Police

41

It was a quiet morning in Vestre Cemetery. All that could be heard was the distant hum of traffic in Sørkedalsveien and the clatter of the trams conveying people to the city centre.

‘Roar Midtstuen, yes,’ Harry said, striding between the gravestones. ‘How many years has he actually been with you?’

‘No one knows,’ Bjørn said, struggling to keep up. ‘Since the dawn of time.’

‘And his daughter died in a car accident?’

‘Last summer. It’s sick. It just can’t be right. They’ve only got the first part of the DNA code. There’s still a ten, fifteen per cent chance it’s someone else’s DNA, perhaps someone-’ He almost walked into Harry, who had come to a sudden halt.

‘Well,’ Harry said, sinking to his knees and sticking his fingers into the earth by the gravestone bearing Fia Midtstuen’s name, ‘that chance just plummeted to zero.’ He raised his hand and sprinkled freshly dug soil between his fingers. ‘He dug up the body, transported it to Come As You Are. And set fire to it.’

‘F. .’

Harry heard the tears in his colleague’s voice. Avoided looking at him. Left him in peace. Waited. Closed his eyes, listened. A bird sang a — to human ears — meaningless song. The carefree, whistling wind nudged the clouds along. A metro train rattled westwards. Time went, but did it have anywhere to go any more? Harry opened his eyes again. Coughed.

‘We’d better ask them to dig up the coffin and have this confirmed before we contact the father.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Bjørn,’ Harry said, ‘this is better. This wasn’t a young girl burned alive. OK?’

‘Sorry, I’m just exhausted. And Roar was in a bad enough state before, so I. .’ He threw up his arms in desperation.

‘That’s fine,’ Harry said, getting up.

‘Where are you going?’

Harry looked to the north, to the road and the metro. The clouds were drifting towards him. A northerly. And there it was again. The sensation that he knew something he didn’t know yet, something down there in the murky depths inside him, but it would not float to the surface.

‘I have to take care of something.’

‘Where?’

‘Just something I’ve put off for too long.’

‘Right. By the way, there was something I was wondering about.’

Harry glanced at his watch and nodded.

‘When you spoke to Bellman yesterday what did he think could have happened to the bullet?’

‘He had no idea.’

‘What about you? You usually have at least one hypothesis.’

‘Mm. I’ve got to be off.’

‘Harry?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t. .’ Bjørn gave a sheepish smile. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

Katrine Bratt leaned back in her chair and looked at the screen. Bjørn Holm had just rung to say they had found the father, a Midtstuen who had investigated the murder of Kalsnes, but the reason they hadn’t found him among the police officers with young daughters was that his daughter was already dead. And as that meant Katrine was temporarily unemployed she had looked at her search history from the day before. They hadn’t had any hits for Mikael Bellman and René Kalsnes. When she had looked for a list of the people most frequently connected with Mikael Bellman, three names stood out. First was Ulla Bellman. Then came Truls Berntsen. And in third place, Isabelle Skøyen. It was no surprise that his wife came first, nor was it strange that the Councillor for Social Affairs, his superior, should come third.

But she was taken aback by Truls Berntsen.

For the simple reason that there was an internal note directed from Fraud Squad to the Police Chief, written right there in Police HQ. There was a cash sum that Truls Berntsen refused to account for, and they had asked for permission to start an investigation into possible corruption.

She couldn’t find an answer, so she supposed that Bellman must have given a verbal response.

What she found strange was that the Chief of Police and an apparently corrupt policeman had rung and exchanged texts so often, used credit cards at the same places and at the same times, travelled at the same time by plane and train, checked into the same hotel on the same date and had been in the same firing range. When Harry had told her to run a thorough check on Bellman, she discovered that Bellman had been watching gay porn online. Could Truls Berntsen be his lover?

Katrine sat looking at the screen.

So what? It didn’t have to mean anything.

She knew Harry had met Bellman the previous night, in Valle Hovin. And confronted him with the discovery of his bullet. And before leaving Harry had mumbled something about a feeling he knew who had switched the bullet in the Evidence Room. To her enquiry, Harry had only answered ‘The Shadow’.

Katrine widened her search to include more of the past.

She read through the results.

Bellman and Berntsen were inseparable throughout their careers. Which had clearly started at Stovner Police Station after they had left Police College.

She got up a list of other employees during that period.

Her eyes ran down the screen. Stopped at one name. Dialled a number starting with 55.

‘And high time too, frøken Bratt,’ the voice sang, and she felt so liberated to hear genuine Bergen dialect again. ‘You were supposed to have been here for a physical examination some time ago!’

‘Hans-’

‘Dr Hans, thank you very much. Please be so kind as to remove your top, Bratt.’

‘Pack it in,’ she warned him, with a smile on her lips.

‘May I ask you not to confuse medical expertise with unwanted sexual attentions in the workplace, Bratt?’

‘Someone told me you were back on the beat.’

‘Yep. And where are you at this minute?’

‘In Oslo. By the way, I can see from a list here that you worked at Stovner Police Station at the same time as Mikael Bellman and Truls Berntsen.’

‘That was straight after Police College, and only because of a woman, Bratt. The nightmare with the knockers — have I told you about her?’

‘Probably.’

‘But when it was all over with her, it was over with Oslo as well.’ He burst into song. ‘Vestland, Vestland über alles-’

‘Hans! When you worked with-’

‘No one worked with those two boys, Katrine. You either worked for them or you worked against them.’

‘Truls Berntsen has been suspended.’

‘And high time too. He’s beaten someone up again, I assume?’

‘Beaten up? Did he beat up prisoners?’

‘Worse than that. He beat up police officers.’

Katrine felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. ‘Oh? Who did he beat up?’

‘Everyone who tried it on with Bellman’s wife. Beavis Berntsen was head over heels in love with them both.’

‘What did he use?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When he beat them up.’

‘How should I know? Something hard, I suppose. At least it looked like that when that young Nordlander was stupid enough to dance too close to fru Bellman at the Christmas dinner.’

‘Which Nordlander?’

‘His name was. . let me see. . something with R. Yes, Runar. It was Runar. Runar. . let me see now. . Runar. .’

Come on, Katrine thought, as her fingers automatically scampered across the keyboard.

‘Sorry, Katrine, it’s a long time ago. Perhaps if you take off your top?’

‘Tempting,’ Katrine said. ‘But I’ve found it without your help. There was only one Runar at Stovner at that time. Bye, Hans-’

‘Wait! A little mammogram doesn’t have to-’

‘Have to run, sicko.’

She rang off. Pressed Enter. Let the search engine work while she stared at the surname. There was something familiar about it. Where had she heard it? She closed her eyes, mumbling the name to herself. It was so unusual it couldn’t be chance. She opened her eyes. The result was in. There was a lot. Enough. Medical records. Admission to hospital for drug addiction. The correspondence between the head of a detox clinic in Oslo and the Police Chief. Pure, innocent, blue eyes looking at her. She suddenly knew where she had seen them before.

Harry let himself into the house, and strode over to the CD shelf without removing his shoes. Stuck his fingers between Waits’s Bad As Me and A Pagan Place which he had placed first in the line of the Waterboys CDs, though not without some agonising, as strictly speaking it was a remastered version from 2002. It was the safest place in the house. Neither Rakel nor Oleg had ever voluntarily selected a CD featuring Tom Waits or Mike Scott.

He coaxed out the key. Brass, small and hollow, weighing almost nothing. And yet it felt so heavy that his hand seemed to be drawn towards the floor as he went over to the corner cupboard. He inserted it in the keyhole and turned. Waited. Knowing there was no way back after he had opened it. The promise would be broken.

He had to use his strength to pull open the swollen cupboard door. He knew it was only old wood being released by the frame but it sounded as though a deep sigh came from inside the darkness. As though it realised it was free at last. Free to inflict hell on earth.

It smelt of metal and oil.

He inhaled. Felt as if he was sticking his hand into a den of snakes. His fingers groped before finding the cold, scaly skin of steel. He grabbed the reptile’s head and lifted it out.

It was an ugly weapon. Fascinatingly ugly. Soviet Russian engineering at its most brutally effective, it could take as much of a beating as a Kalashnikov.

Harry weighed the gun in his hand.

He knew it was heavy, and yet it felt light. Light now that the decision had been taken. He breathed out. The demon was free.

‘Hi,’ Ståle said, closing the Boiler Room door behind him. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yeah,’ Bjørn said from his chair, staring at the phone.

Ståle sat down on a chair. ‘Where. .?’

‘Harry had to sort something out. Katrine was gone when I arrived.’

‘You look as if you’ve had a tough day.’

Bjørn smiled wanly. ‘You, too, Dr Aune.’

Ståle ran a hand across his pate. ‘Well, I’ve just entered a classroom, embraced my daughter and sobbed with the whole class watching. Aurora claims it was an experience that will mark her for life. I tried to explain to her that fortunately most children are born with enough strength to bear the burden that is their parents’ love and that from a Darwinian point of view she should therefore be able to survive this as well. All because she had a sleepover with Emilie and there are two Emilies in the class. I rang the mother of the wrong Emilie.’

‘Did you get the message that we’ve postponed the meeting for today? A body has been found. Of a girl.’

‘Yes, I know. It was grim by all accounts.’

Bjørn nodded slowly. Pointed to the phone. ‘I have to ring the father now.’

‘You’re dreading it of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘You’re wondering why the father has to be punished in this way? Why he has to lose her twice? Why once isn’t enough?’

‘That sort of thing.’

‘The answer is because the murderer sees himself as the divine avenger, Bjørn.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Bjørn said, sending the psychologist a vacant look.

‘Do you know your Bible? “God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth; the Lord revengeth, and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.” You get the gist anyway, don’t you?’

‘I’m a simple boy from Østre Toten who scraped through confirmation and-’

‘That’s why I’m here now.’ Ståle leaned forward in his chair. ‘The murderer is an avenger, and Harry’s right, he kills out of love, not out of hatred, profit or sadistic enjoyment. Someone has taken something from him that he loved, and now he’s taking from the victims what they loved most. It could be their lives. Or something they value more: their children.’

Bjørn nodded. ‘Roar Midtstuen would have happily given his life to save his daughter.’

‘So what we have to look for is someone who’s lost something they loved. An avenger out of love. Because that. .’ Ståle Aune clenched his right hand. ‘. . because that’s the only motive that’s strong enough here, Bjørn. Do you understand?’

Bjørn nodded. ‘I think so. But I reckon I’ll have to call Midtstuen now.’

‘I’ll leave you in peace then.’

Bjørn waited until Ståle had gone, then he dialled the number he had been looking at for so long it felt as if it had been stamped on his retina. He took deep breaths as he counted the rings. Wondering how many times he should let it ring before putting the receiver down. Then all of a sudden he heard his colleague’s voice.

‘Bjørn, is that you?’

‘Yes. You’ve got my number saved then?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I see. Right. I’m afraid there’s something I have to tell you.’

Pause.

Bjørn swallowed. ‘It’s about your daughter. She-’

‘Bjørn, before you go any further, I don’t know what this is about, but I can hear from your tone that it’s serious. And I can’t take any more phone calls about Fia. This is just like it was then. No one could look me in the eye. Everyone rang. Seemed to be easier. Please would you come here? Look me in the eye when you say whatever it is. Bjørn?’

‘Of course,’ Bjørn Holm said, taken aback. He had never heard Roar Midtstuen talk so openly and honestly about his frailty before. ‘Where are you?’

‘It’s exactly nine months today, so as it happens I’m on my way to the place where she was killed. To lay a few flowers, think-’

‘Just tell me exactly where it is and I’ll be there right away.’

Katrine Bratt gave up looking for somewhere to park. It had been easier finding the telephone number and address online. But after ringing four times and getting neither an answer nor an answerphone, she had requisitioned a car and driven to Industrigata in Majorstuen, a one-way street with a greengrocer’s, a couple of galleries, at least one restaurant, a picture-framing workshop, but, well, no free parking spaces.

Katrine made a decision, drove up onto the pavement, killed the engine, put a note on the windscreen saying she was a police officer, which she knew meant sod all to traffic wardens, who, according to Harry, were all that stood between civilisation and total chaos.

She walked back the way she had come, towards Bogstadsveien’s stylish shopping hysteria. Stopped outside a block of flats in Josefines gate where once or twice during her studies at Police College she had ended up for a late-night coffee. So-called late-night coffee. Alleged late-night coffee. Not that she’d minded. Oslo Police District had owned the block and rented out rooms to students at the college. Katrine found the name she was searching for on the panel of doorbells, pressed and waited while contemplating the simple four-storey facade. Pressed again. Waited.

‘No one at home?’

She turned. Automatic smile. Guessed the man was in his forties, perhaps a well-kept fifty-year-old. Tall, still with hair, flannel shirt, Levi’s 501s.

‘I’m the caretaker.’

‘And I’m Detective Katrine Bratt, Crime Squad. I’m looking for Silje Gravseng.’

He studied the ID card she held out and shamelessly examined her from top to toe.

‘Silje Gravseng, yes,’ the caretaker said. ‘Apparently she’s left PHS, so she won’t be here for much longer.’

‘But she’s still here?’

‘Yes, she is. Room 412. Can I pass on a message?’

‘Please. Ask her to ring this number. I want to talk to her about Runar Gravseng, her brother.’

‘Has he done something wrong?’

‘Hardly. He’s sectioned and always sits in the middle of the room because he thinks the walls are people who want to beat him to death.’

‘Oh dear.’

Katrine took out her notebook and wrote her name and number. ‘You can tell her it’s about the police murders.’

‘Yes, she seems to be obsessed by them.’

Katrine stopped writing. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She uses them like wallpaper. Newspaper cuttings about dead policemen, I mean. Not that it’s any of my business. Students can put up what they like, but that’s a bit. . creepy, isn’t it?’

Katrine looked at him. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Leif Rødbekk.’

‘Listen, Leif. Do you think I could have a peek at her room? I’d like to see the cuttings.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Can I?’

‘No problem. Just show me the search warrant.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t-’

‘I was kidding,’ he grinned. ‘Come with me.’

A minute later they were in the lift on their way to the third floor.

‘The rental agreement says I can go into the rooms as long as I’ve given advance warning. Right now we’re checking all the electric radiators for accumulated dust. One of them caught fire last week. And we tried to give her advance warning before we entered, but Silje didn’t answer the intercom. Sound all right to you, Detective Bratt?’ Another grin. Wolfish grin, Katrine thought. Not without charm. If he’d taken the liberty of using her Christian name at the end of the sentence, it would of course have been over, but he did have a certain lilt. Her gaze sought his ring finger. The smooth gold was matt. The lift doors opened and she followed him down the narrow corridor until he stopped in front of one of the blue doors.

He knocked and waited. Knocked again. Waited.

‘Let’s go in,’ he said, turning the key in the lock.

‘You’ve been very helpful, Rødbekk.’

‘Leif. And it’s a pleasure to be able to help. It’s not every day I run into such a. .’ He opened the door for her but stood in such a way that if she wanted to go in she would have to squeeze past him. She sent him an admonitory glance. ‘. . serious case,’ he said with laughter dancing in his eyes and stepped to the side.

Katrine went in. The rooms hadn’t changed a lot. There was still a kitchenette and the bathroom door at one end and a curtain at the other, behind which Katrine remembered there was a bed. But the first thing that struck her was that she had entered a girl’s room and it couldn’t be a very mature girl living here. Silje Gravseng must long for something in the past. The sofa in the corner was covered with a motley collection of teddy bears, dolls and various cuddly toys. Her clothes, strewn across the table and chairs, were brightly coloured, predominantly pink. On the walls there were pictures, a human menagerie of fashion victims; Katrine guessed they were from boy bands or the Disney Channel.

The second thing to strike her was the black-and-white newspaper cuttings between the lurid glamour shots. She walked round the room, but was drawn to the wall above the iMac on the desk.

Katrine went closer although she had already recognised most of the cuttings. They had the same ones on the wall of the Boiler Room.

The cuttings were fastened with drawing pins and bore no other notes than the date written in biro.

She rejected her first thought and instead tested a second: that it was not so strange for a PHS student to be fascinated by such a high-profile ongoing murder case.

Beside the keyboard lay the newspapers the cuttings had been taken from. And between the papers a postcard with a picture of a north Norwegian mountain peak she recognised: Svolværgeita in Lofoten. She picked up the card and turned it over, but there wasn’t a stamp, or an address or signature. She had already put the card down when her brain told her what her eyes had registered where they had automatically searched for a signature. A word in block capitals where the writing had finished. POLITI. She picked up the card again, holding it by the edges this time and read it from the start.

They think the officers have been killed because someone hates them. They still haven’t understood that it’s the other way round, that they were killed by someone who loves the police and the police’s sacred duty: catching and punishing anarchists, nihilists, atheists, the faithless and the creedless, all the destructive forces. They don’t know that what they’re hunting is an apostle of righteousness, someone who has to punish not only vandals but also those who betray their responsibilities, those who out of laziness and indifference do not live up to the standard, those who do not deserve to be called POLITI.

‘Do you know what, Leif?’ Katrine said, without moving her eyes from the microscopic, neat, almost childish letters written in blue ink. ‘I really wish I had a search warrant.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ll get one, but you know how it is with these things. They can take time. And by then what I’m curious about may have disappeared.’

Katrine looked up at him. Leif Rødbekk returned her gaze. Not flir-tatiously, but as if to find confirmation. That this was important.

‘And do you know what, Bratt?’ he said. ‘I’ve just remembered that I have to nip down to the basement. The electricians are changing cupboards there. Can you manage on your own for a while?’

She smiled at him. And when he returned her smile too, she wasn’t sure what kind of smile it was.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said.

Katrine pressed the space bar on the iMac the second she heard the door close behind Rødbekk. The screen lit up. She put the cursor on Finder and typed in Mittet. No hits. She tried a couple of other names from the investigation, crime scenes and ‘police murders’, but no hits.

So Silje Gravseng hadn’t used the computer. Smart girl.

Katrine pulled at the desk drawers. Locked. Strange. What girl of twenty-something would lock the drawers in her own room?

She got up, went over to the curtain and drew it aside.

It was as she remembered, an alcove.

With two large photographs on the wall above the narrow bed.

She had seen Silje Gravseng only twice, the first time at PHS when Katrine had visited Harry. But the family likeness between the blonde Silje and the person in the photo was so striking she was sure.

There was no doubt about the man in the other photo.

Silje must have found a high-res photo online and enlarged it. Every scar, every line, every pore in the skin of the ravaged face stood out. But it was as though they were invisible, as though they faded in the gleam of the blue eyes and the furious expression as he spotted the photographer and told him there would be no cameras on his crime scene. Harry Hole. This was the photo the girls in the row in front of her in the auditorium had been talking about.

Katrine divided the room into squares and started with the top left, then scanned the floor, looked up again to start the next row, the way she had been taught by Harry. And recalled his thesis: ‘Don’t search for something, just search. If you search for something the other things won’t speak to you. Make sure everything speaks to you.’

After going through the room, she sat down at the iMac again, his voice still buzzing in her head: ‘And when you’ve finished and think you haven’t found anything, think inversely, a mirror image, and let the other things speak to you. The things that weren’t there, but should have been. The bread knife. The car keys. The jacket from a suit.’

It was the last item that had helped her to conclude what Silje Gravseng was doing now. She had flicked through all the clothes in the wardrobe, in the linen basket in the little bathroom and on the hooks beside the door, but she hadn’t found the tracksuit Silje had been wearing the last time Katrine had seen her, with Harry in the basement flat where Valentin had lived. Dressed in black from top to toe. Katrine remembered she had reminded her of a marine on night manoeuvres.

Silje was out running. Training. As she had done to pass the entry requirements for PHS. To get in and do whatever she could do. Harry had said the motive for the murders was love, not hatred. Love for a brother, for instance.

It was the name that had brought a reaction. Runar Gravseng. And after further investigation a lot had come to light. Among other things, the names of Bellman and Berntsen. Runar Gravseng had in conversation with the head of the detox clinic claimed that he had been beaten up by a masked man while working at Stovner Police Station. That had been the reason for the doctor’s certificate, his resignation and his increased drug consumption. Gravseng maintained the perp was one Truls Berntsen and the motive for the violence was a slightly too cosy dance with Mikael Bellman’s wife at the police station’s Christmas dinner. The Chief of Police had refused to take the wild accusations of an out-and-out drug addict any further, and the head of the detox clinic had supported this. He had only wanted to pass on information, he’d said.

Katrine heard the lift go in the corridor as her gaze fell on something protruding from under the desk, which she’d missed. She bent down. A black baton.

The door opened.

‘Electricians doing their job?’

‘Yes,’ said Leif Rødbekk. ‘You look as if you intend to use that.’

Katrine smacked the baton against her palm. ‘Interesting object to have lying around in your room, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. I said the same when I was changing the washer on the bathroom tap last week. She said it was for training, for an exam. And in case the cop killer turned up.’ Leif Rødbekk closed the door behind him. ‘Find anything?’

‘This. Ever seen her take it out?’

‘A couple of times, yes.’

‘Really?’ Katrine pushed herself backwards on the chair. ‘What time of day?’

‘At night of course. Dolled up, high heels, blow-dried hair and the baton.’ He chuckled.

‘Why on-?’

‘She said it was protection against rapists.’

‘She’d lug a baton into town for that?’ Katrine weighed the baton in her hand. (It reminded her of the top of an IKEA hat stand.) ‘It would have been easier to avoid the parks.’

‘Not her. She went straight to the parks.’

‘What?’

‘She went to Vaterlandsparken. She wanted to practise hand-to-hand combat.’

‘She wanted perverts to try it on and then. .’

‘And then beat them black and blue, yes.’ Leif Rødbekk put on his wolfish grin again, sending Katrine such a direct look that she wasn’t sure who he meant when he said: ‘Quite a girl.’

‘Yes,’ Katrine said, getting up. ‘And now I have to find her.’

‘Busy?’

If Katrine felt any unease at this question, it didn’t reach her consciousness until she was past him and out of the door. But on the stairs, going down, she thought, no, she wasn’t that desperate. Even if the slowcoach she was waiting for never pulled his finger out.

Harry drove through Svartdalstunnel. The lights shone across the bonnet and windscreen. He didn’t go any faster than was necessary, no need to arrive any sooner than he had to. The gun was on the seat next to him. It was loaded and had twelve Makarov 9x18mm bullets in the magazine. More than enough to do what he was going to do. It was just a question of having the stomach for it.

He had the heart for it.

He had never shot anyone in cold blood before. But this was a job that had to be done. Simple as that.

He shifted his grip on the steering wheel. Changed down as he came out of the tunnel, into the fading light, into the hills towards the Ryen intersection. Felt his mobile ring and pulled it out with one hand. Glanced at the display. It was Rakel. It was an unusual time for her to ring. They had an unspoken agreement that their phone time was after ten in the evening. He couldn’t talk to her now. He was too nervous. She would notice and ask. And he didn’t want to lie. Didn’t want to lie any more.

He let the phone finish ringing, then he switched it off and put it beside the gun. For there was nothing to think about any more, the thinking was over, letting his doubts surface would mean starting again, only to take the same long route and end up exactly where he was already. The decision was taken, that he wanted to back out was understandable, but it was out of the question. Shit! He smacked his hand against the wheel. Thought about Oleg. About Rakel. It helped.

He went round the roundabout and took the turning to Manglerud. To the block of flats where Truls Berntsen lived. Felt the calm descending. At last. It always did when he knew he had crossed the threshold, where it was too late, where he was in the wonderful free fall, where conscious thought stopped and everything was automatic, targeted action and well-oiled routine. But it had been so long ago, and he felt that now. He had been unsure whether he still had it in him. Well. He had it in him.

He drove slowly down the streets. Leaned forward and looked up at the blue-grey clouds streaming in, like an unannounced armada with unknown objectives. Sat back in the seat. Saw the high-rise buildings above the lower rooftops.

Didn’t need to look down at the gun to know it was there.

Didn’t need to think through the order of events to be sure he would remember.

Didn’t need to count his heartbeats to know his pulse was at rest.

And for a moment he closed his eyes and visualised what would happen. And then it came, the feeling he’d had a couple of times earlier in his life as a policeman. The fear. The same fear he could sometimes sense in those he was chasing. The murderer’s fear of his own reflection.