by Jo Nesbo
‘Obviously, because everyone knew that the smartest—’
‘—couldn’t take part because he had organised the quiz. Quite. When I’d finished, they each handed me a note with their suggestion. It turned out that Smith had got all four digits right. Great rejoicing all around the room! Because of course this was very impressive. Suspiciously impressive, one might say. Now, Hallstein Smith is more intelligent than the average monkey, and I’m not ignoring the possibility that he may actually have realised what was going on. Even so, he couldn’t help trying to win. He just couldn’t! Possibly because at the time Hallstein Smith was an impoverished, spotty, largely overlooked young man who didn’t have much luck with the ladies, or anything else come to that, and was therefore more desperate for this sort of victory than most people. Or perhaps because he knew it might arouse the suspicion that it was he who had taken the money from the safe, but that it wouldn’t prove it, because of course it could be the case that he really was brilliant at reading people and interpreting the human body’s many signals. But …’
‘Hm.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No, what is it?’
‘The young woman in the chair. She didn’t know the code.’
Ståle murmured in agreement. ‘She didn’t even work in the bar.’
‘How did you know Smith would walk into the monkey trap?’
‘Because I’m brilliant at reading people and so on. The question is, what do you think now that you know that your candidate has a background as a thief?’
‘How much are we talking about?’
‘If I remember rightly, two thousand kroner.’
‘Not much. And you said there was money missing from the safe, which means he didn’t empty it completely, doesn’t it?’
‘At the time we thought that was because he hoped it wouldn’t be noticed.’
‘But since then you’ve been thinking that he only took what he needed to be able to join the rest of you on that study trip?’
‘He was asked, very politely, to surrender his place on the course in return for the matter not being referred to the police. He got onto a psychology course in Lithuania.’
‘He went into exile, now with the nickname “the Monkey” as a result of your stunt.’
‘He came back and did a postgraduate degree in Norway. Qualified as a psychologist. He did OK.’
‘You’re aware that you sound like you’ve got a guilty conscience?’
‘And you sound like you’re thinking about employing a thief.’
‘I’ve never had anything against thieves with acceptable motives.’
‘Hah!’ Ståle exclaimed. ‘You like him even more now. Because you understand the idea of the monkey trap: you can never give up either, Harry. You’re losing the bigger prize because you can’t let go of the smaller one. You’re determined to catch Valentin Gjertsen, even though you’re actually aware that it might well cost you everything you hold dear, yourself and those around you – you simply can’t let go.’
‘A neat parallel, but you’re wrong.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘If that’s the case, then I’m pleased. Now I ought to go and see how my womenfolk are getting on.’
‘If Smith does join us, could you give him a brief introduction into what’s expected of him as a psychologist?’
‘Of course, it’s the least I can do.’
‘For Crime Squad? Or because you’re why he got nicknamed “the Monkey”?’
‘Goodnight, Harry.’
Harry went back upstairs and lay down in bed. Without actually touching Rakel, he lay close enough to feel the heat radiating from her sleeping body. He closed his eyes.
And after a while he glided away. Out of bed, out through the window, through the night, down towards the glittering city where the lights never went out, down onto the streets, into the alleys, over the rubbish bins, where the light of the city never reached. And there, there he was. His shirt was open and from his bare chest a face screamed at him as it tried to rip the skin apart and get out.
It was a face he knew.
Hunter and hunted, scared and hungry, hated and full of hate.
Harry quickly opened his eyes.
He had seen his own face.
17
MONDAY MORNING
KATRINE LOOKED OUT at the investigative team’s collection of pale faces. Some of them had worked through the night, and those who hadn’t probably hadn’t got much sleep either. They had already been through the list of Valentin Gjertsen’s known contacts, most of them criminal, some of them in prison, some of them dead, it turned out. Then Tord Gren had briefed them about the call lists provided by Telenor, which showed the names of everyone the three victims had been in contact with by phone in the hours and days before they were attacked. So far there hadn’t been anything to link them in the numbers, or any suspicious-looking calls or texts. In fact the only thing that was suspicious at all was an unanswered call from an unregistered number, made to Ewa Dolmen’s phone two days before her murder. It had come from a pay-as-you-go mobile which couldn’t be traced, which could mean that it was switched off, had been destroyed, had had its SIM card removed, or that the balance on the card had simply run out.
Anders Wyller had presented the current state of the investigation into the sale of 3D printers, saying that there were just too many of them, and the percentage that weren’t registered to names and addresses in the stores that sold them was too great for there to be any point carrying on with that line of inquiry.
Katrine had looked at Harry, who had shaken his head at the result, before nodding to her that he agreed with the conclusion.
Bjørn Holm had explained that now that the forensic evidence from the last crime scene pointed towards a suspect, Krimteknisk would concentrate on securing further evidence that could tie Valentin Gjertsen to the three crime scenes and victims.
Katrine was ready to allocate the day’s work when Magnus Skarre stuck his hand up and said, before she had given him permission to speak: ‘Why did you decide to go public with the news that Valentin Gjertsen is the suspect?’
‘Why? To get tip-offs about where he might be, of course.’
‘And now we’re going to get hundreds, thousands of them, based on a pencil sketch of a face that could easily have belonged to two of my uncles. And we’ll have to check every single one of them, because imagine if it later emerged that the police had received a tip-off about Gjertsen’s new identity and where he was living before he bit and killed victims number four and five.’ Skarre looked round as if to gather support. Or, Katrine realised, because he was already speaking on behalf of several of them.
‘That’s always the dilemma, Skarre, but that’s what we decided.’
Skarre nodded towards one of the female analysts, who picked up the baton and ran with it. ‘Skarre’s right, Katrine. What we could really do with right now is some time to get on with our work in peace. We’ve asked the public for information about Valentin Gjertsen before and it didn’t get us anywhere, it just took the focus away from things which might have been able to get us somewhere.’
‘And now he knows that we know, we may have frightened him off. He’s got a hideaway where he’s managed to stay out of sight for three years, and now we risk him sneaking back into his hole. Just saying.’ Skarre folded his arms with a triumphant look on his face.
‘Risk?’ The voice came from the back of the room, followed by a snort of laughter. ‘Surely the ones at risk are the women you want to use as bait while we keep quiet about the fact that we know who it is, Skarre. And if we don’t catch the bastard, we might as well chase him back to his hole, in my opinion.’
Skarre shook his head with a smile. ‘You’ll learn, Berntsen, when you’ve been in the unit for a bit longer, that men like Valentin Gjertsen don’t stop. He’ll just do what he’s doing somewhere else. You heard what our boss –’ he pronounced our boss with exa
ggerated slowness – ‘said on television last night. That Valentin might have already left the country. But if you’re hoping that he’s sitting at home with his popcorn and knitting, a little more experience will make you realise you’re wrong.’
Truls Berntsen looked down at his palms and muttered something Katrine couldn’t hear.
‘We can’t hear you, Berntsen,’ Skarre called, without turning to look at him.
‘I said that those pictures that were shown the other day, of the Jacobsen woman under that pile of surfboards, didn’t reveal everything,’ Truls Berntsen responded in a loud, clear voice. ‘When I got there she was still breathing. But she couldn’t talk because he’d used pliers to rip her tongue out of her mouth and stuff it you know where. Do you know how much more comes out if you rip someone’s tongue out instead of cutting it off, Skarre? Either way, it sounded like she was begging me to shoot her. And if I’d had a pistol, I’m pretty fucking sure I’d have considered it. But she died soon after that, so that was OK. Just thought I’d mention it while we’re talking about experience.’
In the silence that followed, as Truls took a deep breath, Katrine found herself thinking that one day she might end up liking Constable Berntsen. That thought was immediately punctured by Truls Berntsen’s concluding remarks.
‘And as far as I know, our responsibility is Norway, Skarre. If Valentin fucks wogs and coons in other countries, they can deal with it. Better that than him helping himself to our girls.’
‘And that’s where we stop,’ Katrine said firmly. The looks of surprise revealed that they were at least awake again now. ‘We’ll gather for the afternoon meeting at 1600 hours, then there’s a press conference at 1800 hours. I want people to be able to reach me over the phone, so keep your reports as short and concise as possible. And, just so we’re all still aware, everything is urgent. The fact that he didn’t strike again yesterday doesn’t mean that he won’t today. After all, even God took a breather on Sunday.’
The conference room emptied quickly. Katrine gathered her papers, shut her laptop and got ready to leave.
‘I want Wyller and Bjørn,’ Harry said. He was still seated, hands behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him.
‘No problem with Wyller, but you’ll have to ask the new head of Krimteknisk about Bjørn. Something Lien.’
‘I’ve asked Bjørn, and he says he’s going to talk to her.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he is,’ Katrine found herself saying. ‘Have you spoken to Wyller?’
‘Yes. He got quite excited.’
‘And the last person?’
‘Hallstein Smith.’
‘Really?’
‘Why not?’
‘An eccentric with a nut allergy and no experience of police work?’
Harry leaned back in his chair, dug in his trouser pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels. ‘If there’s a new creature in the jungle called a vampirist, I want the person who knows most about that creature by my side the whole time. But you seem to be saying that the fact that he’s allergic to nuts should count against him?’
Katrine sighed. ‘I just mean that I’m getting fed up of all these allergies. Anders Wyller’s allergic to rubber, he can’t use latex gloves. Or condoms, I assume. Imagine that.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Harry said, looking down into the packet and sticking a sad, broken little cigarette between his lips.
‘Why don’t you just keep your cigarettes in your jacket pocket like other people, Harry?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Broken cigarettes taste better. By the way, I’m assuming that because the boiler room hasn’t officially been designated an office, the smoking ban doesn’t apply there?’
‘Sorry,’ Hallstein Smith said over the phone. ‘Thanks for asking, though.’
He hung up, put his phone in his pocket and looked at his wife May, who was sitting on the other side of the kitchen table.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked with a worried expression.
‘That was the police. They asked if I wanted to join a small group working to catch this vampirist.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve got a deadline for my PhD. I haven’t got time. And I’m not interested in that sort of manhunt. We have quite enough hawks and doves at home.’
‘And you told them that?’
‘Yes. Apart from the bit about hawks and doves.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘He. It was a man. Harry.’ Hallstein Smith laughed. ‘He said he understood, and that police investigations are boring and full of painstaking work, and not at all like they’re depicted on television.’
‘Well, then,’ May said, and raised her cup to her lips.
‘Well, then,’ Hallstein said, and did the same.
Harry’s and Anders Wyller’s footsteps echoed, drowning out the gentle sound of water dripping from the brick roof of the tunnel.
‘Where are we?’ Wyller asked. He was carrying the screen and keyboard of a desktop computer of older vintage.
‘Under the park, somewhere between Police HQ and Bots Prison,’ Harry said. ‘We call it the Culvert.’
‘And there’s a secret office here?’
‘Not secret. Just vacant.’
‘Who’d want an office here, underground?’
‘No one. That’s why it’s vacant.’ Harry stopped in front of a metal door. Inserted a key in the lock and turned it. Pulled the handle.
‘Still locked?’ Wyller asked.
‘Swollen.’ Harry braced one foot on the wall next to the door and yanked it open. They were hit by a warm, damp smell of brick cellar. Harry breathed it in happily. Back in the boiler room.
He switched the lights on inside. After a few moments’ hesitation, fluorescent lights on the ceiling began to flicker. Once the lights had settled down they looked around the square room with its grey-blue linoleum floor. No windows, just bare concrete walls. Harry glanced over at Wyller. Wondered if the sight of their workplace might dampen the spontaneous joy the young detective had shown when Harry invited him to join his team of guerrillas. It didn’t look like it.
‘Rock’n’roll,’ Anders Wyller said, and grinned.
‘We’re first, so you get to choose.’ Harry nodded towards the desks. On one of them stood a scorched brown coffee machine, a water container and four white mugs with names written on them by hand.
Wyller had just installed the computer and Harry had started up the coffee machine when the door was tugged open.
‘Wow, it’s warmer than I remember,’ Bjørn Holm laughed. ‘Here’s Hallstein.’
A man with big glasses, messy hair and a checked jacket appeared behind Bjørn Holm.
‘Smith,’ Harry said, holding his hand out. ‘I’m pleased you changed your mind.’
Hallstein Smith took Harry’s hand. ‘I’ve got a weakness for counter-intuitive psychology,’ he said. ‘If that’s what it was. If not, you’re the worst telephone salesman I’ve ever encountered. But it’s the first time I’ve called the salesman back to accept an offer.’
‘No point pushing anyone, we only want people who are motivated to be here,’ Harry said. ‘Do you like your coffee strong?’
‘No, preferably a bit … I mean, I’ll take it however you all do.’
‘Good. Looks like this is yours.’ Harry handed Smith one of the white mugs.
Smith adjusted his glasses and read the handwritten name on the side. ‘Lev Vygotsky.’
‘And this is for our forensics expert,’ Harry said, passing Bjørn Holm one of the other mugs.
‘Still Hank Williams,’ Bjørn read cheerfully. ‘Does that mean it hasn’t been washed for three years?’
‘Indelible marker,’ Harry said. ‘Here’s yours, Wyller.’
‘Popeye Doyle? Who’s that?’
‘Best cop ever. Look him up.’
Bjørn turned the fourth mug round. ‘So why doesn’t it say Valentin Gjertsen on your mug, Harry?’
‘Forgetfulness, prob
ably.’ Harry took the jug from the coffee maker and filled all four mugs.
Bjørn noticed the bemused expressions on the others’ faces. ‘It’s a tradition that we have our heroes on our mugs, and Harry the name of the main suspect. Yin and yang.’
‘It doesn’t really matter,’ Smith said. ‘But just for the record, Lev Vygotsky isn’t my favourite psychologist. He was, admittedly, a pioneer, but—’