by Jo Nesbo
‘My guess is right hand,’ Harry said.
‘You’re correct. ‘Well observed,’ Hagen said.
‘Did the envelope contain anything else?’
‘No. Now you know as much as we do.’
‘Maybe,’ Harry said, fidgeting with the cigarette packet. ‘But I know something else about the finger.’
‘We thought about that, too,’ Hagen said, exchanging glances with Bjørn Holm. The sound of clomping steps rose. ‘The middle finger of the right hand. It’s the same finger the Snowman took off you.’
‘I’ve got something here,’ the female forensics officer interrupted.
The others turned to her.
She was squatting down holding an object between her thumb and first finger. It was greyish black. ‘Doesn’t it look like the tiny stones we found at the Borgny crime scene?’
Harry went closer. ‘Yup. Lava.’
The runner was a young man with a police ID card hanging from the breast pocket of his shirt. He stopped in front of Bjørn Holm, placed his hands on his knees and gasped for breath.
‘Well, Kim Erik?’ Holm said.
‘We found a match,’ the young man panted.
‘Let me guess,’ Harry said, poking a cigarette between his lips.
The others turned their attention to him.
‘Tony Leike.’
Kim Erik looked genuinely disappointed: ‘H-how … ?’
‘I thought I saw his right hand protruding from under the scooter, and it wasn’t missing any fingers. So it must have been the left.’ Harry nodded towards the evidence bag. ‘The finger isn’t broken, it’s just distorted. Good old-fashioned arthritis. Hereditary but not contagious.’
69
Looped Writing
THE WOMAN WHO OPENED THE DOOR OF THE TERRACED HOUSE in Hovseter was as broad-shouldered as a wrestler and as tall as Harry. She gazed at him and waited patiently, as if in the habit of giving people the necessary seconds to state their business.
‘Yes?’
Harry recognised Frida Larsen’s voice from the telephone. Which had made him visualise a slender, petite woman.
‘Harry Hole,’ he said. ‘I found your address through the phone number. Is Felix in?’
‘Out playing chess,’ she intoned flatly; a standard response, it seemed. ‘Email him.’
‘I would like to talk to him.’
‘What about?’ She filled the doorway in a manner that prevented prying. And not only through the size of her.
‘We found a fragment of lava down at the police station. I was wondering if it was from the same volcano as the previous sample we sent him.’
Harry stood two steps below her, holding the little stone. But she didn’t budge from the threshold.
‘Impossible to see,’ she said. ‘Email Felix.’ She made a move to close the door.
‘I suppose lava is lava, is it?’ Harry said.
She hesitated. Harry waited. He knew from experience that experts can never resist correcting laymen.
‘Each volcano has its own unique lava composition,’ she said. ‘But it also varies from eruption to eruption. You have to analyse the stone. The iron ore content can tell you a lot.’ Her face was expressionless, her eyes uninterested.
‘What I would really like,’ Harry said, ‘is to enquire about these people who travel round the world studying volcanoes. There can’t be that many of them, so I was wondering if Felix had an overview of the Norwegian contingent.’
‘There are more of us than you imagine,’ she said.
‘So you’re one of them?’
She shrugged.
‘What’s the last volcano you two were on?’
‘Ol Doinyo Lengai in Tanzania. And we weren’t on it, but nearby. It was erupting. Magmatic natrocarbonites. The lava that emerges is black, but it reacts with air and after a few hours it’s completely white. Like snow.’
Her voice and face were suddenly alive.
‘Why doesn’t he want to speak?’ Harry asked. ‘Is your brother mute?’
Her face went rigid again. The voice was flat and dead. ‘Email.’
The door was slammed so hard Harry got dust in his eyes.
Kaja parked in Maridalsveien, jumped over the crash barrier and trod carefully down the steep slope to the wood where the Kadok factory was situated. She switched on her torch and tramped through the shrubs, brushed away bare branches that wanted to thrust themselves into her face. The growth was dense, shadows leapt around like silent wolves and even when she stopped, listened and watched, shadows of trees fell upon trees, so that you didn’t know what was what, like in a labyrinth of mirrors. But she wasn’t frightened. It was an oddity that she who was so frightened of closed doors was not frightened of the dark. She listened to the roar of the river. Had she heard anything? A sound that ought not to be there? She went on. Ducked under a wind-blown tree trunk and stopped again. But the other sounds stopped the second she stopped. Kaja took a deep breath and finished her line of thought: as if someone who didn’t want to be seen was following her.
She turned and shone the light behind her. Was no longer so sure about not being scared of the dark. Some branches swayed in the light, but they must be the ones she had disturbed, mustn’t they?
She faced forward again.
And screamed when her torch lit up a deathly pale face with enlarged eyes. She dropped the torch and backed away, but the figure followed her with a grunting noise reminiscent of laughter. In the dark she could make out the figure bending down, standing up, then the next moment the blinding light from her torch was shining in her face.
She held her breath.
The grunted laughter stopped.
‘Here,’ rasped a man’s voice and the light jumped.
‘Here?’
‘Your torch,’ the voice said.
Kaja took it and shone the torch to the side of him. So that she could see him without blinding him. He had blond hair and a prognathous jaw.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘Truls Berntsen. I work with Mikael.’
She had heard of Truls Berntsen, of course. The shadow. Beavis – wasn’t that what Mikael called him?’
‘I’m—’
‘Kaja Solness.’
‘Right, how do you … ?’ She swallowed, reformulated the question. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you,’ he answered with a single-toned rasp.
‘Right. And what am I doing here?’
He laughed his grunt-laugh. But didn’t reply. Stood right in front of her with his arms hanging down and away from his sides. One eyelid twitched as if an insect were trapped beneath it.
Kaja sighed. ‘If you’re doing the same as me, you’re here to keep an eye on the factory,’ she said. ‘In case he might reappear.’
‘Yes, in case he might reappear,’ said the Beavis type without taking his eyes off her.
‘It’s not so unlikely, is it?’ she said. ‘He may not know it’s burned down.’
‘My father worked there,’ Beavis said. ‘He used to say he made PSG, coughed PSG and became PSG.’
‘Are there a lot of Kripos people in the area? Did Mikael give you orders to come here?’
‘You don’t meet him any more, do you? You meet Harry Hole.’
Kaja felt a chill in her stomach. How on earth did this man know that? Had Mikael really told people about them?
‘You weren’t at Håvass,’ she said to change the topic.
‘Wasn’t I?’ Grunted laughter. ‘I suppose I was free. Time off. Jussi was there.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘He was there.’
A gust of wind swept in, and she twisted her head to prevent a branch scratching her face. Had he been following her or had he been here before she arrived?
When she turned to ask him, he wasn’t there. She shone her torch between the trees. He was gone.
It was two in the morning when she parked in the street, went through the gate and up the steps to the yellow
house. She pressed the button over the painted ceramic tile bearing the words ‘fam. Hole’ in ornate looped writing.
After ringing for the third time she heard a low cough and turned to see Harry returning a service revolver to the lining of his trousers. He must have crept around the corner of the house without making any noise.
‘What’s up?’ she asked, terrified.
‘Just being extra careful. You should have phoned and said you were coming.’
‘Sh-shouldn’t I have come?’
Harry went up the steps past her and unlocked the door. She followed him in, put her arms around him from behind, clung to his back and kicked the door shut with her heel. He freed himself, turned, was about to say something, but she stopped him with a kiss. A greedy kiss that demanded reciprocity. She put her cold hands up his shirt, felt from the glowing hot skin that he had come straight from bed, removed the revolver from his trousers and banged it down on the hall table.
‘I want you,’ she whispered, bit his ear and pushed her hand down his trousers. His dick was warm and soft.
‘Kaja . . .’
‘Can I have you?’
She thought she could discern a slight hesitation, a certain reluctance. She wrapped her other hand around his neck, looked into his eyes. ‘Please . . .’
He smiled. Then his muscles relaxed. And he kissed her. Cautiously. More cautiously than she wanted. She groaned with frustration, undid his trouser buttons. Held his dick firmly without moving her hand, felt it grow.
‘Fuck you,’ he sighed and lifted her. Carried her up the stairs. Kicked open the bedroom door and laid her on the bed. On his mother’s side. She tilted back her head, closed her eyes, felt her clothes being removed, quickly, efficiently. Felt the heat radiating from his skin the moment he lowered himself onto her and forced her legs apart. Yes, she thought. Fuck me.
She lay with her cheek and ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
‘What were you thinking,’ she whispered, ‘when you were lying there knowing you were going to die?’
‘That I was going to live,’ Harry said.
‘Just that?’
‘Just that.’
‘Not that you were going to … meet those you loved?’
‘No.’
‘I did. It was strange. I was so frightened that something special was going to pieces. And then the horror passed and instead I was filled with peace. I just slept. And then you came. And woke me up. Rescued me.’
Harry passed her his cigarette and she took a drag, then sniggered.
‘You’re a hero, Harry. The type they give medals. Who would have thought that of you, eh?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Believe me, sweetheart, I was thinking only of myself. I didn’t spare you a thought until I reached the fireplace.’
‘Maybe not, but when you got there you still had very little air. By digging me out you knew we would use up the air twice as quickly.’
‘What can I say? I’m a generous guy.’
She slapped his chest with a laugh. ‘A hero!’
Harry inhaled hard. ‘Or perhaps it was survival instinct outmanoeuvring conscience.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The person I found first was so strong he almost managed to keep the pole. So I guessed it had to be Kolkka and that he was alive. I knew it was a question of seconds and minutes, but instead of digging him out I prodded the snow to find you. You were quite still. I thought you were dead.’
‘So?’
‘So maybe I was thinking deep down that if I dug out the dead one first the one who was alive might die in the meantime. In that way I could have all the air to myself. It’s hard to know what governs your actions.’
She went quiet. Outside, the snarl of a motorbike rose and fell. A motorbike in March. And today she had seen a migratory bird. Everything was out of balance.
‘Do you always brood so much?’ she asked.
‘No. Maybe. I don’t know.’
She wriggled closer to him. ‘What are you brooding about now?’
‘How he can know what he knows.’
She sighed. ‘Our killer?’
‘And why he’s playing with me. Why he sends me a bit of Tony Leike. How he thinks.’
‘And how are you going to find out?’
He stubbed out the cigarette on the bedside table. Took a deep breath and released it in a long hiss. ‘That’s the point. I can only think of one way. I have to talk to him.’
‘Him? Prince Charming?’
‘Someone like him.’
The dream came on the threshold of sleep. He was staring up at a nail. It was sticking out of a man’s head. But there was something familiar about the face tonight. A familiar portrait, one he had seen so many times. Seen recently. The foreign object in Harry’s mouth exploded and he twitched. He was asleep.
70
Blind Spot
HARRY WALKED ALONG THE HOSPITAL CORRIDOR WITH A prison warder dressed in civilian clothing. Two strides in front was the doctor. She had informed Harry of his condition, prepared him for what he should expect.
They came to a door and the warder unlocked it. Inside, the corridor continued for a few metres. There were three doors in the wall to the left. A uniformed prison warder stood in front of one of them.
‘Is he awake?’ asked the doctor while the warder searched Harry. The officer nodded, put all the contents of Harry’s pockets on the table, unlocked the door and stepped aside.
The doctor signalled that Harry should wait a moment and entered with the warder. She came back out immediately.
‘Fifteen minutes maximum,’ she said. ‘He’s doing better, but he’s weak.’
Harry nodded. Took a deep breath. And stepped inside.
He stopped by the door and heard it close behind him. The curtains were drawn, and the room was dark apart from a lamp by the bed. The light fell on a figure sitting semi-upright against a pillow, head bowed and long hair hanging down on each side.
‘Come closer, Harry.’ The voice had changed; it sounded like the lament of unoiled door hinges. But Harry recognised it, and his blood ran cold.
He approached the bed and sat on the chair that had been provided. The man raised his head. And Harry stopped breathing.
He looked as if someone had poured hot wax over his face. Which had stiffened into a mask that was too tight, pulling the forehead and the chin back and turning the mouth into a small, lipless gap in a lumpy landscape of bony tissue. The laughter was two short blasts of air.
‘Don’t you recognise me, Harry?’
‘I recognise the eyes,’ Harry said. ‘That’ll do. It’s you.’
‘Anything new from . . .’ The small carp-like mouth seemed to be forming a smile. ‘… our Rakel?’
Harry had prepared himself for this, braced himself the way a boxer braces himself for pain. Nonetheless, the sound of her name in his mouth made him clench his fists.
‘You agreed to talk to me about a man. A man we think is like you.’
‘Like me? Better-looking, I trust.’ Again two short blasts. ‘It’s bizarre, Harry. I’ve never been a vain man; I thought the pain would be the worst aspect of this illness. But do you know what? It’s the deterioration. It’s seeing yourself in the mirror, seeing the monster emerge. They still let me go to the toilet alone, but I avoid the mirrors. I was a good-looking man, you know.’
‘Have you read the things I sent you?’
‘I had a quick skim. Dr Dyregod’s of the opinion I shouldn’t wear myself out. Infections. Inflammations. Fever. She’s genuinely concerned about my health, Harry. Quite astonishing when you consider what I’ve done, eh? Personally I’m more interested in dying. That’s precisely where I envy those I … but you put a stop to that, didn’t you, Harry?’
‘Death would have been too kind a punishment.’
Something seemed to ignite in the sick man’s eyes and appeared as a cold white light from the slits in his face.
‘At least I hav
e a name and a place in the annals of history. People will read about the Snowman. Someone will inherit the mantle and act out my ideas in life. What have you got, Harry? Nothing. Quite the contrary, you’ve lost the little you had.’
‘True,’ Harry said. ‘You won.’
‘Do you miss your middle finger?’
‘Well, I’m missing it right now.’ Harry raised his head and met the other’s gaze. Held it. Then the small carp mouth opened. The laughter sounded like a gun with a silencer.
‘At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour, Harry. You know I’m going to demand something in return, don’t you?’
‘No cure, no pay. But go ahead.’
The man twisted with some difficulty to the bedside table, lifted the glass of water standing there and put it to his mouth. Harry stared at the hand holding the glass. It resembled a white bird’s claw. After finishing, the man carefully put the glass back and spoke. The lament was fainter now, like a radio on low batteries.
‘I believe there is something in the prison manual about high suicide risks. At any rate, they watch me like hawks. They searched you before you came in, didn’t they? Afraid you would bring me a knife or something similar. But I don’t want to see any further deterioration, Harry. It’s enough now, don’t you think?’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t think so. Talk about something else.’
‘You could have lied and said yes.’
‘Would you prefer that?’
The man waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’d like to see Rakel.’
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Why’s that?’
‘I’d just like to say something to her.’
‘What?’
‘That is a matter between her and me.’
The chair scraped as Harry stood up. ‘It won’t happen.’
‘Wait. Take a seat.’
Harry took a seat.
The man looked down and tugged at the bedcover. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I have no regrets about the others. They were whores. But Rakel was different. She was … different. I just wanted to say that.’
Harry studied him, dumbfounded.
‘So what do you think?’ the Snowman said. ‘Say yes. Lie if you have to.’
‘Yes,’ Harry lied.