by Jo Nesbo
'Was Robert one of them?' Harry asked.
The commander shook his head with a smile. 'I can say with confidence he was not. But his brother, Jon, is. The appointee will have control over considerable sums of money, among them all our properties, and Robert was not the type you would give that kind of responsibility. He hadn't been to the Officer Training School, either.'
'Are the properties the ones in Gøteborggata?'
'We have many. Our own employees live in Gøteborggata while other places, such as in Jacob Aalls gate, are used to house refugees from Eritrea, Somalia and Croatia.'
'Mm.' Harry looked at his notepad, slapped the pen down on the arm of the chair and stood up. 'I think we've taken up enough of your time, herr Eckhoff.'
'Oh, it wasn't so much. After all, this is a matter which concerns us.'
The commander followed them to the door.
'May I ask you a personal question, Hole?' the commander asked. 'Where have I seen you before? I never forget a face, you see.'
'Maybe on the TV or in the paper,' Harry said. 'There was a great deal of fuss about me in connection with the murder of a Norwegian national in Australia.'
'No, I forget those faces. I must have seen you in the flesh.'
'Will you go and get the car?' Harry said to Halvorsen. When Halvorsen had gone, Harry turned to the commander.
'I don't know, but the Army helped me once,' he said. 'Picked me up off the street one winter's day when I was so drunk that I couldn't look after myself. The soldier who found me wanted to ring the police at first, as he thought they could do the job better. However, I explained that I worked for the police and that would mean the sack. So he took me down to the Field Hospital where I was given an injection and allowed to sleep. I owe you all a big debt of gratitude.'
David Eckhoff nodded. 'Well, I thought it was something like that, though I didn't want to say. And, as far as the gratitude is concerned, I think we should forget it for the time being. We will be indebted to you if you find the person who killed Robert. God bless you and your work, Hole.'
Harry nodded and walked into the anteroom where he remained for a moment gazing at Eckhoff's closed door.
'You're very similar,' Harry said.
'Oh?' came the woman's deep voice. 'Was he severe?'
'I mean in the photograph.'
'Nine years old,' said Martine Eckhoff. 'You did well to recognise me.'
Harry shook his head. 'By the way, I meant to get in touch. I wanted to talk to you.'
'Oh?'
Harry could hear how that sounded and hastened to add: 'About Per Holmen.'
'Is there anything to talk about?' she replied with an indifferent shrug of her shoulders, although the temperature of her voice had fallen. 'You do your job and I do mine.'
'Maybe. But I . . . well, I wanted to say it was not quite the way it may have looked.'
'And how did it look?'
'I told you I cared about Per Holmen. And ended up ruining what was left of his family. That's what my job is like sometimes.'
She was going to answer when the telephone rang. She lifted the receiver and listened.
'Vestre Aker church,' she replied. 'Sunday twenty-first, at twelve o'clock. Yes.'
She put down the phone.
'Everyone will be going to the funeral,' she said, flicking through paperwork. 'Politicians, clergy and celebs. Everyone wants a chunk of us in our hour of sorrow. The manager of one of our new singers phoned to say his artiste could sing at the funeral.'
'Well,' Harry said, wondering what he was going to say, 'it's—'
But the telephone rang again so he didn't find out. He knew it was time for a quick exit, nodded and walked towards the door.
'I've put Ole down for Wednesday in Egertorget,' he heard her say behind him. 'Yes, for Robert. So the question is whether you can do the soup bus with me tonight.'
In the lift he cursed under his breath and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he let out a desperate laugh. The way you laugh at terrible clowns.
Robert's office seemed, if possible, even smaller today. And just as chaotic. The Salvation Army flag dominated, next to the icy patterns on the window, and the pocket knife was stuck in the desk beside a pile of papers and unopened envelopes. Jon was sitting at the desk letting his gaze wander across the walls. It stopped at a picture of Robert and himself. When was that taken? In Østgård, of course, but which summer? Robert was trying to remain serious, but couldn't restrain a smile. His smile seemed unnatural, forced.
He had read the newspapers today. It was unreal although he knew all the details, as if it were all about someone else and not Robert.
The door opened. Outside stood a tall, blonde woman in a military-green pilot's jacket. Her mouth was narrow and bloodless, her eyes hard, neutral, and her features expressionless. Behind her stood a red-haired, squat man with a round, boyish countenance and the type of grin that seems to be etched into some people's faces. They greet all news with it, good or bad.
'Who are you?' asked the woman.
'Jon Karlsen.' When he saw the woman's eyes become even harder he went on. 'I'm Robert's brother.'
'My apologies,' the woman said in a monotone, coming into the room and proffering her hand. 'Toril Li, police officer with Crime Squad.' Her hand was bone hard, but warm. 'This is Police Officer Ola Li.'
The man nodded and Jon returned the nod.
'We're sorry about what happened,' the woman said. 'But since this is a murder case, we have to seal off this room.'
Jon continued nodding while his eyes found their way back to the photo on the wall.
'I'm afraid that means we have to . . .'
'Oh, yes, of course,' Jon said. 'Sorry, I'm not quite with it.'
'Entirely understandable,' Toril Li replied with a smile. Not a broad, heartfelt smile, but a small, friendly one, appropriate for the situation. Jon was thinking that the police must have experience of this kind of thing, working with murders and so on. Like priests. Like his father.
'Have you touched anything?' she asked.
'Touched? No, why would I do that? I've been sitting in the chair.'
Jon got up and, without knowing why, pulled the knife out of the desk, folded it and put it in his pocket.
'It's all yours,' he said, leaving the room. The door was closed quietly behind him. He had reached the stairs when he realised it was an idiotic thing to do, to walk off with the knife, and he turned to take it back. Outside the closed door, he heard the woman's voice laughing: 'My goodness, what a shock that gave me! He's the spitting image of his brother. At first I thought I was seeing a ghost.'
'They don't look at all similar,' said the man.
'You've only seen a photo . . .'
A terrible thought struck Jon.
SK-655 to Zagreb took off from Gardemoen Airport, at 10.40 on the dot, banked left over Lake Hurdal and set a course south towards the navigation tower in Aalborg, Denmark. Since it was an unusually cold day the atmospheric layer known as the tropopause had sunk so low that the McDonnell Douglas MD-81 was already climbing through it when they were over central Oslo. And since planes in the tropopause leave vapour trails in the sky, he would have seen – if he had looked up from where he was standing and shivering by the phone boxes in Jernbanetorget – the plane he had a ticket for in the pocket of his camel-hair coat.
He had left his bag in a luggage locker in Oslo Central Station. Now he needed a hotel room. And he had to complete the job. And that meant he had to have a gun. But how to get hold of one in a town where you don't have a single contact?
He listened to the woman in directory enquiries explaining in singsong Scandinavian English that there were seventeen entries in the Oslo telephone book for people under the name of Jon Karlsen and she was afraid that she could not give him all of them. However, yes, she could give him the number for the Salvation Army.
The lady at Salvation Army Headquarters said they had a Jon Karlsen, but he was not at work today. He told her
he wanted to send him a Christmas present. Did she have his home address?
'Let me see. Gøteborggata 4, post number 0566. Nice that someone is thinking about him, poor thing.'
'Poor thing?'
'Yes, his brother was shot dead yesterday.'
'Brother?'
'Yes, in Egertorget. It's in today's paper.'
He thanked her for her help and hung up.
Something touched him on the shoulder and he whirled round.
It was the paper cup that explained what the young man wanted. True, the denim jacket was a little grubby, but he was clean-shaven, had a modern hairstyle, substantial clothes and an open, alert gaze. The young man said something, but when he demonstrated with a shrug that he didn't speak Norwegian, the young man broke into perfect English:
'I'm Kristoffer. I need money for a room tonight. Or else I'll freeze to death.'
It sounded like something he had learned on a marketing course, a brief and concise message plus his name to add an effective emotional immediacy. The request came with a broad smile.
He shook his head and made to go, but the beggar stood in front of him with the cup. 'Come on, mister. Haven't you ever had to sleep rough, frozen, dreading the night?'
'As a matter of fact I have.' For one crazy moment he felt like telling him he had hidden in a water-filled foxhole for four days waiting for a Serbian tank.
'Then you know what I'm talking about, mister.'
He answered with a slow nod. Stuffed his hand in his pocket, took out a note and gave it to Kristoffer without looking. 'You'll sleep rough anyway, won't you?'
Kristoffer pocketed the money, nodded and said with an apologetic smile: 'Have to prioritise my medicine, mister.'
'Where do you usually sleep?'
'Down there.' The junkie pointed and he followed the long, slim forefinger with the trim nail. 'Container terminal. They're going to build an opera house there in the summer.' Kristoffer flashed another broad smile. 'And I love opera.'
'Isn't it a bit cold there now?'
'Tonight it might have to be the Salvation Army. They always have a free bed in the Hostel.'
'Do they?' He studied the boy. He looked well groomed, and his smile revealed a set of shining white, even teeth. Nevertheless he smelt decay. As he listened he thought he could hear the crunching of a thousand jaws, of flesh being consumed from inside.
11
Wednesday, 17 December. The Croat.
HALVORSEN SAT PATIENTLY BEHIND THE STEERING WHEEL waiting for a car with a Bergen number plate in front of him. Its wheels spun round on the ice as the driver pressed the accelerator to the floor. Harry was talking to Beate on his mobile phone.
'What do you mean?' Harry shouted to drown the noise of the racing engine.
'It doesn't look like it's the same person in these two pictures,' Beate repeated.
'It's the same woolly hat, same raincoat and same neckerchief. It must be the same person, mustn't it?'
She didn't answer.
'Beate?'
'The faces are unclear. There's something strange. I'm not quite sure what. Maybe something to do with the light.'
'Mm. Do you think we're on a wild goose chase?'
'I don't know. His position in front of Karlsen tallies with the technical evidence. What's all that noise?'
'Bambi on ice. See you.'
'Hang on!'
Harry hung on.
'There's one more thing,' Beate said. 'I looked at the other pictures, from the day before.'
'Yeah?'
'I can't see any faces that match, but there is one small detail. There's a man wearing a yellowish coat, maybe a camel-hair coat. He's got a scarf . . .'
'Mm. A neckerchief, you mean?'
'No, it looks like an ordinary woollen scarf, but it's tied in the same way as he – or they – ties the neckerchief. The right-hand side sticks up from the knot. Have you seen it?'
'No.'
'I've never seen anyone tie a scarf in that way before,' Beate said.
'Email me the pictures and I'll have a look.'
The first thing Harry did on getting back to the office was to print out Beate's pictures.
When he went to the print room to collect them Gunnar Hagen was already there.
Harry nodded, and the two men stood in silence watching the grey machine spitting out sheet after sheet.
'Anything new?' Hagen asked at length.
'Yes and no,' Harry replied.
'The press are on my back. Would be good if we had something to give them.'
'Ah, yes, I almost forgot to say, boss. I tipped them off that we were looking for this man.' Harry took one of the printouts from the pile and pointed to the man with the neckerchief.
'You did what?' Hagen said.
'I tipped off the press. To be exact, Dagbladet.'
'Without going through me?'
'Routine number, boss. We call them constructive leaks. We say the information is from an anonymous source in the police so that the newspaper can pretend they have been doing serious investigative journalism. They like that, so they give it more column space than if we had asked them to publish pictures. Now we can get some help from the general public to identify the man. And everyone is happy.'
'I'm not, Hole.'
'I'm genuinely sorry to hear that then, boss,' Harry said, and underlined the genuineness with a concerned expression.
Hagen glared at him with his upper and lower jaw moving sideways in opposite directions, in a kneading motion that reminded Harry of a ruminant.
'And what is so special about this man?' Hagen said, snatching the printout from Harry.
'We're not quite sure. Maybe there are many of them. Beate Lønn thinks they . . . well, tie the neckerchief in a particular way.'
'That's a cravat knot.' Hagen took another look. 'What about it?'
'What did you say it was, boss?'
'A cravat knot.'
'Do you mean a tie knot?'
'A Croat knot, man.'
'What?'
'Isn't this basic history?'