The Devil's star hh-5

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘We’ll see when I’ve done with the Ellen Gjelten case,’ he had said. The trip to Normandy that they had booked – three weeks on an old farm and a week on a riverboat – would be a kind of test to see if they were ready for it.

  Then things started happening.

  He had spent the whole winter working on the Ellen Gjelten case. It was intensive, too intensive, but that was the only way Harry knew how to work. Ellen Gjelten was not just a colleague; she was his closest friend and kindred spirit. Two years had gone by since the two of them had been on the heels of an arms smuggler going by the code name of Prince and since the day a baseball bat had knocked the living daylights out of her. The evidence at the scene of the crime by the Akerselva pointed to Sverre Olsen, an old neo-Nazi the police knew well. Unfortunately they never got to hear his explanation as he was shot through the head when he was alleged to have fired at Tom Waaler during his arrest. Regardless of this, Harry was convinced that the real man behind the murder was Prince, and he had persuaded Moller to let him conduct his own investigation. It was personal, so it went against all the principles they worked by in Crime Squad, but Moller had given him permission, short-term, as a kind of reward for the results that Harry had achieved on other cases. The breakthrough had finally come last winter. Someone had seen Sverre Olsen sitting in a red car in Grunerlokka with another person on the night of the murder, just a few hundred metres away from the scene of the crime. The witness was a Roy Kvinsvik, a convicted former neo-Nazi, now a recent Pentecostal convert to the Philadelphian sect. Kvinsvik was not exactly what you would call a model witness, but he had taken a long, hard look at the photograph Harry had shown him and said, Yes, this was the person he had seen in the car with Sverre. The man in the photograph was Tom Waaler.

  Even though he had suspected Waaler for a long time, it came as a shock to receive confirmation. Not least because it meant that there had to be more moles working with him in the department. Prince could not have operated with such a wide network as he had done without help. That in turn meant that Harry could not trust anyone. So he kept his mouth shut about what Roy Kvinsvik had told him because he knew he would only get one chance, and the whole sordid truth would have to come out in one go. And he would have to be absolutely sure that the root came with it; if it didn’t he was done for.

  That was why Harry had secretly begun to work on assembling a watertight case against Waaler. However, since he didn’t know who it was safe to talk to, this turned out to be more difficult than he had imagined. He began to trawl through the archives after the others had gone home for the day, to tap into the internal computer network, to print out e-mails and lists of incoming and outgoing telephone calls from people he knew Waaler associated with. In the afternoons he sat in a car near Youngstorget and kept an eye on Herbert’s Pizza. Harry’s theory was that the neo-Nazis frequenting the pizzeria were also smuggling arms. When this theory did not produce any leads he began to shadow Waaler and a number of his colleagues. He concentrated on those he knew spent a lot of time with guns at the firing range in Okern. He followed them from a safe distance, sat outside their homes, shivering in his car while they slept indoors, and returned home to Rakel early in the morning, totally exhausted. He slept for a couple of hours and then went to work again. After a while she asked him to sleep in his own flat on the nights when he had double shifts. He hadn’t told her that his night work was off the record, off the time sheets, off the awareness of his superiors, off almost everything.

  Then he started doing a turn off Broadway too.

  First of all, he dropped by Herbert’s Pizza one evening, then another, chatting with the guys, buying rounds of beer. Of course they knew who he was, but free beer was free beer and they drank it, grinned and kept their mouths shut. He gradually realised that they didn’t know anything, but he still continued to go there, he wasn’t quite sure why, perhaps because it gave him the feeling that he was close to something, the dragon’s lair. All he had to do was be patient, he only had to wait and the dragon would emerge. But neither Waaler nor any of his acquaintances ever turned up. So he went back to watching the block where Waaler lived.

  One night, at 20 degrees below freezing point, the streets completely deserted, a man wearing a short, thin jacket came walking towards his car with the rolling gait that characterises junkies. He stopped outside the entrance leading to Waaler’s block, looked right then left and attacked the lock with a crowbar. Harry sat and watched, fully aware that he risked being exposed if he intervened. The man was presumably too stoned to attach the crowbar properly and as he yanked it down, a large chunk of wood detached itself from the door with a splintering sound. As he did it, he fell backwards and landed in a pile of snow at the front of the block. And that was where he stayed. Lights came on in a couple of windows. The curtains in Waaler’s flat moved. Harry waited. Nothing happened. Twenty degrees below zero. The light was still on in Waaler’s window. The junkie didn’t stir. Afterwards, Harry often wondered what the hell he should have done. The battery on his mobile had gone flat because of the cold, so he couldn’t have rung casualty. He waited. The minutes ticked by. Bloody junkie. Twenty-one below. Sodding junkie. Of course he could have driven away, gone to casualty and told them about him. Something moved by the entrance. It was Waaler. He looked comical in dressing gown, boots, cap and mittens. He was carrying two woollen blankets. Harry could not believe his eyes as Waaler checked the junkie’s pulse and pupils before wrapping him in the blankets. Waaler just stood there flapping his arms around to keep himself warm and peering in the direction of Harry’s car. A few minutes later the ambulance rolled up in front of the block of flats.

  That night Harry went home, sat down in his wing chair, lit a cigarette and listened to the Raga Rockers and Duke Ellington. Then he went to work, although he had not been out of his clothes for 48 hours.

  Rakel and Harry had their first row one evening in April. He had cancelled a weekend trip at the last moment, and she pointed out that this was the third time he had broken a promise within a very short space of time. A promise to Oleg, she said. He accused her of using Oleg as an excuse and that what she really wanted was for him to prioritise her needs over finding the person who had taken Ellen’s life. She said Ellen was a ghost, that he had shut himself up with a corpse, that it wasn’t normal, that he was feeding on the tragedy, that it was necrophilia, that it wasn’t Ellen who was driving him but his own lust for vengeance.

  ‘You’ve been hurt,’ she said. ‘And you’ve let everything else go so that you can get your revenge.’

  As Harry fumed out of the house he caught a glimpse of Oleg’s pyjamas and red eyes behind the stair rails.

  After that he stopped doing anything that did not have a direct connection with his pursuit of those guilty of Ellen’s murder. He read e-mails under the low light of table lamps, stared at the dark windows of detached houses and blocks of flats waiting for people who never came out, and snatched a few hours’ sleep in his flat in Sofies gate.

  The days grew longer and lighter, but he had made absolutely no progress. One night, out of the blue, a nightmare from his childhood returned: Sis, her long hair trapped, the expression of horror on her face. He was rigid with fear. It returned the following night. And the night after.

  Oystein Eikeland, a childhood friend who drank at Malik’s when he wasn’t driving his taxi, told Harry that he looked shattered and offered him some cheap speed. Harry refused. Exhausted and angry, he continued with the relentless search.

  It was just a question of time before it all unravelled. Something as prosaic as an unpaid bill was all it took to trigger it. It was the end of May and he hadn’t spoken to Rakel for several days. He was woken in his office chair by the phone ringing. Rakel said that the travel company had reminded her that they hadn’t paid for the farm in Normandy. They had a week’s grace, after that the travel company would rent the farm out to someone else.

  ‘Friday is the deadline,’ were Rakel’s last words befor
e ringing off.

  Harry went to the lavatory, splashed some cold water over his face and confronted his reflection in the mirror. Beneath his wet, closely cropped fair hair he saw a pair of bloodshot eyes with dark bags under them and drawn, hollow cheeks. He tried a smile. Yellowing teeth grinned back at him. He didn’t recognise himself. And he knew that Rakel was right, it was a deadline. For him and Ellen. For him and Tom Waaler.

  The same day he went to his closest superior officer, Bjarne Moller, who was the only person at Police HQ he trusted 100 per cent. Moller had alternately nodded and shaken his head as Harry told him what he wanted. Fortunately, he had said, that was not his pigeon and Harry would have to take it up directly with the Chief Superintendent. Nevertheless, he thought that Harry should think twice before he went to see him. Harry went straight from Moller’s square office to the oval office of the head of Kripos. He knocked, went in and presented what he had to say, about the witness who had seen Tom Waaler together with Sverre Olsen, and the fact that it was none other than Tom Waaler who had shot Olsen while arresting him. That was it. That was all he had after five months’ slog, five months’ shadowing, five months on the verge of madness.

  The head of Kripos asked Harry what he thought Tom Waaler’s motive might be in killing Ellen Gjelten.

  Harry answered that Ellen was in possession of dangerous information. The same evening she was killed she left a message on Harry’s answerphone that she knew who Prince was. She knew the name of the ringleader behind the illegal importing of weapons and the person responsible for arming Oslo’s criminal community to the teeth with service handguns.

  ‘Unfortunately it was too late when I rang back,’ Harry said, trying to read the Chief Superintendent’s expression.

  ‘And Sverre Olsen?’ the Superintendent asked.

  ‘When we picked up Sverre Olsen’s trail, Prince killed him so that he wouldn’t be able to reveal the name of Ellen’s killer.’

  ‘And this Prince, you said, is…?’

  Harry repeated Tom Waaler’s name and the head of Kripos nodded in silence and said: ‘One of our own then. One of our most respected detective inspectors.’

  For the next ten seconds Harry felt as if he was sitting in a vacuum, with no air and no sound. He knew that his police career could finish right there on the spot.

  ‘Alright, Hole. I’ll meet this witness of yours before I make up my mind what our next step should be.’

  The Superintendent stood up.

  ‘I assume that you understand, until further notice, this is a matter which must remain between you and me.’

  ‘How long are we supposed to stay here?’

  Harry gave a start at the sound of the taxi driver’s voice. He had been asleep.

  ‘Go back,’ he said, taking a last look at the timber house.

  As they went back down Kirkeveien his mobile phone rang. It was Beate.

  ‘We think we’ve found the weapon,’ she said. ‘And you were right. It is a handgun.’

  ‘In that case, congratulations to us both.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t so difficult to find. It was in the rubbish bin under the sink.’

  ‘Make and number?’

  ‘A Glock 23. The number has been filed off.’

  ‘File marks?’

  ‘If you’re wondering whether they’re the same as the ones we find on most confiscated small arms in Oslo at the moment, the answer is yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Harry switched his mobile to his left hand. ‘What I don’t see is why you’re ringing to tell me all this. It’s not my case.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Harry. Moller said…’

  ‘Moller and the whole fucking Oslo Police Force can go to hell!’

  Harry was taken aback by his own screeching voice. He saw the taxi driver’s V-shaped eyebrows loom up in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Sorry, Beate. I… Are you still there?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I’m just not quite myself at the moment.’

  ‘It can wait.’

  ‘What can?’

  ‘There’s no hurry.’

  ‘Come on.’

  She sighed.

  ‘Did you notice the swelling Camilla Loen had on her eyelid?’

  ‘Indeed I did.’

  ‘I thought the murderer may have hit her, or that she got it when she fell, but it turned out it wasn’t a swelling.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The pathologist pressed the lump. It was rock hard. So he pulled up her eyelid and do you know what he found on the top of her eyeball?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Harry said.

  ‘A small, reddish precious stone cut in the shape of a star. We think it’s a diamond. What do you think about that?’

  Harry breathed in and checked the time. There were still three hours to go before they stopped serving at Sofie.

  ‘That it’s not my case,’ he said, switching off his phone.

  6

  Friday. Water.

  There is a drought, but I saw the policeman coming away from the watering hole. Water for the thirsty. Rain water, river water, amniotic waters.

  He didn’t see me. He staggered over to Ullevalsveien and tried to hail a taxi. No-one wanted to take him. He was like one of the restless souls wandering along the river bank without a ferryman to take him across. I have some experience of what that feels like. Being hounded by those you nourished. Being rejected when for once in your life it is you who needs help. Discovering that you’re being spat on and that you have no-one to spit on in return. Quietly considering what you must do. The paradox is, of course, that the taxi driver who takes pity on you, it is his throat you cut.

  7

  Tuesday. Dismissal

  Harry went to the back of the shop, opened the glass door of the milk refrigerator and leaned in. He pulled up his sweaty T-shirt, closed his eyes and felt the cool air against his skin.

  The forecast was for a tropical night and the few customers there were in the shop wanted grilled food, beer or mineral water.

  Harry recognised her by the colour of her hair. She was standing with her back to him at the meat counter. Her broad backside filled her jeans to perfection. When she turned round he saw that she was wearing a zebra-striped top which was just as tight as her leopard-pattern top. Then Vibeke Knutsen changed her mind, put back the ready-cooked pieces of beef, pushed her shopping trolley to the freezer counter and picked out two packets of cod fillets.

  Harry pulled down his T-shirt and closed the glass door. He didn’t want any milk. Nor did he want any meat or cod. Basically, he wanted as little as possible, just something he could eat, not because he was hungry, but for his stomach’s sake. His stomach had started to give him some trouble the night before. And he knew from experience that if he didn’t get some solid food down him now, he would not be able to keep down a drop of alcohol. In his trolley there was a loaf of wholemeal bread and a brown paper bag containing a bottle from the Vinmonopol over the road. He added half a chicken, a six-pack of Hansa and fidgeted around at the fruit counter before joining the checkout queue right behind Vibeke Knutsen. It wasn’t intentional, but then again perhaps it wasn’t quite by chance either.

  She half turned without seeing him and wrinkled her nose as if there was a potent smell coming from somewhere, which was a possibility that Harry could not completely exclude. She asked the checkout girl for a pack of 20 Prince Mild cigarettes.

  ‘Thought you were trying to give them up.’

  Vibeke turned round in surprise, scrutinised him and gave him three different smiles. The first one, fleeting, automatic. Then one of recognition. Then, after she had paid, one of curiosity.

  ‘And you’re going to have a party, I see.’

  She put her purchases into a plastic bag.

  ‘Something like that,’ Harry mumbled, reciprocating her smile.

  She tilted her head to the side. The zebra stripes moved.

  ‘Many guests?’

  ‘A few. All
uninvited.’

  The checkout girl handed him his change, but he nodded towards the collection box for the Salvation Army.

  ‘You could show them the door, couldn’t you?’ Her smile had reached her eyes now.

  ‘Course. But these particular guests are not so easy to get rid of.’

  The bottle of Jim Beam clinked joyfully against the six-pack as he lifted his bags.

  ‘Oh? Old drinking pals?’

  Harry threw a lingering look in her direction. She seemed to know what she was talking about. This struck him as even stranger because she was living with the type of person who gave the impression of being fairly austere. Or to be more precise: it was strange that such an austere person would be living with her.

  ‘I haven’t got any pals,’ he said.

  ‘Must be the ladies then. The type that doesn’t let go easily.’

  He intended to hold the door open for her, but it turned out it was automatic. He had only been shopping there a few hundred times. They stood opposite each other on the pavement outside.

  Harry didn’t know what to say. Perhaps this was why he came out with:

  ‘Three ladies. Perhaps they’ll go away if I drink enough.’

  ‘Eh?’

  She shaded her eyes from the sun.

  ‘Nothing. Sorry. I’m just thinking aloud. That is, I’m not thinking… but I’m doing it aloud anyway. Prattling away, I suppose. I…’

  He couldn’t understand why she was still there.