redness around the white patches on his face.
‘And I have to query your judgement prioritising the twenty-four-hour guard at the Rikshospital when honest policemen are being killed. Shouldn’t it be all hands on deck for this investigation?’
Hagen looked at Bellman in amazement. ‘It isn’t my officers doing it; it’s the City Centre Police Station and PHS students doing their practicals. I don’t think the investigation is suffering, Mikael.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Bellman said. ‘I’d still like you to reconsider your decision. I can’t see any impending danger of someone killing the patient after all the time that’s passed. They know he’ll never be able to testify anyway.’
‘The doctors say there are signs of improvement.’
‘The case no longer has priority.’ The Police Chief’s answer came in a hurried, almost angry tone. Then he took a deep breath and turned on the charm. ‘But mounting a guard is of course your decision. I don’t want to be involved. Understood?’ he smiled.
It was on the tip of Hagen’s tongue to answer no, but he managed to restrain himself and nodded briefly while trying to grasp what Mikael Bellman was after.
‘Good,’ Bellman said, clapping his hands to signal the meeting was over. Hagen was about to get up, as nonplussed as when he arrived, but instead stayed seated.
‘We were thinking of trying a different procedure.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes,’ Hagen said. ‘Dividing the investigative unit into several smaller ones.’
‘How come?’
‘To allow more space for alternative ideas. Big groups have the competence, but are not suitable for thinking outside the box in the same way.’
‘And we have to think outside . . . the box?’
Hagen ignored the sarcasm. ‘We’re going round in circles and we can’t see the wood for the trees.’
He eyed the Police Chief. As a former detective Bellman knew the scenario well of course; a group could get stuck in a rut, assumptions hardened into facts and you’re unable to see alternative hypotheses. Nevertheless, Bellman shook his head.
‘In small groups you lose the ability to see a case through, Hagen. The responsibility is atomised, you get in each other’s way and the same job is repeated. One big, well-coordinated group is always best. At least as long as it has a strong, decisive leader . . .’
Hagen felt the uneven surface of his molars as he ground his teeth and hoped the effect of Bellman’s insinuation could not be seen in his facial expression.
‘But—’
‘When a leader starts changing tactics it can easily be interpreted as desperation and an admission that he’s failed.’
‘But we have failed, Mikael. It’s March now, which means it’s six months since the first murder.’
‘No one will follow a leader who’s failed, Hagen.’
‘My colleagues are neither blind nor stupid. They know we’re in a rut. And they also know that good leaders must have the ability to change tack.’
‘Good leaders know how to inspire their teams.’
Hagen swallowed. Swallowed what he wanted to say. That he was lecturing on leadership at the military academy while Bellman was running around with a catapult. That if Bellman was so bloody good at inspiring his subordinates, how about inspiring him – Gunnar Hagen? But he was too tired, too frustrated to swallow the words he knew would irritate Mikael Bellman most.
‘We were successful with the independent group Harry Hole led, do you remember? The Ustaoset murders would never have been solved if—’
‘I think you heard me, Hagen. I’d prefer to consider changes to the management of the investigation. Management is responsible for the culture among its employees, and now it seems it’s not result-orientated enough. If there’s nothing else, I have a meeting in a few minutes.’
Hagen couldn’t believe his ears. He staggered to his feet, as though the blood in his legs hadn’t circulated during the short time he had been sitting on the low, narrow chair. Stumbled towards the door.
‘By the way,’ Bellman said behind him and Hagen heard him stifle a yawn, ‘anything new in the Gusto Hanssen case?’
‘As you yourself said,’ Hagen answered, without turning so as not to show Bellman his face, where – in contrast to his legs – the blood vessels felt as if they were under immense pressure, his voice trembling with fury, ‘the case no longer has priority.’
Mikael Bellman waited until the door closed and he heard Hagen say goodbye to the secretary in the anteroom. Then he slumped into the high-backed leather chair and crumpled. He hadn’t summoned Hagen to question him about the police murders, and he had a suspicion Hagen had realised that. The telephone call he had received from Isabelle Skøyen an hour ago had been the cause. She, of course, had rabbited on about how these unsolved murders were making them both look incompetent and impotent. And how, unlike him, she was dependent on the electorate’s approval. He had been interspersing the monologue with mms and ohs, waiting for her to finish so that he could put the phone down, when she dropped the bombshell.
‘He’s coming out of the coma.’
Bellman sat with his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. Staring down at the desk’s shiny varnish in which he could see the blurred contours of himself. Women thought he was good-looking. Isabelle had told him straight out that was why she had chosen him, she liked attractive men. That was why she’d had sex with Gusto. The Elvis lookalike. People often misunderstood when men were good-looking. Mikael thought of the Kripos officer, the one who had tried it on with him, who had wanted to kiss him. He thought of Isabelle. And Gusto. Imagined them together. The three of them together. He got up from the chair abruptly. Went back to the window.
Everything had been set in motion. She had used the expression. Set in motion. All he had to do was wait. It should have made him feel calmer, better disposed to the world around him. So why had he plunged the knife into Hagen and turned it? To watch him wriggle? Just to see another tormented face, as tormented as the one reflected in the desk? But soon it would be over. Everything was in her hands now. And when what had to be done was done, they could carry on as before. They could forget Asayev, Gusto and definitely the man no one could stop talking about, Harry Hole. Sooner or later it would all be forgotten, even these police murders, in time.
Mikael Bellman wanted to test if that was what he wanted. But decided against it. He knew it was what he wanted.
7
STÅLE AUNE INHALED. this was one of the crossroads in the therapy, where he would have to take a decision. He decided.
‘There may be something unresolved about your sexuality.’
The patient eyed him. Tight-lipped smile. Narrow eyes. The slender hands with the almost abnormally long fingers rose, appeared to be about to straighten the knot of his tie above the pinstriped jacket, but didn’t. Ståle had noticed this movement a few times before, and it reminded him of patients who have succeeded in breaking a specif
ic compulsive habit but who can’t shake the initial gesture, the hand poised to do something, an uncompleted action, an involuntary though definitely interpretable action. Like a scar, a limp. An echo. A reminder that nothing disappears in its entirety, everything leaves a trace in some way, somewhere. Like childhood. People you have known. Something you ate and couldn’t tolerate. A passion you had. Cellular memory.
The patient’s hand fell back into his lap. He cleared his throat, and his voice sounded tight and metallic. ‘What the hell do you mean? Are we starting on that Freud shit now?’
Ståle looked at the man. He had caught a glimpse of a TV crime series recently in which the police interpreted people’s emotional lives: the body language was fine, but it was their voices that gave them away. The muscles in the vocal cords and throat are so finely tuned that they can create sound waves in the form of identifiable words. When Ståle had lectured at PHS he had always emphasised to students what a miracle this was in itself. And he had said there was an even more sensitive instrument – the human ear. Which could not only decode the sound waves as vowels and consonants but also expose the speaker’s body temperature, level of tension and feelings. In interviews it was more important to listen than to watch. A tiny rise in key, or an almost imperceptible quiver, was a more significant signal than crossed arms, clenched fists, the size of the pupils and all the factors on which the new wave of psychologists conferred such importance, but which in Ståle’s experience more often confused and misled a detective. It was true this patient swore in front of him, but it was still primarily the pattern of pressure on Ståle’s eardrums that told him this patient was on his guard and angry. Normally that wouldn’t worry the experienced psychologist. On the contrary, strong emotions often meant a breakthrough was imminent. But the problem with this patient was that things came in the wrong sequence. Even after several months of regular sessions Ståle hadn’t made contact, there was no closeness, no trust. In fact it had been so unproductive that Ståle had considered recommending they broke off the treatment and perhaps referring the patient to a colleague. Anger in an otherwise secure atmosphere was good, but in this case it could mean the patient was closing himself off further, digging an even deeper trench.