The Devil's star

2

Friday. Staff Leave.

Oslo Police Headquarters in Gronland was situated at the top of the ridge between Gronland and Toyen, and looked over the eastern part of the city centre. It was constructed of glass and steel and had been completed in 1978. There were no sloping surfaces; it stood in perfect symmetry and the architects Telje, Torp amp; Aasen had received an award for it. The electrician who installed the cables in the two long office wings on the seventh and ninth floors received social benefits and a good bollocking from his father when he fell from the scaffolding and broke his back.

‘For seven generations we were bricklayers, balancing between heaven and earth, before gravity brought us down. My grandfather tried to flee from the curse, but it followed him right across the North Sea. So the day you were born I swore to myself that you would not have to suffer the same fate. And I thought I had succeeded. An electrician… What the hell is an electrician doing six metres off the ground?’

The signal from the central control room ran through the copper in the exact same cables the son had laid, through the partition between the floors moulded with a factory-made cement mix, up to Crime Squad Chief Inspector Bjarne Moller’s office on the sixth floor. At this moment Moller was sitting and wondering whether he was looking forward to or dreading his impending family holiday in a mountain cabin in Os, outside Bergen. In all probability, Os in July meant dire weather. Now, Bjarne Moller had nothing against exchanging the heatwave that had been forecast for Oslo with a little drizzle, but to keep two highly energetic young boys busy with no resources other than a pack of cards minus its jack of hearts would be a challenge.

Bjarne Moller stretched his long legs and scratched behind his ear as he listened to the message.

‘How did they discover it?’ he asked.

‘There was a leak down to the flat below,’ the voice from the control room answered. ‘The caretaker and the man from downstairs rang the bell but no-one answered. The door wasn’t locked, so they went in.’

‘OK. I’ll send two of our people up.’

Moller put down the receiver, sighed and ran his finger down the plasticated duty roster which was on his desk. Half the division was on leave. That was the way it was at this time every year. Not that it meant that the population of Oslo was in any particular danger since the villains in the town also seemed to appreciate a little holiday in July. It was definitely low season as far as the law-breaking that fell to the Crime Squad was concerned.

Moller’s finger stopped by the name of Beate Lonn. He dialled the number for Krimteknisk, the forensics department in Kjolberggata. No answer. He waited for his call to go through the central switchboard.

‘Beate Lonn is in the lab,’ a bright voice said.

‘It’s Moller, Crime Squad. Could you get hold of her?’

He waited. It was Karl Weber, the recently retired head of Krimteknisk, who had recruited Beate Lonn from the Crime Squad. Moller saw this as further proof of the neo-Darwinist theory that man’s sole drive was to perpetuate his own genes. Weber clearly thought that Beate Lonn shared quite a few genes with him. At first sight, Karl Weber and Beate Lonn would probably have seemed quite different. Weber was grumpy and irascible; Lonn was a small, quiet grey mouse, who, after graduating from Police College, would blush every time you talked to her. But their police genes were identical. They were the passionate type who, when they smelled their prey, had the ability to exclude everything else and simply concentrate on a forensic lead, circumstantial evidence, a video recording, a vague description, until ultimately it began to make some kind of sense. Malicious tongues wagged that Weber and Lonn belonged in the laboratory and not in the community where an investigator’s knowledge of human behaviour was still more important than a footprint or a loose thread from a jacket.

Weber and Lonn would agree with what they said about the laboratory, but not about the footprints or the loose threads.

‘Lonn speaking.’

‘Hello, Beate. Bjarne Moller here. Am I disturbing you?’

‘Of course. What’s up?’

Moller explained briefly and gave her the address.

‘I’ll send a couple of my lads up with you,’ he said.

‘Which ones?’

‘I’ll have to have a look to see who I can find. Summer break, you know.’

Moller put down the phone and ran his finger further down the list.

It stopped at Tom Waaler.

The box for holiday dates was blank. That did not surprise Bjarne Moller. Now and then he wondered whether Inspector Tom Waaler took off any time at all or if he even had time to sleep. As a detective he was one of the department’s two star players. Always there, always on the ball and nearly always successful. In contrast with the other top-notch detective, Tom Waaler was reliable, had, an unblemished record and was respected by everyone. In short, a dream subordinate. With the indisputable leadership skills that Tom had, it was on the cards that he would take over Moller’s job as Chief Inspector when the time came.

Moller’s call crackled through the flimsy partitions.

‘Waaler here,’ a sonorous voice replied.

‘Moller. We -’

‘Just a moment, Bjarne. I’m on another call.’

Bjarne Moller drummed on the table while he was waiting. Tom Waaler could become the youngest ever Chief Inspector in the Crime Squad. Was it his age that made Bjarne Moller occasionally feel somewhat uneasy at the thought that he would be handing over his responsibilities to Tom? Or perhaps it was the two shooting incidents? The inspector had drawn his gun twice during arrests and, as one of the best marksmen in the police corps, he had hit the target both times with lethal results. Paradoxically enough, Moller also knew that one of the two episodes could ultimately push the appointment of the new Chief in Waaler’s favour. SEFO, the independent police investigation authority, had not uncovered anything to suggest that Tom had not fired in self-defence. In fact, it had concluded that in both cases he had shown good judgment and quick reactions in a tight situation. What better credentials could a candidate for the Chief’s job have?

‘Sorry, Bjarne. Call on the mobile. How can I help you?’

‘We’ve got a job.’

‘At last.’

The conversation was over in ten seconds. Now he just needed one more person.

Moller had thought of Halvorsen, but according to the list he was taking his leave at home in Steinkjer. His finger continued down the column. Leave, leave, sick leave. The Chief Inspector sighed when his finger stopped against the name he had been hoping to avoid.

Harry Hole.

The lone wolf, the drunk, the department’s enfant terrible and, apart from Tom Waaler, the best detective on the sixth floor. But for that and the fact that Bjarne Moller had over the years developed a sort of perverse penchant for putting his head on the block for this policeman with the serious drinking problem, Harry Hole would have been out years ago. Ordinarily Harry was the first person he would have rung and given the assignment to, but things were not ordinary.

Or to put it another way: they were more extraordinary than usual.

It had all come to a head the month before, after Hole had spent the winter reworking an old case, the murder of his closest colleague, Ellen Gjelten, who was killed close to the River Akerselva. During that time he lost all interest in any other cases. The Ellen Gjelten case had been cleared up a long time ago, but Harry had become more and more obsessed and quite frankly Moller was beginning to worry about his mental state. The crunch came when Harry appeared in his office four weeks ago and presented his hair-raising conspiracy theories. Basically, without any proof he was making fanciful charges against Tom Waaler.

Then Harry simply disappeared. Some days later Moller rang Restaurant Schroder and learned what he had feared: that Harry had gone on another drinking binge. To cover his absence, Moller put Harry down as on leave. Once again. Harry generally put in an appearance after a week, but now four weeks had passed. His leave was over.

Moller eyed the receiver, stood up and went to the window. It was 5.30 and yet the park in front of the police station was almost deserted. There was just the odd sun worshipper braving the heat. In Gronlandsleiret a couple of shop owners were sitting under an awning next to their vegetables. Even the cars – despite zilch rush-hour traffic – were moving more slowly. Moller brushed back his hair with his hands, a lifetime’s habit which his wife said he should give a rest now as people might suspect him of trying to cover his bald patch. Was there really no-one else except Harry? Moller watched a drunk staggering down Gronlandsleiret. He guessed he was heading for the Raven, but he wouldn’t get a drink there. He’d probably end up at the Boxer. The place where the Ellen Gjelten case was emphatically brought to a close. Perhaps Harry Hole’s career in the police force, too. Moller was being put under pressure; he would soon have to make up his mind what to do about the Harry problem. But that was long term; what was important now was this case.

Moller lifted the receiver and considered for a moment what he was about to do: put Harry Hole and Tom Waaler on the same case. These holiday periods were such a pain. The electrical impulse started on its journey from Telje, Torp amp; Aasen’s monument to an ordered society and began to ring in a place where chaos reigned, a flat in Sofies gate.