by Jo Nesbo
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
‘My father was a teacher. He was always at home.’
‘Middleclass home then.’
‘Something like that.’
Waaler nodded.
‘My father was a workman. Just like the fathers of my two best pals, Geir and Solo. They lived right above us in the block of flats in Oslo Old Town where I grew up. East End of Oslo, grey, but it was a good, well-kept block of flats owned by the union. We didn’t see ourselves as working class, we were all entrepreneurs. Solo’s father even owned a shop and everyone in the family played their part. All the men in our neighbour-hood worked hard, but no-one worked as hard as my father did – dawn to dusk, day and night. He was like a machine that was only switched off on Sundays. Neither of my parents was particularly Christian. My father studied theology for half a year at evening school because Grandfather wanted him to become a priest, but when Grandfather died he gave it up. All the same we went to Valerenga church every Sunday and afterwards Father went with us to Ekeberg or Ostmarka. At five o’clock we changed clothes and had our Sunday meal in the sitting room. This might sound boring, but I’ll tell you what, I looked forward all week to Sundays.
‘Then it was Monday and he was off again. There was always some building job that needed him to do overtime. “Some money was whiter than white, some grey and some black,” he used to say. It was the only way you could save up anything in his line of work. When I was thirteen we moved west to a house with an apple orchard. Father said it was better there. I was the only person in the class whose parents were not lawyers, economists, doctors or other professionals. The neighbour was a judge and he had a son of my age. Father hoped that I would turn out like him. He said that if I ever wanted to take up one of those professions it was important to have friends in the trade, to learn the codes, the language and the unwritten rules. However, I never saw anything of the son, just their dog, a German shepherd that stood barking on the veranda all night. After school I took the train to Oslo Old Town and met Geir and Solo there instead. Mother and Father invited all the neighbours to a barbecue party, but they all made excuses and politely turned down our invitation, except for one person. I can remember the smell of the smoke from the barbecue and the raucous laughter from the other gardens that summer. There was never a return invitation.’
Harry concentrated on his diction. ‘Does this story have a point to it?’
‘You’ll have to decide that. Shall I stop?’
‘No, do go on, there’s nothing particular I want to watch on TV tonight.’
‘One Sunday we were going to church as usual. I was waiting out in the street for Father and Mother and watching the German shepherd going wild in the garden snarling and barking at me from the other side of the fence. I don’t know why I did it, but I went and opened the gate. I may have thought it was angry because it was all alone. The dog jumped on me, knocked me to the ground and bit right through my cheek. I still have the scar.’
Waaler pointed, but Harry couldn’t see anything.
‘The judge called the dog from the veranda. It let go, then he told me to get the hell out of his garden. Mother cried and Father hardly said a word as we drove to casualty. On our return I had a thick black line of stitches running from my chin to right up to underneath my ear. My father went over to see the judge. When he came back his eyes were dark with fury and he said even less than before. We ate our Sunday joint in total silence. That night I woke up and lay awake wondering what had woken me. It was quiet everywhere. Then I realised. The German shepherd. It had stopped barking. I heard the front door close, and I knew instinctively that we would never hear that dog barking again. When the bedroom door was gently opened I closed my eyes tight, but still caught a glimpse of the hammer. He smelled of tobacco and security. And I pretended I was asleep.’
Waaler wiped an invisible speck of dust off the steering column.
‘I did what I did because we knew that Sverre Olsen had taken the life of one of our colleagues. I did it for Ellen, Harry. For us. Now you know I have killed a man. Are you going to report me or not?’
Harry simply stared. Waaler closed his eyes.
‘We only had circumstantial evidence against Olsen, Harry. He had got away with it. We couldn’t allow that to happen. Would you have allowed it to happen, Harry?’
Waaler turned his head and met Harry’s unrelenting stare.
‘Would you?’
Harry swallowed.
‘There was someone who saw you and Sverre Olsen together in a car, someone who was willing to testify to that effect, but you probably knew that, didn’t you.’
Waaler shrugged his shoulders.
‘I spoke to Olsen on several occasions. He was a neo-Nazi and a criminal. It’s our job to keep tabs on that sort, Harry.’
‘The person who saw you suddenly does not want to talk any more. You’ve had a chat with him, haven’t you. You’ve intimidated him into silence.’
Waaler shook his head.
‘I can’t answer that kind of thing, Harry. Even if you decide to join our team it’s a hard and fast rule that you only get to know what is absolutely necessary in order for you to perform your role. It may sound rigid, but it works. It works for us.’
‘Did you talk to Kvinsvik?’ Harry slurred.
‘Kvinsvik is just one of your windmills, Harry. Forget him. You’d be better off thinking about yourself.’
He leaned closer to Harry and lowered his voice.
‘What have you got to lose? Have a good look in the mirror…’
Harry blinked.
‘Right,’ Waaler said. ‘You’re a man of almost forty with an alcohol problem and no job, no family and no money.’
‘For the last time!’ Harry tried to shout but was too drunk. ‘Did you talk to… to Kvinsvik?’
Waaler sat up in his seat again.
‘Go home, Harry. And think about who you really owe something to here. Is it the force? Who feed on you, don’t like the taste and then spit you out? Your bosses who scurry off like frightened mice as soon as they smell trouble? Or do you perhaps owe yourself something? You’ve slogged away year in, year out to keep the streets of Oslo moderately safe in a country which protects its criminals better than it does its own civil servants. You are in fact one of the best at what you do, Harry. Unlike the others, you’ve got talent. And yet you earn a pittance. I can offer you five times what you’re earning today, but that’s not the most important bit. I can offer you a touch of dignity, Harry. Dignity. Think about it.’
Harry struggled to focus his eyes on Waaler, but his face kept drifting off. He fumbled around looking for the door handle, but couldn’t find it. Bloody Jap cars. Waaler leaned across him and pushed the door open.
‘I know you’ve been trying to find Kvinsvik,’ Waaler said. ‘Let me save you the bother. Yes, I talked to Olsen in Grunerlokka that evening, but that does not mean that I had anything to do with Ellen’s murder. I kept my mouth shut so that I didn’t complicate matters. You can do what you like, but believe me: Roy Kvinsvik has nothing to say that’s worth hearing.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Would it make any difference if I told you? Would you believe me then?’
‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘Who knows?’
Waaler sighed.
‘Sognsvannveien 32. He is staying in his ex-stepfather’s basement sitting room.’
Harry turned round and hailed a taxi coming towards him with its sign lit up.
‘But this evening he’s at choir practice with the Menna choir,’ Waaler said. ‘Walking distance. They practise in Gamle Aker church hall.’
‘Gamle Aker?’
‘He converted from Philadelphia to Bethlehem.’
The unoccupied taxi braked, hesitated, then accelerated again and drove off in the direction of the city centre. Waaler gave a wry smile.
‘You don’t have to lose your convictions to convert, Harry.’
12
Sunday. Bethle
hem.
It was 8 p.m. on Sunday. Bjarne Moller yawned, locked the desk drawer and put his arm out to turn off his work lamp. He was tired but pleased with himself. The worst onslaught from the media after the shooting and the disappearance had let up and he had been able to work all weekend unbothered. The pile of papers that had towered on his desk when the holiday period began was soon halved. Now he could go home and enjoy a smooth Jameson whisky and the repeat on television of Beat for Beat. His finger was on the switch; he cast a final look at the now tidy desk top. That was when he noticed the brown padded envelope. He vaguely remembered taking it from his pigeonhole on Friday. Obviously it had been hidden behind the pile of papers.
He hesitated. It could wait until tomorrow. He squeezed the envelope. He could feel an object inside, something he couldn’t immediately identify. He opened it with the letter knife. There was no letter. He turned the envelope upside down, but nothing fell out. He shook it hard and heard something detach itself from the bubble-wrap lining. It hit the desk, bounced across to the telephone and landed on the blotting pad, on top of the duty roster.
His stomach pains came on suddenly. Bjarne Moller doubled up and stood gasping for breath. It wasn’t until a few minutes had passed that he was able to stand up straight and dial a number. If he had not been in such pain he might perhaps have noticed that the telephone number he had just dialled belonged to the name that the object from the envelope was now pointing to on the duty roster.
Marit was in love.
Again.
She cast a glance over to the church hall steps. The light shone through the circular window in the door with the inset Bethlehem Star, lighting up the face of the new boy, Roy. He was talking to one of the other girls in the choir. She had been thinking for several days now about how she could get him to notice her, but inspiration had deserted her. Going over to talk to him would not be a bad start. She would have to wait until an opportunity offered itself. At last week’s choir practice he had spoken up in a loud, clear voice about his past, about how he had been a Philadelphian, and about how he had been a neo-Nazi before he was saved! One of the other girls had heard a rumour that he had a big Nazi tattoo somewhere on his body. They were agreed that it was terrible, but Marit could feel how the very thought made her body tremble with excitement. She knew deep down that this was the reason she was in love. The newness, the unfamiliarity, this wonderful but transient excitement. She knew that ultimately she would be with someone else. Someone like Kristian. Kristian was the choirleader. Both his parents were in the congregation and he had just begun to preach at the youth meetings. People like Roy so often finished up among the defectors.
They had practised for a long time this evening. They had been rehearsing a new song and had gone through practically their whole repertoire as well. Kristian tended to do that when new members joined, to show how good they were. Usually they practised in their own rooms in Geitmyrsveien, but they were closed because of the national holidays, so they had borrowed Gamle Aker church hall in Akersbakken. Even though it was past midnight they stood outside after choir practice. Their voices were buzzing like a swarm of insects and it was as if there was an extra excitement in the air this evening. Perhaps it was the heat. Or maybe it was because the married and betrothed members of the choir were on holiday and thus they were spared the smiling, tolerant but nevertheless admonishing looks the younger members received when it was considered that the flirting had gone too far. Marit blurted out whatever came into her head when her girlfriends asked as she also stole a glance at Roy. She wondered where you would put a large Nazi tattoo.
One of her girlfriends nudged her and nodded towards a man coming up Akersbakken.
‘Look. He’s drunk,’ one girl whispered.
‘Poor man,’ one of the others said.
‘Those are the lost souls Jesus wants to redeem.’
It was Sofie who said that. She always said things like that. The others nodded. Marit did too. And then she realised. This was it, the opportunity. And without a moment’s hesitation she left her throng of girlfriends and stood in the man’s path.
He stopped and peered down at her. He was taller than she had anticipated.
‘Do you know Jesus?’ Marit asked in a loud, clear voice and with a smile.
The man’s face was bright red and his vision was blurred. The conversation behind her had suddenly died, and out of the corner of her eye she could see that Roy and the girls on the steps had turned towards them.
‘Unfortunately, I don’t,’ the man snuffled. ‘And neither do you, my girl, but perhaps you know Roy Kvinsvik?’
Marit could feel her blushes suffusing her face, and her follow-up – Do you know he’s just waiting to meet you? – became ensnared in her throat.
‘Well?’ the man asked. ‘Is he here?’
She took in the man’s cropped skull and his boots. She suddenly went very red. Was this man a neo-Nazi, someone from Roy’s past? Someone come to avenge his betrayal? Or to persuade him to return?
‘I…’
But the man had already sidestepped her.
She turned round, just in time to see Roy beat a hasty retreat into the church hall and slam the door behind him.
The drunk strode across the crunching gravel, his upper body tipped like a mast caught in a sudden gust of wind. In front of the steps he slipped and fell to his knees.
‘Oh my God…’ one of the girls gasped.
The man got up again.
Marit saw Kristian hurriedly draw back as the man ran up the steps. He stood on the top step, swaying to and fro. For a moment he teetered on the point of falling backwards. Then he regained control over the forces of gravity and snatched at the door handle.
Marit held her hand in front of her mouth.
He pushed. Fortunately Roy had locked the door.
‘Fuck!’ The man shouted in a voice thick with alcohol. He leaned back and then brought his head forward in a bow.
There was the crisp crack of broken glass as his forehead smashed the circular window in the door and the splintered glass fell to the steps.
‘Stop it!’ Kristian shouted. ‘You can’t…’
The man turned round and gaped at him. A triangular fragment of glass was protruding from his forehead. Blood ran down from it in a tiny stream and forked at the ridge of his nose.
Kristian didn’t say another word.
The man opened his mouth and began to howl. The sound was as chilling as a steel blade. He began to attack the door again with a fury that Marit had never witnessed before, beating the solid, white door with clenched fists. Howling like a wolf, he struck again and again, flesh against wood. It sounded like axe-blows in the stillness of the morning forest. Then he began to beat the wrought-iron Star of Bethlehem in the circular window. She thought she heard the sound of ripping skin as the splatter of blood began to discolour the white door.
‘Someone do something,’ a voice screamed. She saw Kristian take out his mobile phone.
The iron star was loose. All of a sudden the man sank to his knees.
Marit went closer. The others had moved back, but she had to go nearer. Her heart was thumping in her chest. In front of the steps she felt Kristian’s hand on her shoulder and she stopped. She could hear the man gasping for breath on the steps, like a fish drowning on dry land. It sounded as if he was weeping.
When the police car came to collect him a quarter of an hour later, he was lying in a heap on the steps. They got him to his feet, and he allowed himself to be led to the car without putting up any resistance. One of the policewomen asked if anyone had any damage to report. They just shook their heads, too shocked to give the smashed window another thought.
Then the car was gone and all that was left was the warm summer night. It went through Marit’s mind that it was as if nothing had happened. She hardly noticed Roy emerge, pale and worn, and then disappear, or Kristian put his arm around her. She stared at the damaged star in the window. It was bent over and twi
sted; two of the five points of the star pointed upwards and one down. Despite the heat of the night, she pulled her jacket tighter round her shoulders.
It was well past midnight, and the moon was reflected in the windows of Police HQ. Bjarne Moller walked across the empty car park and into the custody block. As he entered, he took a quick look around. The three reception desks were unmanned; two officers were staring at the TV in the guard room. As an old Charles Bronson fan, Moller recognised the film. Death Wish. And he recognised the older of the two officers. It was Groth, also known as the ‘Griever’ on account of the liver-coloured scar that ran down from his left eye to the top of his cheek. Groth had worked in the custody block for as long as Moller could remember and everyone knew that to all intents and purposes he ran the place.
‘Hello?’ Moller shouted.
Without taking his eyes off the television screen, Groth raised a finger and pointed to the younger officer who reluctantly twisted in his chair to face him.
Moller flashed his ID card, but apparently that was superfluous. They knew him.
‘Where’s Hole?’ he shouted.
‘The idiot?’ Groth snorted as Charles Bronson raised his gun to exact revenge.
‘Cell five, I think,’ the younger officer said. ‘Check with one of the warders in there, if you can find one.’
‘Thank you,’ Moller said, and went through the door leading to the cells.
There were approximately a hundred detention cells and the number of inmates varied according to the season. Now it was definitely low season. Moller didn’t bother going to the warders’ guard room and began to walk down the corridors between the metal cubicles. His footsteps reverberated. He had always loathed the custody block. Firstly, it was absurd that living people should be incarcerated here. Secondly, there was the atmosphere of the gutter and ruined lives. Thirdly, he knew the kind of thing that went on here. Such as the time a prisoner had reported Groth for using a fire hose on him. SEFO rejected the claim when they took out the fire hose and discovered that it only reached halfway to the cell where the hosing down was alleged to have taken place. It seemed that SEFO were the only people at Police HQ who didn’t know that when Groth knew there would be a spot of bother, he would just cut a chunk off the fire hose.