by Jo Nesbo
‘I put them in your suitcase with the socks,’ she said.
‘Excellent.’
‘Have you got a rendezvous with any of them?’
He laughed, went across to the bed and bent down over her.
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ She put her arms around his neck. ‘I think there’s a woman’s scent on you every time you come home.’
‘That’s because I’m never away long enough for your scent to fade, Liebling. How long ago is it now since I first discovered you? Twenty-six months. I’ve had your scent on me for twenty-six months now.’
‘And no other?’
She wriggled further down the bed and dragged him after her. He kissed her lightly on the mouth.
‘And no other. My plane, Liebling…’
He extricated himself.
She watched him as he walked over to the chest of drawers, opened one, took out his passport and plane tickets, put them in his inside pocket and buttoned up his jacket. It all happened in one sleek movement; this effortless efficiency and self-assurance that she found both sensual and frightening. Had it not been for the fact that he did almost everything with the same minimal effort, she would have said that he must have been in training for this all his life: departing; leaving.
Bearing in mind that they had spent so much time together over the last two years, she knew surprisingly little about him, but he never made a secret of the fact that he had been with a great many women in his previous life. He used to say it was because he had been searching so desperately for her. He had turned them away as soon as he realised they weren’t her and he had continued his restless search until one fine autumn day two years ago they had met in the bar of the Grand Hotel Europa in Wenceslas Square.
That was the most wonderful description of promiscuity she had ever heard. More wonderful than hers at any rate, which had been for money.
‘What do you do in Oslo?’
‘Business,’ he said.
‘Why will you never tell me exactly what it is that you do?’
‘Because we love each other.’
He closed the door quietly behind him, and she heard his footsteps going down the stairs.
Alone again. She closed her eyes and hoped that the smell of him would remain in the bedclothes until he returned. She placed her hand over her necklace. She had not taken it off since he gave it to her, not even when she took a bath. She stroked the pendant with her fingers and thought about his suitcase. About the stiff white clergyman’s collar she had seen next to his socks. Why hadn’t she asked him about it? Perhaps because she felt that she was asking too many questions already. She mustn’t irritate him.
She sighed, looked at her watch and closed her eyes again. The day had no shape. An appointment with the doctor at 2.00, that was all. She began to count the seconds as her fingers continued to stroke the pendant, a red diamond, shaped like a star with five points.
The front-page spread in Verdens Gang was about an unnamed celebrity in the Norwegian media having had a ‘brief, but intense’ relationship with Camilla Loen. They had got hold of a grainy holiday snap of Camilla wearing a minuscule bikini, obviously to underline the intimations made in the article as to what the main ingredient of the relationship had been.
The same day Dagbladet ran an interview with Lisbeth Barli’s sister, Toya Harang, who in a paragraph entitled ‘Always Running Off’ gave her little sister’s childhood behaviour as a possible explanation for her unexplained disappearance. She was quoted as saying: ‘She ran off from Spinnin’ Wheel too, so why not now?’
There was a picture of her wearing a Stetson and posing in front of the band’s bus. She was smiling. Harry assumed that she hadn’t really thought about what she was doing before they took her photo.
‘A beer.’
He sank down on the bar stool in Underwater and pulled over Verdens Gang. The Springsteen concert in Valle Hovin was sold out. Fine with him. For one thing, Harry hated stadium concerts, and for another, he and Oystein had hitched to Drammenshallen when they were 15 with fake Springsteen tickets that Oystein had made. That was when they had all been right at their peak: Springsteen, Oystein and Harry.
Harry pushed the paper away and opened his own Dagbladet with the photograph of Lisbeth’s sister. The likeness between the two was striking. He had talked to her in Trondheim on the phone, but she didn’t have anything to tell him, or more to the point, she didn’t have anything interesting to tell him. The fact that their conversation had lasted 20 minutes had had little to do with him. She had explained to him her name should be pronounced with the stress on the a. ToyA. And that she had not been named after Michael Jackson’s sister, who is called LaToya with the stress on oy.
Four days had gone by now since Lisbeth’s disappearance, and the case had, in a nutshell, run aground.
The same was true of the Camilla Loen case. Even Beate was frustrated. She had been working all weekend to help the few detectives who were not on holiday. Nice girl, Beate. Shame that being nice didn’t pay off.
Since Camilla had clearly been a sociable young lady, they had managed to put together most of her movements the week before the shooting, but the leads they had didn’t take them anywhere.
Actually, Harry had meant to mention to Beate that Waaler had been to his office and had more or less openly suggested that he sell his soul to him, but for some reason he held back. Besides, he had enough to think about. If he told Moller it would only lead to a row and so he immediately rejected the idea.
Harry was well into his second beer when he saw her. She was sitting on her own at one of the tables in the semidarkness by the wall. She was looking right at him and gave him a little smile. On the table in front of her was a beer and between her index and middle finger a cigarette.
Harry picked up his glass and made his way over to her table.
‘Can I sit down?’
Vibeke Knutsen nodded towards the vacant seat.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live just round the corner,’ Harry said.
‘I thought so, but I haven’t seen you here before.’
‘No. My local and I have differing interpretations of an incident that took place there last week.’
‘They barred you?’ she asked with a hoarse laugh.
Harry liked her laugh. And he thought she was attractive, perhaps because of her makeup and because she was sitting in the dark. So what. He liked her eyes; they were playful and full of life, childlike and clever, just like Rakel’s but that was where the similarity ended. Rakel had a narrow, sensitive mouth; Vibeke’s was large and seemed even larger painted with fire-engine-red lipstick. Rakel was discreetly elegant and agile, almost as slim as a ballerina, no generous curves. Vibeke was wearing tiger stripes today, but they were as eye-catching as the leopard and the zebra stripes. Most things about Rakel were dark: her eyes, her hair and her skin. He had never seen skin glow like hers. Vibeke had red hair and was pale. Her crossed bare legs shone white in the dark.
‘What are you doing here on your own?’ he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders and took a sip from her glass.
‘Anders is away, travelling, and won’t be back until this evening. So I am indulging myself a little.’
‘Has he gone far?’
‘Somewhere in Europe. You know how it is. They never tell you anything.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He sells fittings for churches and chapels. Altar-pieces, pulpits, crosses and suchlike. Used and new.’
‘Mm. And he does that in Europe?’
‘When a church in Switzerland needs a new pulpit, it could well come from Alesund. And the old one may well end up being restored in Stockholm or Narvik. He travels all the time. He’s away more than he’s at home. Especially in the last few months. This last year really.’ She took a drag of her cigarette and added while inhaling: ‘He’s not Christian though.’
‘No?’
S
he shook her head as the smoke rose in a thick coil from the red lips with the small, closeset wrinkles above them.
‘His parents were in the Pentecostal sect, and he grew up with that stuff. I’ve only been to one meeting, but do you know what? I think it’s creepy, I do. When they start talking in tongues and all that. Have you been to any meetings like that?’
‘Twice,’ Harry said. ‘With the Philadelphians.’
‘Were you saved?’
‘Unfortunately not. I just went there to find someone who said he would stand in court as a witness for me.’
‘Well, if you didn’t find Jesus, at least you found your witness.’
Harry shook his head.
‘They said he’d stopped going, and he doesn’t live at any of the addresses I’ve been given. So no, I definitely wasn’t saved.’
Harry drained his beer and signalled to the bar. He lit another cigarette.
‘I tried to get hold of you during the day,’ she said. ‘At your work.’
‘Oh yes?’
Harry thought of the wordless message on his answerphone.
‘Yes, but I was told it wasn’t your case.’
‘If you’re thinking about the Camilla Loen case, then that’s correct.’
‘So I spoke to the other one who was at our place. The fit-looking one.’
‘Tom Waaler?’
‘Yes. I told him a few things about Camilla. The sort of thing I couldn’t say when you were there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Anders was sitting there.’
She took a long drag on her cigarette.
‘He can’t stand it when I say anything derogatory about Camilla. He gets absolutely furious. Even though we hardly knew her.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I don’t think it’s derogatory. It’s Anders who thinks that. I suppose it’s our upbringing. I believe that he actually thinks that all women should go through their lives without having sex with more than one man.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and added in a low voice: ‘And barely that.’
‘Mm. And Camilla had sex with more than one man?’
‘The upper-class name says it all.’
‘How do you know that? Can you hear noises?’
‘Not between floors. So in the winter we didn’t hear much. But in the summer, with the windows open. You know, sound…’
‘… carries over enclosed spaces.’
‘Exactly. Anders used to get up and slam the bedroom window shut. And if I happened to make a comment, like “now she’s got a good head of steam up”, well, he would get so angry that he would go and bed down in the sitting room.’
‘So you tried to get hold of me to tell me this?’
‘Yes. And there was one other thing. I received a phone call. At first I thought it was Anders, but I can usually hear background noise when he calls. As a rule he rings from some street in some European town. The weird thing is that the sound is exactly the same, just as if he were ringing from the same place every time. Anyway, this sounded different. Normally I would have just slammed down the receiver and not given it a second thought, but what with the Camilla business and with Anders away…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it was no big deal.’
She gave a tired smile. Harry thought it was a wonderful smile.
‘It was just someone breathing on the phone. I thought it was creepy though, so I wanted to tell you. Waaler said he would look into it, but I don’t think they could find what number he was calling from. It does happen that these murderers return to the scene of the crime, doesn’t it?’
‘Think that’s mostly in detective novels,’ Harry said. ‘I wouldn’t give it another thought.’
He twirled his glass round. The medicine was beginning to work.
‘Do you and your partner know Lisbeth Barli by any chance?’
Vibeke held his gaze, her pencilled eyebrows raised aloft.
‘The woman who’s disappeared? Why on earth should we?’
‘You’re right, why on earth should you?’ Harry mumbled and wondered what made him ask.
It was close to 9.00 when they stepped out onto the pavement outside Underwater.
Harry had to find his sea-legs.
‘I live just down the road,’ Harry said. ‘What about…?’
Vibeke tilted her head and smiled.
‘Don’t say anything you’ll come to regret now, Harry.’
‘Regret?’
‘For the last half an hour you’ve been talking nonstop about this Rakel. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’
‘She doesn’t want me, I said.’
‘Yes, and you don’t want me, either. You want Rakel. Or a Rakel substitute.’
She put her hand on his arm.
‘If things were different, maybe I could have imagined being that person for a while, but they aren’t. And Anders will be home soon.’
Harry shrugged his shoulders and steadied himself with a step to the side.
‘Well, let me accompany you to your door,’ he snuffled.
‘It’s two hundred metres, Harry.’
‘I can manage it.’
Vibeke laughed out loud and linked her arm under his.
They glided slowly down Ullevalsveien as cars and unoccupied taxis cruised past and the evening air caressed their skin as it does in Oslo in July, but only then. Harry listened to the regular hum of her voice and wondered what Rakel was doing right now.
They stopped outside the black wrought-iron entrance.
‘Goodnight, Harry.’
‘Mm. Are you going to take the lift?’
‘How’s that?’
‘Nothing.’ Harry shoved his hands in his trouser pockets in an attempt to keep his balance. ‘Take care. Goodnight.’
Vibeke smiled, went over to him, and Harry breathed in her fragrance as she kissed him on the cheek.
‘In another life, who knows?’ she whispered.
The gate closed after her with a smooth, well-oiled click. Harry stood there trying to orientate himself when something in the showroom window in front of him caught his attention. It wasn’t the range of headstones, but something in the reflection. A red car parked by the kerb on the other side of the road. If Harry had been in the slightest bit interested in cars, he would perhaps have known that this exclusive toy was a Tommykaira ZZR.
‘Fuck you,’ Harry muttered under his breath and stepped out to cross the road. A taxi shot past him with a blaring horn. He crossed over to the sports car and stood by the driver’s door. A blackened window was lowered without a sound.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Harry wheezed. ‘Are you spying on me?’
‘Good evening, Harry,’ Tom Waaler yawned. ‘I’m keeping Camilla Loen’s flat under surveillance, watching who comes and goes. You know, it’s not just a hollow phrase that criminals go back to the scene of the crime.’
‘Yes, it is. That’s exactly what it is,’ Harry said.
‘But, as you have perhaps realised, it’s all we have. The murderer hasn’t left us a lot to go on.’
‘We don’t know that the man…’ Harry said.
‘Or woman,’ Waaler interrupted.
Harry shrugged his shoulders and steadied himself. The door on the passenger side flew open.
‘Hop in, Harry. I’d like a chat with you.’
Harry squinted at the open door. He wavered. He took another stabilising sidestep. Then he walked round the car and got in.
‘Have you had a think?’ Waaler asked, turning down the music.
‘Yes, I’ve had a think,’ Harry said, squirming in the narrow bucket seat.
‘And did you come to the correct conclusion?’
‘You obviously like red, Japanese sports cars.’ Harry raised his hand and slapped the dashboard with some force. ‘Solid stuff. Tell me…’ Harry concentrated on his diction. ‘Was this how you and Sverre Olsen sat in the car and chatted in Grunerlokka the night Ellen was killed?’
Waaler eyed Harry for a long time before he opened his mouth and answered: ‘Harry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘No? You knew that Ellen had named you as the ringleader behind the arms smuggling, didn’t you? It was you who made sure that Sverre Olsen killed her before she could tell anyone else. And when you were told that I was on Sverre Olsen’s trail you hurriedly arranged it so that it looked as if he had drawn a gun while you were trying to arrest him. Just like with the other guy in Havnelageret. It’s a sort of speciality of yours, executing troublesome prisoners.’
‘You’re drunk, Harry.’
‘I’ve spent two years trying to get something on you, Waaler. Did you know that?’
Waaler didn’t answer.
Harry laughed and struck out again. The dashboard gave an ominous cracking sound.
‘Of course you knew! The Prince and heir apparent knows everything. How do you do it? Tell me.’
Through the side window Waaler caught sight of a man coming out of Kebabgarden; he stopped and looked in both directions before walking down towards Trinity Church. Neither of them said a word until the man had turned into the road between the cemetery and Our Lady’s Hospital.
‘Fine,’ Waaler growled. ‘I can easily make a confession if that’s what you want. But just remember that when you hear a confession you can quickly get caught up in unpleasant dilemmas.’
‘Unpleasantness is fine by me.’
‘I gave Sverre Olsen the punishment he deserved.’
Harry turned his head slowly towards Waaler who was reclining against the headrest with his eyes half closed.
‘But not because I was afraid he would reveal that he and I were in league with each other. That part of your theory is incorrect.’
‘Yeah?’
Waaler sighed.
‘Do you wonder what it is that makes people like us do what we do?’
‘I never do anything else.’
‘What’s your earliest memory, Harry?’
‘When?’
‘My earliest memory is of night and of my father bending over me in bed.’
Waaler stroked the steering wheel.
‘I must have been four or five. He smelled of tobacco and security. You know, how fathers should smell. He used to come home after I’d gone to bed. And I knew that he would have gone to work long before I woke up in the morning. I knew that if I opened my eyes, he would smile, pat me on the head and go again. So I pretended that I was sleeping so he would stay there a little longer. Just sometimes, when I was having nightmares about the woman with the pig’s head going round the streets in search of children’s blood, I would open my eyes when he got up to go and ask him to sit with me for a little longer. And he sat down while I lay there wide-eyed, staring at him. Was it the same with your father, Harry?’