by Jo Nesbo
‘Guten Tag.’
German tourists. An elderly couple. Old camera in a brown leather case. He could feel he was smiling. He was in a good mood. He made room for them. Isabelle was right: he was relieved that the patient was dead. He felt a drop fall from his long hair, felt it roll down his neck, wetting his shirt collar. Ulla had suggested he should have his hair cut shorter for his new post, but why? His youthful looks, didn’t they just underline the point? That he – Mikael Bellman – was Oslo’s youngest ever Chief of Police?
The couple looked at the lift buttons with concern. It was the same old problem. Was floor number 1 street level or the floor above it? What system did they have in Norway?
‘It’s the ground floor,’ Mikael said in English, pressing the button and closing the doors.
‘Danke,’ the woman murmured. The man had closed his eyes and was breathing audibly. Das Boot, Mikael thought.
They sank down through the building in silence.
As the doors opened and they exited into reception, a tremble seemed to go through Mikael’s thigh. His phone picked up a signal again. He saw there was a missed call from Isabelle. He was about to ring back when it vibrated again. It was a text.
Met your wife in reception. :)
Mikael came to an abrupt halt. Glanced up. But it was too late.
Ulla was sitting in an armchair directly in front of him. She looked attractive. Had taken more care than usual. Attractive and turned to stone in her chair.
‘Hello, darling,’ he exclaimed, hearing at once how shrill and false it sounded. Saw in her face how it sounded.
Her eyes were fixed on him, with the remnants of a confusion that was quickly giving way to something else. Mikael Bellman’s brain was churning. Absorbing and processing data, looking for connections, drawing a conclusion. He knew the wet tips of his hair could not be explained satisfactorily. She had seen Isabelle. Her brain, like his, was processing at lightning speed. That is how the human brain is. Mercilessly logical as it assembles all the tiny bits of information, which suddenly fit. And he saw that the something else had already ousted the confusion. The certainty. She lowered her gaze, so that when he was standing in front of her, she was looking straight at his midriff.
He hardly recognised her voice as she whispered: ‘You got her text a little too late then.’
Katrine turned the key in the lock and pulled the door, but it was jammed.
Gunnar Hagen stepped forward and shook it open.
A stale, heated damp atmosphere met them.
‘Here,’ Gunnar Hagen said. ‘We’ve left it untouched since the last time it was used.’
Katrine went in first and pressed the light switch. ‘Welcome to Bergen’s Oslo branch office,’ she drawled.
Beate Lønn crossed the threshold. ‘So this is where we’re to be hidden.’
Cold, blue light from the neon tube fell on a square concrete room with greyish-blue lino on the floor and nothing on the walls. The windowless room boasted three desks with a computer on each and a chair. On one desk there was a brown-stained coffee machine and a large jug of water.
‘We’ve been allocated an office in the basement of Police HQ?’ Ståle Aune exclaimed, stupefied.
‘Officially speaking, you are in fact on Oslo Prison property,’ Gunnar Hagen said. ‘The corridor outside goes under the car park. If you go up the iron stairs outside the door you’ll end up in the reception area of the prison.’
By way of response, the first notes of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue sounded. Hagen took out his mobile phone. Katrine glanced over his shoulder. And saw the name Anton Mittet light up on the display. Hagen pressed Reject and put the mobile back in his pocket.
‘The investigative unit has a meeting now, so I’ll leave you to it,’ he said.
The others stood looking at one another after Hagen had left.
‘It’s bloody hot in here,’ Katrine said, unbuttoning her jacket. ‘But I can’t see any radiators.’
‘That’s because the prison boilers are in the room next door,’ Bjørn Holm laughed, hanging his suede jacket over a chair back. ‘We called it “The Boiler Room”.’
‘So you’ve been here before, have you?’ Aune loosened his bow tie.
‘Yes, we have. We had an even smaller group then.’ He nodded towards the desks. ‘Three, as you can see. Solved the case anyway. But then Harry was in charge . . .’ He shot Katrine a quick glance. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘It’s OK, Bjørn,’ Katrine said. ‘I’m not Harry, and I’m not in charge either. It would be fine with me if you reported to me formally, so that Hagen could wash his hands of the whole business, but I’ve got more than enough to do just managing myself. Beate’s the boss. She has the seniority and management experience.’
The others looked at Beate. Who shrugged her shoulders. ‘If that’s what you’d all like I can be boss, if there’s any need for it.’
‘There is a need for it,’ Katrine said.
Aune and Bjørn nodded.
‘Good,’ Beate said. ‘Let’s get started. We’ve got mobile phone coverage. An Internet connection. And we’ve got . . . coffee cups.’ She took a white one from behind the coffee machine. Read the writing in felt pen. ‘Hank Williams?’
‘Mine,’ said Bjørn.
She lifted another. ‘John Fante?’
‘Harry’s.’
‘OK, so let’s detail the jobs,’ Beate said, putting down the cup. ‘Katrine?’
‘I’ll keep watch online. Still no sign of life from either Valentin Gjertsen or Judas Johansen. You need to be smart to hide from the electronic eye for so long, and that reinforces the theory that it wasn’t Judas Johansen who escaped. Judas is not exactly top priority for the police, and it seems unlikely he would restrict his freedom by going into total blackout just to escape a couple of months in prison. Valentin has more to lose of course. Anyway, if either of them is alive and so much as moves a muscle in the electronic world, I’m on them.’
‘Good. Bjørn?’
‘I’ll go through the files of various cases Valentin and Judas have been involved in and see if I can find any links to Tryvann or Maridalen. Names that come up again and again or forensic evidence we’ve missed. I’m making a list of people who know them and may be able to help us find them. The ones I’ve spoken to so far are willing to open up about Judas Johansen. Valentin Gjertsen, on the other hand . . .’
‘They’re frightened?’
Bjørn nodded.
‘Ståle?’
‘I’ll examine the Valentin and Judas cases as well, but to make a profile of each of them. I’ll write an assessment of them as potential serial killers.’
The room went silent at once. It was the first time anyone had spoken the words.
‘In this case, serial killer is no more than a technical, mechanical term, not a diagnosis,’ Ståle Aune hastened to add. ‘It describes an individual who has killed more than one person and may conceivably kill again. All right?’
‘All right,’ Beate said. ‘As for me, I’ll go through all the visual material we have from CCTV cameras around the crime scenes. Petrol stations, all-night shops, photo booths. I’ve already seen quite a few shots of the police murders, but not everything. And there are the original murders as well.’
‘Enough to do then,’ Katrine said.
‘Enough to do,’ Beate repeated.
The four of them stood looking at one another. Beate raised the John Fante cup and put it back behind the coffee machine.
13
‘ALL RIGHT?’ ULLA said, leaning back against the kitchen worktop.
‘Oh, yes,’ Truls said, shifting uneasily on the chair and lifting the coffee cup from the narrow worktop. He took a swig. Looked at her with the eyes she knew so well. Frightened and hungry. Embarrassed and searching. Rejecting and imploring. No and yes.
She had immediately regretted allowing him to visit her. But she hadn’t been prepared when he had suddenly rung and asked how things were going with
the house, was there anything that needed fixing? As he was suspended now, the days were long, and he had nothing to do. No, there was nothing that needed fixing, she had lied. Oh, right. What about a cup of coffee then? A little chat about old times? Ulla had said she didn’t know if . . . but Truls acted as if he hadn’t heard, said he was passing by, a coffee would be nice. And she had answered, OK, why not, drop in, Truls.
‘I’m still alone, as you know,’ he said. ‘Nothing new there.’
‘You’ll find someone. Of course you will.’ She made a show of looking at the clock, had considered saying the children had to be picked up. But even a bachelor like Truls would realise it was too early.
‘Maybe,’ he said. Looking into his cup. And instead of putting it down he took another swig. Like taking courage, he thought with dread.
‘As you probably know, I’ve always liked you, Ulla.’
Ulla clutched the worktop.
‘So you know if you have a problem and you need . . . er, someone to talk to, you can always count on me.’
Ulla blinked. Had she heard him correctly? Talk?
‘Thank you, Truls,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got Mikael, haven’t I?’
He put his cup down slowly. ‘Yes, of course. You’ve got Mikael.’
‘By the way, I have to start cooking dinner for him and the children.’
‘Yes, of course you have to. You’re in the kitchen cooking for him while he . . .’ He stopped.
‘He what, Truls?’
‘Has dinner elsewhere.’
‘Now I don’t understand what you mean, Truls.’
‘I think you do. Listen, I’m only here to help you. I have your best interests at heart, Ulla. And the children’s, of course. The children are important.’
‘I’m going to make them something nice. And these family meals take time, Truls, so . . .’
‘Ulla, there’s one thing I want to say.’
‘No, Truls. No, don’t say it, please.’
‘You’re good to Mikael. Do you know how many other women he—?’
‘No, Truls!’
‘But—’
‘I want you to go now, Truls. And I don’t want to see you here again for a while.’
Ulla stood by the worktop watching Truls go out of the gate to the car parked beside the gravel drive winding between the newly built houses in Høyenhall. Mikael had said he would pull a few strings, make a few calls to the right people on the council, get the tarmac laid, but so far nothing had happened. She heard the brief chirp as Truls pressed the key and the car alarm switched itself off. Watched him get into the car. Watched him sit motionless, staring into the distance. Then his body seemed to twitch and he started pummelling the steering wheel so hard she saw it give. Even from a distance it was so violent she shuddered. Mikael had told her about his anger, but she had never witnessed it. If Truls hadn’t become a policeman, according to Mikael he would have been a criminal. He said the same about himself when he was acting tough. She didn’t believe him. Mikael was too straight, too . . . adaptable. But Truls . . . Truls was made of something else, something darker.
Truls Berntsen. Simple, naive, loyal Truls. She’d had a suspicion, no doubt about that, but she couldn’t believe Truls could be so sly. So . . . imaginative.
The Grand Hotel.
They had been the most painful seconds of her life. Not that she hadn’t considered the idea that he could have been unfaithful. Especially after he had stopped having sex with her. But there could be several explanations for that, the stress of the police murders . . . but Isabelle Skøyen? Sober, in a hotel in the middle of the day? And it had also struck her that the whole scenario had been a set-up. The fact that someone could know the two of them would be there suggested it was a regular occurrence. She wanted to throw up whenever she thought about it.
Mikael’s suddenly pale face in front of her. The frightened, guilty eyes, like a boy caught apple scrumping. How did he manage it? How did he, the faithless swine, how did he make it seem as if it was a minor issue requiring his protective hand? The man who had trodden all over everything they had that was good, the father of three children. Why did he look as if he was the one carrying the cross?
‘I’ll be home early,’ he had whispered. ‘We can deal with it then. Before the children . . . I have to be in the council chairman’s office in four minutes.’ Had he had a tear in the corner of his eye? Had the bastard had the temerity to shed a tear?
After he had gone she had pulled herself together surprisingly quickly. Perhaps that is what people do when there is no alternative, when a nervous breakdown is not an option. With numb composure she rang the number the man claiming to be Runar had used. No answer. She had waited for another five minutes, then she had left. When she got home she checked out the number with one of the women she knew at Kripos. And she told Ulla it was a pay-as-you-go mobile. The question was: who would go to such lengths to send her to the Grand so that she could witness it with her own eyes? A journalist from the celebrity gossip press? A more or less well-meaning woman friend? Someone on Isabelle’s side, a vengeful rival of Mikael’s? Or someone who didn’t want to separate him and Isabelle but him and her, Ulla? Someone who hated Mikael or her? Or someone who loved her? Who thought it would give him a chance if he could drive a wedge between her and Mikael. She knew only one person who loved her more than was good for anyone.
She didn’t mention her suspicions to Mikael when they spoke later in the day. He clearly thought her presence in reception had been a coincidence, one of those lightning strikes that happen in everyone’s lives, that improbable concurrence of events that some call fate.
Mikael hadn’t tried to lie and say he hadn’t been there with Isabelle. She had to give him that. He wasn’t so stupid. He had explained she didn’t need to ask him to finish the affair; he had terminated it on his own initiative before Isabelle had left the hotel. That was the word he had used: affair. Probably advisedly, it made it sound so small, unimportant and sordid, something that could be swept under the carpet, as it were. A ‘relationship’, on the other hand, that would have been a different matter. She didn’t believe for a second that he had ‘terminated it’ at the hotel. Isabelle had seemed too elated for that. But what he said next was true. If this came out, the scandal would not only hurt him, but also their children and her. It would, furthermore, come at the worst possible moment. The council chairman had wanted to talk to him about politics. And he wanted him to join the party. Mikael was someone they had been considering as an interesting candidate for a political post in the not too distant future. He was exactly what they were after: young, ambitious, popular and successful. Until these police murders, of course. But after he had solved them, they should sit down and discuss his future, where it lay, in the police or in politics, where Mikael thought he could have the most impact. Not that Mikael had decided what he wanted, but it was obvious that any kind of scandal would close that door.
And then of course there was her, and the children. What happened to his career was a minor issue compared to what this loss would mean. She interrupted him before his self-pity had gone too far and said she had thought the matter through and that her calculations matched his. His career. Their children. The life they had together. She said quite simply that she forgave him, but he would have to promise never, ever to have any more contact with Isabelle Skøyen. Except as the Chief of Police at meetings where others were present. Mikael had almost seemed disappointed, as though he had been armed for a battle and not a tame skirmish, which had fizzled out in an ultimatum that wouldn’t cost him much. Ulla watched Truls start the car and drive off. She hadn’t told Mikael about her suspicions and had no intention of doing so either. What purpose would it serve? If she was right, Truls could continue to be the spy who sounded the alarm if the pact regarding Isabelle Skøyen was not kept.
The car disappeared and the residential silence mingled with the clouds of dust. And a thought went through her mind. A wild, totally unacceptable
thought, of course, but the mind isn’t so strict on censorship. Her and Truls. In the bedroom, here. Just as revenge, of course. She rejected the idea as soon as it had appeared.
The sleet that had oozed across the windscreen like grey spit had been superseded by rain. Vertical, heavy rain. The windscreen wipers fought a desperate battle against a wall of water. Anton Mittet drove slowly. It was pitch black, and the water was making everything blur and distort as though he were drunk. He glanced at the clock in his VW Sharan. When they had decided to buy a new car three years ago, Laura had insisted on this seven-seater, and he had jokingly enquired if she was planning a big family, even though he knew it was because she didn’t want to be in a tiny car if they crashed. Well, Anton didn’t want a crash either. He knew these roads well and also knew the chances of meeting oncoming traffic at this time of night were slim, but he didn’t take any risks.
The pulse in his temple was pounding. Mostly because of the telephone call he had received twenty minutes ago. But also because he hadn’t had his coffee today. He had lost his taste for it after reading the result of the test. Stupid, that went without saying. And now the caffeine-accustomed blood vessels had narrowed so much that his headache lay there like unpleasant, throbbing background music. He had read that coffee addicts’ withdrawal symptoms took two weeks to disappear. But Anton didn’t want to renounce his addiction. He wanted coffee. He wanted it to taste good. Good like the mint taste of Mona’s tongue. But all he could taste now when he drank coffee was the bitter aftertaste of sleeping tablets.
He had plucked up the courage to ring Gunnar Hagen to tell him that he had been doped when the patient died. That he had been asleep while someone had been in the room. That even if the doctors said it had been a natural death, that could not have been the case. That they would have to do another, more thorough autopsy. Twice he had rung. Without getting an answer. He had tried. He had. And he would try again. Because it always catches up with you. Like now. It had happened again. Someone had been killed. He braked, turned off and took the gravel road up to Eikersaga, accelerated again and heard the small stones hitting the wheel arches.