by Jo Nesbo
He listened.
Nothing, just a quivering silence. And this vague dreamlike memory that the brain had registered something it found unsettling. It was like when he slept in their house in Drammen down by the river. He knew snarling boat engines raced past outside their open window, but his brain didn’t register anything. A tiny creak of the bedroom door, on the other hand, and he jumped up. Laura claimed this was something he had started doing after the Drammen case, when they had found the young man, René Kalsnes, by the river.
He closed his eyes. Opened them wide again. Jesus, he had fallen asleep again! He got up. Felt so dizzy he had to sit down. Blinked. One hell of a mist, coating his senses.
He looked down at the empty coffee cup beside the chair. He would have to go and make himself a double espresso. Oh no, shit, it had run out of capsules. He would have to ring Mona and ask her to bring a cup for him; it wasn’t long before her next visit. He picked up the phone. Her name was under GAMLEM CONTACT RIKSHOSPITAL. Which was no more than a safety precaution in case Laura checked the call log on his mobile phone and saw the frequent calls to this number. Of course he deleted the texts as he went. Anton Mittet was going to call when his brain identified it.
The wrong sound. The creak of the bedroom door.
It was the silence.
It was the sound that wasn’t there that was wrong.
The sonar beep. The heart monitor.
Anton struggled to his feet. Staggered to the door, burst in. Tried to blink away the fuzziness. Stared at the machine’s green shimmering screen. At the dead, flat line extending across it.
He ran to the bed. Looked down at the pallid face lying there.
He heard the sound of running footsteps approaching in the corridor. An alarm must have gone off in the duty office when the machine stopped registering heartbeats. Anton instinctively placed a hand on the man’s forehead. Still warm. However, Anton had seen enough bodies to leave no room for doubt. The patient was dead.
11
THE FUNERAL OF the patient was a brief, efficient affair with an extremely meagre turnout. The priest didn’t even try to suggest the man in the coffin was much-loved, had lived an exemplary life or was eligible to enter paradise. He therefore just went straight to Jesus, who, he maintained, had let all sinners off the hook.
There weren’t even enough volunteers to carry the coffin, so it had to be left standing in front of the altar while the congregation walked out into the snow outside Vestre Aker Church. The majority of the assembled mourners were police officers – four to be precise – who got into the same car and drove to Kafé Justisen, which had just opened and where a psychologist was waiting for them. They stamped the snow off their boots, ordered a beer and four bottles of water, which was no cleaner or tastier than the water that came out of Oslo’s taps. They skåled, cursed the dead man, as was the custom, and drank.
‘His death was premature,’ said the head of Crime Squad, Gunnar Hagen.
‘Only a little premature,’ said the head of Krimteknisk, Beate Lønn.
‘May he burn long and hot,’ said the red-haired forensics officer in the suede jacket with a fringe, Bjørn Holm.
‘As a psychologist I hereby diagnose you all as out of touch with your emotions,’ said Ståle Aune, raising his glass of beer.
‘Thank you, Doctor, but the diagnosis is police,’ Hagen said.
‘The autopsy,’ Katrine said. ‘I’m not sure that I quite understood it.’
‘He died of a cerebral infarction,’ Beate said. ‘A stroke. It can happen.’
‘But he came out of the coma,’ Bjørn Holm said.
‘It can affect any of us, at any time,’ Beate said in flat voice.
‘Thank you for that,’ Hagen grinned. ‘And now that we’re done with the dead man, I suggest we move on.’
‘An ability to deal quickly with trauma is a sign of a person with low intelligence.’ Aune took a swig from his glass. ‘Just thought I would throw that in.’
Hagen gazed at the psychologist for a second before continuing. ‘I think it would be good if we assembled here and not at HQ.’
‘Fine. Why are we here actually?’ Bjørn Holm asked.
‘To talk about the police murders.’ He turned. ‘Katrine?’
Katrine Bratt nodded. Cleared her throat.
‘A brief summary so that Aune is also up to speed,’ she said. ‘Two police officers have been killed. Both at scenes of unsolved murders. Both were involved in those investigations afterwards. With respect to the police murders, as yet we do not have any clues, suspects or leads regarding the motive. With respect to the original murders, we assume they were sexually motivated. There were some clues, but none pointed towards particular suspects. That is, we had several in for questioning, but they were eliminated, either because they had an alibi or they didn’t fit the profile. Now, however, one has had his eligibility revalidated . . .’
She took something from her bag and placed it on the table so that they could all see. It was a photograph of a man with his chest bared. The date and number showed it was a police mugshot.
‘This is Valentin Gjertsen. Vice cases. Men, women and children. The first charge came when he was sixteen, interfering with a nine-year-old girl he had lured into a rowing boat. The following year his neighbour reported him for trying to rape her in the laundry room.’
‘And what ties him to Maridalen and Tryvann?’ Bjørn Holm asked.
‘For the moment, only that the profile fits and the woman who gave him an alibi for the times of the murders has just told us she was lying. She was doing what he ordered her to do.’
‘Valentin told her the police were trying to pin a false charge on him,’ Beate Lønn said.
‘Aha,’ Hagen said. ‘That could be a basis for hating the police. What do you say, Doctor? Is it conceivable?’
Aune smacked his lips. ‘Absolutely. However, the rule of thumb I adhere to in matters concerning the human psyche is that absolutely everything conceivable is possible. Plus a goodly amount that is not conceivable.’
‘While Valentin Gjertsen was doing time for molesting a minor, he raped and disfigured a female dentist at Ila. He was sure revenge would follow and decided he would have to escape. Escaping from Ila is not exactly difficult, but Valentin wanted it to look as if he’d died so that no one would go after him. He killed a fellow inmate, one Judas Johansen, beat him to a pulp and hid the body so that when Judas didn’t turn up for roll call he was listed as missing. Afterwards he forced the prison tattooist to do a copy of Valentin’s demon face on the only place where Judas hadn’t been beaten, his chest. He made it clear that he and his family would suffer a painful, premature death if he ever breathed a word to anyone, and then on the night Valentin escaped, he dressed Judas Johansen’s dead body in his own clothes, placed him on the floor of his cell and left the door ajar. The next morning, when they found the body of the man they thought was Valentin, no one was especially surprised. The murder of the unit’s most hated prisoner was more or less expected. It was so obvious they didn’t even consider checking the fingerprints, even less running a DNA test.’
There was silence around the table. Another customer came in, was about to sit at the neighbouring table, but one glance from Hagen was enough to make him move further away.
‘So what you’re saying is that Valentin escaped and is alive and well,’ Beate Lønn said. ‘He was behind the original murders and the police murders. The motive for the latter is revenge on the police in general. And he uses the earlier crime scenes to do it. But what precisely is he exacting revenge for? The police doing their job? In which case not many of us would be left alive.’
‘I’m not sure he’s after the police in general,’ Katrine said. ‘The prison warder told me they’d been visited by a policeman at Ila, who spoke to some of the inmates about the murders of the girls at Maridalen and Tryvann. He said he spoke to prisoners in for murder, and rather than ask for information he leaked it. He fingered Valentin as a
. . .’ Katrine braced herself. ‘. . . child-fucker.’
She saw them all, even Beate Lønn, recoil. It was strange how one word could seem stronger than even the worst crime-scene photographs.
‘And if that’s not meting out a straight death sentence, then it’s not far off.’
‘And the policeman was?’
‘The warder I was speaking to couldn’t remember, and his name isn’t recorded anywhere. But you can guess.’
‘Erlend Vennesla or Bertil Nilsen,’ Bjørn Holm said.
‘A picture is emerging, don’t you think?’ Gunnar Hagen said. ‘This Judas was subjected to the same extreme physical violence as the police officers. Doctor?’
‘Yes indeed,’ Aune said. ‘Murderers are creatures of habit who stick to tried and tested methods.’
‘But with Judas there was a specific purpose,’ Beate said. ‘To camouflage his escape.’
‘If that’s really how it happened,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘This inmate Katrine has spoken to ain’t exactly the world’s most reliable witness.’
‘Well,’ Katrine said, ‘I believe him.’
‘Why?’
Katrine gave a lopsided grin. ‘What was it Harry used to say? Intuition is only the sum of many small but specific things the brain hasn’t managed to put a name to yet.’
‘What about digging up the body and checking?’ Aune asked.
‘Guess,’ Katrine said.
‘Cremated?’
‘Valentin had written a will the week before, in which it said that if he died the body should be cremated as soon as humanly possible.’
‘And since then no one’s heard from him,’ Holm said. ‘Until he killed Vennesla and Nilsen.’
‘That’s the hypothesis Katrine presented to me, yes,’ Gunnar Hagen said. ‘For now it’s on the thin side and, to put it mildly, bold, but while our investigative unit is struggling to make any headway with other hypotheses, I’d like to give this one a chance. That’s why I’ve gathered you here today. I want you to form a special little unit to follow this – and only this – trail. The rest you leave to the bigger unit. If you accept the assignment, you report to me . . .’ He coughed, loud and brief, like a gunshot. ‘And only to me.’
‘Aha,’ Beate said. ‘Does that mean . . .?’
‘Yes, it means you’ll be working in total secrecy.’
‘Secrecy from whom?’ Bjørn Holm asked.
‘Everyone,’ Hagen said. ‘Absolutely everyone except me.’
Ståle Aune coughed. ‘And who in particular?’
Hagen rolled a bit of skin on his neck between his thumb and first finger. His eyelids had lowered, making him look like a lizard basking in hot sun.
‘Bellman,’ Beate articulated. ‘The Chief of Police.’
Hagen splayed his palms. ‘I just want results. We were successful with a small, independent group when Harry was with us. But the Chief of Police has put his foot down. He wants one big unit. But the one big unit has run out of ideas, and we have to catch this police killer. If we don’t, all hell will be let loose. Were it to come to a confrontation with the Chief of Police, I would naturally take full and complete responsibility. I would say I hadn’t told you he was unaware of this unit. But I appreciate the position I’m putting you in, so it’s up to you whether you want to be in on this or not.’
Katrine noticed how her eyes – like everyone else’s – turned towards Beate Lønn. They knew the real decision lay with her. If she threw her hat in the ring, they all would. If not . . .
‘The demon face on his chest,’ Beate said. She had picked up the photograph from the table and was studying it. ‘Looks like someone who wants out. Out of prison. Out of his own body. Or his own brain. Like the Snowman. Perhaps he’s one of them.’ She looked up. Fleeting smile. ‘Count me in.’
Hagen looked at the others. And received brief nods of confirmation.
‘Good,’ Hagen said. ‘I’ll be leading the investigative unit as before while Katrine will be the official leader of this one. As she comes under the Bergen and Hordaland Police District, technically you as a group don’t have to report to Oslo Chief of Police.’
‘We’re working for Bergen,’ Beate said. ‘Well, why not? Skål to Bergen, folks!’
They raised their glasses.
As they stood on the pavement outside Justisen, light drizzle was falling, emphasising the smell of rock salt, oil and tarmac.
‘Let me take this opportunity to thank you for having me back,’ said Ståle Aune, buttoning up his Burberry.
‘The untouchables ride again,’ Katrine smiled.
‘Just like the old days,’ Bjørn said, contentedly patting his stomach.
‘Almost,’ Beate said. ‘There’s one person missing.’
‘Hey!’ Hagen said. ‘We agreed we wouldn’t talk about him again. He’s gone and that’s that.’
‘He’ll never be completely gone, Gunnar.’
Hagen sighed. Peered up at the sky. Shrugged.
‘Maybe not. There was a PHS student doing a shift at the Rikshospital. She asked me if Harry Hole had ever not managed to solve a case. I thought at first she was just being nosy because she had studied one of his cases. I answered that the Gusto Hanssen case was never really solved. And today I heard that my secretary had received a call from PHS requesting copies of that very case file.’ Hagen smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps he’s becoming a legend, after all.’
‘Harry will always be remembered,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘Unsurpassed and unparalleled.’
‘Maybe,’ Beate said. ‘But we’ve got four people here who are close on his heels. Aren’t we?’
They looked at each other. Nodded. Took their leave with brief, firm handshakes and headed off in three different directions.
12
MIKAEL BELLMAN SAW the figure above his gunsights. He scrunched up one eye, slowly pulled the trigger, listening to his heartbeat. Calm but heavy. He felt the blood being pumped to his fingertips. The figure wasn’t moving, he just had a sense it was. He let go of the trigger, took a deep breath and focused once more. Got the figure in the sights again. Pulled. Saw the figure twitch. Twitch in the right way. Dead. Mikael Bellman knew he had hit the head.
‘Bring the body over and we’ll do a post-mortem,’ he shouted, lowering his Heckler & Koch P30L. Tore off his ear and eye protectors. Heard the electric hum and the wires singing and saw the figure dance towards them. It came to a halt half a metre in front of him.
‘Good,’ said Truls Berntsen, letting go of the switch. The humming stopped.
‘Not bad,’ Mikael said, studying the paper target with the holes over half the torso and the head. Nodded to the target with the severed head in the lane beside his. ‘But not as good as yours.’
‘Good enough to pass the test. I heard ten point two per cent failed this year.’ With practised hands, Truls changed his paper target, pressed the switch and a new figure sang its way back. It stopped at the flecked green metal plate twenty metres away. Mikael heard high-pitched laughter coming from a few lanes to the left. Saw two young women huddle together and glance over at them. Probably PHS students who had recognised him. All the sounds here had their own frequencies, so that even over the gunfire Mikael could hear the thwack of paper and the clunk of lead on metal. Followed by the tiny click as the bullet fell into the box for collecting the compressed shells beneath the target.
‘In practice, more than ten per cent of the force are incapable of defending themselves or anyone else. What does the Chief of Police say to that?’
‘Not all officers can train as much as you do, Truls.’
‘Have so much time to spare, you mean?’
Truls laughed his irritating grunted laugh as Mikael looked at his subordinate and childhood friend. At the higgledy-piggledy jumble of teeth his parents had never seen fit to have checked, at the red gums. Everything was apparently as before, yet something had changed. Perhaps it was just the recent haircut. Or was it the suspension? That kind of thing had a tendency to
affect people you hadn’t thought were so sensitive. Perhaps especially them, those who were not in the habit of venting their emotions, who kept them hidden, hoping they would pass with time. Those were the ones who could crack. Put a bullet through their temples.
But Truls seemed content. He was laughing. Mikael had once told Truls that his laughter made people panic. He should try to change it. Practise to find a more normal, more pleasant laugh. Truls had only laughed even louder. And pointed at Mikael. Pointed a finger at him without saying a word, only this eerie snorted laugh.
‘Aren’t you going to ask?’ Truls enquired, pushing cartridges into the magazine of his gun.
‘What about?’
‘About the money in my account.’
Mikael shifted his weight. ‘Was that why you invited me here? For me to ask you?’
‘Do you want to know how the money got there?’
‘Why should I harass you now?’
‘You’re the Chief of Police.’
‘And you took the decision not to say anything. I thought it was stupid of you, but I respect it.’
‘Do you?’ Truls clicked the magazine into place. ‘Or are you leaving me alone because you already know where it came from, Mikael?’
Bellman eyed his childhood friend. He could see it now. See what had changed. It was the sick gleam. The one from their childhood, the one he got when he was angry, when the older kids in Manglerud were threatening to beat up the loudmouth with the girlie good looks who had taken Ulla, and Mikael had had to push Truls in front of him. Set the hyena on them. The mangy, whipped hyena who had already had to take so many beatings. So many that one more didn’t make much difference. And when Truls had that gleam in his eye, the hyena gleam, it meant he was willing to die, and if he got his teeth into you, he would never, ever let go. He would lock his jaws and stay there until you went down on your knees or he was pulled off. But Mikael had seen the gleam only rarely as time went on. More recently there had of course been the time when they had dealt with the homo in the boiler room, and also, when Mikael had told him about the suspension. What had changed now, though, was that the gleam didn’t go. It was there all the time, as if he had some kind of fever.