by Jo Nesbo
‘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 amp; 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.
Mikael slowly shook his head in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about, Truls?’
‘Maybe the money came indirectly from you. Maybe you were paying me the whole time. Maybe you led Asayev to me.’
‘I think you’ve inhaled too much gun smoke, Truls. I never had anything to do with Asayev.’
‘Maybe we should ask him about that?’
‘Rudolf Asayev’s dead, Truls.’
‘Bloody convenient, eh? Everyone who could talk happens to have snuffed it.’
Everyone, Mikael Bellman thought. Except you.
‘Except me,’ Truls grinned.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Mikael said, pulling down his target and folding it.
‘Oh yes,’ Truls said. ‘The Wednesday date.’
Mikael froze. ‘What?’
‘I remember you always used to leave the office at this time on Wednesdays.’
Mikael studied him. It was odd — even after knowing Truls Berntsen for thirty years Mikael still wasn’t sure how stupid or smart he was. ‘Right. But let me just say you’d better keep that kind of speculation to yourself.
As things stand, it can only hurt you, Truls. And it might be best not to say too much. It could put me in a tricky spot if I’m summoned as a witness. Understand?’
But Truls had already put the protectors over his ears and turned to the target. Staring eyes behind the glasses. One flash. Two. Three. The gun seemed to try to detach itself, but Truls’s grip was too tight. The hyena grip.
In the car park Mikael felt the phone vibrate in his trouser pocket.
It was Ulla.
‘Did you manage to talk to pest control?’
‘Yes,’ Mikael said, who hadn’t given it a thought, let alone spoken to anyone.
‘What did they say?’
‘They said the smell you think is coming from the terrace could well be a dead mouse or a rat somewhere in there. But since it’s concrete we can’t do much. Whatever it is will rot and the smell will go of its own accord. They advised us not to break up the terrace. OK?’
‘You should have had professionals do the terrace, not Truls.’
‘He did it in the middle of the night, without asking me. I’ve told you before. Where are you, darling?’
‘I’m meeting a girlfriend. Will you be home for dinner?’
‘Oh, yes. And don’t worry about the terrace. All right, darling?’
‘All right.’
He hung up. Thinking he had said darling twice, and that was one time too many. Made it sound as if it was a lie. He started the car, pressed the accelerator, released the clutch and felt the wonderful pressure of the seat rest against his head as the new Audi surged across the car park. Thought about Isabelle. How he felt. Felt his blood pumping already. And thought about the strange paradox that had not been a lie. His love for Ulla never felt more real than just before he was going to fuck another woman.
Anton Mittet sat on the terrace. His eyes were closed and he could feel the sun warming his skin, just. Spring was fighting, but for the moment winter had the upper hand. Then he opened his eyes, and again his gaze fell on the letter on the table by him.
The Drammen Health Centre logo was embossed in blue.
He knew what it was, the result of his blood test. He was about to tear it open, but deferred it again and instead looked up and across the River Drammen. When they had seen the brochure for the new flats in Elveparken, to the west in Åssiden, they hadn’t hesitated. The children had flown the nest and taming the stubborn garden had not become an easier job over the years, and nor had maintaining the old, much too big, timber house in Konnerud they had inherited from Laura’s parents. Selling the whole lot and buying a modern, manageable flat was supposed to give them more time and money to do what they had spoken about for so many years. Travelling together. Visiting distant lands. Experiencing the things this short life on earth still had to offer.