by Jo Nesbo
So why hadn’t they travelled after they made the move? Why had he deferred that as well?
Anton straightened his sunglasses, shuffled the letter around. Fished the phone from his baggy trouser pocket instead.
Was it everyday life that was so hectic with the days just coming and going, coming and going? Was it the view of Drammen that was so blissfully comforting? Was it the thought of having to spend so much time together, the fear of what it could reveal about both of them, about their marriage? Or was it the Case, the Fall, that had drained his energy, his initiative, leaving him in a state of mind in which daily routine appeared to be the sole escape from total collapse? And then Mona happened. .
Anton looked at the display. GAMLEM CONTACT RIKSHOSPITAL.
There were three options beneath. Call. Send text. Edit.
Edit. Life should have that button as well. Everything could have been so different. He would have reported the baton. He wouldn’t have invited Mona for coffee. He wouldn’t have fallen asleep.
But he had fallen asleep.
Fallen asleep while on duty, on a hard wooden chair. Him, someone who usually struggled to fall asleep in his own bed after a long day. It was incomprehensible. And he had wandered around half dazed for a long time afterwards as well, even the dead man’s face and the ensuing commotion hadn’t been enough to wake him; he had stood there like a zombie with this fog in his brain, incapable of doing anything or even answering questions clearly. Not that it would have necessarily saved the patient if he had stayed awake. The autopsy hadn’t shown anything other than that the patient might have died of a stroke. But Anton hadn’t done his job. Not that anyone would ever find out; he hadn’t said a word. But he knew. Knew that he had screwed up again.
Anton Mittet looked down at the buttons.
Call. Send text. Edit.
It was time. Time to do something. Do something right. Just do it. Don’t put it off.
He pressed Edit. Another option appeared.
He chose. Chose correctly. Delete.
Then he took the envelope and tore it open. Took the letter out and read. He had gone to the health centre early in the morning after the patient had been found dead. Explained he was a police officer on his way to work, he had taken a pill, but didn’t know what it contained, he felt strange and was worried about going to work in case it had side effects. At first the doctor had wanted him to call in sick, but Anton had insisted they take a blood sample.
His eyes ran down the letter. He didn’t understand all the words and names or what the numbers by them signified, but the doctor had added two summarising sentences to clarify:
. . nitrazepam is found in strong hypnotic drugs. You MUST NOT take any more of these tablets without consulting a doctor first.
Anton closed his eyes and sucked in air through clenched teeth.
Shit.
He had been right about his suspicion. He had been doped. Someone had doped him. Not only that, he had an inkling how. The coffee. The noise in the corridor. The container with only one capsule left. He had wondered if the lid had been perforated. The solution must have been injected through the lid with a syringe. Then the perpetrator only had to wait for Anton to go and brew his own Mickey Finn, espresso with nitrazepam.
They said the patient had died of natural causes. Or rather, there was no evidence to suggest anything suspicious had taken place. But a substantial part of their conclusion was of course Anton’s statement that no one had been to see the patient subsequent to the previous doctor’s visit two hours before the heart stopped beating.
Anton knew what he had to do. He had to report this. Now. He lifted the phone. He had to report the blunder. Explain why he hadn’t told them straight out that he had fallen sleep. He looked at the display. This time not even Gunnar Hagen could save him. He put the phone down. He would ring. Not right now though.
Mikael Bellman knotted his tie in the mirror.
‘You were good today,’ a voice from the bed said.
Mikael knew it was true. He watched Isabelle Skøyen get up behind him and pull on her stockings. ‘Is that because he’s dead?’
She threw the reindeer-skin bedspread over the duvet. Above the mirror hung an impressive set of antlers and the walls were decorated with pictures by Sami painters. This wing of the hotel had rooms that were designed by female artists and bore their names. Their room had the name of a female joik singer. The only problem they had with the room was that Chinese tourists had stolen the ram horns, obviously firmly of the belief that the horn extract had a libido-boosting effect. Mikael had considered it himself the last couple of times. But not today. Perhaps she was right, perhaps it was the relief that the patient was finally dead.
‘I don’t want to know how it happened,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t have been able to tell you anyway,’ she said, pulling on her skirt.
‘Let’s not even talk about it.’
She was standing behind him. And bit him on the neck.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ she sniggered. ‘Life’s a game.’
‘For you maybe. I’ve still got these bloody murders to deal with.’
‘You don’t have to be elected. I do. But do I look worried?’
He shrugged. Reached for his jacket. ‘Are you going first?’
He smiled as she smacked his head. Heard her shoes click-clacking towards the door.
‘I may have a problem with next Wednesday,’ she said. ‘The council meeting has been moved.’
‘Fine,’ he said, noticing that it was exactly that, fine. Well, more than that, he was relieved. Yes, he was.
She stopped by the door. Listened as usual for any noise in the corridor, making sure the coast was clear. ‘Do you love me?’
He opened his mouth. Saw himself in the mirror. Saw the black hole in the middle of his face with no sound emerging. Heard her low chuckle.
‘I’m joking,’ she whispered. ‘Did I frighten you? Ten minutes.’
The door opened and then closed softly behind her.
They had a deal that the second person would wait ten minutes before leaving the room. He couldn’t remember if it had been his idea or hers. At the time they must have felt that the risk of bumping into a curious reporter or some familiar face in reception loomed large, but so far it hadn’t happened.
Mikael took out his comb and groomed his slightly too long hair. The ends were still wet after the shower. Isabelle never showered after they had made love; she said she liked to walk around with the smell of him on her all day. He looked at his watch. Everything had worked today, he hadn’t needed to think about Gusto and he had even prolonged it. So much so that if he waited here for the full ten minutes he would be late for the meeting with the chairman of the City Council.
Ulla Bellman looked at her watch. It was a Movado, 1947 design, and had been an anniversary present from Mikael. Twenty minutes past. She leaned back in the armchair and scanned the lobby. Wondering if she would recognise him. Strictly speaking they hadn’t met more than twice. Once when he had held the door open for her as they were going to see Mikael at Stovner Police Station and he had introduced himself. A charming, smiling Nordlander. The second time, at a Christmas dinner at Stovner, they had danced and he had pressed her closer to him than he should have. Not that she had minded, it was an innocent flirtation, an acknowledgement she was happy to indulge, anyway Mikael was sitting somewhere in the room, and the other wives were also dancing with partners who weren’t their husbands. And there was someone else apart from Mikael following her with a watchful eye. He had been standing on the dance floor with a drink in his hand. Truls Berntsen. Afterwards Ulla had asked Truls if he wanted to dance, but he had grinned and said no. He was no dancer, he had said.
Runar. That was his name, it had slipped her mind. She had never heard or seen anything of him again. Until he had rung and asked if she could meet him here today. At first she had turned him down, saying she had no time, but he’d said he had something important
to tell her. His voice was curiously distorted, she couldn’t quite remember him sounding like that, but perhaps it was just that he was caught somewhere between his old Nordland dialect and Østland Norwegian. It often happened with people from the provinces when they had lived in Oslo for a while.
So she had said yes, a quick cup of coffee would be fine as she was going into town that morning anyway. It wasn’t true. Like the answer she had given Mikael when he had asked where she was, and she had said she was on her way to meet a girlfriend. She hadn’t meant to lie, but the question had caught her on the hop, and she realised she should have told Mikael she was having a coffee with an ex-colleague of his. So why hadn’t she? Because deep down she suspected that what she was going to be told had something to do with Mikael? Already she regretted being here. She looked at her watch.
The receptionist had glanced at her a couple of times, she noticed. Ulla had removed her coat, and underneath she was wearing a sweater and trousers, which emphasised her slim figure. Going to the city centre was not something she did a lot, and she had spent a bit more time on her make-up and her long blonde hair, which had caused the Manglerud boys to drive past her to see if her front fulfilled what her back promised. And she could see from their faces that for once it had. Mikael’s father had once told her she looked like the good-looking one in the Mamas amp; the Papas, but she didn’t know who that was and had never tried to find out.
She shot a glance at the swing door. More and more people were streaming in, but not the person with darting eyes she was expecting.
She heard a muffled ping from the lift doors and then a tall woman in a fur coat stepped out. It struck Ulla that if a journalist asked the woman if the fur was genuine, she would probably deny it. Socialist politicians preferred to tell the majority of voters what they wanted to hear. Isabelle Skøyen. The City Councillor for Social Affairs. She had been to their house for the party after Mikael’s appointment. Actually it had been a house-warming party, but instead of friends Mikael had by and large invited people who were important for his career. Or ‘their’ career, as he called it, his and hers. Truls Berntsen had been one of the few present she had known, and he wasn’t exactly the type of person you can talk to for the whole evening. Not that she’d had time; she had been kept very busy playing the hostess.
Isabelle Skøyen sent her a look and was about to walk on, but Ulla had already noticed the brief hesitation. The little hesitation that meant she had recognised Ulla and was now faced with the choice of pretending she hadn’t or being obliged to go over and exchange a few words with her. And she would have preferred to avoid the latter. Ulla often felt exactly the same. For example, with Truls. In a way she liked him: they had grown up together and he was kind to her and loyal. Nevertheless. She hoped Isabelle would choose the former and make it easier for them both. And saw to her relief that she was already heading for the swing door. But then she evidently changed her mind, did a U-turn, big smile and sparkling eyes. Sailed over towards her, yes, indeed she did sail. Isabelle Skøyen reminded Ulla of a dramatic, oversized galleon figurehead as she rushed over.
‘Ulla!’ she cried, several metres away, as though this was a reunion of two long-lost friends.
Ulla got up, already somewhat uneasy about having to answer the next, inevitable question: what are you doing here?
‘Nice to see you again, my dear! What a lovely little party that was!’
Isabelle Skøyen had placed a hand on Ulla’s shoulder and proffered her cheek in such a way that Ulla had to rest hers against it. Little party? There had been thirty-two guests.
‘Sorry I had to leave so early.’
Ulla remembered that Isabelle had been a bit the worse for wear. While she had been serving the guests the tall, attractive councillor and Mikael had gone onto the terrace for a while. For a moment Ulla had actually been a bit jealous.
‘That didn’t matter. We were just honoured you could come.’ Ulla hoped her smile wasn’t as stiff as it felt. ‘Isabelle.’
The councillor looked down at her. Studying her. As though searching for something. The answer to the question she still hadn’t asked: what are you doing here, my dear?
Ulla decided to tell the truth. As she would with Mikael later.
‘I must be off,’ Isabelle said without making a move to go or taking her eyes off Ulla.
‘Yes, I suppose you must be busier than me,’ Ulla said, and to her irritation heard the stupid titter she had been determined to drop. Isabelle was still looking at her, and all of a sudden Ulla felt that this stranger was trying to force it out of her without asking: what are you, the wife of the Chief of Police, doing here in the reception area of the Grand Hotel? My God, did she imagine Ulla was meeting a lover here? Was that why she was so discreet? Ulla could feel the stiffness of her smile dissipating, it was becoming easier, now she was smiling the way she actually smiled, the way she wanted to smile. She knew the smile had reached her eyes now. She was on the point of laughing in Isabelle Skøyen’s face. And the strange thing was that Isabelle looked as if she wanted to laugh as well.
‘I hope to see you again before too long, my dear,’ Isabelle said, pressing Ulla’s hand between her big, strong fingers.
Then she turned and surged back through reception where one of the doormen was already hurrying to assist her. Ulla caught a glimpse of her pulling out a mobile phone before rushing through the swing door.
Mikael was standing by the lift only a few rapid strides from the Sami woman’s room. Glanced at his watch. Just four or five minutes had passed, but that would have to be enough; after all, the vital element was that they shouldn’t be seen together. Isabelle always booked the room and arrived ten minutes before him. Lying in bed, ready and waiting. That was how she liked it. Was that how he liked it?
Fortunately it was only three minutes’ fast walk from the Grand to City Hall, where the chairman was waiting.
The lift doors opened, and Mikael stepped in. He pressed 1 for the ground floor. The lift started and stopped on the next floor down. The doors opened.
‘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.’