Nemesis - Harry Hole 02

by Jo Nesbo

  'May I borrow a pen?' he asked, after looking at all of them.

  Weber and Ivarsson exchanged glances.

  'Take mine,' Weber said, passing him a fountain pen.

  'I prefer the usual kind,' Raskol said without taking his eyes off Ivarsson.

  The PAS shrugged, took out a biro from his inside pocket and gave it to him.

  'First of all, I would like to explain the principle behind dye cartridges,' Raskol said, beginning to unscrew Ivarsson's white pen, which happened to bear the Den norske Bank logo. 'As you know, bank employees always add a dye cartridge to the money in case they are raided. The cartridge is attached to money dispensers in an ATM. Some cartridges are connected to a transmitter and are activated by movement, being put in a bag for example. Others are activated when they pass a portal which may be secured above the main door of a bank. The cartridge may have a micro-transmitter connected to a receiver which triggers an explosion when it is a certain distance from the receiver, say, a hundred metres. Others explode after an inbuilt time delay post-activation. The cartridge itself can have all sorts of formats, but it has to be so small that it can be hidden between notes. Some are this small.' Raskol held his thumb and forefinger two centimetres apart. 'The explosion is not dangerous to the robber; the problem is the dye, the ink.'

  He held up the ink cartridge from the biro.

  'My grandfather was an ink maker. He taught me that in the old days they used gum arabic to make iron gallus ink. The gum comes from the acacia tree and is called Arabia's tears because it trickles out in yellowish drops this size.'

  He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, about the size of a walnut.

  'The point about the gum is that it thickens and reduces the surface tension of ink. And it keeps iron salts liquid. You also need a solvent. Long ago rainwater or white wine were recommended. Or vinegar. My grandfather said you should add vinegar to the ink when you were writing to an enemy and wine when you were writing to a friend.'

  Ivarsson cleared his throat, but Raskol continued regardless.

  'At first, the ink is invisible. It becomes visible when put on paper. In the dye cartridge there are red particles which perform a chemical reaction when they come into contact with the paper of banknotes and this makes it impossible to remove. The money will be forever marked as robbery money.'

  'I know how a dye cartridge works,' Ivarsson said. 'I would rather know—'

  'Patience, dear Politiavdelingssjef. The fascinating thing about this technology is that it is extremely simple. So simple that I could make a dye cartridge myself, put it wherever I liked and make it explode at a certain distance from the receiver. All the equipment required would fit into a lunch box.'

  Weber had stopped taking notes.

  'But the principle of the cartridge is not the technology, PAS Ivarsson. The principle is incrimination.' Raskol's face lit up into a huge smile. 'The ink also attaches itself to the clothes and skin of the robber. And the ink is so strong that once it is on your hands you will never be able to wash it off. Pontius Pilate and Judas, right? Blood on his hands. Blood money. The agony of the arbiter. The punishment of the informer.'

  Raskol dropped the ink cartridge on the floor behind the table and while he bent to pick it up, Ivarsson signalled to Weber that he wanted the notebook.

  'I would like you to write the name of the person in the photos,' Ivarsson said and put the pad on the table. 'As I said, we are not here to play games.'

  'Not to play games, no,' Raskol said, slowly screwing the pen together. 'I promised I would give you the name of the man who took the money, didn't I?'

  'That was the agreement, yes.' Ivarsson said. He leaned over as Raskol started to write.

  'We Xoraxans know what an agreement is,' he said. 'I'm not just writing his name, but also the prostitute he uses regularly and the man he contacted to shatter the knee of a young man who recently broke his daughter's heart. The person in question refused the job by the way.'

  'Ah . . . excellent.' Ivarsson turned quickly to Weber and gave an excited grin.

  'Here.' Raskol handed the pad and pen to Ivarsson, who hurriedly read the note.

  The elated smile died. 'But . . .' he stammered. 'Helge Klementsen. He's the branch manager.' A light of illumination revealed itself to him. 'Is he involved?'

  'Very much so,' Raskol said. 'He took the money, didn't he?'

  'And put it in the robber's holdall,' came Weber's deep growl from the door.

  Ivarsson's expression slowly changed from questioning to furious. 'What is this twaddle? You promised to help me.'

  Raskol studied the long, pointed nail of the little finger on his right hand. Then he nodded gravely, leaned over the table and waved Ivarsson closer. 'You're right,' he whispered. 'Here's a tip. Learn what life is about. Sit down and observe your child. It isn't easy to find the things you've lost, but it is possible.' He patted the PAS on the back and motioned towards the chessboard. 'Your turn, Politiavdelingssjef.'

  Ivarsson was fuming with anger as he and Weber traipsed through the Culvert, a three-hundred-metre-long underground tunnel connecting Botsen prison with Police HQ.

  'I trusted one of the race who discovered lying!' hissed Ivarsson. 'I trusted a bloody gypsy!' The echo ricocheted along the brick walls. Weber was racing along; he wanted to get out of the cold, damp tunnel. The Culvert was used to transport prisoners to and from questioning at Police HQ, and many were the rumours circulating about what had happened down here.

  Ivarsson pulled his suit jacket tighter around him and stepped out. 'Promise me one thing, Weber: you won't breathe a word of this to anyone. Alright?' He turned towards Weber with a raised eyebrow:

  'Well?'

  The answer to Ivarsson's question was a qualified 'yes' inasmuch as they had just reached the point in the Culvert where the walls are painted orange and Weber heard a little 'pooff' sound. Ivarsson let out a terrified scream and fell to his knees in a pool of water, holding his chest.

  Weber spun round and looked up and down the tunnel. No one. Then he turned back to the PAS, who was staring at his red-stained hand.

  'I'm bleeding,' he groaned. 'I'm dying.'

  Weber could see Ivarsson's eyes growing in his head.

  'What is it?' Ivarsson asked, his voice tremulous with fear as he looked into Weber's open-mouthed stare.

  'You'll have to go to the dry cleaner's,' Weber said.

  Ivarsson cast his eyes downwards. The red dye had spread across the whole of his shirt front and parts of the lime-green jacket.

  'Red ink,' Weber said.

  Ivarsson pulled out the remains of the Den norske Bank pen. The micro-explosion had sheered it down the middle. He stayed on his knees with his eyes closed until his breathing was normal again. Then he fixed his eyes on Weber.

  'Do you know what Hitler's greatest sin was?' he asked, stretching out his clean hand. Weber grabbed it and pulled Ivarsson to his feet. Ivarsson squinted down the tunnel the way they had come. 'Not doing a more thorough job on the gypsies.'

  'Not a word to anyone about this,' Weber mimicked, with a chuckle. 'Ivarsson went straight to the garage and drove home. The ink will stain his skin for at least three days.'

  Harry shook his head in disbelief. 'And what did you do to this Raskol?'

  Weber shrugged. 'Ivarsson said he would have him put in solitary. Not that that would help in the slightest, I reckon. The man is . . . different. Talking about different, how are you and Beate getting on? Have you got any more than this fingerprint?'

  Harry shook his head.

  'That girl is special,' Weber said. 'I can recognise her father in her. She could be good.'

  'She could. Did you know her father?'

  Weber nodded. 'Good man. Loyal. Shame it all ended as it did.' 'Strange that such an experienced policeman would slip up like that.' 'I don't think it was a slip-up,' Weber said, rinsing a coffee cup in the sink. 'Oh?'

  Weber mumbled.

  'What did you say, Weber?'

&n
bsp; 'Nothing,' he growled. 'He must have had a reason. That's all I'm saying.'

  'Bolde.com

  will be a server,' Halvorsen said. 'All I'm saying is that it isn't registered anywhere. It might be in a cellar in Kiev for example and have anonymous clients who send specialised porn to each other. What do I know? We mere mortals won't find people who don't want to be found in that jungle. You'll have to get hold of a bloodhound, a real specialist.'

  The knock at the door was so feather-light Harry didn't hear it, but Halvorsen shouted: 'Come in.'

  The door opened cautiously.

  'Hi,' Halvorsen said with a smile. 'Beate, isn't it?'

  She nodded and looked hastily across at Harry. 'I was trying to get hold of you. That mobile number of yours on the list . . .'

  'He's lost his mobile,' Halvorsen said, getting up. 'Take a seat and I'll make you a Halvorsen espresso.'

  She hesitated. 'Thank you, but there's something I have to show you in the House of Pain, Harry. Have you got time?'

  'All the time in the world,' Harry said, leaning back in his chair. 'Weber had only bad news. No matching fingerprints. And Raskol tricked Ivarsson good and proper today.'

  'Is that bad news?' It slipped out before Beate could stop herself. She covered her mouth in alarm. Harry and Halvorsen laughed.

  'Nice to see you again, Beate,' Halvorsen said before she and Harry left. He didn't get an answer, just a searching look from Harry, and was left standing a little embarrassed in the middle of the floor.

  Harry noticed a blanket rumpled up on the two-seater IKEA sofa in the House of Pain. 'Did you sleep here last night?'

  'Just a nap,' she said and started the video player. 'Watch the Expeditor and Stine in this picture.'

  She pointed to the screen where she had freeze-framed the robber with Stine leaning towards him. Harry could feel the hairs on his neck standing up.

  'There's something about this, isn't there?' she said.

  Harry scrutinised the robber. Then Stine. And he knew it was this still which had made him watch the video over and over again, searching all the time for something which was there but kept eluding him.

  'What is it?' he asked. 'What is it you can see and I can't.'

  'Try.'

  'I've already tried.'

  'Imprint the image on your retina, close your eyes and feel.' 'Honestly . . .'

  'Come on, Harry.' She smiled. 'This is what investigating is, isn't it.'

  He looked at her in mild surprise. Then he shrugged his shoulders and did as she said.

  'What can you see, Harry?' 'The inside of my eyelids.' 'Concentrate. Tell me what jars.'

  'There's something about him and her. Something . . . about the way they're standing.'

  'Good. What about the way they're standing?'

  'They're standing . . . I don't know. They're standing wrong somehow.'

  'Wrong in what way?'

  Harry had the same sinking feeling he'd had in Vigdis Albu's house. He saw Stine Grette sitting forward. As if to catch the robber's words. He was staring out of the holes of the balaclava and into the face of the person he was about to kill. What was he thinking? And what was she thinking? In this frozen moment in time, was she trying to discover who he was, this man under the balaclava?

  'Wrong in what way?' Beate repeated. 'They . . . they . . .'

  Gun in hand, finger on trigger. Everyone around turned to marble. She is opening her mouth. He can see her eyes over the sights. The barrel nudging her teeth.

  'Wrong in what way?'

  'They . . . they're too close.'

  'Bravo, Harry!'

  He opened his eyes. Amoeba-like specks sparkled and floated across his field of vision.

  'Bravo?' he mumbled. 'What do you mean?'

  'You've put words to what we've seen the whole time. You're absolutely correct, Harry. They're standing too close to each other.'

  'Yes, I heard myself say that, but too close in relation to what?'

  'In relation to how close two people who have never met should stand.'

  'Eh?'

  'Have you heard of Edward Hall?' 'Not exactly.'

  'Anthropologist. He was the first to demonstrate the link between the distance people keep between each other and the relationship they have. It's fairly well documented.'

  'Explain.'

  'The social space between people who don't know each other is from one to three and a half metres. That's the distance you would keep if the situation allowed, but look at bus queues and toilets. In Tokyo people stand closer to each and feel comfortable, but variations from culture to culture are in fact relatively minor.'

  'He can't whisper to her from more than a metre away, can he.'

  'No, but he could easily have managed it within what is known as the personal space, which is from one metre to forty-five centi-metres. That's the distance people keep with strangers and so-called acquaintances. But as you see, the Expeditor and Stine Grette break this boundary. I've measured the distance. It's twenty centimetres.

  That means they're well inside the intimate space. Then you're so close to the other person you can't keep the other person's face in focus or avoid their aroma and body heat. It's a space reserved for partners or close family.'

  'Mm,' Harry said. 'I'm impressed by your knowledge, but these two people are involved in high drama.'

  'Yes, but that's what's so fascinating!' Beate burst out, holding on to the arm of the chair so that she wouldn't take off. 'If they're not supposed to, people don't cross the boundaries that Edward Hall talks about. And the Expeditor and Stine Grette are not supposed to.'

  Harry rubbed his chin. 'OK, let's follow that line of thought.'

  'I think the Expeditor knew Stine Grette,' Beate said. 'Well.'

  'Good, good.' Harry rested his face on his hands and spoke through his fingers. 'So Stine knew a professional bank robber who performs a perfect heist before shooting her. You know where this reasoning is taking us, don't you.'

  Beate nodded. 'I'll see what we can find out about Stine Grette right away.'

  'Great. And afterwards let's have a chat with someone who's frequently been inside her intimate space.'

  18

  A Wonderful Day

  'This place gives me the creeps,' Beate said.

  'They had a famous patient here called Arnold Juklerad,' Harry said. 'He said this place was the brain of the sick beast known as psychiatry. So you didn't find anything about Stine Grette?'

  'No. Unblemished record, and her bank accounts don't suggest financial irregularities. No shopping sprees in clothes shops or at restaurants. No payments to Bjerke trotting stadium or any other symptoms of gambling. The only extravagance I could turn up was a trip to Sao Paulo this summer.'

  'And her husband?'

  'Exactly the same. Solid and sober.'

  They passed under the gateway to Gaustad hospital and came into a square surrounded by large red-brick buildings. 'Reminiscent of a prison,' Beate said.

  'Heinrich Schirmer,' Harry said. 'Nineteenth-century German architect. Also designed Botsen prison.'

  A carer came to pick them up from reception. He had dyed black hair and looked as though he should be playing in a band or doing design work. Which, in fact, he did.

  'Trond Grette has mostly been sitting and staring out of the window,' he said as they trotted down the corridor to section G2. 'Is he ready to speak?' Harry asked.

  'Yes, he can talk alright . . .' The carer had paid six hundred kroner to have his black hair look unkempt, and now he was adjusting one of the tufts and blinking at Harry through a pair of black hornrimmed glasses, which made him look like a nerd, in exactly the right way, that is, so that the cognoscenti could see he wasn't a nerd but hip.

  'My colleague is wondering if Grette is well enough to talk about his wife,' Beate said.

  'You'll find out,' said the carer and put the tuft of hair back in front of his glasses. 'If he gets psychotic again, he's not ready.'

  Harry didn't ask how
they could tell when a person was psychotic. They came to the end of the corridor and the carer unlocked a door with a circular window.

  'Does he have to be locked in?' Beate asked, looking around the bright reception room.

  'No,' the carer said, without giving any further explanation, and pointed to the back of a white dressing gown on a chair which had been pulled over to the window. 'I'm in the duty office on the left on your way out.'

  They walked over to the man in the chair. He was staring out of the window and the only thing that stirred was his right hand, which was slowly moving a pen over a notepad, jerkily and mechanically like a robotic arm.