Police

39

Harry found Øystein Eikeland’s battered Mercedes in the taxi rank to the north of Oslo Central Station. The taxis were parked in a circle and looked like a wagon train forming a defensive ring against Apaches, tax authorities, competitors and anyone else who came to take what they considered legally theirs.

Harry took a seat in the front. ‘Busy night?’

‘Haven’t taken my foot off the gas for a second,’ Øystein said, carefully pinching his lips around a microscopic roll-up and blowing smoke at the mirror, where he could see the queue behind him growing.

‘How often in the course of a night do you actually have a paying passenger in the car?’ Harry asked, taking out his packet of cigarettes.

‘So few that I’m thinking about switching on the taxi meter now. Hey, can’t you read?’ Øystein pointed to the No Smoking sign on the glove compartment.

‘I need some advice, Øystein.’

‘I say no. Don’t get married. Nice woman, Rakel, but marriage is more trouble than fun. Listen to someone who’s been around the block a few times.’

‘You’ve never been married, Øystein.’

‘That’s exactly the point.’ His childhood pal bared yellow teeth in his lean face and tossed his head, lashing the headrest with his ultra-thin ponytail.

Harry lit a cigarette. ‘And to think that I asked you to be my best man. .’

‘The best man has to have his wits about him, Harry, and a wedding without getting smashed is as meaningless as tonic without gin.’

‘OK, but I’m not asking you for marriage guidance.’

‘Spit it out then. Eikeland’s listening.’

The smoke stung Harry’s throat. The mucous membranes were no longer used to two packs of cigarettes a day. He knew all too well that Øystein couldn’t give him any advice on the case, either. Not good advice anyway. His homespun logic and principles had formed a lifestyle so dysfunctional that it could only tempt those with very specific interests. The pillars of the Eikelandian house were alcohol, bachelorhood, women from the lowest rung, an interesting intellectuality — which was unfortunately in decline — a certain pride and a survival instinct which despite everything resulted in more taxi driving than drinking and an ability to laugh in the face of life and the devil, which even Harry had to admire.

Harry breathed in. ‘I suspect an officer is behind all these police murders.’

‘Then bang him up,’ Øystein said, taking a flake of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. Then stopped suddenly. ‘Did you say police murders? As in police murders?’

‘Yup. The problem is that if I arrest this man he’ll drag me down with him.’

‘How come?’

‘He can prove it was me who killed the Russian in Come As You Are.’

Øystein stared wide-eyed into the mirror. ‘Did you snuff a Russian?’

‘So what do I do? Do I arrest the man and go down with him? In which case Rakel has no husband and Oleg no father?’

‘Quite agree.’

‘Quite agree with what?’

‘Quite agree that you should use them as a front. Very smart to have that kind of philanthropic pretext up your sleeve. You sleep a lot better then. I’ve always gone in for that. Do you remember when we were apple scrumping and I legged it and left Tresko to face the music? Of course he couldn’t run that fast with all the weight and the clogs. I told myself that Tresko needed a thrashing more than me, to stiffen his spine, morally speaking, to point him in the right direction. Because that was where he really wanted to go, privet-hedge country, wasn’t it? While I wanted to be a bandit, didn’t I? What good was a flogging to me for a few lousy apples?’

‘I’m not going to let other people take the rap here, Øystein.’

‘But what if this guy snuffs a few more cops and you know you could have stopped him?’

‘That’s the point,’ Harry said, blowing smoke at the No Smoking sign.

Øystein stared at his pal. ‘Don’t do it, Harry. .’

‘Don’t do what?’

‘Don’t. .’ Øystein lowered the window on his side and flicked out what was left of the roll-up, two centimetres of spit-stained Rizla paper. ‘I don’t want to hear about it. Just don’t do it.’

‘Well, the most cowardly option is to do nothing. To tell myself I have no absolute proof, which is true by the way. To turn a blind eye. But can a man live with that, Øystein?’

‘Certainly bloody can. But you’re a bit of a weirdo in that regard, Harry. Can you live with it?’

‘Not normally. But, as I said, I have other considerations now.’

‘Can’t other officers arrest him?’

‘He’s going to use everything he knows about everyone in the force to negotiate himself a reduced punishment. He’s worked as a burner and a detective and he knows all the tricks in the book. On top of that, he’ll be rescued by the Chief of Police. The two of them know too much about each other.’

Øystein took Harry’s packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you know what, Harry? Sounds to me like you’ve come here to get my blessing for murder. Does anyone else know what you’re up to?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Not even my team of detectives.’

Øystein took out a cigarette and lit it with his lighter.

‘Harry.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re the fucking lonesomest guy I know.’

Harry looked at his watch, midnight soon, peered through the windscreen. ‘Loneliest, I think the word is.’

‘No. Lonesomest. It’s your choice. And you’re weird.’

‘Anyway,’ Harry said, opening the door, ‘thanks for your advice.’

‘What advice?’

The door slammed.

‘What fucking advice?’ Øystein shouted to the door and the hunched figure heading into the Oslo murk. ‘And what about a taxi home, you stingy bastard?’

The house was dark and still.

Harry sat on the sofa staring at the cupboard.

He hadn’t said anything about his suspicions regarding Truls Berntsen.

He had rung Bjørn and Katrine and said he’d had a brief conversation with Mikael Bellman. And that as the Police Chief had an alibi for the night of the murder, there had to be a mistake or the evidence had been planted, so they would keep quiet about the bullet in the evidence box matching Bellman’s gun. Not a word about what they had discussed.

Not a word about Truls Berntsen.

Not a word about what had to be done.

This was how it had to be; it was the kind of case where you had to be alone.

The key was hidden on the CD shelf.

Harry closed his eyes. Tried to give himself a break, tried not to listen to the dialogue churning round and round in his head. But it was no good; the voices began to scream as soon as he relaxed. Truls Berntsen was crazy, they said. This was not an assumption, it was a fact. No sane person would embark on a killing spree targeting their own colleagues.

It was not without parallels; you just had to look at all the incidents in America, where someone who had been fired or humiliated in some other way returned to their place of work and shot their colleagues. Omar Thornton killed eight of them at a distribution warehouse after being let go for stealing beer; Wesley Neal Higdon killed five after being told off by his boss; Jennifer San Marco fired six fatal shots into the heads of colleagues at the post office after she had been dismissed for — what else? — being insane.

The difference here was the degree of planning involved and the ability to execute the plans. So how crazy was Truls Berntsen? Was he crazy enough for the police to reject his claims that Harry Hole had killed someone in a bar?

No.

Not if he had proof. Proof couldn’t be declared insane.

Truls Berntsen.

Harry let his mind run.

Everything fitted. But did the essential ingredient fit? The motive. What was it Mikael Bellman had said? If a woman fantasises about rape, it doesn’t mean she wants to be raped. If a man fantasises about violence it doesn’t mean. .

For Christ’s sake. Stop it!

But it wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t give him any peace until he had solved the problem. And there were only two ways it could be solved. There was the old way. The one that every fibre of his body was screaming for now. A drink. The drink that multiplied, expunged, veiled, numbed. That was the provisional way. The bad way. The other was the final way. The necessary way. The one that eradicated the problem. The devil’s alternative.

Harry jumped to his feet. There was no alcohol in the house, there hadn’t been since he moved in. He started pacing the floor. Then stopped. Eyed the old corner cupboard. It reminded him of something. A drinks cabinet he had once stood and stared at in just this way. What was holding him back? How many times before had he sold his soul for less reward than this? Perhaps that was precisely the point. That the other times it had been for small change, justified by moral indignation. While this time it was. . unclean. He wanted to save his own neck while he was at it.

But he could hear it inside him now, whispering to him. Take me out, use me. Use me in the way I should be used. And this time I’ll finish the job off. I won’t let a bulletproof vest fool me.

It would take him half an hour to drive from here to Truls Berntsen’s flat in Manglerud. With the arsenal in his bedroom that Harry had seen with his own eyes. Weapons, handcuffs, gas mask. Baton. So why was he putting it off? He knew what had to be done.

But was he right? Did Truls Berntsen really kill René Kalsnes on Mikael Bellman’s orders? There was no doubt Truls was off his trolley, but was Mikael Bellman as well?

Or was it just a construct his brain had assembled with the pieces he had at his disposal, forcing them to fit because it wanted, needed, demanded a picture, any picture which would give if not meaning then an answer, a feeling that the dots were joined up?

Harry took the phone from his pocket and selected A.

Ten seconds went by before he heard a grunt. ‘Yeah?’

‘Hi, Arnold, it’s me.’

‘Harry?’

‘Yes. Are you at work?’

‘It’s one in the morning, Harry. Like most normal people I’m in bed.’

‘Sorry. Do you want to go back to sleep?’

‘Since you ask, yes.’

‘OK, but now you’re awake. .’ He heard a groan at the other end. ‘I’m wondering about Mikael Bellman. You used to work at Kripos when he was there. Did you ever notice anything to suggest he might be sexually attracted to men?’

There followed a long silence in which Harry listened to Arnold’s regular breathing and a train rattling by. From the acoustics Harry deduced that Arnold had a window open, you could hear more outside the bedroom than inside. He must have got used to the noise, and it didn’t interfere with his sleep. And it suddenly struck him, not like a revelation, more like a stray thought, that this was perhaps how it was with the case. Perhaps it was the noises, the familiar noises they didn’t hear and which therefore didn’t wake them, they should be listening to?

‘Have you fallen asleep, Arnold?’

‘Not at all. The idea is so new to me that I have to let it sink in first. So. In retrospect, putting everything in a different light. . And even then I can’t make. . but it’s obvious. .’

‘What’s obvious?’

‘Well, it was Bellman and that dog of his with the boundless loyalty.’

‘Truls Berntsen.’

‘Exactly. The two of. .’ Another pause. Another train. ‘Well, Harry, I can’t see them as a couple, if you know what I mean.’

‘I see. Sorry to have woken you. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight. By the way. . just a mo. .’

‘Mm?’

‘There was a guy at Kripos. I’d forgotten all about it, but I went to the toilet once, and he and Bellman were over by the basins, both with very red faces. As though something had happened. Know what I mean? I remember the thought crossing my mind, but didn’t take too much notice of it. But the guy left Kripos soon afterwards.’

‘What was his name?’

‘No idea. I can find out, but not now.’

‘Thanks, Arnold. And sleep well.’

‘Thanks. What’s happening?’

‘Not a lot, Arnold,’ Harry said, rang off and slipped the phone into his pocket.

Opened his other hand.

Stared at the CD shelf. The key was under W.

‘Not a lot,’ he repeated.

He took off his T-shirt on the way to the bathroom. He knew the bedlinen was white, clean and cold. And the silence outside the open window would be total and the night air suitably crisp. And he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a second.

In bed, he lay listening to the wind. It was whistling. Whistling through the keyhole of a very old, black corner cupboard.

The duty officer on the switchboard received the message about a fire at 4.06 a.m. When she heard the fireman’s agitated voice she automatically assumed it had to be a major incident, one that might require the traffic to be redirected, personal possessions to be safeguarded or casualties and fatalities to be dealt with. She was therefore a little surprised when the fireman said that smoke had triggered an alarm in a bar in Oslo, which had been closed for the night, and that the fire had burnt itself out before they arrived. And even more surprised when the fireman told her to get some officers there right away. She could hear that what she had at first taken for agitation in the man’s voice was horror. The voice trembled, like the voice of someone who had probably seen a lot in his career but nothing that could have prepared him for what he was trying to communicate.

‘There’s a young girl. She must have been doused in something. There are empty bottles of spirits on the bar.’

‘Where are you?’

‘She’s. . she’s completely charred. And she’s been tied to a pipe.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Round the neck. Looks like a bike lock. You’ve got to come, I’m telling you.’

‘Yes, but where-?’

‘Kvadraturen. The place is called Come As You Are. Jesus Christ, she’s only a young girl. .’