by Jo Nesbo
‘What rape?’ she managed to ask.
Darkness was beginning to descend when Bjørn Holm finally found the car.
He had turned off by Klemetsrud and continued eastwards on the B155, but had obviously passed the sign for Fjell. It was on his way back, after he’d realised he’d gone too far and had had to turn, that he’d seen it. The side road was even less busy than the B-road, and now, in the darkness, it seemed like total wasteland. The dense forest on both sides seemed to be creeping closer when he saw the rear lights of the car beside the road.
He slowed down and glanced in his mirror. Only darkness behind him, only a couple of solitary red lights in front of him. Bjørn pulled in behind the car. Got out. A bird hooted from somewhere in the forest, a hollow, melancholy sound. Roar Midtstuen was crouching in the ditch in the light from the headlamps.
‘You came,’ Roar said.
Bjørn grabbed his belt and hitched up his trousers. This was something he’d started doing – he had no idea where he’d got it from. Oh, yes, in fact, he did. His father had always hitched up his trousers by way of an introduction, a preface to something weighty that had to be said or done. He’d started behaving like his father. Except that he seldom had anything weighty to say.
‘So this is where it happened?’ Bjørn said.
Roar nodded. Then looked down at the bouquet of flowers he had laid on the tarmac. ‘She’d been climbing here with friends. On her way home she stopped to have a pee in the woods. Told the others to go on ahead. They think it must have happened when she ran back out and jumped on her bike. Keen to catch up with the others, right? She was that kind of girl, enthusiastic, you see . . .’ He was already fighting to keep his voice under control. ‘And then she probably veered into the road, her bike was still wobbling, and so . . .’ Roar lifted his head to show where the car had come from. ‘. . . and there were no skid marks. No one remembered what the car looked like, even though it must have passed Fia’s friends straight afterwards. But they were busy talking about the climbs they’d tried and they said lots of cars must have passed them. They were well on their way to Klemetsrud before it struck them that Fia should have caught them up long ago and that something must have happened.’
Bjørn nodded. Cleared his throat. Wanted to get it over and done with. But Roar wouldn’t let him get a word in.
‘I wasn’t allowed to investigate, Bjørn. Because I was the father, they said. Instead they put novices on the case. And when at last they realised this case wasn’t going to be child’s play, that the driver wouldn’t turn himself in or give any clues, it was too late to trundle in the big guns. The trail was cold and people’s memories were blank.’
‘Roar . . .’
‘Bad police work, Bjørn. Nothing less. We spend our whole lives working for the force, we give it everything we’ve got and then – when we lose the dearest thing we have – what have we got left? Nothing. It’s a dreadful betrayal, Bjørn.’ Bjørn watched his colleague’s jaws moving in a regular ellipse as he tightened and slackened, tightened and slackened the muscles. Must be giving the chewing gum a right hammering, he thought. ‘Makes me ashamed to be a police officer,’ Midtstuen said. ‘Just like with the Kalsnes case. Terrible workmanship from start to finish. We let the murderer slip through our fingers and afterwards no one is held to account. And no one holds anyone to account. Foxes in the henhouse, Bjørn.’
‘The girl who was found burned in Come As You Are this morning—’
‘Anarchy. That’s what it is. Someone has to be held to account. Someone—’
‘It was Fia.’
In the ensuing silence Bjørn heard the bird hoot again, but from somewhere else this time. It must have moved. A thought struck him. That it was another bird. There could be two of them. Two of the same species. Which hooted to each other in the forest.
‘Harry’s rape of me.’ Silje looked at Rakel as calmly as if she had just told her the weather forecast.
‘Harry raped you?’
Silje smiled. A fleeting smile, no more than a muscle twitch, an expression that had no time to reach her eyes before it was gone. Along with everything else, steadfastness, indifference. And her eyes, instead of lighting up with a smile, filled with tears.
My God, Rakel thought, she isn’t lying. She opened her mouth for oxygen and knew with a hundred per cent certainty: the girl might be off her rocker, but she wasn’t lying.
‘I was so in love with him, fru Fauke. I thought we were meant for each other. So I went to his office. I had put on make-up. And he misunderstood.’
Rakel watched as the first tear detached itself from her eyelashes and fell, then it was caught by the soft, young cheek. It rolled down. Moistening the skin. Making it pink. She knew there was some kitchen roll on the worktop behind her, but she didn’t get it. No way.
‘Harry doesn’t do misunderstandings,’ Rakel said, surprised by the composure in her voice. ‘Nor rape.’ The composure and the conviction. She wondered how long it would last.
‘You’re wrong,’ Silje said, smiling through the tears.
‘Am I?’ Rakel felt like smacking a fist into her smug, spoiled face.
‘Yes, fru Fauke. Now you’re the one who misunderstands.’
‘Say what you have to say and get out.’
‘Harry . . .’
Rakel hated the sound of his name from her mouth with such intensity that she instinctively looked around for something to silence it. A frying pan, a blunt bread knife, gaffer tape, whatever came to hand.
‘. . . he thought I went to ask him about coursework. But he misunderstood. I went to seduce him.’
‘Do you know what, my girl? I already knew that’s what you did. And now you’re claiming you got what you wanted, but it was still rape? So, what happened? Did you gasp your hot little pseudo-chaste “no, no, no”s until it became one “no” which afterwards you reckoned you meant, and he should have known what you really meant before you did?’
Rakel could hear how her rhetoric suddenly sounded like the defence counsel’s refrain she had heard so often during rape trials, the refrain Rakel hated with a passion but which lawyers understood and accepted had to be recited. But it wasn’t just rhetoric, it was what she felt, the way it had to be, it couldn’t be any different.
‘No,’ Silje said. ‘What I want to tell you is that he didn’t rape me.’
Rakel blinked. Had to rewind a couple of seconds to be sure she had heard correctly. Didn’t rape.
‘I threatened to report him for rape because . . .’ The girl used the knuckle of her first finger to take the tears from her eyes that had filled up again. ‘. . . because he wanted to report me to the board of governors for behaving inappropriately towards him. Which he had every right to do. But I was desperate. I tried to thwart him by accusing him of rape. I’ve been wanting to tell him I’ve had a change of heart and I regret what I’ve done. Tell him it . . . yes, what I did was a crime. Wrongful accusation. Paragraph 168 of the Penal Code. Recommended sentence: eight years.’
‘Correct,’ Rakel said.
‘Ah, yes.’ Silje smiled through the tears. ‘I forgot you were a lawyer.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Oh,’ Silje said with a sniffle, ‘I know a lot about Harry’s life. I’ve studied him, you might say. He was my idol, and I was just a stupid girl. I even investigated the police murders for him, thought I could give him a helping hand. Me, a student who knows nothing. I started with a short lecture to explain to him how it all fitted. I wanted to tell Harry Hole how to catch the cop killer.’ Silje produced another forced smile while shaking her head.
Rakel grabbed the kitchen roll behind her and passed it to Silje. ‘And you came here to tell him this?’
Silje nodded slowly. ‘I knew he wouldn’t answer a call from me. So I came out here on my run to see if he was at home. I saw the car was gone and was about to continue on my way when I saw you in the kitchen window. And decided it would be even better to say it straight to your face. It would be th
e best proof that I meant it, that I had no ulterior motives for coming here.’
‘I saw you standing outside,’ Rakel said.
‘Yes. I had to think it through. Then man up.’
Rakel could feel how her anger for the confused, lovelorn girl with the much too open eyes had shifted to Harry. He hadn’t said a word! Why not?
‘It was good that you came, Silje. But now perhaps you should go.’
Silje nodded. Got up. ‘There’s some schizophrenia in our family,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ Rakel said.
‘Yes. I may not be completely normal.’ And added in a grown-up tone: ‘But that’s fine too.’
Rakel accompanied her to the door.
‘You won’t see me again,’ the girl said, standing on the doorstep.
‘Good luck, Silje.’
Rakel stood on the steps with her arms crossed, watching her run across the drive. Had Harry omitted to say something because he thought she wouldn’t believe him? That there would always be a shadow of doubt?
The next thought came in its wake. Would there be a shadow of doubt? How well did they know each other? How well could one person know another?
The black-clad figure with the blonde, bouncing ponytail was gone long before the sound of trainers crunching on gravel.
‘He’d dug her up,’ Bjørn Holm said.
Roar Midtstuen sat with bowed head. Scratching his neck where the short bristles stuck up like a brush. The night stole in, without a sound, as they sat there in the beams of Midtstuen’s car headlamps. When Midtstuen did finally say something Bjørn had to lean forward to hear what it was.
‘My only child.’ Then a short nod. ‘I suppose he was only doing what he had to do.’
At first Bjørn thought he had heard wrong. Then he thought Midtstuen must have said it wrong. He didn’t say what he meant, a word had been moved, omitted or put in the wrong place in the sentence. And yet the sentence was so correct and clear it sounded natural. It sounded like the truth. The cop killer was only doing what he had to do.
‘I’ll get the rest of the flowers,’ Midtstuen said, rising to his feet.
‘OK,’ Bjørn said, staring at the small bouquet lying there as the other man went round the car into the darkness. He heard the boot lid being opened while he mused about what Midtstuen had said. My only child. It reminded him of his confirmation and what Aune had said about the killer being God. An avenging God. But God had also made a sacrifice. He had sacrificed his only son. Hung him on a cross. Displayed him for all to see. To see and imagine the suffering. The son’s and the father’s.
Bjørn visualised Fia Midtstuen on the chair. My only child. The two of them. Or the three of them. There had been three of them. What was it the priest had called it again?
Bjørn heard a clink coming from the boot and thought the box of flowers must be under something metallic.
The trinity. That was it. The third had been the Holy Spirit. The ghost. The demon. The one they never saw, who popped up here and there in the Bible and was gone again. Fia Midtstuen’s head had been attached to the pipe in such a way that she wouldn’t collapse, that the body would be displayed. Like the crucifixion.
Bjørn Holm heard footsteps behind him.
Who was sacrificed, crucified by his own father. Because that was how the story had to be. What were the words he used?
‘He was only doing what he had to do.’
Harry stared at Megan Fox. Her beautiful contours were trembling, but her gaze was constant. The smile didn’t fade. The invitation her body offered stood. He lifted the remote control and switched off the television. Megan Fox both disappeared and stayed. The silhouette of the film star was burned into the plasma screen.
Both gone and still here.
Harry looked around Truls Berntsen’s bedroom. Then he went to the cabinet where he knew Berntsen kept his goodies. In theory a person could fit in there. Harry held the Odessa ready. Tiptoed over to the cabinet, hugged the wall and opened the door with his left hand. Saw the light inside come on automatically.
Otherwise nothing happened.
Harry poked his head forward and withdrew it as quickly. But he had seen what he wanted. No one there. So he stood in the doorway.
Truls had replaced what Harry had taken the last time he was here, the bulletproof vest, the gas mask, the MP5, the riot gun. He still had the same guns as far as he could see. Apart from in the middle of the board where an outline of a gun had been drawn around one of the hooks.
Had Truls Berntsen found out Harry was on his way, taken a gun and fled from his flat? Without bothering to lock the door or switch off the television? If so, why hadn’t he just set an ambush for him inside?
Harry had searched the whole flat now and knew there wasn’t a living soul around. He sat down on the leather sofa with the Odessa’s safety catch off, ready, with a view of the bedroom door but out of sight of the keyhole.
If Truls was in there, the first person to make an appearance would be the loser. The stage was set for a duel. So he waited. Unmoving, breathing calmly, deeply, inaudibly, with the patience of a leopard.
After forty minutes had passed and nothing had happened he went into the bedroom.
Harry sat down on the bed. Should he ring Berntsen? It would warn him, but, as it was, he already seemed to be aware that Harry was after him.
Harry took out his phone and switched it on. Waited until it was connected and keyed in the number he had memorised before leaving Holmenkollen almost two hours ago.
After it had rung three times and no one had answered he gave up.
Then he called his contact at the telephone company. And got an answer in two seconds.
‘What do you want, Hole?’
‘I need you to track down a phone signal. For one Truls Berntsen. He’s got a police line, so he must be one of your customers.’
‘We can’t keep meeting like this.’
‘This is official police business.’
‘Follow the procedures then. Contact the police lawyer, send the case to the Crime Squad boss and call us back when you’ve got permission.’
‘This is urgent.’
‘Listen, I can’t keep giving you—’
‘This is about the police murders.’
‘It should only take a few seconds to get permission from the boss, Harry.’
Harry cursed under his breath.
‘Sorry, Harry, but it’s more than my job’s worth. If anyone finds out that I check police movements without authorisation . . . What’s the problem with getting permission?’
‘See you.’ Harry rang off. He had two unanswered calls and three text messages. They must have come through while he had the phone off. He opened the texts in turn. The first was from Rakel.
Tried calling. I’m home. Make you something nice if you tell me when you’re coming. Got a surprise. Someone to beat you at Tetris.
Harry read the message again. Rakel had come home. With Oleg. His first instinct was to jump in the car straight away. Drop this mission. He had made a mistake; he shouldn’t be here now. While knowing that was exactly what it was: a first instinct. An attempt to flee from the inevitable. The second message was from a number he didn’t recognise.
Have to talk to you. Are you at home? Silje G
He deleted the message. However, he recognised the number of the third message at once.
Think you’re looking for me. I’ve got a solution for our problem. Meet me at the G crime scene asap. Truls
44
WHEN HARRY CROSSED the car park he noticed a car with a smashed side window. The light from the street lamp glinted on the glass splinters on the tarmac. It was a Suzuki Vitara. Berntsen had been driving round in one like it. Harry rang the police switchboard.
‘Harry Hole here. I’d like a car checked for the owner.’
‘Everyone can do that online now, Hole.’
‘You can do it for me then, can’t you?’
He received a grunt in respons
e and read out the registration number. The answer came in three seconds.
‘Truls Berntsen. Address—’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Any report to make?’
‘What?’
‘Has it been involved in anything? Does it look as if it’s been stolen or broken into, for example?’
Pause.
‘Hello?’
‘No, it looks fine. Just a misunderstanding.’
‘A mis—’
Harry rang off. Why hadn’t Truls Berntsen driven away in his car? No one on a police salary took taxis in Oslo any more. Harry tried to visualise the metro network in Oslo. There was a line only a hundred metres away. Ryen Station. He hadn’t heard any trains. They must go through a tunnel. Harry blinked into the darkness. He had just heard something else.
The crackle as the hair on his neck stood on end.
He knew it was impossible to hear, yet it was all he could hear. He took out his phone again. Pressed K.
‘Finally,’ Katrine answered.
‘Finally?’
‘Can’t you see I’ve been trying to ring you?’
‘Oh yes? You sound out of breath.’
‘I’ve been running, Harry. Silje Gravseng.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s got newspaper cuttings of the police murders all over her room. She keeps a baton for beating up rapists, according to the caretaker. And she’s got a brother in the funny farm after being beaten up by two policemen. And she’s nuts, Harry. Off her trolley.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In Vaterlandsparken. She’s not here. I think we should put out an alert for her.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘She’s not the person we’re after.’
‘What do you mean? Motive, opportunity, state of mind. It’s all there, Harry.’
‘Forget Silje Gravseng. I want you to check a statistic for me.’
‘A statistic!’ She shouted so loud the membrane crackled. ‘I’m standing here with half the criminal records from the Vice Squad dribbling their filth all over me, looking for a possible police murderer, and now you want me to check a statistic! Sod you, Harry Hole!’