The Thirst: Harry Hole 11

by Jo Nesbo

  Mona went over to the window and looked out over Frognerparken. It had clouded over, and apart from the illuminated paths an almost tangible darkness had settled on the park. It was always like that in autumn, before the trees lost their leaves and everything became more transparent, and the city once again became hard and cold. But from late September to late October, Oslo was like a soft, warm teddy bear that she just wanted to hug and cuddle.

  ‘I’m all ears, Nora.’

  ‘It’s about the vampirist.’

  ‘You’ve been told to get him on as a guest. Do you think he does chat shows?’

  ‘For the last time, The Sunday Magazine is a serious discussion programme. I’ve called Harry Hole but he said no, and told me that Katrine Bratt is leading the investigation.’

  ‘But isn’t that good? You’re always complaining about how hard it is to find good female guests.’

  ‘Yes, but Hole is, like, the most famous detective we’ve got. You must remember that time when he was drunk live on air? A scandal, obviously, but people loved it!’

  ‘Did you tell him that?’

  ‘No, but I said that television needs celebrities, and that a famous face could attract more attention to the work the police do in this city.’

  ‘Ingenious. But he didn’t go for it?’

  ‘He said if I wanted to get him on Let’s Dance to represent the police, he’d start practising his slow foxtrot tomorrow. But that this was about a murder investigation, and that Katrine Bratt was the one with all the facts and the mandate to speak.’

  Mona laughed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. All I can see now is Harry Hole on Let’s Dance.’

  ‘What? Do you think he meant it?’

  Mona laughed even louder.

  ‘I was just calling to hear what you think of this Katrine Bratt, seeing as you move in those circles.’

  Mona picked up a pair of light dumbbells from the rack in front of her and did some quick bicep curls to keep her circulation going and to shift waste products out of her muscles. ‘Bratt’s intelligent. And articulate. A bit severe, maybe.’

  ‘But do you think she’d reach beyond the screen? In footage from press conferences she seems a bit …’

  ‘Grey? Yes, but she can look great when she wants to. Some of the guys in the newsroom think she’s the hottest thing they’ve got over in Police HQ. But she’s one of those women who suppress it and would rather look professional.’

  ‘I can feel myself starting to hate her already. What about Hallstein Smith?’

  ‘Now he’s got the potential to be one of your regulars. He’s eccentric enough, indiscreet enough, but smart with it. Run with that one.’

  ‘OK, thanks. Sisters are doing it for themselves, right?’

  ‘Aren’t we a bit past saying stuff like that?’

  ‘Yeah, but these days it’s ironic.’

  ‘Right. Ha ha.’

  ‘Ha ha yourself. How about you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s still out there.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I mean, literally. It’s not that far from Hovseter to Frognerparken.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Shit, haven’t you heard? He’s struck again.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Mona yelled, and from the corner of her eye saw the guy in reception look up. ‘My bastard head of news said he’d call me. He’s given it to someone else. Bye, Nora.’

  Mona went to the locker room, stuffed her clothes in her bag, then ran down the steps and onto the street. She carried on towards the VG building as she looked for a free taxi on the road. She was lucky and got hold of one at a red light. She threw herself into the back seat and pulled out her phone. Brought up Truls Berntsen’s number. After just two rings she heard his weird, grunting laugh.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘I was wondering how long it would take you,’ Truls Berntsen said.

  13

  SATURDAY NIGHT

  ‘SHE’D LOST OVER a litre and a half of blood by the time they got her down,’ the doctor said as he walked along the corridor in Ullevål Hospital with Harry and Katrine. ‘If the bite had hit the artery higher up in her thigh, where it’s thicker, we wouldn’t have been able to save her life. We wouldn’t usually let a patient in her condition be questioned by the police, but seeing as other people’s lives are at risk …’

  ‘Thanks,’ Katrine said. ‘We won’t ask more than we absolutely have to.’

  The doctor opened the door and he and Harry waited outside while Katrine went over to the bed and the nurse who was sitting beside it.

  ‘It’s pretty impressive,’ the doctor said. ‘Don’t you think, Harry?’

  Harry turned towards him and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You don’t mind me using your first name, do you?’ the doctor said. ‘Oslo’s a small city, and seeing as I’m your wife’s doctor.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know her appointment was here.’

  ‘I only realised when she filled in one of our forms and I saw she’d put your name as next of kin. And of course I remember the name from the papers.’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory …’ Harry said, and looked at the name badge on the white coat. ‘… Senior Consultant John D. Steffens. Because it’s been a long while since they printed my name. What is it you think is impressive?’

  ‘That a human being can bite through a woman’s thigh like that. A lot of people think modern man has weak jaws, but in comparison with most mammals we’ve got a fairly sharp bite. Did you know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How hard do you think we bite, Harry?’

  Harry realised after a few seconds that Steffens really was expecting an answer. ‘Well, our criminal forensics experts say seventy kilos.’

  ‘Well, then – you already know the answer.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘The number doesn’t mean anything to me. If I’d been told 150, I wouldn’t have been any more or less impressed. Speaking of numbers, how do you know that Penelope Rasch lost a litre and a half? I didn’t think pulse and blood pressure were such accurate indicators?’

  ‘I was sent pictures from the crime scene,’ Steffens said. ‘I buy and sell blood, so I’ve got a pretty accurate eye.’

  Harry was about to ask him to elaborate, but at that moment Katrine waved him over.

  Harry went in and stood beside Katrine. Penelope Rasch’s face was as white as the pillowcase that framed it. Her eyes were open but her gaze was clouded.

  ‘We won’t trouble you for long, Penelope,’ Katrine said. ‘We’ve spoken to the policeman who talked to you at the scene, so we know that you met the assailant in the city just before, that he attacked you in the stairwell and that he used metal teeth to bite you. But can you tell us anything about who he is? Did he give you any other name apart from Vidar? Did he say where he lives, where he works?’

  ‘Vidar Hansen. I didn’t ask where he lives,’ she said. Her voice made Harry think of fragile porcelain. ‘He said he’s an artist, but works as a caretaker.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I don’t know. He could well have been a guard. Someone who has access to keys, anyway, because he’d been inside my flat.’

  ‘Oh?’

  With what looked like a great effort, she pulled her left hand out from under the covers and held it up. ‘The engagement ring I got from Roar. He took it from the drawer in my bedroom.’

  Katrine stared sceptically at the matt gold ring. ‘You mean … he put it on you in the stairwell?’

  Penelope nodded and closed her eyes tightly again. ‘And the last thing he said …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Was that he wasn’t like other men, that he’d come back and marry me.’ She let out a sob.

  Harry could see that Katrine was shaken, but still focused.

  ‘What does he look like, Penelope?’

  Penelope opened her mouth, then closed it again. Stared at them in despair. �
�I don’t remember. I … I must have forgotten. How can …?’ She bit her bottom lip and tears welled up in her eyes.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Katrine said. ‘It’s not unusual in your situation, you’ll be able to remember more later. Do you remember what he was wearing?’

  ‘A suit. And a shirt. He unbuttoned it. He had …’ She stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A tattoo on his chest.’

  Harry saw Katrine gasp. ‘What sort of tattoo, Penelope?’ He said.

  ‘A face.’

  ‘Like a demon that’s trying to get out?’

  Penelope nodded. A single tear ran down her cheek. As if she didn’t have enough liquid inside her for two, Harry thought.

  ‘And it was as if he …’ Penelope sobbed again. ‘As if he wanted to show it to me.’

  Harry closed his eyes.

  ‘She needs to rest,’ the nurse said.

  Katrine nodded and put her hand on Penelope’s milk-white arm. ‘Thank you, Penelope, you’ve been a great help.’

  Harry and Katrine were on their way out when the nurse called them back. They returned to the bed.

  ‘I do remember one more thing,’ Penelope whispered. ‘He looked like he’d had his face operated on. And I can’t help wondering …’

  ‘What?’ Katrine said, leaning in to hear the barely audible voice.

  ‘Why didn’t he kill me?’

  Katrine looked at Harry for help. He took a deep breath, nodded to her and leaned closer to Penelope.

  ‘Because he couldn’t,’ he said. ‘Because you didn’t let him.’

  ‘Well, now we know for sure that it’s him,’ Katrine said as they walked along the corridor towards the exit.

  ‘Mm. And he’s changed his MO. And his preferences.’

  ‘How does that make you feel?’

  ‘That it’s him?’ Harry shrugged. ‘No feelings. He’s a murderer, and he needs to be caught. Full stop.’

  ‘Don’t lie, Harry. Not to me. He’s the reason you’re here.’

  ‘Because he might take more lives. Catching him is important, but it isn’t personal. OK?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Good,’ Harry said.

  ‘When he says he’ll come back and marry her, do you think that’s …?’

  ‘Meant as a metaphor? Yes. He’s going to haunt her dreams.’

  ‘But that means he …’

  ‘Deliberately didn’t kill her.’

  ‘You lied to her.’

  ‘I lied.’ Harry pushed the door open and they got in the car that was waiting for them right outside. Katrine in the front, Harry in the back.

  ‘Police HQ?’ Anders Wyller asked from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Yes,’ Katrine said, picking up the mobile that she’d left charging. ‘Bjørn’s texted to say that those bloody footprints on the stairs were probably left by cowboy boots.’

  ‘Cowboy boots,’ Harry repeated from the back seat.

  ‘Those ones with a narrow high heel and—’

  ‘I know what cowboy boots look like. They were mentioned in one of the witness statements.’

  ‘Which one?’ Katrine said, skimming through the other texts she’d received while she was inside the hospital.

  ‘The bartender at the Jealousy Bar. Mehmet Something.’

  ‘I must say, your memory is still intact. It says here that they want me as a guest on The Sunday Magazine, to talk about the vampirist.’ She tapped at her phone.

  ‘And?’

  ‘No, obviously. Bellman has said loud and clear that he wants the least possible publicity for this case.’

  ‘Even if it’s been solved?’

  Katrine turned to Harry. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Firstly: the Chief of Police can boast on national television about having solved the case in three days. And secondly: we might need the publicity to catch him.’

  ‘Have we solved the case?’ Wyller’s eyes met Harry’s in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Solved,’ Harry said. ‘Not finished.’

  Wyller turned to Katrine. ‘What does he mean?’

  ‘That we know who the perpetrator is, but that the investigation isn’t over until the long arm of the law has caught him. And in his case, that arm has turned out to be too short. This individual has been wanted across the whole world for almost four years.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  Katrine gave a deep sigh. ‘I can’t even say his name. Harry, you tell him.’

  Harry looked out through the window. Katrine was right, of course. He could deny it, but he was here for one single selfish reason. Not for the victims, not for the good of the city, not for the reputation of the force. Not even for his own reputation. Not for anything but this one single thing: that he had got away. Oh, Harry certainly felt guilty at not having been able to stop him before, for all the murder victims, for every day that this man had gone free. Even so, this was the only thing he could think about: that he had to catch him. That he, Harry, had to catch him. He didn’t know why. Did he really need the worst serial killer and offender in order to validate his own life? God alone knew. And God alone knew if it was the other way round as well. That this man had emerged from his hiding place because of Harry. He had drawn the V on Ewa Dolmen’s door, and shown Penelope Rasch the demon tattoo. Penelope had asked why he hadn’t killed her. And Harry had lied. The reason the man hadn’t killed her was because he wanted her to talk. Talk about what she’d seen. Tell Harry what he already knew. That he needed to come out and play.

  ‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Do you want the long version or the short one?’

  14

  SUNDAY MORNING

  ‘VALENTIN GJERTSEN,’ HARRY hole said, pointing at the face staring out at the investigative team from the huge screen.

  Katrine looked intently at the thin face. Brown hair, deep-set eyes. Unless it just appeared that way because he was jutting his forehead forward, meaning that the light fell in a particular way. Katrine couldn’t help thinking it was odd that the police photographer had let Valentin get away with it. And then there was his expression. Custody pictures usually showed fear, confusion or resignation. But he looked contented. As if Valentin Gjertsen knew something they didn’t know. Didn’t know yet.

  Harry let the face sink in for a few seconds before he went on. ‘At the age of sixteen he was charged with molesting a nine-year-old girl he’d lured onto a rowing boat. At seventeen a neighbour reported him for trying to rape her in the basement laundry room. When Valentin Gjertsen was twenty-six and serving time for assaulting a minor, he had an appointment to see the dentist at Ila Prison. He used one of the dentist’s own drills to force her to take off her nylon stockings and put them over her head. First he raped her in the dentist’s chair, then he set fire to the stockings.’

  Harry tapped at the computer and the image changed. A muffled groan ran through the group, and Katrine saw that even some of the most experienced detectives looked down at their laps.

  ‘I’m not showing this for fun, but so that you know what sort of individual we’re dealing with. He let the dentist live. Just like Penelope Rasch. And I don’t think that’s workplace negligence. I think Valentin Gjertsen is playing a game with us.’

  Harry clicked again, and the same picture of Valentin appeared, this time taken from Interpol’s website. ‘Valentin escaped from Ila almost four years ago, in a quite spectacular fashion. He beat another prisoner, Judas Johansen, until he was unrecognisable, then had a copy of the demon’s face he has tattooed on his own chest tattooed onto the chest of the corpse, and hid the body in the library where he worked, so that Judas was reported missing when he didn’t report for inspection. On the night that Valentin himself escaped, he dressed the corpse in his own clothes and laid it on the floor of his cell. The prison guards who discovered the unrecognisable body, and naturally assumed that it was Valentin, weren’t particularly surprised. Like any inmate convicted of paedophilia, Valentin Gjertsen was hated by the other prisoners. No one thoug
ht to check fingerprints or conduct a DNA test on the body. And so for a long time we assumed that Valentin Gjertsen was history. Until he showed up again in connection with another murder. Obviously we don’t know exactly how many people he killed or assaulted, but it’s definitely more than he’s been suspected or found guilty of. We do know that his last victim before he disappeared for good was his former landlady, Irja Jacobsen.’ Another click. ‘This picture is from the commune where she had gone into hiding from Valentin. Unless I’m mistaken, it was you, Berntsen, who was first on the scene where we found her strangled beneath a pile of children’s surfboards, with, as you can see, pictures of sharks on them.’

  A grunt of laughter from the back of the conference room. ‘Correct. The surfboards were stolen goods that the poor junkies hadn’t managed to sell.’

  ‘Irja Jacobsen was probably murdered because she could have passed information about Valentin to the police. That may explain why it’s been so hard to get anyone to say a word about where he might be. Anyone who knows him simply doesn’t dare talk.’ Harry cleared his throat. ‘Another reason why Valentin has been impossible to find is that he’s undergone several rounds of extensive plastic surgery since his escape. The person you see in this picture doesn’t look like the person we observed later in a grainy surveillance picture from a football match at Ullevål Stadium. And he intentionally let us see that surveillance picture. So, because we haven’t managed to find him, we suspect that he may have had further operations after that, probably abroad seeing as we’ve checked anything that moves in Scandinavia as far as plastic surgery is concerned. Our suspicion that his face has changed again is reinforced by the fact that Penelope Rasch doesn’t recognise Valentin from the pictures we’ve shown her. Unfortunately she isn’t able to give a good alternative description of him, and the Tinder profile picture of this so-called Vidar on her phone is unlikely to be him.’