Police

9

Katrine landed at gardermoen at half past nine, got on the airport express, let it take her right through Oslo. Or, to be precise, beneath Oslo. She had lived here, but the few glimpses she caught of the town didn’t evoke any sentimentality. A half-hearted skyline. Low, good-natured, soft, snowy ridges, tamed countryside. Inside the train, closed, expressionless faces, none of the spontaneous, casual communication between strangers she was used to in Bergen. Then there was a signal failure on one of the world’s most expensive lines and the train came to a standstill in the pitch-black tunnel.

She had justified her application for a trip to Oslo with the fact that there were three unsolved rape cases in their own police district — Hordaland — which bore some resemblance to the cases that Valentin could conceivably have been behind. She had argued that if they could nab Valentin for these cases that might indirectly help Kripos and Oslo Police District with the murders of their officers.

‘And why can’t we leave it to Oslo Police to do this themselves?’ the head of the Crime Squad in Bergen, Knut Müller-Nilsen, asked her.

‘Because they have a crime clearance rate of twenty point eight per cent and we have one of forty point one.’

Müller-Nilsen had laughed out loud, and Katrine knew the plane ticket was hers.

The train started with a jolt and the carriage resounded with sighs: of relief, irritation and desperation. She got out at Sandvika and caught a taxi to Eiksmarka.

It stopped outside Jøssingveien 33. She stepped into the grey slush. Apart from the high fence around the red-brick building there was little about Ila Prison and Detention Centre to betray the fact that it housed some of the country’s worst killers, drug profiteers and sex offenders. Among others. The prison statutes said it was a national institution for male prisoners who. . ‘needed special help’.

Help, so that they wouldn’t escape. Help, so that they wouldn’t mutilate others. Help with what sociologists and criminologists for some reason believe is a wish the species as a whole shares: to be good human beings, to make a contribution in the flock, to function in society.

Katrine had spent enough time in the psychiatric ward in Bergen to know that as a rule even non-criminal deviants had no interest in society’s welfare, and no experience of any company other than their own and their demons, they just wanted to be left in peace. Which did not necessarily imply they wanted to leave others in peace.

She went through the security channels, showed her ID card and the permit she had received by email and was ushered into the reception room.

A prison officer waiting for her stood with legs apart, arms crossed and keys rattling. More swagger and feigned self-assurance because the visitor was police, the Brahmin caste in law and order, who receive special treatment from prison officers, security guards and even parking wardens.

Katrine behaved as she always did in such cases: she was politer and friendlier than her true nature craved.

‘Welcome to the sewer,’ the prison warder said, a phrase Katrine was fairly sure he didn’t use with his standard clientele, but which he had prepared carefully in advance, one that signalled the right mixture of black humour and realistic cynicism towards his job.

But the image was in a sense not inappropriate, Katrine thought, as they walked through the prison corridors. Or perhaps they ought to be called the bowels of the system. The place where the law’s digestive tracts broke down individuals found guilty into a stinking brown mass, which at some point would have to be released. All the doors were closed, the corridors empty.

‘Pervs unit,’ the warder said, unlocking an iron door at the end of the corridor.

‘So they have their own unit?’

‘Yes. If all the sex offenders are in one section there’s less chance of their neighbours doing them in.’

‘Doing them in?’ Katrine said, shamming surprise.

‘Yes, sex offenders are hated as much here as in the rest of society. If not more. And we have killers here with less self-control than you or me. So on a bad day. .’ He drew a key across his throat in a dramatic gesture.

‘They’re killed?’ Katrine exclaimed with horror in her voice, wondering for a moment if she had gone too far. But the warden didn’t appear to notice.

‘Well, maybe not killed. But they pay. There’s a constant stream of pervs with broken arms and legs. Saying they fell down the stairs or slipped in the shower. Can’t blow the whistle, can they?’ He locked the door behind them and breathed in. ‘Can you smell that? It’s sperm on hot radiators. Dries at once. The smell seems to eat into the metal and it’s impossible to get rid of. Reeks like burnt flesh, doesn’t it?’

‘Homunculus,’ Katrine said, inhaling. All she could smell was fresh paint on the walls.

‘Eh?’

‘In the 1600s people believed sperm contained tiny people, homunculi,’ she said. Seeing the officer’s glower, she guessed that had been a blunder, she should have pretended to be shocked.

‘So,’ she hastened to add, ‘Valentin was safely banged up here with others of his ilk?’

The warder shook his head. ‘Someone started a rumour that he’d raped the girls in Maridalen and Tryvann. And it’s different for inmates who’ve molested underage kids. Even a notorious rapist hates a child-fucker.’

Katrine recoiled, and this time it wasn’t put on. It was mainly because of the casual way in which he pronounced the word.

‘So Valentin got a going-over?’

‘You could certainly say that.’

‘And this rumour. Any idea who started it?’

‘Yes,’ the warder said, unlocking the next door. ‘You did.’

‘We did? The police?’

‘A policeman came here purporting to question cons about the two cases. But I was told he leaked more info than he got.’

Katrine nodded. She had heard about it, cases where the police were certain that an inmate was guilty of child abuse, but they couldn’t prove it and so they made sure he got his punishment in other ways. You just had to inform the right prisoner. The one with the most power. Or the least control.

‘And you accepted that?’

The warder shrugged. ‘What can we prison guards do?’ And added in a lower voice: ‘And perhaps in this particular case we weren’t so averse. .’

They passed a recreation room.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Valentin Gjertsen was a sick bastard. Evil through and through. The sort of person you wonder what our Lord put him on this earth for. We had a female officer here he-’

‘Oh, hello, there you are.’

The voice was soft, and Katrine turned automatically to the left. Two men were standing by a dartboard. She met the smiling gaze of the man who had spoken, a thin man probably in his late thirties. The last remaining strands of blond hair were combed back across a red scalp. Skin disease, Katrine thought. Or maybe there was a solarium here since they needed special help.

‘Thought you’d never get here.’ The man slowly pulled the darts from the board while holding her gaze. Took a dart, threw it into the flesh-red centre of the board, bullseye. Grinned as he wriggled the dart up and down, pushing it in deeper. Pulled it out. Made sucking noises with his lips. The other man didn’t laugh as Katrine had expected. Instead he watched his partner with a concerned expression.

The warder caught Katrine gently under the arm to pull her away, but she raised her arm to free herself, her brain whirring at full speed searching for a retort. It rejected the obvious one about darts and organ size.

‘Less Cillit Bang in your hair gel maybe?’

She strolled on, but was aware that if she hadn’t hit bullseye, she had been close. A red tinge spread across the man’s face; then he mounted an even broader smile and made a kind of salute.

‘Did Valentin have anyone he could talk to?’ Katrine asked as the warder opened the cell door.

‘Jonas Johansen.’

‘Is he the one they call Judas?’

‘Yep. Did time for raping a man. Not many of them around.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He hopped it.’

‘How?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Listen, there are a lot of bad people here, but we’re not a high-security unit. In this unit we have people with reduced sentences. There were lots of mitigating circumstances about Judas’s verdict. And Valentin was only in for attempted rape. Serial offenders are kept elsewhere. So we don’t waste resources guarding the ones we’ve got. We have a roll call every morning, and on the odd occasion there’s someone missing, everyone has to go back to their cells so that we can find out who it is. But if the number tallies, things rumble along in the usual groove. So that was how we found out that Johansen was gone, and we reported it to the police. I didn’t think much about it until afterwards when our hands were full with the other case.’

‘You mean. .?’

‘Yes, the murder of Valentin.’

‘So Judas wasn’t here when that happened?’

‘Right.’

‘Who could have killed him, do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

Katrine nodded. The answer was a bit too pat, a bit too quick.

‘I promise this won’t go any further. I’m asking you who do you think killed Valentin?’

The warder sucked his teeth, scrutinising Katrine carefully. As though checking whether he had missed anything on first inspection.

‘There were lots of people here who hated and feared Valentin. Some might have realised it was him or them — he had a thirst for revenge. The man who killed him definitely had some thirst in him, too. Valentin was. . what shall I say?’ Katrine watched the officer’s Adam’s apple go up and down above his collar. ‘The body was smashed to jelly. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Hit with a blunt instrument perhaps?’

‘I don’t know anything about that, but he was definitely beaten until he was unrecognisable. The face was mincemeat. Had it not been for the terrible tattoo on his chest I don’t know that we would have been able to identify him. I’m not overly sensitive, but I had hellish nightmares about it afterwards.’

‘What sort of tattoo was it?’

‘What sort?’

‘Yes, wh. .’ Katrine noticed she was slipping out of the friendly police officer role and pulled herself together, so as not to reveal her irritation. ‘What was the tattoo of?’

‘Well, who knows? There was a face. Gruesome. Sort of drawn out at the sides. As if it was stuck and was struggling to break away.’

Katrine nodded slowly. ‘Couldn’t get away from the body it was trapped in?’

‘Yes, that’s it, yes. Do you know-?’

‘No,’ Katrine said. But I know the feeling, she thought. ‘And you didn’t ever find this Judas again?’

‘You didn’t ever find Judas again.’

‘No. Why didn’t we, do you think?’

The warder shrugged. ‘How would I know? I do know, however, that Judas isn’t top priority for you. As I said, there were mitigating circumstances, and the risk of any repetition was minimal. He would soon have done his time, but the idiot must have got the fever.’

Katrine nodded. Demob fever. The date approaches, the prisoner starts thinking about freedom and suddenly being locked up for another day is intolerable.

‘Is there anyone else here who can tell me about Valentin?’

The warder shook his head. ‘Apart from Judas, no one wanted anything to do with him. Shit, he intimidated people. Something seemed to happen to the air when he came into a room.’

Katrine stood asking more questions until she realised she was trying to justify the time and her plane ticket.

‘You started to tell me about what Valentin had done,’ she said.

‘Did I?’ he said quickly, looking at his watch. ‘Oops, I’ve got to. .’

On the way back through the recreation room Katrine saw only the thin man with the red scalp. He was standing straight, his arms at his side, staring at the empty dartboard. No darts anyway. He turned slowly, and Katrine couldn’t help but return his gaze. The grin was gone, and his eyes were matt and as grey as jellyfish.

He shouted something. Four words which were repeated. Loud and piercing, like a bird warning others of danger. Then he laughed.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ the warder said.

The laughter behind them faded as they hurried down the corridor.

Then she was outside and breathing in the dank, rain-soaked air.

She took out her phone, switched off the voice recorder, which had been on all the time she had been inside, and called Beate.

‘Finished at Ila,’ she said. ‘Got time now?’

‘I’ll put the coffee machine on.’

‘Agh, haven’t you-?’

‘You’re police, Katrine. You drink machine coffee, OK?’

‘Listen, I used to eat at Café Sara in Torggata, and you need to get out of your lab. Lunch. I’m paying.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve found her.’

‘Who?’

‘Irja Jacobsen. She’s alive. At least if we hurry.’

They agreed to meet in three-quarters of an hour and rang off. While Katrine was waiting for a taxi she played the recording, winding forward to the end and Red Scalp’s repeated warning cries.

‘Valentin’s alive. Valentin kills. Valentin’s alive. Valentin kills.’

‘He woke up this morning,’ Anton Mittet said as he and Gunnar Hagen rushed down the corridor.

Silje got up from her chair when she saw them coming.

‘You can go now, Silje,’ Anton said. ‘I’ll take over.’

‘But your shift isn’t for another hour.’

‘You can go, I said. Take the time off.’

She sent Anton an appraising look. Observed the other man.

‘Gunnar Hagen,’ he said, leaning forward with a hand outstretched. ‘Head of Crime Squad.’

‘I know who you are,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Silje Gravseng. I hope to work for you one day.’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘You can start by doing as Anton says.’

She nodded to Hagen. ‘It’s your name on my orders, so of course. .’

Anton watched as she packed her things in her bag.

‘By the way, this is the last day of my practical training,’ she said. ‘Now I have to start thinking about exams.’

‘Silje’s a police trainee,’ Anton said.

‘Student at Politihøyskole, PHS, it’s called now,’ Silje said. ‘There was one thing I was wondering about, Politioverbetjent.’

‘Yes?’ Hagen said, smiling wryly at the long words she used.

‘This legend who worked for you, Harry Hole. They say he didn’t make a single blunder. He solved all the cases he investigated. Is that true?’

Anton intervened with a cautionary cough and looked at Silje, but she ignored him.

Hagen’s wry smile widened. ‘First of all, can you have unsolved cases on your conscience without it meaning you’ve made a blunder?’

Silje Gravseng didn’t answer.

‘As far as Harry and unsolved cases are concerned. .’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Well, they’re probably right. But it depends how you look at it.’

‘How you look at it?’

‘He returned from Hong Kong to investigate the murder for which his girlfriend’s son had been arrested. And even though he managed to get Oleg released, and someone else confessed, the murder of Gusto Hanssen was never really solved. Not officially at any rate.’

‘Thank you,’ Silje said with a quick smile.

‘Good luck with your career,’ Gunnar Hagen said.

He watched her as she made her way down the corridor. Not so much because men always like watching attractive, young women, Anton thought, but to defer what was to come for a few seconds. He had noticed the head of Crime Squad’s nerves. Then Hagen turned to the closed door. Buttoned up his jacket. Rocked on the balls of his feet like a tennis player waiting for an opponent’s serve.

‘I’ll go in then.’

‘Do that,’ Anton said. ‘I’ll keep watch here.’

‘Right,’ Hagen said. ‘Right.’

Halfway through lunch Beate asked Katrine if she and Harry had had sex that time.

To start with, Beate had explained how one of the undercover guys had recognised the picture of the woman who had given the false alibis, Irja Jacobsen. He had said that by and large she stayed indoors and lived in a house by Alexander Kiellands plass they had been keeping under surveillance because amphetamines were being sold there. But the police weren’t interested in Irja, she didn’t do any dealing, at worst she was a customer.

Then their conversation had meandered via work and their private lives, to the good old days. Katrine had mildly protested when Beate claimed that Katrine had given half the Crime Squad a crick in the neck as she swept through the corridors. At the same time Katrine reflected that this was the way women put each other in their place, by emphasising how beautiful they had once been. Especially if they weren’t objects of beauty themselves. But even though Beate had never given anyone a crick in the neck she had never been the type to shoot poisoned darts either. She had been quiet, flushed, hard-working, loyal, someone who never resorted to dirty tactics. But something had obviously changed. Perhaps it was the glass of white wine they had allowed themselves. At any rate it was not like Beate to ask such direct, personal questions.

Katrine was glad her mouth was so full of pitta bread that all she could do was shake her head.

‘But OK,’ she said after she had swallowed, ‘I admit it did cross my mind. Did Harry ever say anything?’

‘Harry told me most things,’ Beate said, raising her glass with the last drops. ‘I was wondering if he was lying when he denied that you and he. .’

Katrine waved for the bill. ‘Why did you think we might have been together?’

‘I saw the way you looked at each other. Heard the way you spoke to each other.’

‘Harry and I fought, Beate!’

‘That’s what I mean.’

Katrine laughed. ‘What about you and Harry?’

‘Impossible. Much too good a friend. Then I got together with Halvorsen of course. .’

Katrine nodded. Harry’s partner, a young detective from Steinkjer. Halvorsen was the father of Beate’s child and was later killed in the line of duty.

Pause.

‘What is it?’

Katrine shrugged. Took out her phone and played the last part of the recording.

‘Lots of crazy people at Ila,’ Beate said.

‘I’ve done a bit of psychiatric myself so I know what’s crazy,’ Katrine said. ‘But what I’m wondering is how he knew I was there because of Valentin.’

Anton Mittet was sitting on a chair watching Mona come towards him. Enjoying the sight. Thinking it might be one of the last times.

She was smiling from a long way off. Heading straight for him. He watched her put one foot in front of the other, as if walking in an imaginary straight line. Perhaps that was how she walked. Or she was walking like that for him. Then she was there, automatically looking behind her to make sure no one was coming. Running her hand through his hair. Without getting up, he wrapped his arms around her thighs and looked up at her.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘You’re on this shift too?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We let Altman go. He was ordered back to the cancer ward.’

‘Then we’ll see all the more of you,’ Anton smiled.

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ she said. ‘The tests suggest he’s coming round fast.’

‘But we’ll meet anyway.’

He said this in a joking tone. But it wasn’t a joke. And she knew that. Was that why she seemed to stiffen, that her smile became a grimace, that she shoved him away while looking behind her as if to show she did this because someone might see them? Anton let go.

‘The head of Crime Squad’s in there now.’

‘What’s he doing in there?’

‘Talking to him.’

‘What about?’

‘I can’t say,’ he said. Instead of I don’t know. God, he was so pathetic.

At that moment the door opened and Gunnar Hagen came out. He stopped, looked from Mona to Anton and back to Mona again. As though they had coded messages painted on their faces. Mona had, if nothing else, a tinge of red on hers as she darted through the door behind Hagen.

‘Well?’ Anton said, trying to appear unmoved. And realised that Hagen’s look had not been of someone who understood, but of someone who didn’t understand. He stared at Anton as if he were a Martian; it was the mystified look of a man who had just had all his beliefs turned upside down.

‘The man in there. .’ Hagen said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘You keep a damn good eye on him, Anton. D’you hear me? You keep a damn good eye on him.’

Anton heard him excitedly repeating the last words to himself as he launched into rapid strides down the corridor.