by Jo Nesbo
Jon rose to his feet. 'I have to go.'
Gilstrup nodded. 'I have something that belongs to you. Let's call it…' He bit his top lip as he reflected. 'A farewell present from Ragnhild.'
On the Holmenkollen train Jon sat staring at the black bag he had been given by Mads Gilstrup.
It was so raw that those who had ventured out for a ramble were walking with hunched shoulders and bowed heads, swathed in hats and scarves. Standing in Jacob Aalls gate and pressing the Miholjec family doorbell, however, Beate Lonn did not feel the cold. She had not felt a thing since the latest message they had received from the hospital.
'It's not his heart that's the biggest problem now,' the doctor had said. 'The other organs have problems too. Above all his kidneys.'
Fru Miholjec was waiting in the doorway above the stairs and showed Beate into the kitchen where her daughter Sofia was sitting fidgeting with her hair. Then she filled the kettle and put out three cups.
'It might be best if I talk to Sofia on my own,' Beate said.
'She wants me to be present,' fru Miholjec said. 'Coffee?'
'No thanks. I have to get back to Rikshospitalet. This doesn't have to take long.'
'Fine,' fru Miholjec said, emptying the kettle.
Beate sat facing Sofia. Tried to catch eyes which were studying split ends.
'Are you sure we shouldn't do this on our own, Sofia?'
'Why should we?' she said in the contrary tone that irritated teenagers use with amazing efficacy to achieve their purpose: to irritate.
'This is quite a personal thing, Sofia.'
'She's my mother!'
'Fine,' said Beate. 'Did you have an abortion?'
Sofia recoiled. She pulled a grimace, a mixture of anger and pain. 'What are you talking about?' she snapped without quite hiding the surprise in her voice.
'Who was the father?' Beate asked.
Sofia continued to smooth out non-existent knots. Fru Miholjec's jaw had dropped.
'Did you have sex with him of your own free will?' Beate went on. 'Or did he rape you?'
'How dare you say that to my daughter?' the mother exclaimed. 'She's just a child, and you dare to talk to her as if she were a.. . a whore.'
'Your daughter was pregnant, fru Miholjec. I need to know if this has any relevance for the murder case we're working on.'
The mother seemed to have control of her jaw again, and her mouth closed. Beate leaned towards Sofia.
'Was it Robert Karlsen, Sofia? Was it?'
She could see the girl's lower lip quivering.
The mother got up from her chair. 'What is this she's saying, Sofia? Tell me it isn't true.'
Sofia rested her face on the table and covered her head with her arms.
'Sofia!' the mother shouted.
'Yes,' Sofia whispered, stifling a sob. 'It was him. It was Robert Karlsen. I didn't think… I had no idea that… he was like that.'
Beate stood up. Sofia was sobbing and the mother looked as though someone had struck her. All Beate felt was numbness. 'The man who killed Robert was caught last night,' she said. 'Special Forces shot him at the container terminal. He's dead.'
She watched for reactions, but saw none.
'I'll be off now.'
No one heard her and she walked to the door unaccompanied.
He was standing by the window staring across the billowing white countryside. It resembled a sea of milk frozen in mid movement. On the crests of some waves he glimpsed houses and red barns. The sun hung low over the ridge, drained.
'They're not coming back,' he said. 'They've gone. Or perhaps they were never here? Perhaps you were lying?'
'They've been here,' Martine said, taking the casserole out of the oven. 'It was warm when we arrived and you saw the prints in the snow yourself. Something must have happened. Sit down, the food's ready.'
He put the gun beside the plate and ate the stew. He noticed the tins were the same brand as the ones in Harry Hole's flat. There was an old, blue transistor radio on the windowsill playing comprehensible pop music interrupted by incomprehensible Norwegian chat. Right now it was a tune he had once heard in a film, one his mother played now and then on the piano in front of the window which 'was the only one in the house with a view of the Danube', as his father used to joke when he wanted to tease her. And if the teasing nettled her he always used to bring the squabble to an end by asking how such a beautiful, intelligent woman could marry a man like him.
'Is Harry your lover?' he asked.
Martine shook her head.
'Why were you taking him a concert ticket then?'
She didn't answer.
He smiled. 'I think you're in love with him.'
She raised her fork and pointed it at him as though wanting to emphasise something, but then changed her mind.
'What about you? Have you got a girl back home?'
He shook his head while drinking water from a glass.
'Why not? Too busy working?'
He sprayed water all over the tablecloth. Must be the tension, he thought. That was why he burst into hysterical laughter. She laughed with him.
'Or perhaps you're gay?' she said, wiping away a tear. 'Perhaps you've got a boy back home?'
He laughed even louder. And continued to laugh long after she had stopped speaking.
She served both of them more stew.
'As you like him so much you can have this,' he said, throwing a photo onto the table. It was the one on the hall mirror with Harry, the dark-haired woman and the boy. She picked it up and studied it.
'He looks happy,' she said.
'Perhaps he was having a good time. At that moment.'
'Yes.'
A greyish darkness had seeped in through the window and settled over the room.
'Perhaps he'll have good times again,' she said softly.
'Do you think that's possible?'
'To have good times again? Of course.'
He studied the radio behind her. 'Why are you helping me?'
'I told you, didn't I? Harry wouldn't have helped you and-'
'I don't believe you. There must be something else.'
She shrugged.
'Can you tell me what this says?' he said, unfolding the form he had found in the pile of papers on Harry's coffee table and passing it to her.
She read while he examined Harry's photograph on the ID card from his flat. The policeman was staring above the camera lens and he guessed Harry was looking at the photographer instead of the camera. And he thought that said something about the man in the picture.
'It's a requisition form for something called a Smith amp; Wesson. 38,' Martine said. 'He's been asked to show this form, signed, and collect the gun from Stores at Police HQ.'
He nodded slowly. 'And it has been signed?'
'Yes. By… let me see… Chief Inspector Gunnar Hagen.'
'In other words Harry hasn't collected his gun. And that means he is not dangerous. Right now he is defenceless.'
Martine blinked twice in quick succession.
'What is it you have in mind?'
26
Saturday, 20 December. The Magic Trick.
Thestreet lights went on in Goteborggata.
'OK,' Harry said to Beate. 'So this is where Halvorsen was parked?'
'Yes.'
'They got out. And were attacked by Stankic. Who first shot at Jon fleeing into the flats. And then went for Halvorsen who was moving to get his gun from the car.'
'Yes. Halvorsen was found lying beside the car. We found blood on Halvorsen's coat pockets, trouser pockets and waistband. It isn't his, so we assume it's from Stankic, who must have been searching him. And he took his wallet and mobile phone.'
'Mm,' Harry said, rubbing his chin. 'Why didn't he just shoot Halvorsen? Why use a knife? He didn't need to be quiet; he'd already woken up the neighbourhood when he shot at Jon.'
'We were asking ourselves the same question.'
'And why stab Halvorsen and then flee? The only reas
on for tackling Halvorsen must be to get him out of the way so that he can grab Jon afterwards. But he doesn't even try.'
'He was disturbed. A car came, didn't it?'
'Yes, but we're talking here about a guy who has stabbed a policeman in broad daylight. Why would he be frightened off by a car coming past? And why use a knife when he already had his gun out?'
'Yes, that's the point.'
Harry closed his eyes. For a long time. Beate stamped her feet on the snow.
'Harry,' she said. 'I want to go. I-'
Harry slowly opened his eyes. 'He'd run out of bullets.'
'What?'
'That was Stankic's last bullet.'
Beate heaved a weary sigh. 'He was a pro, Harry. You don't exactly run out of ammunition, do you?'
'Yes, that's exactly why,' Harry enthused. 'If you have a detailed plan of how you intend to kill a man and you need one or, maximum, two bullets, you don't take a huge ammo supply with you. You have to enter a foreign country, all baggage is X-rayed and you have to hide it somewhere, don't you?'
Beate didn't answer.
Harry went on. 'Stankic fires his last bullet at Jon and misses. So he attacks Halvorsen with a sharp instrument. Why? Well, to get his service revolver off him and chase Jon. That's why there's blood on Halvorsen's waistband. You don't look for a wallet there, you look for a gun. But he doesn't find one because he doesn't know it's in the car. And now Jon has locked himself in the house and Stankic has only a knife. So he gives up and makes a run for it.'
'Great theory,' Beate said with a yawn. 'We could have asked Stankic, but he's dead. So it doesn't matter.'
Harry observed Beate. Her eyes were small and red from lack of sleep. She had been tactful enough not to mention that he stank of recent and not so recent booze. Or wise enough to know there was no point confronting him. But he also understood that at this moment she had no confidence in him.
'What did the witness in the car say?' Harry asked. 'That Stankic made off down the left-hand side of the road?'
'Yes, she watched him in the mirror. Then he fell on the corner. Where we found a Croatian coin.'
He focused on the corner. That was where the beggar with the beard had been standing the last time he had been here. Perhaps he had seen something? But now it was minus twenty-two and no one was around.
'Let's go to Forensics,' Harry said.
Without a word they drove up Toftes gate to Ring 2. Past Ulleval Hospital. They were passing white gardens and English-style brick houses in Sognsveien when Harry broke the silence.
'Pull in.'
'Now? Here?'
'Yes.'
She checked her mirror and did as he said.
'Put the hazard lights on,' Harry said. 'And then concentrate on me. Do you remember the association game I taught you?'
'You mean the one about speaking before you think?'
'Or saying what you think before thinking that you shouldn't think that. Empty your mind.'
Beate closed her eyes. Outside, a family passed them on skis.
'Ready? OK. Who sent Robert Karlsen to Zagreb?'
'Sofia's mother.'
'Mm,' Harry said. 'Where did that come from?'
'No idea,' Beate said, opening her eyes. 'She has no motive as far as we're aware. And she is definitely not the type. Perhaps because she is a Croat like Stankic. My subconscious doesn't have such complicated thoughts.'
'All of that may be correct,' Harry said. 'Apart from the last part about your subconscious. OK. Ask me.'
'Must I ask… aloud?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Just do it,' he said, closing his eyes. 'I'm ready.'
'Who sent Robert Karslen to Zagreb?'
'Nilsen.'
'Nilsen? Who's Nilsen?'
Harry opened his eyes again.
He blinked into the lights of the oncoming traffic, a little dazed. 'I suppose it must be Rikard.'
'Funny game,' Beate said.
'Drive,' Harry said.
Darkness had fallen over Ostgard. The radio on the windowsill jabbered away.
'Is there really no one who can recognise you?' Martine asked.
'There are some who can,' he said. 'But it takes time to learn my face. Not many have taken the time.'
'So it's not about you. It's the others?'
'Maybe. But I don't want them to recognise me. That's… something I do.'
'You flee.'
'No, on the contrary. I infiltrate. I invade. I make myself invisible and sneak into places I want to be.'
'But if no one sees you, what's the point?'
He looked at her in surprise. There was a jingle on the radio and then a woman's voice began to speak with the neutral gravity of a newsreader.
'What is she saying?' he asked.
'It's going to get even colder. Nursery schools closing. Old people warned to stay inside and not to save electricity.'
'But you saw me,' he said. 'You recognised me.'
'I'm a people-watcher,' she said. 'I see them. That's my one talent.'
'Is that why you're helping me?' he asked. 'Is that why you haven't tried to run away even once?'
She studied him. 'No, that's not why,' she said at length.
'Why?'
'Because I want Jon Karlsen to die. I want him to be even deader than you are.'
He gave a start. Was she out of her mind?
'Me, dead?'
'That's what they have been claiming on the news for the past few hours,' she said, nodding towards the radio.
She breathed in and put on the grave, imperious voice of the newsreader. 'The man suspected of the Egertorget murder died last night, shot by police Special Forces during a raid on the container terminal. According to Sivert Falkeid, the Special Forces commander, the suspect refused to surrender and went for his gun. Oslo Crime Squad head, Chief Inspector Gunnar Hagen, has said the case will be put in the hands of SEFO, the independent police investigation authority, as a matter of routine. Chief Inspector Hagen commented that this case is another example of the police having to deal with ever more brutal organised crime and that discussion of whether to arm the police should not only be about effective law enforcement but also the safety of our police officers.'
He blinked twice. Three times. Then it dawned on him. Kristoffer. The blue jacket.
'I'm dead,' he said. 'That's why they left before we arrived. They think it's over.' He placed his hand on Martine's. 'You want Jon Karlsen to die.'
She stared into space. Breathed in as if she were going to speak, then released the air with a groan as though the words she had found were not the correct ones, and tried again. At the third attempt she succeeded. 'Because Jon Karlsen knew. He's known for all these years. And that's why I hate him. And that's why I hate myself.'
Harry eyed the naked corpse on the table. It almost didn't affect him any more to see them like this. Almost.
Room temperature was around fourteen degrees and the smooth cement walls returned a short, harsh echo as the female pathologist answered Harry's question.
'No, we weren't thinking of doing an autopsy on him. The queue's long enough as it is, and the cause is fairly obvious in this case, don't you think?' She motioned towards the face with the big, black hole that had taken with it most of the nose and the top lip, leaving the mouth and the upper set of teeth open.
'Bit of a crater,' Harry said. 'Doesn't look like the work of an MP5. When will I have the report?'
'Ask your boss. He asked for it to go straight to him.'
'Hagen?'
'Yup. So you'd better ask him for a copy if you're in a hurry.'
Harry and Beate exchanged glances.
'Listen,' said the pathologist, the corners of her mouth stretched in what Harry realised was meant to be a smile, 'we're understaffed this weekend and I have a lot on my plate, so if you wouldn't mind?'
'Of course,' Beate said.
The pathologist and Beate made for the door, but both stopped when they hea
rd Harry's voice.
'Has anyone noticed this?'
They turned to Harry, who was bent over the body.
'He's got syringe marks. Have you checked his blood for drugs?'
The pathologist sighed. 'He came in this morning and all we have managed to do is put him in the freezer.'
'When can you have it done?'
'Is it vital?' she asked, and seeing Harry's hesitation, went on. 'An honest answer would be nice, because if we prioritise it that will mean all the other cases you're nagging us for will be even more delayed. It's hell right now, coming in to Christmas.'
'Well,' Harry said, 'perhaps he had the odd fix.' He shrugged. 'But he's dead. And so I suppose it's not that vital. Did you take his watch?'
'Watch?'
'Yes, he was wearing a Seiko SQ50 when he was withdrawing money from the ATM the other day.'
'He didn't have a watch.'
'Mm,' Harry said, looking at his own bare wrist. 'Must have lost it.'
'I'll nip down to the intensive care unit,' Beate said when they were outside.
'OK,' Harry said, 'I'll catch a taxi. Will you get the identity confirmed?'
'What do you mean?'
'So that we're one hundred per cent certain that's Stankic lying in there.'
'Of course, that's the usual procedure. The body has blood type A, which matches the blood we found on Halvorsen's pockets.'
'It's the most common blood type in Norway, Beate.'
'Yes, but they're checking the DNA profile as well. Are you not convinced?'
Harry shrugged. 'It has to be done. When?'
'Tuesday at the earliest, alright?'
'Three days? Not alright.'
'Harry…'
Harry held up his hands in defence. 'Fine. I'll go. Get some sleep, OK?'
'To be frank, you look like you need it more than I do.'
Harry rested a hand on her shoulder. Felt how thin she was under the jacket. 'He's a toughie, Beate. And he wants to be here. OK?'