The Leopard

38
Permanent Scarring

Harry had turned down Duke Ellington and sat with the phone in his hand. This person knew about the superglue. And had his number. Should he check the name and address of the caller, perhaps even have the person arrested because there was a chance he might frighten him off? On the other hand, whoever it was expected an answer.

Harry pressed ‘return call’.

It buzzed twice, then he heard a deep voice. ‘Yes?’

‘This is Harry Hole.’

‘Nice to talk to you again, Hole.’

‘Mm. When have we spoken before?’

‘Don’t you remember? Elias Skog’s flat. Superglue.’

Harry felt the carotid artery in his neck throb, cramp the space in his throat.

‘I was there. Who am I speaking to, and what were you doing there?’

The other end went quiet for a second and Harry immediately concluded the person had rung off. But then the voice was back with a drawn-out ‘Oh, sorry, I may have signed off the message with just C. Did I?’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘I generally do. This is Inspector Colbjornsen. From Stavanger. You gave me your number, remember?’

Harry cursed himself, realised he was still holding his breath and let it out in a long hiss.

‘Are you there?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Harry said, grabbing the teaspoon on the table and scraping off a bit of the opium. ‘You said you had something for me?’

‘Yes, I have. But on one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘It stays between us.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because I don’t want that prick Bellman coming over here thinking he’s God’s gift to criminal investigations. He and fucking Kripos are trying to get a monopoly over the whole country. Far as I’m concerned he can go to hell. The problem is my bosses. I’m not allowed to touch the bloody Skog case.’

‘So why come to me?’

‘I’m a simple lad from the provinces, Hole. But when I see in Aftenposten that you’ve been given the case I know what’s going to happen. I know you’re like me, you won’t just lie down and die, will you.’

‘Well…’ Harry said, looking at the opium in front of him.

‘So if you can use this to outsmart the smart-arse and it leads to Bellman’s plans for the evil empire being shelved, accept it with my blessing. I’ll wait until the day after tomorrow before sending Bellman my report. That gives you a day.’

‘What’ve you got?’

‘I’ve spoken to folk in Skog’s circle, which was small, as he was an oddball, unusually intense and travelled around the world on his ownsome. Two persons in all. The landlady. And a girl we traced via the phone numbers he had rung in the days leading up to his death. Her name is Stine Olberg, and she said she spoke to Elias the night he was killed. They were on the bus leaving town, and he said he’d been to the Havass cabin at the same time as the murdered girls in the newspapers. He thought it was strange no one had discovered they’d all been to the same cabin and he’d been wondering about whether to go to the police. But he was reluctant because he had no desire to get involved. And I can understand that. Skog had been in trouble with the police before. He’d been reported for stalking on two occasions. He hadn’t done anything illegal, to be fair to him. He was, as I said, just the intense type. Stine said she had been frightened of him, but that evening it was the opposite: he was the one who had seemed frightened.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Stine had pretended not to know who the three murder victims were, and then Elias had said that he would tell her about someone else who had been there, someone he was sure she did know. And this is the really interesting bit. The man is well known. At least a B-list celebrity.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘According to Elias Skog, Tony Leike was there.’

‘Tony Leike. Should I know who that is?’

‘He lives with the daughter of Anders Galtung, the shipping magnate.’

A couple of newspaper headlines flashed in front of Harry’s inner eye.

‘Tony Leike is a so-called investor, which means he has become rich and no one quite understands how, just that it certainly wasn’t by dint of hard work. Not only that, he’s a real pretty boy. Hardly Mr Nice Guy, though. And this is the crunch. The guy’s got a sheet.’

‘Sheet?’ Harry asked, affecting incomprehension to imply what he thought of Colbjornsen’s Americanisms.

‘A record. Tony Leike has a conviction for violent assault.’

‘Mm. Checked the charge?’

‘Years ago Tony Leike beat up and maimed one Ole S. Hansen on the 7th of August between 11.20 and 11.45 p.m. It happened outside a dance venue where Tony was living with his grandfather. Tony was eighteen, Ole seventeen and of course it was over a piece of skirt.’

‘Mm. Jealous kids fighting after drinking is not exactly unusual. Did you say violent assault?’

‘Yes; in fact, there was more. After Leike had knocked down the other boy, he sat on him and carved up the poor lad’s face with a knife. He was permanently scarred, though the report said it could have been much worse if people hadn’t dragged Leike off.’

‘But no more than the one conviction?’

‘Tony Leike was known for his temper and was regularly involved in brawls. At the trial a witness said that at school Leike had tried to strangle him with a belt because he had said something less than flattering about Tony’s father.’

‘Sounds like someone should have a long chat with Leike. Do you know where he lives?’

‘On your patch. Holmenveien… wait… 172.’

‘Right. West End. Hm. Thanks, Colbjornsen.’

‘Not at all. Erm, there was one other thing. A man got on the bus after Elias. He alighted at the same stop as Elias, and Stine says she saw the man following him. But she couldn’t give a description because his face was hidden by a hat. Might be of some significance, or not.’

‘Right.’

‘So I’m counting on you, Hole.’

‘Counting on what?’

‘You doing the right thing.’

‘Mm.’

‘Goodnight.’

Harry sat listening to the Duke. Then he grabbed the phone and looked up Kaja’s number. He was about to press the call button but hesitated. He was doing it again. Dragging people down with him. Harry tossed the phone aside. There were two options. The smart one, which was to ring Bellman. Or the stupid one, which was to go it alone.

Harry sighed. Who was he kidding? He had no choice. So he stuffed the lighter in his pocket, wrapped up the ball in silver foil, put it in the drinks cabinet, undressed, set the alarm for six and went to bed. No choice. A prisoner of his own behaviour patterns whereby in reality every action was a compulsive action. In that sense, he was neither better nor worse than those he pursued.

And with this thought he fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

The night is so blessedly still, it heals your sight, clears your mind. The new, old policeman. Hole. I’ll have to tell him that. I won’t show him everything, just enough for him to understand. Then he can stop it. So that I don’t have to do what I do. I spit and spit, but blood fills my mouth, over and over again.