by Jo Nesbo
'There's no obligation to drink alcohol here,' Harry said, making eye contact with Maja. 'It just seems like it.'
'In fact, it's not bad,' Beate took a tiny sip. 'My father said he didn't trust people who didn't drink beer.'
The coffee pot and cup arrived in front of Harry. Beate blushed to the roots of her hair.
'I used to drink beer,' Harry said. 'I had to stop.' Beate studied the tablecloth.
'It's the only vice I've got rid of,' Harry said. 'I smoke, lie and hold grudges.' He lifted his cup in toast. 'What do you suffer from, Lonn? Apart from being a video junkie and remembering the face of everyone you've ever seen?'
'There's not a lot more.' She raised her glass. 'Apart from the Setesdal Twitch.'
'Is it serious?'
'Fairly. Actually, it's called Huntingdon's Disease. It's hereditary and was normal for Setesdal.' 'Why there of all places?'
'It's a . . . narrow dale surrounded by high fells. And a long way from anywhere.'
'I see.'
'Both my mother and father come from Setesdal and at first my mother didn't want to marry him because she thought he had an aunt with the Setesdal Twitch. My auntie would suddenly lash out with her arms, so people used to keep their distance.'
'And now you've got it?'
Beate smiled. 'My father used to tease my mother about it when I was small. Because when Dad and I played knuckles, I was so fast and hit him so hard that he thought it had to be the Setesdal Twitch. I just found it so funny I wished . . . I had the Twitch, but one day my mother told me you can die from Huntingdon's Disease.' She sat fidgeting with her glass.
'And the same summer I learned what death meant.'
Harry nodded to an old sailor on the neighbouring table, who didn't return the greeting. He cleared his throat: 'What about grudges? Do you suffer from them, too?'
She looked up at him. 'What do you mean?'
Harry shrugged. 'Look around you. Humanity can't survive without it. Revenge and retribution. That's the driving force for the midget who was bullied at school and later became a multi-millionaire, and the bank robber who thinks he has been short-changed by society. And look at us. Society's burning revenge disguised as cold, rational retribution - that's our profession, isn't it.'
'That's the way it has to be,' she said, avoiding his gaze. 'Society wouldn't work without punishment.'
'Yes, of course, but there's more to it than that, isn't there. Catharsis. Revenge cleanses. Aristotle wrote that the human soul is purged by the fear and compassion that tragedy evokes. It's a frightening thought that we fulfil the soul's innermost desire through the tragedy of revenge, isn't it.'
'I haven't read a lot of philosophy.' She raised her glass and took a long swig.
Harry bent his head. 'I haven't, either. I'm just trying to impress you. Down to brass tacks?'
'First some bad news,' she said. 'The reconstruction of the face behind the mask failed. Just a nose and the outline of a head.'
'And the good news?'
'The woman who was used as a hostage in the Gronlandsleiret hold-up reckons she would recognise the robber's voice. She said it was unusually high, she'd almost thought it was a woman's.'
'Mm. Anything else?'
'Yes, I've been talking to the staff at Focus and doing some checking. Trond Grette arrived at half past two and left at around four.' 'How can you be so sure of that?'
'Because he paid for the squash court with a card when he arrived. The payment was registered at 14.34. And do you remember the stolen squash racquet? Naturally he told the staff. The person who was working the Friday shift noted down the time Grette was there. He left the centre at 16.02.
'And that was the good news?'
'No, I'm coming to it now. Do you remember the overalls Grette saw going past the fitness room?'
'With politi on the back?'
'I've been watching the video. It looks like there is Velcro on the front and back of the Expeditor's boiler suit.' 'Meaning?'
'If the Expeditor is the person Grette saw, he could have put the sign on the boiler suit with Velcro when he was out of range of the cameras.' 'Mm.' Harry slurped out loud.
'It might explain why no one reported seeing someone in a plain black boiler suit in the area. There were black police uniforms everywhere right after the hold-up.'
'What did they say at Focus?'
'That's the interesting part. The woman on duty in fact remembers a man in a boiler suit she took for a policeman. He raced past so she assumed he had booked a squash court or something like that.'
'So they didn't have a name?'
'No.'
'That's not exactly sexy . . .'
'No, but the best is to come. The reason she remembered the guy was that she thought he had to be in a special unit, or something similar, because the rest of his outfit was so Dirty Harry. He . . .' She paused and gave him a horrified look. 'I didn't mean to . . .'
'That's fine,' Harry said. 'Go on.'
Beate moved her glass, and Harry thought he detected a tiny, triumphant smile around her little mouth.
'He was wearing a half-rolled-up balaclava. And a pair of large sunglasses hiding the rest of his face. She said he was carrying a black holdall which seemed very heavy.'
Harry's coffee went down the wrong way.
A pair of old shoes hung by their laces from the wire stretched between the houses in Dovregata. The lights on the wire did what they could to illuminate the cobbled pavement, but it was as if the dark autumn evening had already sucked all the light out of the town.
That didn't bother Harry; he could find the way between Sofies gate and Schr0der's in the pitch dark. He had done it many times.
Beate had a list of the names of people who had booked squash or aerobics at Focus at the time the man in the boiler suit had been there, and she was going to start ringing round tomorrow. If she didn't find the man, there was still a good chance that someone had been in the room when he was changing and could give a description.
Harry walked beneath the shoes on the wire. He had seen them hanging there for years and had long reconciled himself to never finding an answer to the question of how they got there.
Ali was washing the steps as Harry came to the house entrance.
'You must hate Norwegian autumns,' Harry said, wiping his feet. 'Just grime and muddy water.'
'In my hometown in Pakistan visibility was down to fifty metres because of pollution.' Ali smiled. 'All year round.'
Harry could hear a distant yet familiar sound. It was the law which states that telephones start ringing when you hear them, but you can never get to them in time. He looked at his watch. Ten. Rakel had said she would ring him at nine.
'That cellar room . . .' Ali began, but Harry had already taken off at full speed, leaving a Doc Martens bootprint on every fourth step.
The telephone stopped ringing as he opened the door.
He kicked off his boots. Covered his face in his hands. Went to the telephone and lifted the receiver. The number of the hotel was on a yellow Post-it on the mirror. He took the note and caught sight of the reflection of the first e-mail from S2MN. He had printed it out and pinned it on the wall. Old habit. In Crime Squad they always decorated the wall with pictures, letters and other leads which might help them to see a connection or trigger the subconscious in some way. Harry couldn't read the mirror reflection, but he didn't need to:
Shall we play? Let's imagine you've been to dinner with a woman and the next day she's found dead. What do you do?
S2MN
He changed his mind, went into the sitting room, switched on the TV and slumped in the wing chair. Then he got up with a jerk, went into the hallway and dialled the number. Rakel sounded careworn.
'At Schroder's,' Harry said. 'I've just this minute come in.' 'I must have rung ten times.' 'Anything the matter?' 'I'm frightened, Harry.' 'Mm. Very frightened?'
Harry was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, the receiver squeezed between shoulder
and ear while turning down the volume on the TV with the remote control.
'Not very,' she said. 'A little.'
'A little frightened can't hurt. You become stronger by being a little frightened.'
'But what if I become very frightened?'
'You know I'll be there instantly. You just have to say the word.'
'I've already said you can't come, Harry.'
'You are hereby granted the right to change your mind.'
Harry watched the man in the turban and camouflage uniform on TV. There was something strangely familiar about his face, a close resemblance to someone.
'My world is caving in,' she said. 'I just had to know someone was there.'
'There's someone here.'
'But you sound so distant.'
Harry turned away from the TV and leaned against the door frame. 'I'm sorry, but I'm here and I'm thinking about you. Even if I sound distant.'
She started to cry. 'Sorry, Harry. You must think I'm a terrible blubberer. Of course I know you're there.' She whispered: 'I know I can rely on you.'
Harry took a deep breath. The headache came on slowly but surely. Like an iron hoop slowly being tightened around his forehead. When they finished their conversation, he could already feel every throbbing pulse in his temple.
He switched off the TV and put on a Radiohead record, but he couldn't tolerate Thom Yorke's voice. Instead he went to the bathroom and washed his face. Stood in the kitchen and stared into the refrigerator without knowing what he was looking for. Finally, it could not be postponed any longer and he went to the bedroom. The computer came to life, casting its cold, blue light into the room. He had contact with the world around him. Which informed him that he had one e-mail. Now he felt it. The thirst. It rattled the chains like a pack of hounds straining to be set free. He clicked the e-mail icon.
I ought to have checked her shoes. The photo must have been on the bedside table and she took it while I was loading the gun. Nevertheless, it makes the game a little more exciting. A little. S2MN
PS She was frightened. I just wanted you to know that.
Harry felt deep in his pocket and pulled out the keyring. Attached was a brass plate bearing the initials AA.
PART III
20
The Landing
When someone stares down a barrel, what goes through their mind? Sometimes I wonder if they think at all. Like the woman I met today. 'Don't shoot me,' she said. Did she really believe that a plea of that kind would make the slightest difference one way or the other? Her name badge said den norske bank and Catherine schOyen, and when I asked why there were so many 'c's and 'h's in her name, she just looked at me with a stupid cow face and repeated the words: 'Don't shoot me.' I almost lost control, mooed at her and shot her between the horns.
The traffic in front of me isn't moving. I can feel the seat against my back, clammy and sweaty. The radio is on NRK 24-Hour News, not a peep yet. I look at my watch. Normally I would have been safely in the chalet within half an hour. The car in front has a catalytic converter, and I switch off the fan. The afternoon rush hour has started, but this is much slower than normal. Has there been an accident up ahead? Or have the police set up roadblocks? Impossible. The bag containing the money is under a jacket on the back seat. Next to the loaded AG3. The car in front revs up, slips the clutch and moves two metres. Then we are at a standstill again. I am considering whether I should be bored,
nervous or irritated when I see them. Two officers walking along the white line between the lines of cars. One is a woman in uniform and the other a tall man in a grey coat. They cast a vigilant eye over the cars to the left and right. One of them stops and exchanges a few words and a smile with a driver who obviously hasn't fastened his seat belt. Perhaps just a routine check. They are getting closer. A nasal voice on NRK 24-Hour News says in English that the ground temperature is over forty degrees and precautions should be taken against sunstroke. Automatically I start sweating even though I know that outside it is dull and cold. They are standing in front of my car. It is the policeman, Harry Hole. The woman looks like Stine. She looks down at me as they pass. I breathe out in relief. I'm on the point of laughing out loud when there is a tap on the window. Slowly I crane my neck around. Incredibly slowly. She smiles and I discover the window is already rolled down. Strange. She says something which is drowned out by the revving engine in front.
'What?' I ask, opening my eyes again.
'Could you please put the back of your seat into an upright position?' 'The back of my seat?' I ask, perplexed. 'We'll be landing shortly, sir.' She smiles again and disappears. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and everything comes back to me. The hold-up. The escape. The suitcase with the plane ticket ready at the chalet. The text message from the Prince that the coast was clear. But still the little prickles of nervousness as I showed my passport while checking in at Gardemoen. Take-off. Everything had gone according to plan.
I look out of the window. I am obviously still not quite out of dreamland. For a brief moment I seem to be flying above the stars. Then I realise it is the lights from the town and start thinking about the hire car I have booked. Should I sleep in a hotel in the huge, steaming, stinking town and drive south tomorrow? No, tomorrow I will be just as tired, from jet lag. Best to get there as soon as possible. The place I'm going is better than its reputation. There are even a couple of Norwegians there to talk to. Waking up to sun, sea and a better life. That's the plan. My plan anyway.
I hold onto the drink I managed to save before the stewardess folded my table. So why don't I trust the plan?
The drone of the engine rises and falls. I can feel I'm on the way down now. I close my eyes and instinctively breathe in, knowing what is to come. Her. She is wearing the same dress as when I first saw her. My God, I already long for her. The fact that the longing could not have been satisfied, even if she had lived, changes nothing. Everything about her was impossible. Virtue and passion. Hair which seemed to absorb all light, but instead shone like gold. The defiant laughter as tears rolled down her cheeks. The hate-filled eyes when I entered her. Her false declarations of love and her genuine pleasure when I went to her with threadbare excuses after broken agreements. Which were repeated as I lay beside her in bed with my head in the imprint of another. That's a long time ago now. Millions of years. I squeeze my eyes shut so as not to see the continuation. The shot I fired into her. Her pupils which widened slowly like a black rose; the blood trickling out, falling and landing with a weary sigh; the breaking of her neck and her head tipping back. And now the woman I love is dead. As simple as that. But it still doesn't make sense. That's what is so beautiful. So simple and beautiful you can hardly live with it. The pressure in the cabin falls and tensions increase. From the inside. An invisible force pressing on my eardrums and the soft brain. Something tells me this is how it will happen. No one will find me, no one will wrest my secret from me, but the plan will explode anyway. From inside.
21
Monopoly
Harry was awoken by the radio alarm clock and the news. The bombing had been intensified. It sounded like a reprise. He tried to find a reason for getting up.
The voice on the radio said that since 1975 the average weight of a Norwegian man and woman had increased by thirteen and nine kilos respectively. Harry closed his eyes and was reminded of something Aune had said. Escapism has an undeservedly bad reputation. Sleep came. The same warm, sweet feeling as when he was small and lay in bed with the door open, listening to his father walking around the house switching off all the lights - one by one - and for every light that was switched off the darkness outside his door deepened.
'After the violent robberies in Oslo over recent weeks bank employees have called for armed guards in the city centre's most vulnerable banks. Yesterday's hold-up of the Den norske Bank branch in Gronlandsleiret is the latest in a series of armed robberies, for which police suspect the man dubbed the Expeditor to be responsible. It is the same person who shot and killed . .
.'
Harry placed his feet on the cold linoleum. The face in the bathroom mirror was late Picasso.
Beate was talking on the telephone. She shook her head when she saw Harry in the office doorway. He nodded and was about to go, but she waved him back.
'Thank you for your help anyway,' she said and put down the receiver.
'Am I disturbing?' Harry asked, putting a cup of coffee in front of her.
'No, I shook my head to say there was no luck with Focus. He was the last name on the list. Of all the men we know were at Focus at the time in question, only one vaguely remembers seeing a man in a boiler suit. And he wasn't even sure whether he had seen him in the changing room or not.'
'Mm.' Harry took a seat and looked around. Her office was just as tidy as he had expected. Apart from a familiar potted plant he couldn't name on the windowsill, her room was as free of ornaments as his own. On her desk he noticed the back of a framed photograph. He had an idea who it might be.