Phantom

36

Hans Christian Simonsen way between tourists up the slope of the Italian white marble that made the Opera House look like a floating iceberg at the end of the fjord. When he was atop the roof he looked around and caught sight of Harry Hole sitting on a wall. He was on his own, as the tourists by and large went to the other side to enjoy the view of the fjord. But Harry was sitting and staring inwards at the old, ugly parts of town.

Hans Christian sat down beside him.

‘HC,’ Harry said without looking up from the brochure he was reading. ‘Did you know that this marble is called Carrara marble and that the Opera House cost every Norwegian more than two thousand kroner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know anything about Don Giovanni?’

‘Mozart. Two acts. An arrogant young rake, who believes he is God’s gift to women and men, cheats everyone and makes everyone hate themselves. He thinks he is immortal, but in the end a mysterious statue comes and takes his life as they are both swallowed up by the earth.’

‘Mm. There’s the premiere of a new production in a couple of days. It says here that in the final scene the chorus sings, “ Such is the end of the evil-doer: the death of a sinner always reflects his life.” Do you think that’s true, HC?’

‘I know it isn’t. Death, sad to say, is no more just than life is.’

‘Mm. Did you know a policeman was washed ashore here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything you don’t know?’

‘Who shot Gusto Hanssen?’

‘Oh, the mysterious statue,’ Harry said, putting down the brochure. ‘Do you want to know who it is?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Not necessarily. The important thing to prove is who it isn’t, that it isn’t Oleg.’

‘Agreed,’ said Hans Christian, studying Harry. ‘But hearing you say that doesn’t tally with what I’ve heard about the zealous Harry Hole.’

‘So perhaps people change after all.’ Harry smiled quickly. ‘Did you check the progress of the investigation with your police solicitor pal?’

‘They haven’t gone public with your name yet, but it has been sent to all airports and border controls. Put it this way, your passport’s not worth a lot.’

‘That’s the Mallorca trip up in smoke.’

‘You know you’re wanted, yet you meet in Oslo’s number-one tourist attraction?’

‘Tried-and-tested small-fry logic, Hans Christian. It’s safer in the shoal.’

‘I thought you considered loneliness safer.’

Harry took out his pack of cigarettes, shook and held it out. ‘Did Rakel tell you that?’

Hans Christian nodded and took a cigarette.

‘How long have you two been together?’ Harry asked with a grimace.

‘A while. Does it hurt?’

‘My throat? Little infection perhaps.’ Harry lit Hans Christian’s cigarette. ‘You love her, don’t you.’

The solicitor inhaled in a way which suggested to Harry that he had hardly smoked since the parties of his student days.

‘Yes, I do.’

Harry nodded.

‘But you were always there,’ Hans Christian said, sucking on the cigarette. ‘In the shadows, in the wardrobe, under the bed.’

‘Sounds like a monster,’ Harry said.

‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ Hans Christian said. ‘I tried to exorcise you, but I failed.’

‘You don’t need to smoke the whole cigarette, Hans Christian.’

‘Thank you.’ The solicitor threw it away. ‘What do you want me to do this time?’

‘Burglary,’ Harry said.

They drove straight after the onset of darkness.

Hans Christian picked up Harry from Bar Boca in Grunerlokka.

‘Nice car,’ Harry said. ‘Family car.’

‘I had an elkhound,’ Hans Christian said. ‘Hunting. Cabin. You know.’

Harry nodded. ‘The good life.’

‘It was trampled to death by an elk. I consoled myself with the thought that it must be a good way for an elkhound to die. In service as it were.’

Harry nodded. They drove up to Ryen and snaked round the bends to Oslo’s best viewing points in the east.

‘It’s right here,’ Harry said, pointing to an unlit house. ‘Park at an angle so that the headlights are shining at the windows.’

‘Shall I…?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘You wait here. Keep your phone on and ring if anyone comes.’

Harry took the jemmy with him and walked up the shingle path to the house. Autumn, sharp night air, the aroma of apples. He had a moment of deja vu. He and Oystein creeping into a garden and Tresko on the lookout by the fence. And then suddenly out of the dark a figure came hobbling towards them wearing an Indian headdress and squealing like a pig.

He rang.

Waited.

No one came.

Nonetheless Harry had the feeling someone was at home.

He slotted the jemmy inside the crack by the lock and carefully applied his weight. The door was old with soft, damp wood and an old-fashioned lock. Then he used his other hand to insert his ID card on the inside of the crooked snap latch. Pressed harder. The lock burst open. Harry slid inside and closed the door behind him. Stood in the darkness holding his breath. Felt a thin thread on his hand, probably the remains of a spider’s web. There was a damp, abandoned smell. But also something else, something acrid. Illness, hospital. Nappies and medicine.

Harry switched on his torch. Saw a bare coat stand. He continued into the house.

The sitting room looked as if it had been dusted with powder; the colours seemed to have been sucked out of the walls and the furniture. The cone of light moved across the room. Harry’s heart stopped when it was reflected back from a pair of eyes. Then went on beating. A stuffed owl. As grey as the rest of the room.

Harry ventured further into the house and was able to confirm afterwards that it was the same as the flat. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until, that is, he reached the kitchen and discovered the two passports and the plane tickets on the table.

Although the passport photo had to be almost ten years old Harry recognised the man from his visit to the Radium Hospital. Her passport was brand new. In the photo she was almost unrecognisable, pale, hair hanging in lank strands. The tickets were to Bangkok, departure in ten days.

Harry went down to the basement. Headed for the only door he had not looked behind. There was a key in the lock. He opened it. The same smell he had noticed when he was in the hall met him. He flicked the switch inside the door, and a naked bulb lit the steps leading to the cellar. The feeling that someone was at home. Or ‘Oh, yes, the gut instinct’, which Bellman had said with light irony when Harry had asked whether he had checked Martin Pran’s record. A feeling that Harry now knew had misled him.

Harry wanted to go down, but something was holding him back. The cellar. Similar to the one he had grown up with. When his mother had asked him to fetch potatoes, which they kept in the dark in two big bags, Harry had raced down trying not to think. Trying to imagine that he was running because it was so cold. Because they were in a hurry to prepare the meal. Because he liked running. It had nothing to do with the yellow man waiting down there; a naked, smiling man with a long tongue you could hear slithering in and out of his mouth. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It was something else. The dream. The avalanche through the cellar corridor.

Harry repressed the thoughts and set his foot on the first step. There was an admonitory creak. He forced himself to tread slowly. Still with the jemmy in his hand. At the bottom, he began to walk along between the storerooms. A bulb in the ceiling cast meagre light. And created more shadows. Harry noticed that all the rooms were shut with padlocks. Who would lock a storeroom in their own cellar?

Harry inserted the pointed end of the jemmy under one hinge. Breathed in, dreading the noise. Pressed the jemmy back quickly, and there was a short crack. He held his breath, listened. The house seemed to be holding its breath as well. Not a sound.

Then he gently opened the door. The smell assailed his nostrils. His fingers found a switch on the inside, and the next moment Harry was bathed in light. Neon tube.

The storeroom was much larger than it had appeared from the outside. He recognised it. It was a copy of a room he had seen before. The lab at the Radium Hospital. Benches with glass flasks and test-tube stands. Harry lifted the lid off a big plastic box. The white powder was speckled with brown. Harry licked the tip of his index finger, dabbed it into the powder and rubbed it against his gums. Bitter. Violin.

Harry gave a start. A sound. He held his breath again. And there it was again. Someone sniffling.

Harry rushed back to turn off the light and hunched up in the dark, holding the jemmy ready.

Another sniffle.

Harry waited a few seconds. Then with quick, quiet steps, he walked out of the storeroom and headed to where the sounds had come from. A storeroom on the left. He moved the jemmy to his right hand. Tiptoed up to the door, which had a small peephole covered with wire netting, exactly like they’d had at home. With one difference: this door was reinforced with metal.

Harry held the torch ready, stood against the wall beside the door, counted down from three, switched on the beam and pointed it through the hole.

Waited.

After three seconds had passed and no one had either shot or launched themselves at the light, he put his head against the wire and peered inside. The beam roved over brick walls, illuminated a chain, flitted across a mattress and then found what it was looking for. A face.

Her eyes were closed. She was sitting quite still. As though she was used to this. Being inspected with a torch.

‘Irene?’ Harry asked tentatively.

At that moment the phone in Harry’s pocket began to vibrate.