by Jo Nesbo
He looked for the medic, saw the window was wet, it must have started to rain.
‘More morphine, for Christ’s sake!’
47
THE POLICEMAN WITH the phonetic tripwire of a name – Karsten Kaspersen – was sitting in the duty office at PHS staring at the rain. It was falling like stair rods in the black of the night, drumming on the gleaming black tarmac, dripping from the gate.
He had switched off the light so that no one could see the office was manned so late. By ‘no one’ he meant the types who steal batons and other equipment. Some of the old cordon tape they used in training was gone too. And as there were no signs of a break-in it had to be someone with a pass. And as it was someone with a pass this was not just a matter of a few lousy batons or cordon tape but the fact that they had thieves in their midst. Thieves who might be walking around as police officers in the not-too-distant future. And they weren’t damn well having any of that, not in his police force.
Now he could see someone approaching in the rain. The figure had emerged from the darkness down by Slemdalsveien, passed under the lights by Chateau Neuf and was heading for the gate. Not a walk he recognised, exactly. More like a stagger. And the guy was listing, as though there was a gale on the port side.
But he swiped a card in the machine and next minute he was inside the college. Kaspersen – who knew the walks of everyone who belonged to this section of the building – jumped up and stepped out. For this was not something that could be explained away. Either you had access or you didn’t, there was no middle ground.
‘Hello there!’ Kaspersen shouted, leaving the office, having already puffed himself up, something from the animal kingdom making itself look as big as possible; he didn’t really know why it worked, only that it did. ‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? How did you get hold of that card?’
The stooped, drenched individual in front of him turned, tried to straighten up. The face was hidden in the shadow from the hoodie, but a pair of eyes sparkled inside, and it struck Kaspersen that he could feel the heat, so intense was the gaze. He instinctively gasped for breath, and for the first time he remembered he wasn’t armed. How on earth had he not thought about that? He should have brought something to deter thieves.
The individual pushed the hood back.
Forget deter, Kaspersen thought. I need something to defend myself with.
The individual in front of him was not from this world. His coat was torn with great gaping holes, and the same applied to his face.
Kaspersen backed into his office, wondering if the key was on the inside of the door.
‘Kaspersen.’
The voice.
‘It’s me, Kaspersen.’
Kaspersen stopped. Angled his head. Could that really be . . .?
‘Jesus, Harry. What happened to you?’
‘Only an explosion. It looks worse than it is.’
‘Worse? You look like a Christmas orange studded with cloves.’
‘It’s just—’
‘I mean a Christmas blood orange, Harry. You’re bleeding. Hang on a sec, I’ll get the first-aid box.’
‘Can you come up to Arnold’s office? I’ve got to sort something urgently.’
‘Arnold isn’t there now.’
‘I know.’
Karsten Kaspersen dashed towards the medicine cabinet in the office. And while he was removing plasters, gauze bandages and scissors it was as if his subconscious was re-examining the conversation and stopping at the final sentence. The way Harry had said it. The emphasis. I know. As though he hadn’t said it to him, Karsten Kaspersen, but to himself, Harry Hole.
Mikael Bellman woke up and opened his eyes.
And pinched them shut again as the light broke into the membranes and lenses of his eyes, but still it felt as though the light was burning a bare nerve.
He was unable to move. He twisted his head and tried to look around him. He was still in the same room. He looked down. Saw the white tape used to bind him to the bed. To bind his arms to his sides and his legs together. He was a mummy.
Already.
He heard the clink of metal behind him and twisted his head the other way. The person standing by his side fiddling with the instruments was dressed in green and wore a mask over his mouth.
‘Oh dear,’ said the man in green. ‘Has the anaesthetic worn off already? Yes, well, I’m not exactly an anaesthetics expert, am I? To tell the truth, I’m not a specialist in anything at all in the hospital.’
Mikael engaged his mind, tried to hack his way out of the confusion. What the hell was going on?
‘By the way, I found the money you brought with you. Nice of you, but I don’t need it. And it’s impossible to compensate for what you did, Mikael.’
If he wasn’t the anaesthetic nurse, how did he know about the connection between Mikael and Asayev?
The man in green held up an instrument to the light.
Mikael could hear the fear pounding. He didn’t feel it yet; the drug was still floating through his brain like wisps of fog, but when the veil of anaesthetics had lifted completely what was behind would be revealed: pain and fear. And death.
Because Mikael had understood now. It was so obvious that he should have known before he left home. This was the scene of an unsolved murder.
‘You and Truls Berntsen.’
Truls? Did he believe that Truls had anything to do with the murder of Asayev?
‘But he’s already received his punishment. What do you think it’s best to use when you cut off a face? A handle number three with a blade number ten is for skin and muscles. Or this one: a handle number seven with a blade number fifteen?’ The man in green held up two seemingly identical scalpels. The light was reflected in one of the blades, casting a thin stripe of light over the man’s face, including one eye. And in that eye he saw something he vaguely recognised.
‘The supplier didn’t write which one was best for this particular operation, you see.’
There was something familiar about his voice as well, wasn’t there?
‘Yes, well, we’ll have to manage with what we’ve got. I’m going to have to tape your face down, Mikael.’
Now the fog had lifted completely and he saw it. The fear.
And it saw him and rose in his throat.
Mikael gasped as he felt his head being forced down onto the mattress and the tape stretched across his forehead. Then the man’s face was directly above his. The mask had slipped. But Mikael’s brain was slowly rotating his vision, upside down became downside up. And he recognised him. And knew why.
‘Do you remember me, Mikael?’ he asked.
It was him. The homo. The one who had tried to kiss him when he was working at Kripos. In the toilet. Someone had come in. Truls had beaten him black and blue in the boiler room, and he had never returned to work. He had known what would be awaiting him. As Mikael did now.
‘Mercy.’ Mikael felt his eyes filling with tears. ‘I stopped Truls. He would have killed you if I hadn’t—’
‘—hadn’t stopped him so that you could save your career and become Chief of Police.’
‘Listen, I’m ready to pay whatever—’
‘Oh, you’ll pay all right, Mikael. You’ll pay in full for what you took from me.’
‘Took . . . What did we take from you?’
‘You took revenge from me, Mikael. Punishment for the person who killed René Kalsnes. You all let the murderer off the hook.’
‘Not all cases can be solved. You yourself know that—’
Laughter. Cold, brief, with the brakes suddenly applied. ‘I know you didn’t try, that’s what I know, Mikael. You didn’t give a damn for two reasons. First of all, you found a baton close to the scene of the crime, so you were afraid that if you searched too hard you would find out it was one of your own who had killed this creep, this revolting homo. And what was the second reason, Mikael? René wasn’t as hetero as the police force likes us officers to be. Or what, Mikael? But I lo
ved René. Loved him. Do you hear that, Mikael? I’m saying out loud that I – a man – loved the boy, wanted to kiss him, stroke his hair, whisper sweet nothings into his ear. Do you think that’s revolting? Deep down, though, you know, don’t you? That it’s a gift to be able to love another man. It’s something you should have told yourself before, Mikael, because now it’s too late for you, you’re never going to experience it, what I offered you when we were working at Kripos. You were so frightened of your other self that you lost your temper. You had to beat him out. Beat me out.’
He had gradually raised his voice, but now he lowered it to a whisper.
‘But that was just stupid fear, Mikael. I’ve felt it myself, and I would never have punished you this hard for that alone. What you and all the other so-called police officers on the René Kalsnes case received the death sentence for is that you sullied the only person I have ever loved. Demeaned his human value. Said the victim wasn’t even worth the work you’re paid to do. Wasn’t worth the oath you swore to serve the public and to uphold justice. Which means you fail us all, you desecrate the flock, Mikael, the flock which is all that is sacred. That and love. And so you have to be removed. The way you removed the apple of my eye. But enough chit-chat – I have to concentrate if we’re going to get this right. Fortunately for you and me there are very instructive videos online. What do you think about this?’
He held up a picture in front of Mikael.
‘Should be simple surgery, don’t you think? But shush, Mikael! No one can hear you, but if you yell like that I’ll have to tape up your mouth as well.’
Harry fell into Arnold Folkestad’s chair. It emitted a long, hydraulic wheeze and sank under his weight as Harry switched on the computer and the screen lit up the darkness. And while it started up, with creaks and groans, activated programs and prepared itself for use, Harry read Katrine’s text message yet again.
No files found for statistic.
Arnold had told him the FBI had statistics to the effect that in ninety-four per cent of all the serious cases when the prosecution’s witnesses died, the deaths were suspicious. That was what had made Harry examine Asayev’s death more closely. But the statistic didn’t exist. It was like Katrine’s joke, the one that had been nagging away at Harry’s cortex, the one he remembered and couldn’t understand why:
‘When people use statistics, in seventy-two per cent of cases, they’ve made them up on the spur of the moment.’
Harry must have been ruminating on it for a long time. Must have had a suspicion. That this statistic was one Arnold had made up on the spur of the moment.
Why?
The answer was simple. To persuade Harry to have a closer look at Asayev’s death. Because Arnold knew something, but couldn’t say straight out what it was or how he had acquired the information. Because it would blow his cover. But, being the zealous policeman he was, morbidly keen to solve a murder, he had still been willing to take the risk by putting Harry onto the case.
Because Arnold Folkestad knew that the trail could not only lead Harry to the fact that Asayev had been murdered and to his potential murderer, it could also lead to himself, Arnold Folkestad, and another murder. Because the only person who could know and might also have a particular need to say what actually happened up there at the hospital was Anton Mittet. The sedated, remorse-ridden guard. And there was only one reason Arnold Folkestad and Anton Mittet – total strangers to each other – should have been in contact.
Harry shivered.
Murder.
The computer was ready to search.
48
HARRY STARED AT the computer screen. He rang Katrine’s number again. Was about to end the call when he heard her voice.
‘Yes?’
She was out of breath, as if she’d been running. But the acoustics suggested she was indoors. And it struck him that he should have heard that the time he’d rung Arnold Folkestad late at night. The acoustics. He’d been outside, not inside.
‘Are you in the gym or what?’
‘Gym?’ She queried the word as though unfamiliar with the concept.
‘I was wondering if that was why you didn’t answer my calls.’
‘No, I’m at home. What’s up?’
‘OK, get your pulse down now. I’m at PHS. I’ve just seen someone’s search history. And I can’t get any further.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Arnold Folkestad has been on medical supply websites. I want to know why.’
‘Arnold Folkestad? What’s this got to do with him?’
‘I think he’s our man.’
‘Arnold Folkestad is the cop killer?’
As Katrine spoke he heard a sound which he immediately identified as Bjørn Holm’s smoker’s cough. And what might have been the creaking of a mattress.
‘Are you and Bjørn in the Boiler Room?’
‘No, I told you . . . we . . . yes, we’re in the Boiler Room.’
Harry mused. And concluded that in all his years as a policeman he had never heard worse lying.
‘If you’re near a computer, try to find out if Arnold has been buying medical equipment. And if his name turns up in connection with any old crime scenes or murder investigations. And then ring me back. And now give me Bjørn.’
He heard her hand over the phone, say something and then Bjørn’s somewhat thick voice.
‘Yuh?’
‘Get your threads on and hotfoot it to the Boiler Room. Find a police lawyer and get a warrant to tap Arnold Folkestad’s mobile phone. And then check who rang Truls Berntsen this evening, OK? In the meantime, I’ll tell Bellman to deploy Delta. OK?’
‘Yes. I . . . we . . . well, you know . . .’
‘Is this important, Bjørn?’
‘No.’
‘Right.’
Harry rang off, and at that moment Karsten Kaspersen came in through the door.
‘I found some iodine and cotton. And tweezers as well. So we can pull out the splinters.’
‘Thanks, Kaspersen, but the splinters are more or less holding me together, so just leave the stuff on the table.’
‘But, heck, you—’
Harry waved the protesting Kaspersen out while calling Bellman. Was put through to his voicemail. Swore. Searched for Ulla Bellman, found a landline number in Høyenhall. And then heard a gentle, melodic voice articulate the surname.
‘Harry Hole here. Is your husband there?’
‘No, he just went out.’
‘This is pretty important. Where is he?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘When—?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘If—’
‘—he turns up I’ll tell him to call you, Harry Hole.’
‘Thank you.’
He hung up.
Forced himself to wait. Wait while sitting with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, listening to blood dripping onto unmarked tests. Counted the drips as if they were ticking seconds.
The forest. The forest. There’s no metro in the forest. And the acoustics. He had sounded as if he was outside, not inside.
When Harry had called Arnold that night Arnold had claimed he was at home.
Yet Harry had heard the metro in the background.
There could of course have been relatively innocent reasons for Arnold Folkestad lying about where he was. A female acquaintance he wanted to keep quiet, for example. And it could have been a coincidence that when Harry rang, the young girl was being dug up in Vestre Cemetery. Close to where the metro passes by. Coincidences. But enough to cause other things to surface. The statistic.
Harry glanced at his watch again.
Thought about Rakel and Oleg. They were at home.
Home. Where he would have been. Where he should have been. Where he would never be. Not completely, not fully, not the way he wanted to be. Because it was true, he didn’t have it in him. Instead he had this otherness in him, like a flesh-eating bacterium, which consumed everything e
lse in his life, which not even alcohol could keep down and which he still, after all these years, didn’t completely understand. Only that in some way or other it had to be similar to what Arnold Folkestad had. An imperative so strong and all-encompassing that it could almost justify all it destroyed. Then – at long last – she rang.
‘He ordered quite a few surgical instruments and items of clothing some weeks ago. You don’t need any kind of special authorisation to do that.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, he doesn’t seem to have been online much. Seems to have been quite cautious in fact.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I checked whether he’d had any physical injuries or anything like that. And some hospital records came up. From several years ago.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. He was admitted with what the doctor said in his report was a beating, but the patient claimed he fell down the stairs. The doctor rejected this as a cause and referred to the widespread injuries all over his body. He wrote that the patient was a police officer and would have to judge for himself what should be reported. He also wrote that his knee would never completely recover.’
‘So he was beaten up. What about the crime scenes and the cop killer?’
‘I didn’t find any links there, though it looks as if he worked on some of the original murder cases when he was at Kripos. And I did find a link with one of the victims.’
‘Oh?’
‘René Kalsnes. At first he just cropped up by chance, but then I refined the search. These two had quite a lot to do with each other. Flights abroad with Folkestad paying for both of them, double rooms and suites registered in both their names in a variety of European cities. Jewellery I doubt Folkestad would have worn, but he bought it in Barcelona and Rome. In short, looks like the two of them—’
‘—were lovers,’ Harry said.
‘I’d say more like secret lovers,’ Katrine said. ‘When they travelled from Norway they sat in different rows, sometimes even on different flights. And when they stayed at hotels in Norway it was always in single rooms.’