by Jo Nesbo
Waaler briefly acknowledged him and ignored Sorensen's moves to shake hands. He didn't like physical contact with men he didn't know. Nor with men he did know, for that matter. It was another matter with women. As long as he was in control, anyway. And he was.
'You haven't investigated anything like this before, Sorensen,'
Waaler said, prising open one of the dead man's eyelids and revealing a blood-red eyeball. 'This isn't a pub stabbing or a drunken misadventure. That's why you called us in, isn't it?'
'This doesn't look like anything local, no,' Sorensen said.
'I suggest you and the boys stick around here and keep watch while I go and have a word with the corpse's wife.'
Sorensen laughed as if Waaler had told a good joke, but stopped when he saw Waaler's raised eyebrows over the Police sunglasses. Tom Waaler stood up and began to walk to the police cordon. He counted slowly to three, then he shouted without turning: 'And move that police car. I see you've parked in the turnaround, Sorensen. Forensics will be looking for tyre tracks from the murderer's car. Thanking you.'
He didn't need to turn to know the smile had been wiped off Sorensen's jolly face. And that the crime scene had just been taken over by Oslo police district.
'Fru Albu?' Waaler enquired as he entered the living room. He had decided he wanted this over as quickly as possible. He had a lunch date with a promising young girl, and he intended to keep it.
Vigdis Albu looked up from the photo album she was flicking through. 'Yes?'
Waaler liked what he saw. The meticulously maintained body, the confident way she was sitting, the studied TV hostess-style casualness and the third button of her blouse undone. He also liked what he heard. The soft voice simply made for the special words he liked his women to say. And he liked the mouth he already hoped he would hear the words come out of.
'Inspector Tom Waaler,' he said, taking a seat opposite her. 'I understand what a shock this must have been for you. It is, of course, a cliche, and I doubt it has any significance for you at this time, but I would like to extend my sympathy to you. I have also lost someone very close to me.'
He waited. Until she was obliged to look up and he could catch her eyes. They were blurred, and at first Waaler thought tear-blurred. It wasn't until she answered that he realised she was drunk: 'Have you got a cigarette, Constable?'
'Call me Tom. I don't smoke. Sorry.'
'How long do I have to be here, Tom?'
'I'll arrange it so that you can leave as soon as possible. I just need to ask a few questions, OK?' 'OK.'
'Good. Have you any idea who could have wanted to take the life of your husband?'
Vigdis Albu rested her chin on her hand and gazed out of the window. 'Where's the other constable, Tom?'
'Pardon me?'
'Shouldn't he be here?'
'Which constable, fru Albu?'
'Harry. He's got this case, hasn't he?'
The main reason Tom Waaler had advanced through the ranks faster than anyone else from his intake year was that he had worked out that no one, not even defence counsels, would probe how he had obtained evidence of the accused's demonstrable guilt. The next reason was that he had sensitive antennae. Of course, on occasion, they didn't react when they should have. But they never reacted when they shouldn't have. And they were reacting now.
'Are you referring to Harry Hole, fru Albu?'
'You can stop here.'
Tom Waaler still liked the voice. He pulled into the kerb, leaned forward and looked up at the pink house towering over the hill. The morning sun glinted on an animal-like object in the garden.
'That was very nice of you,' Vigdis Albu said. 'To persuade Sorensen to let me leave, and to drive me home.'
Waaler gave her a warm smile. He knew it was warm. Many people had said he looked like David Hasselhoff of Baywatch fame; he had the same chin, body and smile. He had seen Baywatch and knew what they meant.
'I should thank you,' he said.
It was true. During the drive from Larkollen he had learned several interesting things. Such as that Harry Hole had been trying to find evidence that her husband had murdered Anna Bethsen, who - to the best of his recollection - was the woman who had committed suicide in Sorgenfrigata a while back. The case had been closed. He himself had concluded it was suicide and written the report. So what was that idiot Hole up to? Was he trying to get even for old hostilities? Was Hole trying to prove Anna Bethsen was a victim of a criminal act to compromise him - Tom Waaler? It would be just like that crazy alkie to dig up something like that, but it didn't quite make sense to Waaler that Hole was putting so much energy into a case which, in the very worst scenario, would only demonstrate that Waaler had been a bit too quick to draw conclusions. He flatly rejected the notion that Harry's motive might simply be to clear up the case. Only police officers in films spent their free time doing that sort of thing.
The fact that Harry's suspect was dead now naturally meant that a number of alternative solutions were on the cards. Waaler wasn't sure which, but as his instincts told him Harry Hole was involved, he was interested in finding out. So when Vigdis Albu asked Waaler if he would like to come in for a cup of coffee it wasn't primarily the titillating thought of fresh widow that attracted him. This could be the chance to shake off the man who had been breathing down his neck for - how long was it now? Over a year?
Over a year, yes, indeed. Over a year since Officer Ellen Gjelten -thanks to one of Sverre Olsen's blunders - had discovered that Tom Waaler was the main man behind the organised arms smuggling in Oslo. When he gave Olsen the order to execute her before she passed on what she knew, he had been all too aware that Hole would never give up until he had found who killed her. So he had made sure Olsen's cap was found at the crime scene, so that he could shoot the murder suspect 'in self-defence' while arresting him. There was nothing to incriminate him, yet Waaler had the strangely unpleasant sensation that Hole was closing in. And he could be dangerous.
'The house is so empty when everyone is away,' Vigdis Albu said, unlocking the door.
'How long have you been . . . er . . . alone?' Waaler asked, as he followed her up the steps to the living room. He still liked what he saw.
'The children are with my parents in Nordby. The idea was they would stay there until things were back to normal.' She sighed and sank down into one of the deep armchairs. 'I must have a drink. Then I'd better call them.'
Tom Waaler stood observing her. She had ruined everything with what she had just said. The little tingle of excitement he had felt was gone. She suddenly looked much older. Perhaps it was because the effect of the alcohol was wearing off. It had smoothed out the wrinkles and softened her mouth, which hardened now into a crooked, pink fissure.
'Sit down, Tom. I'll make us some coffee.'
He dropped into the sofa as Vigdis disappeared into the kitchen. He spread his legs and noticed a faded stain on the material. It reminded him of the stain on his sofa, left by menstrual blood.
He smiled at the thought.
The thought of Beate Lonn.
Sweet, innocent Beate Lonn, who had sat on the opposite side of the coffee table and swallowed every word he had said as if they were sugar lumps in her cafe latte, the little girl's drink. I think it's crucial to have the courage to be yourself. The most important thing in a relationship is honesty, don't you think? It was difficult to know where to pitch your selection of pseudo-profound cliches with young girls, but he had obviously hit the bullseye with Beate. She had docilely followed him home after he had concocted a drink for her which was anything but a young girl's.
He had to laugh. Even the day after, Beate L0nn had thought her blackout was due to tiredness, and the fact that the drink had been stronger than she was used to. Getting the dose right was everything.
The best bit had been when he went into the living room in the morning and she was rubbing a wet cloth over the sofa where, the evening before, they had done the basics before she passed out and the real fun had st
arted.
'I'm sorry,' she said, close to tears. 'I've only just seen it. It's so embarrassing. I didn't think I was due until next week.'
'Doesn't matter,' he had answered and patted her cheek. 'As long as you do your best to get the shit off.'
Then he had had to dart into the kitchen. He had turned on the tap and clattered the refrigerator door to drown his laughter. As Beate L0nn scrubbed at the bloodstain left by Linda. Or was it Karen?
Vigdis called from the kitchen. 'Do you have milk in your coffee, Tom?' Her voice sounded hard; there was an Oslo West End edge to it. Anyway, he had discovered what he needed.
'I've just remembered I have a meeting in town,' he said. He turned and saw her standing in the kitchen doorway with two coffee cups and large, surprised eyes. As if he had slapped her. He lingered on the thought.
'You need time to yourself,' he said, getting up. 'I know. I've recently lost a close friend, as I said.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' Vigdis said, perplexed. 'I didn't even ask who it was.'
'Her name was Ellen. A colleague. I liked her very much.' Tom Waaler tilted his head to the side and watched Vigdis, who responded with a tentative smile.
'What are you thinking about?' she asked.
'I might pop by one day and see how you're getting on.' He sent her an extra warm smile, his best David Hasselhoff, and thought what a chaotic world it would be if people could read each others' minds.
33
Dysosmia
The afternoon rush-hour traffic had started and in Gronlandsleiret car-borne wage slaves slowly trooped past Police HQ. A hedge sparrow sat on a branch and saw the last leaf let go, lift off and flutter past the window of the meeting room on the fifth floor.
'I'm no public speaker,' Bjarne Moller began, and those who had heard Moller's previous speeches nodded in assent.
A bottle of Opera sparkling wine costing seventy-nine kroner, fourteen plastic glasses - still in the packet - and everyone who had been involved in the Expeditor case waited for Moller to finish.
'First of all, I would like to pass on warm greetings from Oslo City Council, the Mayor and the Chief Constable, and thank you all for a job well done. We were, as you know, under quite a lot of pressure when we realised that what we were dealing with was a serial bank robber . . .'
'I didn't know there was any other type!' Ivarsson shouted and was rewarded with a ripple of laughter. He had positioned himself at the back of the room by the door from where he had an overview of the assembled officers.
'I suppose you could say that.' Moller smiled. 'What I wanted to say was that . . . erm . . . as you know . . . we're glad the whole thing is over. Before we take a glass of champagne I would like to say a special thank you to the person who should take most of the credit . . .'
Harry could feel the others looking at him. He hated this type of occasion. The boss's speech, speeches to the boss, thanks to the clowns, the theatre of triviality.
'Rune Ivarsson, who led the investigation. Congratulations, Rune.'
Round of applause.
'Would you like to say a few words, Rune?'
'No,' Harry muttered between gritted teeth.
'Yes, I would,' Ivarsson said. The assembled officers craned their heads. He cleared his throat. 'Unfortunately, I don't have the privilege to be able to say, as you did, Bjarne, that I am no public speaker. Because I am.' More laughter. 'And from my experience as a speaker at the successful conclusion of other cases, I know it is tiring to thank all and sundry. Police work is, as we all know, teamwork. Beate and Harry had the honour of scoring the goal, but the team did the groundwork.'
With disbelief, Harry watched the assembly nod in agreement.
'So, thank you, everyone.' Ivarsson passed his gaze over the officers, with the evident intention of making each individual feel noted and thanked. Then, more upbeat, he shouted: 'Let's crack open the champagne sharpish, shall we!'
Someone passed him the bottle and after giving it a good shake he started to loosen the cork.
'I can't be bothered with this,' Harry whispered to Beate. 'I'm off.'
She sent him a reproachful look.
'Watch out!' The cork popped and flew up to the ceiling. 'Everyone take a glass!'
'Sorry,' Harry said. 'See you tomorrow.'
He walked through the office and collected his jacket. In the lift on the way down, he leaned against the wall. He had only slept a couple of hours in Albu's chalet last night. At six in the morning, he had driven to the railway station in Moss, found a telephone box and the number of Moss police and reported the body in the sea. He knew they would ask Oslo police for assistance. When he arrived in Oslo at eight, he sat in Kaffebrenneriet in Ullevalsveien and drank a cortado until he was sure the case had been given to others and he could go to his office in peace.
The lift doors slid open and Harry went out through the swing doors. Into the cold, clear autumn air of Oslo, reported to be more polluted than the air in Bangkok. He told himself there was no rush and forced himself to slow down. He didn't want to think about anything today, just sleep and hope he wouldn't dream. Hope tomorrow all the doors would have closed behind him.
All except one. The one which would never close, the one he didn't want to close. He wasn't going to think about that until tomorrow, though. Then he would walk with Halvorsen along the river Akerselva. Stop by the tree where they had found her. Reconstruct what happened for the hundredth time. Not because they had forgotten anything, but to get the feeling back, the smell in your nostrils. He was dreading it already.
He took the narrow path across the lawn. The short cut. He didn't look at the grey prison building on the left. Where Raskol had presumably packed away the chess set for the time being. They would never find anything in Larkollen or anywhere else to point to the gypsy or any of his henchmen, even if Harry himselftook on the case. They would have to keep going for as long as was necessary. The Expeditor was dead. Arne Albu was dead. Justice is like water, Ellen had once said. It always finds a way. They knew it wasn't true, but at least it was a lie they could find solace in every now and then.
Harry heard the sirens. He had heard them for a while. The white cars with rotating blue lights passed him and disappeared down Gronlandsleiret. He tried not to think why they had been called out. Probably nothing to do with him. If it was, it would have to wait. Until tomorrow.
Tom Waaler realised he was too early. Residents of the pale yellow block did other things than sit at home during the day. He had just pressed the bottom button in the row. He turned to walk away when he caught the caged, metallic sound of a voice: 'Hello?'
Waaler spun round. 'Hello, is that . . . ?' He looked at the name-plate beside the button. 'Astrid Monsen?'
Twenty seconds later he was on the landing looking at a scared, freckled face peering up at him from behind a security chain.
'May I come in, froken Monsen?' he asked, baring his teeth in a David Hasselhoff special.
'Rather you didn't,' she squeaked. She probably hadn't seen Baywatch.
He gave her his ID.
'I've come to ask if there is anything we ought to know about Anna Bethsen's death. We're not so sure it was a suicide any more. I understand a colleague of mine has been conducting a private investigation and I was wondering if you had spoken to him.'
Tom Waaler had heard that animals, especially predators, can smell fear. It didn't surprise him. What surprised him was that not everyone could smell fear. Fear had the same transitory, bitter odour that cow piss had.
'What are you frightened of, froken Monsen?'
Her pupils dilated even further. Waaler's antennae were whirring now.
'It's very important you help us,' Waaler said. 'The most important aspect of the relationship between the police and the general public is honesty, don't you agree?'
Her eyes went walkabout and he took a risk: 'I believe my colleague may be involved in the case somehow.'
The chin dropped and she sent him a helpless look. Bing
o.
They sat down in the kitchen. The brown walls were covered in children's drawings. Waaler guessed she must have been an auntie to loads of kids. He took notes as she talked.
'I heard a crashing noise in the corridor, and when I went out a man was on all fours on the landing outside my door. He had obviously had a fall so I asked him if he needed any help, but I didn't really get a proper answer. I went upstairs and rang Anna Bethsen's bell, but no answer there, either. When I went back down I helped him to stand up. All the things from his pockets were strewn everywhere. I found his wallet with his name and address. Then I helped him into the street, hailed an unoccupied taxi and gave the driver the address. That's all I know.'
'And you're sure it's the same person who visited you later? Harry Hole, that is?'
She gulped. And nodded.
'That's fine, Astrid. How did you know he'd been at Anna's?' 'I heard him arrive.'