Police

16

Katrine Bratt crossed the open square in front of Chateau Neuf, the headquarters of the Norwegian Student Society. Great parties, cool gigs, heated debates. That was how she remembered the place. And in between they had passed their exams.

The dress code had changed surprisingly little since she was here: average T-shirts, sagging trousers, nerdy glasses, retro Puffa jackets and retro army jackets, security of style trying to camouflage insecurity, the avarege social climber signalling ‘smart slacker’, the fear of failing socially and professionally. At any rate, though, they were glad not to be the poor buggers on the other side of the square, which was where Katrine was heading.

Some of them were coming towards her now from the prison-like gate in front of the college grounds: students in black police uniforms that always looked a bit too big however well they fitted. From afar she could pick out the first years; they looked as if they were standing in the middle of the uniform, and the peak of the cap came too far down their foreheads. Either to conceal their insecurity or to avoid meeting the slightly contemptuous or even sympathetic looks from students across the square, the proper students, the free, independent, socially critical, thinking intellectuals. Who were grinning behind long, greasy hair, lying on the steps in the sun, exalted in their supine states, inhaling what they knew the police trainee knew might be a reefer.

For they were the real youth, the cream of society with a right to make mistakes, those who still had life choices ahead of them, not behind.

Perhaps it was only Katrine who had felt like this when she was here, who felt the desire to shout that they didn’t know who she was, why she had chosen to become a police officer, what she had decided to do with the rest of her life.

The old duty officer, Karsten Kaspersen, still stood in the office inside the door, but if he did remember Katrine Bratt, his face didn’t show it as he examined her ID card and gave a quick nod. She walked down the corridor to a lecture room. Passing the door of the crime-scene room which was furnished like a flat with partition walls and had a gallery from where they could watch one another practising searches, finding clues and interpreting the course of events. Then the door to the fitness room, with training mats and the smell of sweat, where they drilled the fine art of wrestling people to the ground and applying handcuffs. At the end of the corridor she slipped into auditorium 2. The lecture was in full flow, so she crept along to a free seat in the back row. She sat down so quietly she wasn’t noticed by the two girls excitedly whispering in front of her.

‘She’s weird, I’m telling you. She’s got a picture of him on her bedsit wall.’

‘Has she?’

‘I’ve seen it myself.’

‘My God, he’s so old. And ugly.’

‘Do you think?’

‘Are you blind?’ She nodded to the board where the lecturer was writing with his back to the class.

‘Motive!’ The lecturer had turned to them and repeated the word he had written on the board. ‘The psychological cost of killing is so high for rationally thinking people with normal feelings that there has to be an extremely good motive. Extremely good motives are as a rule easier and quicker to find than murder weapons, witnesses or forensic evidence. And they point you straight to a potential perp. That is why every detective should start with the question “why”.’

He paused to scan the audience, a bit like a sheepdog circling and keeping the flock together, Katrine thought.

He raised his forefinger. ‘A rough simplification: find the motive and you’ve got the murderer.’

Katrine Bratt didn’t think he was ugly. Not attractive though, of course, not in the conventional meaning of the word. More what the British call an acquired taste. And the voice was the same deep, warm voice with the slightly worn, hoarse edge that appealed not only to young student fans.

‘Yes?’ The lecturer had hesitated for a moment before giving the floor to a female student waving her arm.

‘Why do we send out large, costly forensics units if a brilliant detective like you can crack the case with a few questions and a bit of deduction?’

There was no audible irony in the girl’s intonation, only an almost childlike sincerity plus a lilt that revealed she must have lived in the north.

Katrine saw the emotions flicker across the lecturer’s face — embarrassment, resignation, annoyance — before he collected himself and gave an answer: ‘Because it’s never enough to know who the lawbreaker is, Silje. During the bank robbery wave in Oslo ten years ago the Robberies Unit had a female officer who could recognise masked robbers by the shape of their faces.’

‘Beate Lønn,’ said the girl he had called Silje. ‘The boss of Krimteknisk.’

‘Exactly. And so in eight out of ten cases the Robberies Unit knew who the masked men on the CCTV videos were. But they didn’t have any proof. Fingerprints are proof. A used gun is proof. A convinced detective is not proof, however brilliant he or she may be. I’ve used a number of simplifications today, but here is the last: the answer to the question “why” is worthless unless we find out how and vice versa. But now that we’ve got a bit further in the process Folkestad is going to talk about forensic investigation.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll talk more in depth about motives next time, but here’s something to get your brains working. Why do people kill one another?’

He scanned the audience again with an encouraging expression. Katrine saw that in addition to the scar that ran like a channel from the corner of his mouth to his ear he had two new scars. One looked like a slash with a knife to the neck; the other could have been made by a bullet at the side of his head, level with his eyebrows. But otherwise he looked better than she had ever seen him. The 1.92-metre figure looked tall and supple; the blond, cropped brush of hair still didn’t have any flecks of grey. And she could see he was toned beneath his T-shirt. There was meat back on his bones. And, most important of all, life in his eyes. The alert, energetic, bordering on manic, look was back. Laughter lines and expansive body language she had never seen before. You could almost suspect him of leading a good life. Which, if this was the case, would be a first.

‘Because they have something to gain by it,’ a boy’s voice answered.

The lecturer nodded good-naturedly. ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? But murder as a crime for profit is not that usual, Vetle.’

A barking Sunnmøre voice: ‘Because they hate someone?’

‘Elling is suggesting crimes of passion,’ he said. ‘Jealousy. Rejection. Revenge. Yes, definitely. Anything else?’

‘Because they are deranged.’ The suggestion came from a tall, stooped boy.

‘Deranged’s not the word, Robert.’ It was the girl again. Katrine could only see a blonde ponytail over the back of the seat in the front row. ‘It’s called-’

‘It’s fine. We know what he means, Silje.’ The lecturer had sat down at the front of the desk, stretched out his long legs and crossed his arms over the Glasvegas logo on his T-shirt. ‘And personally I think deranged is an excellent word. But not in fact a particularly usual reason for murder. There are of course those who are of the opinion that murder in itself is proof of insanity, but most murders are rational. Just as it’s rational to seek material gain, it’s rational to seek emotional relief. The murderer may have some idea that murder will dull the pain that comes with hatred, fear, jealousy, humiliation.’

‘But if murder is so rational. .’ The first boy. ‘Can you tell us how many satisfied murderers you’ve met?’

The class smart-arse, Katrine hazarded a guess.

‘Very few,’ the lecturer said. ‘But the fact that the murder is felt to be a disappointment doesn’t mean it’s not a rational act so long as the murderer believes he will obtain relief. But revenge is generally sweeter in your imagination; the fury of a murder motivated by jealousy is followed by regret, the moment that the serial killer builds up to so carefully is invariably an anticlimax, so he has to keep trying. In short. .’ He got up and went back to the board. ‘As far as murder is concerned, there is something in the claim that crime doesn’t pay. For the next session I want each of you to think of a motive that could drive you to murder. I don’t want any politically correct bullshit. I want you to examine your darkest, innermost recesses. Well, the next darkest will do perhaps. And then I want you to read Aune’s thesis on the personality of a murderer and profiling, OK? And, yes, I’m going to ask follow-up questions. So be afraid, be ready. Off you go.’

There was a cacophony as seats sprang back.

Katrine stayed where she was, watching the students passing her. In the end, there were only three people left. Her, the lecturer wiping the board and the blonde ponytail who was standing right behind him, legs together, notes under her arm. Katrine could see she was slim. And that her voice sounded different now from when she had been speaking in class.

‘Do you think the serial killer you caught in Australia achieved satisfaction after killing the women?’ Affected little girl’s voice. Like a young girl trying to get into her father’s good books.

‘Silje. .’

‘I mean, he raped them. And that must have been pretty good.’

‘Read the thesis and we can come back to it in the next session, OK?’

‘OK.’

Still she hung around. Rocking up and down on her feet. As if stretching up on her toes, Katrine thought. Up to him. While the lecturer shuffled his papers into a leather case without taking any notice of her. Then she turned on her heel and went up the stairs to the exit. Slowed down when she saw Katrine and eyeballed her, then sped up and was gone.

‘Hi, Harry,’ Katrine said quietly.

‘Hi, Katrine,’ he said without looking.

‘You look good.’

‘Same to you,’ he said, zipping up his case.

‘Did you see me arrive?’

‘I sensed you arrive.’ He looked up. And smiled. Katrine had always been surprised at the metamorphosis his face went through when he smiled. At how the smile could blow away the hard, dismissive, life-weary expression he wore like a shabby coat. At how, suddenly, he could look like a playful, overgrown boy with the sun radiating from him. Like a sunny July day in Bergen. As welcome as it was rare and short.

‘What does that mean?’

‘That I’ve been half expecting you to turn up.’

‘Oh, you have, have you?’

‘Yes. And the answer’s no.’ He stuffed the case under his arm, ran up the stairs to her in four long strides and hugged her.

She squeezed him, drawing in his aroma. ‘No to what, Harry?’

‘No, you can’t have me,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘Hey!’ she said, trying to free herself from his grip. ‘If it hadn’t been for Miss Ugly Bug it wouldn’t have taken me five minutes to have you at my feet, sunshine. And I didn’t say you looked that good.’

He laughed, let her go and Katrine felt herself thinking he could have held her for a bit longer. She had never worked out whether she really wanted Harry; maybe it had always been so unrealistic she refrained from forming an opinion on it. And in time it had become a joke and the waters were muddied. Besides he was back with Rakel. Or Miss Ugly Bug as he allowed Katrine to call her as the notion was so absurd it only emphasised Rakel’s annoying beauty.

Harry rubbed his badly shaven chin. ‘Hm, if it’s not my irresistible body you’re after, then it must be. .’ He raised a forefinger. ‘I’ve got it. My brilliant mind!’

‘You haven’t got any funnier over the years, either.’

‘And the answer’s still no. And you knew that too.’

‘Have you got an office where we can discuss this?’

‘Yes and no. I have an office, but not one where we can discuss whether I can help you with the murder case.’

‘Murder cases.’

‘It’s one case, as far as I’ve been informed.’

‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t you try that one on me. I’ve finished with that kind of life, and you know it.’

‘Harry, this case needs you. And you need it.’

The smile didn’t reach his eyes this time. ‘I need a murder case like I need a drink, Katrine. Sorry. Save yourself some time and try an alternative.’

She looked at him. Thinking the analogy with drink came without any hesitation. It confirmed what she had suspected, that he was simply afraid. Afraid that if he so much as looked at a case it would have the same result as a drop of booze. He wouldn’t be able to stop; he would be swallowed up, consumed. For a moment her conscience pricked her, the pusher’s unbidden attack of self-loathing. Until she started visualising the crime scene again. Anton Mittet’s crushed skull.

‘There are no alternatives for you, Harry.’

‘I can give you a couple of names,’ Harry said. ‘There’s a guy I was on the FBI course with. I can ring and-’

‘Harry. .’ Katrine grabbed him under the arm and led him to the door. ‘Has this office of yours got any coffee?’

‘It has, but as I said-’

‘Forget the case. Let’s just have a chat about the old days.’

‘Have you got the time for it?’

‘I need some distraction.’

He looked at her. Was about to say something, then changed his mind. Nodded. ‘OK.’

They went up a staircase and down a corridor to the offices.

‘I can hear you’ve nicked bits of Ståle Aune’s psychology lectures,’ Katrine said. As usual she had to jog to keep up with Harry’s giant strides.

‘I nick as much as I can. After all, he was the best.’

‘Like “deranged” being one of the few words in medicine which is exact, intuitively comprehensible and poetic all at once. But precise words always end up on the scrapheap because stupid professionals think linguistic obfuscation is best for patients’ welfare.’

‘Yep,’ Harry said.

‘That’s why I’m no longer a manic-depressive. Not borderline, either. I’m bipolar type II.’

‘Two?’

‘Do you understand? Why doesn’t Aune lecture? I thought he loved it.’

‘He wanted a better life. Simpler. More quality time with his nearest and dearest. A wise decision.’

She eyed him. ‘You should persuade him. No one in society should be allowed to stop using such a superior talent when there is most need for it. Don’t you agree?’

Harry chuckled. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you? I think there’s a need for me here, Katrine. And the college won’t contact Aune because they want to see more uniformed lecturers, not civilians.’

‘You’re wearing civvies.’

‘And that’s my point. In fact, I am no longer in the police force, Katrine. It was a choice. Which means that I, we, are in different places now.’

‘How did you get that scar on your temple?’ she asked and noticed Harry almost imperceptibly but instantly flinch. Before he could answer a sonorous voice in the corridor called out.

‘Harry!’

They stopped and turned. A short, bulky man with a full red beard came out of one of the doors and approached them with an uneven rolling gait. Katrine followed Harry as he went to meet the older man.

‘You’ve got a visitor,’ the man roared long before they had reached a normal speaking distance.

‘Indeed,’ Harry said. ‘Katrine Bratt. This is Arnold Folkestad.’

‘I mean you have a visitor in your office,’ Folkestad said, stopping to take a couple of deep breaths before passing Katrine a large, freckled hand.

‘Arnold and I co-lecture on murder investigation,’ Harry said.

‘And since he’s been given the entertaining side of the subject, naturally he’s the more popular of us two,’ Folkestad growled. ‘While I have to bring them down to earth with methodology, forensics, ethics and regulations. The world is unjust.’

‘On the other hand, Arnold knows a bit about pedagogy,’ Harry said.

‘The whelp’s making progress,’ Folkestad chortled.

Harry frowned. ‘This visitor, it’s not. .?’

‘Relax, it’s not frøken Silje Gravseng, just old colleagues. I gave them some coffee.’

Harry eyed Katrine sharply. Then he turned and marched towards the door. Katrine and Folkestad watched him leave.

‘Er, did I say something wrong?’ Folkestad asked in amazement.

‘I know this might be construed as a pincer movement strategy,’ Beate said, lifting the cup of coffee to her mouth.

‘Do you mean by that it’s not a pincer movement?’ Harry said, leaning back on his chair as far as it was possible to go in the tiny office. On the other side of the desk, behind the towering piles of paper, Beate Lønn, Bjørn Holm and Katrine Bratt were squeezed into chairs. The round of greetings was soon over. Brief handshakes, no hugs. No clumsy attempts at small talk. Harry Hole was not the type. Harry Hole was the type to get to the point. And, of course, they knew he already knew what that was.

Beate took a sip, winced inevitably and put the cup down with a disapproving mien.

‘I know you’ve made up your mind not to do any more active investigation,’ Beate said. ‘And I also know you have better reason than most. The question, however, is whether you can make an exception here or not. You are, after all, our sole specialist in serial killings. The state invested money and trained you with the FBI-’

‘-which, as you know, I paid back with blood, sweat and tears,’ Harry broke in. ‘And not just my own blood and tears.’

‘I haven’t forgotten that Rakel and Oleg ended up in the firing line on the Snowman case, but-’

‘The answer’s no,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve promised Rakel that none of us will go back there. And for once I intend to keep a promise.’

‘How’s Oleg?’ Beate asked.

‘Better,’ Harry said, keeping a weather eye on her. ‘As you know, he’s in a detox clinic in Switzerland.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. And Rakel got the job in Geneva?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does she commute?’

‘Four days in Geneva, three at home. It’s good for Oleg to have his mother close by.’

‘I can understand that,’ Beate said. ‘In a way they’re out of every firing line there, aren’t they? And you’re alone during the week. Days when you can do what you like.’

Harry laughed quietly. ‘My dear Beate, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough. This is what I want. To lecture. To pass on my knowledge.’

‘Ståle Aune’s with us,’ Katrine said.

‘Good for him,’ Harry said. ‘And for you. He knows as much about serial murders as I do.’

‘Sure he doesn’t know more?’ Katrine said with a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow.

Harry laughed. ‘Nice try, Katrine. OK. He knows more.’

‘My God,’ Katrine said, ‘what’s happened to your competitive streak?’

‘The combination of you three and Ståle Aune is the best possible start for this case. I have another lecture, so. .’

Katrine slowly shook her head. ‘What’s happened to you, Harry?’

‘Good things,’ Harry said. ‘Good things have happened to me.’

‘Message received and understood,’ Beate said, getting up. ‘But I’d still like to ask if we can consult you now and then.’

She saw he was going to shake his head. ‘Don’t answer no,’ she hastened to add. ‘I’ll ring you later.’

In the corridor, three minutes later, as Harry was striding towards the auditorium, where the students had already gathered, it struck Beate that perhaps it was true, perhaps the love of a woman could save a man. And she doubted in this case that another woman’s sense of duty would be enough to whisk him back into the jaws of hell. But that was her task. He had looked shockingly healthy and happy. She would so much have liked to let him go. But she knew they would soon reappear, the ghosts of colleagues that had been killed. And she formulated the next thought: they won’t be the last.

She rang Harry as soon as she was back in the Boiler Room.

Rico Herrem woke with a start.

He blinked in the darkness until his eyes could focus on the white screen three rows in front of him, where a fat woman was sucking off a horse. Felt his racing pulse slow down. No reason to panic, he was still in Fiskebutikken; it was just the vibration of a new arrival that had woken him. Rico opened his mouth and tried to inhale some oxygen from the air that stank of sweat, tobacco and something that might have been fish, but wasn’t. It was forty years since Moen’s Fiskebutikk had sold the original combination of relatively fresh fish over the counter and relatively fresh porn mags under the counter. After Moen had sold up and gone into retirement — so that he could drink himself to death more systematically — the new owners had opened a twenty-four-hour cinema in the basement showing straight porn. But when VHS and DVDs had taken their customers they specialised in procuring and showing films you couldn’t get online, at least not without the police knocking at your door.

The sound was on so low Rico could hear the wanking in the darkness around him. He had been told that was the idea, that was why the sound was on so low. He had long grown out of the boyhood fascination with group wanking, that wasn’t why he was sitting here. It wasn’t why he had headed here straight after his release, sat here for two solid days, broken only by emergency trips to eat, shit and get more booze. He still had four Rohypnol pills in his pocket. He had to make them last.

Of course, he could spend the rest of his life in Fiskebutikken. But he had persuaded his mother to lend him ten thousand kroner, and until the Thai Embassy had sorted out his extended tourist visa Fiskebutikken offered the darkness and anonymity he required to avoid being found.

He inhaled, but it was as though the air consisted entirely of nitrogen, argon and carbon dioxide. He looked at his watch. The luminous hand was on six. In the evening or the morning? It was perpetual night in here, but it had to be evening. The feeling of suffocation came and went. He mustn’t get claustrophobic, not now. Not until he was out of the country. Gone. Far, far from Valentin. God, how he longed for his cell. For the security. The loneliness. The air you could breathe.

The woman on the screen was working hard, but had to follow the horse as it took a few steps forward, causing the picture to blur for a second.

‘Hi, Rico.’

Rico froze. The voice was low, a whisper, but the sound was like an icicle being driven into his ear.

‘Vanessa’s Friends. A real eighties classic. Did you know that Vanessa died during the recording? Stamped on by a mare. Jealousy, do you think?’

Rico wanted to turn, but was stopped by a hand squeezing the top of his neck, holding it in a vice-like grip. He wanted to shout, but a gloved hand was already over his mouth and nose. Rico breathed in the smell of pungent, wet wool.

‘It was disappointingly easy to find you. Pervs’ cinema. Rather obvious, don’t you think?’ Low chortle. ‘What’s more it illuminates your red skull like a lighthouse. Looks like your eczema’s bad at the moment, Rico. It flares up during periods of stress, isn’t that correct?’

The hand over his mouth slackened the pressure so that he could get some air. There was a smell of chalk dust and ski grease.

‘There are rumours going round that you spoke to a policewoman at Ila, Rico. Did you have anything in common?’

The woollen glove over his mouth was removed. Rico breathed heavily as his tongue searched for saliva.

‘I didn’t say anything,’ he gasped. ‘I swear. Why would I? I was getting out in a few days anyway.’

‘Money.’

‘I’ve got money!’

‘You spent all your money on rope, Rico. I bet you’ve got some pills in your pocket now.’

‘I’m not joking! I’m off to Thailand the day after tomorrow. You won’t have any trouble with me, I promise.’

Rico could hear that sounded like the pleading of a petrified man, but he couldn’t care less. He was petrified.

‘Relax, Rico. I don’t intend to do anything to my tattooist. You trust a man you’ve let stick needles in your skin. Don’t you?’

‘You. . you can trust me.’

‘Good. Pattaya sounds good.’

Rico didn’t answer. He hadn’t said he was going to Pattaya. How. .? Rico was tipped back slightly as the other man grabbed the seat to help him stand up.

‘Gotta go. I’ve got a job to do. Enjoy the sun, Rico. It’s good for eczema, I’ve heard.’

Rico turned and looked up. The man had masked the bottom half of his face with a scarf, and it was too dark for him to see the eyes properly. He suddenly bent down to Rico.

‘Did you know that when they did the autopsy on Vanessa they found sexual diseases medical science didn’t know existed? Stick to your own species, that’s my advice.’

Rico watched the figure hurry to the exit. Watched him take off the scarf. Glimpsed the face in the green light of the exit sign as it disappeared behind the black felt curtain. The oxygen seemed to pour back into the room, and Rico sucked it in greedily as he blinked at the running stick man on the exit sign.

He was confused.

Confused that he was still alive and confused about what he had just seen. Not confused that pervs were busy checking out escape routes. They had always done that. But that it wasn’t him. The voice had been the same, the laugh too. But the man he had seen in the green light for a fraction of a second was not him. It wasn’t Valentin.