Nemesis

48

Heinrich Schirmer

Beate awoke when the doorbell rang for the third time.

She rolled over and looked at the clock. A quarter past five. She lay wondering what the wisest move would be-tell him to go to hell or pretend she wasn't at home. Another ring, of a kind which made it clear he wasn't going to give up.

She sighed, got up and wrapped her dressing gown around her. She took the intercom phone.

'Yes?'

'Sorry to be stopping by so late, Beate. Or so early.'

'Go to hell, Tom.'

There was a long silence.

'This isn't Tom,' the voice said. 'It's me, Harry.'

Beate swore softly and pressed the OPEN button.

'I couldn't lie awake any longer,' Harry said as he came in. 'It's about the Expeditor.'

He slumped on the sofa as Beate slipped into the bedroom.

'As I said, what you do with Waaler's none of my business…' he shouted towards the open bedroom door.

'As you said, it's none of your business,' she shouted back. 'And, besides, he's been suspended.'

'I know. I was called to appear at the SEFO tribunal to talk about my meeting with Alf Gunnerud.'

She reappeared wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and stood opposite him. Harry looked up at her.

'I meant suspended by me,' she said.

'Oh?'

'He's a bastard. That doesn't mean you can say what you like to whom you like, though.'

Harry tilted his head and screwed up one eye.

'Should I repeat?' she asked.

'No,' he said. 'I think I've got the message now. What about if it isn't just anyone, but a friend?'

'Coffee?' But Beate didn't quite make it to the kitchen before a blush suffused her face. Harry got to his feet and followed her. There was just one chair by the small table. On the wall was a rose-painted wooden plaque with an old Hбvamбl poem:

At every door-way, ere one enters, one should spy round, one should pry round for uncertain is the witting that there be no foeman sitting, within, before one on the floor.

'There were two things Rakel said last night which made me think,' Harry said, leaning against the sink. 'The first was that two brothers loving the same woman was a recipe for tragedy. The second was that Anna must have had a hard time imitating Ali's signature as she was left-handed.'

'Oh, yes?' She put a scoopful of coffee in the filter machine.

'Lev's schoolbooks. You got them from Trond Grette, to compare with the handwriting in the suicide letter. Do you remember which subject it was?'

'I didn't look that carefully. I just remember checking it was his.' She poured water into the machine.

'It was Norwegian,' Harry said.

'Could have been,' she said, facing him.

'It was,' Harry said. 'I've just come from Jean Hue, from Kripos.'

'The handwriting expert? Now, in the middle of the night?'

'He has an office at home and was very understanding. He checked the notebook and the suicide letter against this.' Harry unfolded a sheet of paper and placed it on the draining board. 'Will the coffee be long?'

'What's so urgent?' Beate asked, leaning over the sheet.

'Everything,' Harry said. 'The first thing you have to do is re-check all the bank accounts.'

Else Lund, the office manager in the travel agency Brastour and one of two employees, was occasionally phoned in the middle of the night by a customer in Brazil who had been robbed, or had lost their passport and tickets, and in their desperation they had rung her mobile phone without thinking about the time difference. Consequently she switched it off when she went to sleep. That was why she was furious when her landline rang at half past five and the voice at the other end asked whether she could get in to the office as soon as possible. She was only marginally less infuriated when the voice added it was the police.

'I hope this is a matter of life and death,' Else Lund said.

'It is,' the voice said. 'Mostly death.'

Rune Ivarsson was, as usual, the first to arrive at work. He stared out of the window. He liked the tranquillity, having the whole floor to himself, but that wasn't the reason. When the others arrived, Ivarsson had already read all the faxes, the reports from the previous evening and all the newspapers, and had the head start he needed. If you are the boss, it is all about being one step ahead-establishing a bridgehead to give you a perspective. When his subordinates in the division expressed sporadic frustration that management was holding back information, it was because they didn't understand that knowledge is power and that any management team must have power if it is to plot the course which will ultimately bring a case to fruition. Indeed, it was simply for their own good that management possessed greater knowledge. When he had instructed everyone working on the Expeditor case to report directly to him, it was for exactly that reason, to keep the information where it belonged instead of wasting time on endless plenary discussions, which were only intended to give subordinates the feeling they were participants in the process. Right now it was more important that he, as Unit Head, got a grip, showed initiative and acted. Even though he had done his best to make it look as if the revelations about Lev Grette were his work, he knew the way it had happened had weakened his authority. A Unit Head's authority was not a question of personal prestige, but a matter for the whole police force, he had told himself.

There was a knock at the door.

'Didn't know you were a morning person, Hole,' Ivarsson said to the pasty face in the doorway, continuing to read the fax in front of him. He had had some quotes sent over from a daily newspaper which had interviewed him about the hunt for the Expeditor. He didn't like the interview. Fair enough, he hadn't been misquoted, but they had still managed to make him sound evasive and helpless. Fortunately, the photographs were good. 'What do you want, Hole?'

'Merely to say that I've called a meeting on the sixth floor. I thought you might be interested in coming along. It's about the so-called bank raid in Bogstadveien. We're about to begin.'

Ivarsson stopped reading and looked up. 'So you've called a meeting? Interesting. Might I ask who authorised this meeting, Hole?'

'No one.'

'No one.' Ivarsson emitted a short rattle of seagull laughter. 'Then you'd better get up there and say the meeting is postponed until after lunch. You see, I have a pile of reports to work through right now. Got it?'

Harry nodded slowly, as if giving the matter due, careful consideration. 'Got it. This is Crime Squad business, though, and we're starting now. Good luck with the reports.'

He turned and at that moment Ivarsson's fist hammered down on the table.

'Hole! Don't turn your fucking back on me like that! I call the meetings in this department. Especially when it's a robbery. Understood?' A wet, red lower lip quivered in the centre of the PAS's face.

'As you heard, I said the so-called robbery in Bogstadveien, Ivarsson.'

'And what the hell do you mean by that?' The voice was a whine now.

'That the robbery in Bogstadveien was never a robbery,' Harry said. 'It was a meticulously planned murder.'

Harry stood by the window and looked across at Botsen prison. The day had reluctantly got under way, like a creaking cart. Rain clouds over Ekeberg and black umbrellas in Grшnlandsleiret. They were assembled behind his back: Bjarne Mшller, yawning and sunk into the chair; the smiling Chief Superintendent chatting with Ivarsson; Weber with crossed arms, silent and impatient; Halvorsen with his notebook at the ready; and Beate Lшnn with nervously wandering eyes.