Police hh-10

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘I said she went mute,’ Paul Stavnes said, annoyed. ‘I didn’t say she died. That’s different.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Ståle Aune said, reaching carefully for the phone in his drawer. ‘Did you wish she could speak?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re sweating. Are you unwell, Doctor?’

  Again this jeering tone, this small, repugnant smile.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  Ståle’s fingers rested on the phone. He had to get the patient speaking so that he wouldn’t hear him texting.

  ‘We haven’t talked about your marriage. What can you say about your wife?’

  ‘Not much. Why do you want to talk about her?’

  ‘A close relative. You seem to dislike people who are close. Despise was the word you used.’

  ‘So you have been paying some attention after all?’ Brief, sullen laugh. ‘I despise people because most of them are weak, stupid and down on their luck.’ More laughter. ‘Zero out of three. Tell me, did you sort out X?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The policeman. The homo who tried to kiss another cop on the toilet. Did he recover?’

  ‘Not really.’ Ståle Aune pressed the keys, cursing his fat sausage-fingers, which felt as if they had swollen even more with the tension.

  ‘So if you think I’m like him, why do you reckon you can sort me out?’

  ‘X was schizophrenic. He heard voices.’

  ‘And you think I’m in better shape?’ The patient laughed bitterly as Ståle texted. Trying to write while the patient continued to talk, trying to camouflage the clicks by scraping his shoes against the floor. One letter. One more. Bastard fingers. There we are. He realised the patient had stopped talking. The patient, Paul Stavnes. Wherever he got that name from. You could always find a new name. Or get rid of the old one. It wasn’t so easy with tattoos. Especially if they were big and covered your whole chest.

  ‘I know why you’re sweating, Aune,’ the patient said. ‘You happened to see the reflection in the window when I was changing, didn’t you?’

  Ståle Aune felt the pains in his chest increase, as though his heart couldn’t make up its mind whether to beat faster or not at all, and he hoped the expression he put on looked as uncomprehending as he intended.

  ‘What?’ he said in a loud voice to drown the click as he pressed the Send button.

  The patient pulled his T-shirt up to his throat.

  A mute, screaming face stared at Aune from the man’s chest.

  The face of a demon.

  ‘OK, shoot,’ Harry said, holding the phone to his ear as he drained the second cup of coffee.

  ‘The jigsaw has got Valentin Gjertsen’s fingerprints on,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘And the cutting surface of the blade matches. It’s the same blade that was used in Bergslia.’

  ‘So Valentin Gjertsen is the Saw Man,’ Harry said.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘What surprises me is that Valentin Gjertsen would hide a murder weapon at home instead of dumping it.’

  ‘He was planning to use it again,’ Harry said.

  Harry felt his phone vibrate. A text. He looked at the display. The sender was S, so Ståle Aune. Harry read it. And read it again.

  valentin is here sos

  ‘Bjørn, send a patrol car to Ståle’s office in Sporveisgata. Valentin’s there.’

  ‘Hello? Harry? Hello?’

  But Harry was already running.

  31

  ‘Being exposed is always an awkward business,’ the patient said. ‘But sometimes it’s worse for the exposer.’

  ‘Exposing what?’ Ståle said with a gulp. ‘It’s a tattoo. So? It’s not a crime. Lots of people have. .’ He nodded towards the demon face. ‘. . tattoos like that.’

  ‘Do they?’ the patient said, pulling his T-shirt down. ‘Was that why you looked as if you were going to drop dead when you saw it?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ Ståle said in a tight voice. ‘Shall we talk about your father?’

  The patient laughed out loud. ‘Do you know what, Aune? When I first came here I couldn’t decide whether I was proud or disappointed you didn’t recognise me.’

  ‘Recognise?’

  ‘We’ve met before. I was charged with sex abuse, and it was your job to determine whether I was of sound mind or not. You must have had hundreds of cases like that. Well, it took you only forty-five minutes. Nevertheless, in a way, I wished I had made a greater impression on you.’

  Ståle stared at him. Had he done a psychological evaluation of the man sitting in front of him? It was impossible to remember them all; however, he usually remembered at least their faces.

  Ståle studied him. The two small scars under the chin. Of course. He had assumed his patient had had a facelift, but Beate had said that Valentin Gjertsen must have had major plastic surgery.

  ‘But you made an impression on me, Aune. You understood me. You weren’t put off by the details, you just continued drilling away. Asking about the right things. About the bad things. Like a good masseur knowing exactly where to find the knot. You found the pain, Aune. And that’s why I came back. I hoped you could find it again, the damned boil, lance it, get the crap out. Can you do that? Or have you lost the passion, Aune?’

  Ståle cleared his throat. ‘I can’t do it if you lie to me, Paul.’

  ‘But I’m not lying, Aune. Just about the job and the wife. Everything else is true. Oh yes, and the name. Otherwise. .’

  ‘Pink Floyd. The girl?’

  The man in front of him splayed his palms and smiled.

  ‘And why are you telling me this now, Paul?’

  ‘You don’t need to call me that any more. You can say Valentin if you like.’

  ‘Val-what?’

  The patient chuckled. ‘Sorry, but you’re a lousy actor, Aune. You know who I am. You knew the minute you saw my tattoo reflected in the window.’

  ‘And what should I know?’

  ‘That I’m Valentin Gjertsen. The one you’re all looking for.’

  ‘All? Looking?’

  ‘You forget I had to sit here listening to you talking to a cop about Valentin Gjertsen’s doodles on a tram window. I complained and got a session free, do you remember?’

  Ståle closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. Closed everything out. Told himself Harry would be there soon. He couldn’t have been that far away.

  ‘By the way, that’s why I started cycling instead of catching the tram to our sessions,’ Valentin Gjertsen said. ‘I thought the tram would be under surveillance.’

  ‘But you still came.’

  Valentin shrugged and put a hand in his rucksack. ‘It’s almost impossible to identify anyone when they’re in a helmet and goggles, isn’t it? And you didn’t suspect a thing. You’d decided I was Paul Stavnes, basta. And I needed these sessions, Aune. I’m really sorry they have to stop. .’

  Aune stifled a gasp as he saw Valentin Gjertsen’s hand emerge from the rucksack. The light flashed on the steel.

  ‘Did you know this is called a survival knife?’ Valentin said. ‘Bit of a misnomer in your case. But it’s so versatile. This, for example. .’ He ran a fingertip along the jagged blade. ‘. . is what mystifies most people. They just think it looks creepy. And do you know what?’ Again he smiled the thin, ugly smile. ‘They’re right. When you slide the knife across a throat, like this. . it hooks onto the skin and tears. Then the next grooves tear what is inside. The thin membrane around a blood vessel, for example. And if it’s a main artery under pressure. . that’s quite a sight, I can tell you. But don’t be afraid. You won’t notice, I promise.’

  Ståle’s brain went into a whirl. He almost hoped it was a heart attack.

  ‘So there’s only one thing left, Ståle. Is it all right if I call you Ståle now the end is nigh? What’s the diagnosis?’

  ‘Dia. . dia. .’

  ‘Dia. . gnosis. Greek for “through knowledge”, isn’t it? What’s wrong with me, Ståle?’


  ‘I. . I don’t know. I-’

  The movement that followed was so swift Ståle Aune wouldn’t have been able to lift a finger even if he’d tried. Valentin had disappeared from view and when he heard his voice again, it was behind him, by his ear.

  ‘Of course you know, Ståle. You’ve dealt with people like me all your professional life. Not exactly like me, that goes without saying, but similar. Damaged goods.’

  Ståle could no longer see the knife. He felt it. Against his quivering double chin as he breathed hard through his nose. It seemed contrary to nature that any human being could move so fast. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. There was no space for any other thoughts.

  ‘There’s. . there’s nothing wrong with you, Paul.’

  ‘Valentin. Show some respect. I’m standing here ready to drain you of blood while my dick is gorged with blood. And you suggest there’s nothing wrong with me?’ He laughed in Aune’s ear. ‘Come on. The diagnosis.’

  ‘Stark raving mad.’

  They both lifted their heads. Looked at the door, from where the voice had come.

  ‘Time’s up. Pay on your way out, Valentin.’

  The tall, broad-shouldered figure filling the doorway stepped inside. He was dragging something after him and it took Ståle a second to realise what it was. The barbell from above the sofa in the communal area.

  ‘Stay out of this, cop,’ Valentin hissed, and Ståle felt the knife pressing against his skin.

  ‘Patrol cars are on their way, Valentin. It’s all over. Let the doc go now.’

  Valentin nodded towards the open window overlooking the street. ‘Can’t hear any sirens. Go, or I’ll kill the doctor right here.’

  ‘Don’t think you will,’ Harry Hole said, lifting the bar. ‘Without him you’ve got no shield.’

  ‘In which case,’ Valentin said, and Ståle felt his arm being bent behind his back, forcing him to stand up, ‘I’ll let the doctor go. With me.’

  ‘Take me instead,’ Harry Hole said.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘I’m a better hostage. There’s a chance he’ll panic and faint. And you won’t need to worry about what tricks I might pull if you’re holding on to me.’

  Silence. From the window they could hear a faint sound. Perhaps a distant siren, perhaps not. The pressure from the blade slackened. Then — as Ståle was about to breathe again — he felt a pricking sensation and heard the snap of something being severed. It fell to the floor. The bow tie.

  ‘One move from you and. .’ the voice hissed in his ear before turning to Harry. ‘As you wish, cop, but let go of the bar first. Then stand with your face to the wall, legs apart and-’

  ‘I know the drill,’ Harry said, letting go of the bar, turning, placing his palms high up the wall and spreading his legs.

  Ståle felt the grip on his arm loosen and the next moment he saw Valentin standing behind Harry, pushing his arm up his back and holding the knife against his throat.

  ‘Let’s go, handsome,’ Valentin said.

  Then they were out of the door.

  And Ståle could finally draw breath.

  From the window the sirens rose and fell with the wind.

  Harry saw the receptionist’s terrified expression as he and Valentin walked towards her like a two-headed troll and passed her without a word. On the stairway Harry tried to walk more slowly, but soon felt a stinging pain in his side.

  ‘This knife will go deeper into your kidney if you try anything.’

  Harry increased his speed. He couldn’t feel the blood yet as it was the same temperature as his skin, but he knew it was running down the inside of his shirt.

  Then they were on the ground floor, and Valentin kicked open the door and pushed Harry through, but the knife never lost contact with him.

  They stood in Sporveisgata. Harry heard the sirens. A man with sunglasses and a dog walked towards them. Passing by without so much as a glance, the white stick tapping on the pavement like a castanet.

  ‘Stand here,’ Valentin said, pointing to a No Parking sign with a mountain bike locked to the post.

  Harry stood by the post. His shirt had become sticky and the pain throbbed in his side with a pulse of its own. The knife pressed into his back. He heard keys and the rattle of a bike lock. The sirens were approaching. Then the knife was gone. But before Harry could react and jump away, his head was dragged backwards as something was clamped around his neck. Sparks appeared in his eyes as his head smacked against the post and he gasped for air. The keys rattled again. Then the pressure slackened and Harry instinctively raised his hand, inserted two fingers between his throat and whatever was holding him. Bloody hell.

  Valentin swung out in front of him on his bike. Put the goggles on, saluted him with two fingers to his helmet and pushed down on the pedals.

  Harry watched the black rucksack disappearing down the street. The sirens couldn’t be more than two blocks away. A cyclist passed by. Helmet, black rucksack. One more. No helmet, but a black rucksack. One more. Shit, shit, shit. The sirens sounded as if they were in his head. Harry closed his eyes and thought about the old Greek logic puzzle where something is approaching, a kilometre away, half a kilometre, a third of a kilometre, a quarter, a hundredth, and if it is true that a sequence of numbers is infinite, it will never arrive.

  32

  ‘So you just stood there, fastened to a post with a bike lock around your neck?’ Bjørn Holm asked, in disbelief.

  ‘A sodding No Parking sign,’ Harry said, looking down at the empty coffee cup.

  ‘Ironic,’ Katrine said.

  ‘They had to send someone to get bolt cutters.’

  The Boiler Room door opened and Gunnar Hagen marched in. ‘I’ve just heard the news. What’s going on?’

  ‘Patrol cars are in the area looking for him,’ Katrine said. ‘Every single cyclist is being stopped and searched.’

  ‘Even though he must have got rid of his bike by now and is in a taxi or on public transport,’ Harry said. ‘Valentin is many things, but not stupid.’

  The Crime Squad boss threw himself onto a chair out of breath. ‘Did he leave any clues?’

  Silence.

  He looked in surprise at the wall of accusatory faces. ‘What’s up?’

  Harry coughed. ‘You’re sitting on Beate’s chair.’

  ‘Am I?’ Hagen jumped up.

  ‘He left his tracksuit top,’ Harry said. ‘Bjørn’s handed it to Krimteknisk.’

  ‘Sweat, hair, the whole salami,’ Bjørn said. ‘Reckon we’ll have it confirmed in a day or two that Paul Stavnes and Valentin Gjertsen are one and the same.’

  ‘Anything else in the top?’ Hagen asked.

  ‘No wallet, mobile, notebook or calendar showing plans for future murders,’ Harry said. ‘Just this.’

  Hagen automatically took it and looked at what Harry had passed him. An unopened little plastic bag containing three Q-tips.

  ‘What was he going to do with these?’

  ‘Kill someone?’ Harry suggested laconically.

  ‘They’re for cleaning your ears,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘But actually they’re for scratching your ears, right? The skin gets irritated, we scratch even more, there’s more wax and all of a sudden we have to have more Q-tips. Heroin for the ears.’

  ‘Or for make-up,’ Harry said.

  ‘Oh?’ Hagen said, studying the bag. ‘By which you mean. . he wears make-up?’

  ‘Well, it’s a mask. He’s already had plastic surgery. Ståle, you’ve seen him close up.’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it, but you may be right.’

  ‘You don’t need much mascara and eyeliner to achieve a difference,’ Katrine said.

  ‘Great,’ Hagen said. ‘Have we got anything on the name Paul Stavnes?’

  ‘Very little,’ Katrine said. ‘There’s no Paul Stavnes on the national register with the date of birth he gave Aune. The only two people with the same name have been eliminated by police outside Oslo. And the elderly cou
ple who live at the address he gave have never heard of any Paul Stavnes or Valentin Gjertsen.’

  ‘We’re not in the habit of checking patients’ contact details,’ Aune said. ‘And he settled up after every session.’

  ‘Hotel,’ Harry said. ‘Boarding house, hospice. They’ve all got their guests registered on databases now.’

  ‘I’ll check.’ Katrine swivelled round on her chair and began to tap away on her keyboard.

  ‘Is that kind of thing on the Internet?’ Hagen asked in a sceptical tone.

  ‘No,’ Harry said. ‘But Katrine uses a couple of search engines you’ll wish didn’t exist.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’

  ‘Because they have access to a level of codes that mean the best firewalls in the world are completely useless,’ Bjørn Holm said, peering over Katrine’s shoulder, to a clicking landslide of keystrokes, like the feet of fleeing cockroaches on a glass table.

  ‘How’s that possible?’ Hagen asked.

  ‘Because they’re the same codes the firewalls use,’ Bjørn said. ‘The search engines are the wall.’

  ‘Not looking good,’ Katrine said. ‘No Paul Stavnes anywhere.’

  ‘But he must live somewhere,’ Hagen said. ‘Is he renting a flat under the name Paul Stavnes? Can you check that?’

  ‘Doubt he’s your run-of-the-mill tenant,’ Katrine said. ‘Most landlords vet their tenants these days. Google them, check the tax lists anyway. And Valentin knows they would be suspicious if they couldn’t find him anywhere.’

  ‘Hotel,’ said Harry, who had got up and was standing by the board where they had written what had seemed to Hagen at first sight like a chart of free associations with arrows and cues until he had recognised the names of the murder victims. One of them was referred to only as B.

  ‘You’ve already said hotel, my love,’ Katrine said.

  ‘Three Q-tips,’ Harry went on, leaning down to Hagen and retrieving the sealed plastic bag. ‘You can’t buy a packet like this in a shop. You find it in a hotel bathroom with miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Try again, Katrine. Judas Johansen this time.’