The Thirst

21

TUESDAY MORNING

IT WAS SEVEN thirty. There was fine rain hanging in the air and Mehmet was about to cross the street when he noticed the man in front of Jealousy. He had made his hands into binoculars and was holding them against the window to see inside better. The first thing Mehmet thought was that Danial Banks was early asking for the next instalment, but as he got closer he realised that the man was taller, and blond. And it struck him that it must be one of the old, alcoholic customers who had come back, and hoped the bar still opened at seven o’clock in the morning.

But when the man turned to face the street again, sucking at the cigarette between his lips, he saw it was that policeman. Harry.

‘Good morning,’ Mehmet said, getting his keys out. ‘Thirsty?’

‘That too. But I’ve got an offer for you.’

‘What sort of offer?’

‘The sort you can turn down.’

‘In that case I’m interested,’ Mehmet said, and let the policeman in. He followed, then locked the door. Switched the lights on from behind the counter.

‘This is actually a good bar,’ Harry said, putting his elbows on the counter and breathing in deeply.

‘Do you want to buy it?’ Mehmet said drily, pouring water into a cezve, the special Turkish coffee pot.

‘Yes,’ Harry said.

Mehmet laughed. ‘Make me an offer.’

‘Four hundred and thirty-five thousand.’

Mehmet frowned. ‘Where did you get that number from?’

‘From Danial Banks. I had a meeting with him this morning.’

‘This morning? But it’s only …’

‘I got up early. And so did he. That’s to say, I had to wake him up and drag him out of bed.’

Mehmet looked into the policeman’s bloodshot eyes.

‘Figuratively speaking,’ Harry said. ‘I know where he lives. I paid him a visit and made him an offer.’

‘What sort of offer?’

‘The other sort. The sort you can’t turn down.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I bought the debt on the Jealousy Bar at face value in return for not setting Financial Crime on him for breaking paragraph 295 about usury.’

‘You’re kidding?’

Harry shrugged. ‘It’s possible that I’m exaggerating, it’s possible that he could have turned it down. Because he was able to tell me that paragraph 295 was repealed a couple of years ago sadly. What’s the world coming to when criminals keep up with changes to the law better than cops? Either way, the loan agreement with you didn’t seem to be worth all the problems I promised to make for him elsewhere. So this document –’ the detective put a handwritten sheet of paper on the bar – ‘confirms that Danial Banks has received his money, and that I, Harry Hole, am the proud owner of a debt of 435,000 kroner owed by Mehmet Kalak, with the Jealousy Bar, its contents and lease as collateral.’

Mehmet read the few lines and shook his head. ‘Bloody hell. So you had almost half a million that you could give Banks there and then?’

‘I worked as a debt collector in Hong Kong for a while. It was … well paid. So I built up a bit of capital. Banks received a cheque and a bank statement.’

Mehmet laughed. ‘So you’re going to be the one demanding extortionate repayments now, Harry?’

‘Not if you agree to my offer.’

‘Which is?’

‘That we turn the debt into working capital.’

‘You take over the bar?’

‘I buy a share. You’d be my partner, and could buy me out whenever you like.’

‘In return for what?’

‘You go to a Turkish bathhouse while a friend of mine watches the bar.’

‘What?’

‘I want you to sweat until you turn into a raisin at the Cagaloglu Hamam while you wait for Valentin Gjertsen to show up.’

‘Me? Why me?’

‘Because Penelope Rasch died, and you and a fifteen-year-old girl are the only living people I’m aware of who know what Valentin Gjertsen looks like these days.’

‘I do …?’

‘You’ll recognise him.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I read the report. You said, quote: “I didn’t really look at him long enough or carefully enough to be able to describe him.”’

‘Exactly.’

‘I had a colleague who could recognise every human face she had ever seen. She told me that the ability to differentiate and recognise a million faces is located in part of the brain called the fusiform gyrus, and that without that ability we would hardly have survived as a species. Can you describe the last customer who was in here yesterday?’

‘Er …no.’

‘Yet you’d still recognise him in a fraction of a second if he walked in here now.’

‘Probably.’

‘That’s what I’m counting on.’

‘You’re staking 435,000 of your own money on that? What if I don’t recognise him?’

Harry stuck his bottom lip out. ‘Then at least I’ll own a bar.’

At 7.45 Mona Daa shoved open the door to VG’s newsroom and rolled in. It had been a bad night. Even though she had gone straight to Gain from the container terminal, and exercised so hard that her entire body ached, she had hardly slept a wink. In the end she decided to raise it with the editor, without going into detail. Ask him if a source had the right to anonymity if they had completely deceived a journalist. In other words: could she go to the police with this now? Or would the smart response be to wait and see if he got in touch again? After all, there could be a good explanation for why he hadn’t showed up.

‘You look tired, Daa,’ the head of the newsroom said. ‘Party last night?’

‘I wish,’ Mona said quietly, dropping her gym bag by her desk and switching her computer on.

‘Of the more experimental variety, perhaps?’

‘I wish,’ Mona repeated, more loudly. She looked up and saw a number of faces sticking up above computer screens around the open-plan office. Grinning, inquisitive faces.

‘What?’ she called out.

‘Just stripping, or bestiality?’ cried a deep voice that she didn’t have time to identify before a couple of the girls burst out laughing uncontrollably.

‘Check your email,’ the head of the newsroom said. ‘Some of us were copied in.’

Mona turned cold. Felt a shiver of foreboding as she more hit than tapped her keyboard.

The sender was violentcrime@olsopol.no.

No text, just an image. Presumably taken with a light-sensitive camera, seeing as she hadn’t noticed a flash. And probably a telephoto lens. In the foreground was the dog pissing on the cage, and there she was, in the middle of the cage, standing stiffly and staring like a wild animal. She’d been tricked. It wasn’t the vampirist who had called her.

At 8.15 Smith, Wyller, Holm and Harry were gathered in the boiler room.

‘We’ve got a disappearance that may be the work of the vampirist,’ Harry said. ‘Marte Ruud, twenty-four years old, disappeared from Schrøder’s Restaurant last night, just before midnight. Katrine is briefing the investigative team at the moment.’

‘The crime-scene group are there,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘Nothing so far. Apart from what you mentioned.’

‘Which is?’ Wyller wondered.

‘A “v” written on a tablecloth with lipstick. The angle between the lines matches the one on Ewa Dolmen’s door.’ He was interrupted by a steel guitar Harry recognised as Don Helms, playing the intro to Hank Williams’s ‘Your Cheating Heart’.

‘Wow, we’ve got a signal,’ Bjørn Holm said, pulling his phone from his pocket. ‘Holm. What? I can’t hear. Hang on.’

Bjørn Holm vanished through the door out into the culvert.

‘It looks like this kidnapping could be about me,’ Harry said. ‘That’s my restaurant, my usual table.’

‘That’s not good,’ Smith said, shaking his head. ‘He’s lost his grip.’

‘Isn’t it good that he’s lost his grip?’ Wyller asked. ‘Doesn’t that mean he’s going to be less careful?’

‘That part might be good news,’ Smith said. ‘But now that he’s experienced how it feels to have power and control, no one’s going to be allowed to take that away from him. You’re right, he’s after you, Harry. And do you know why?’

‘That article in VG,’ Wyller said.

‘You called him a wretched pervert, who … what was it?’

‘You were looking forward to slapping a pair of handcuffs on him,’ Wyller said.

‘So you describe him as wretched and threaten to take his power and control away.’

‘Isabelle Skøyen called him that, not me, but it doesn’t really matter now,’ Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Do you think he’s going to use the girl to get hold of me, Smith?’

Smith shook his head. ‘She’s dead.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘He doesn’t want confrontation, he just wants to show you and everyone else that he’s in control. That he can go to your place and take one of yours.’

Harry stopped rubbing his neck. ‘One of mine?’

Smith didn’t answer.

Bjørn Holm returned. ‘That was Ullevål. Just before Penelope Rasch died, a man came to reception and identified himself as someone she’d listed as a friend, a Roar Wiik, her former fiancé.’

‘The guy who gave her the engagement ring Valentin stole from her flat,’ Harry said.

‘They contacted him to see if he’d noticed anything about her condition,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘But Roar Wiik says he hasn’t been to the hospital.’

Silence spread round the boiler room.

‘Not the fiancé …’ Smith said. ‘So …’

The wheels of Harry’s chair shrieked, but it was already empty and heading at speed towards the wall.

Harry himself was already at the door. ‘Wyller, with me!’

Harry ran.

The hospital corridor stretched out and seemed to grow, growing faster than he could run, like an expanding universe which light and even thought couldn’t get through.

He only just managed to avoid running into a man who came out of a doorway clutching a drip stand with his hand.

One of yours.

Valentin had taken Aurora because she was Ståle Aune’s daughter.

Marte Ruud because she worked at Harry’s regular bar.

Penelope Rasch to show them that he could.

One of yours.

301.

Harry grabbed the pistol from his jacket pocket. A Glock 17 which had spent almost a year and a half lying untouched and locked away in a second-floor drawer. This morning he had taken it with him. Not because he imagined he would be using it, but because for the first time in four years he wasn’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t be using it.

He pushed the door open with his left hand as he pointed the pistol in front of him.

The room was empty. Had been emptied.

Rakel was gone. The bed was gone.

Harry gasped for air.

Went over to where the bed had been.

‘Sorry, she’s gone,’ a voice behind him said.

Harry spun round. Dr Steffens was standing in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of his white coat. He raised an eyebrow when he caught sight of the pistol.

‘Where is she?’ Harry panted.

‘I’ll tell you if you put that away.’

Harry lowered the pistol.

‘Tests,’ Steffens said.

‘Is she … is she OK?’

‘Her condition is the same as before, stable but unstable. But she’s going to survive the day, if that’s what you’re worrying about. Why the drama?’

‘She needs to be watched.’

‘Right now she’s being watched by five members of hospital staff.’

‘We’ll be placing an armed police guard outside her door. Any objections?’

‘No, but that isn’t up to me. Are you worried the murderer will come here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because she’s the wife of the man hunting him? We don’t give out room numbers to anyone who isn’t a relative.’

‘That didn’t stop someone pretending to be Penelope Rasch’s fiancé from getting hold of her room number.’

‘No?’

‘I’ll wait here until the officer is in place.’

‘In that case, maybe you’d like a cup of coffee.’

‘You don’t have to—’

‘No, but you need it. Just a moment, we’ve got some intriguingly bad coffee in the staffroom.’

Steffens left the room and Harry looked around. The chairs he and Oleg had sat in were still where they had left them the day before, on either side of the bed that was no longer there. Harry sat down on one of them and stared at the grey floor. Felt his pulse slow. Even so, he still felt there wasn’t enough air in the room. A strip of sunlight was falling through a gap in the curtains, reaching across the floor between the chairs, and he noticed a strand of fair hair curled on the floor. He picked it up. Could Valentin have been here looking for her, but got here too late? Harry swallowed. There was no reason to think about that now, she was safe.

Steffens came in and handed Harry a paper cup, took a sip of his own coffee and sat down on the other chair. The two men sat there opposite each other with a metre of empty space between them.

‘Your boy was here,’ Steffens said.

‘Oleg? He wasn’t going to come until after college.’

‘He asked after you. He seemed upset that you’d left his mother on her own.’

Harry nodded and drank some coffee.

‘They often get angry and full of moral indignation at that age,’ Steffens said. ‘They shift the blame for anything that goes wrong onto their father, and the man they once wanted to become suddenly represents everything they don’t want to become.’

‘Are you speaking from experience?’

‘Of course, we do that all the time.’ Steffens’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

‘Hm. Can I ask a personal question, Steffens?’

‘By all means.’

‘Does it end up positive?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The joy of saving lives minus the despair at losing people you could have saved.’

Steffens looked Harry in the eye. Perhaps it was the situation, two men sitting opposite each other in a largely darkened room, that made it a natural question. Ships passing in the night. Steffens took his glasses off and ran his hands over his face as if to wipe the tiredness away. He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘But you still do it.’

‘It’s a calling.’

‘Yes, I saw the crucifix in your office. You believe in callings.’

‘I think you do too, Hole. I’ve seen you. Maybe not a calling from God, but you still feel it all the same.’

Harry looked down at his cup. Steffens was right about the coffee being intriguingly bad. ‘Does that mean you don’t like your job?’

‘I hate my job,’ the senior consultant smiled. ‘If it had been up to me, I’d have chosen to be a concert pianist.’

‘You’re a good pianist?’

‘That’s the curse, isn’t it? When you’re not good at what you love, and good at something you hate.’

Harry nodded. ‘That’s the curse. We do jobs where we can be useful.’

‘And the lie is that there’s a reward for someone who follows a calling.’

‘Perhaps sometimes the work in itself is reward enough.’

‘Only for the concert pianist who loves music, or the executioner who loves blood.’ Steffens pointed to the name badge on his white coat. ‘I was born and raised a Mormon in Salt Lake City, and I’m named after John Doyle Lee, a God-fearing, peace-loving man who in 1857 was ordered by the elders of his parish to massacre a group of ungodly immigrants who had strayed into their territory. He wrote about his torments in his diary, about the terrible calling that fate had dealt him, but that he simply had to accept it.’

‘The Mountain Meadows massacre.’

‘So, you know your history, Hole.’

‘I studied serial murders at the FBI, and we went through the most famous mass killings as well. I have to confess that I don’t remember what happened to your namesake.’

Steffens looked at his watch. ‘Hopefully his reward was waiting in heaven, because on earth everyone betrayed John Doyle Lee, including our spiritual leader, Brigham Young. John Doyle was sentenced to death. But my father still thought he had set an example worth following, abandoning the cheap love of your fellows in favour of following a calling you hate.’

‘Maybe he didn’t hate it as much as he claimed.’

‘How do you mean?’

Harry shrugged. ‘An alcoholic hates and curses drink because it ruins his life. But at the same time it is his life.’

‘Interesting analogy.’ Steffens stood up, went over to the window and pulled the curtains open. ‘What about you, Hole? Is your calling still ruining your life, even though it is your life?’

Harry shaded his eyes and tried to look at Steffens, but was blinded by the sudden light. ‘Are you still a Mormon?’

‘Are you still working on the case?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘We don’t have a choice, do we? I need to get back to work, Harry.’

When Steffens had gone Harry called Gunnar Hagen’s number.

‘Hello, boss, I need a police guard at Ullevål Hospital,’ he said. ‘Immediately.’

Wyller was standing where he had been told to, beside the bonnet of the car, which was parked untidily in front of the main entrance.

‘I saw a police officer arrive,’ he said. ‘Everything OK?’

‘We’re putting a guard outside her door,’ Harry said, getting in the passenger seat.

Wyller tucked his pistol back in his holster and got in behind the wheel. ‘And Valentin?’

‘God knows.’

Harry took the strand of hair from his pocket. ‘This is probably just paranoia, but get Forensics to do an urgent analysis of this, just to rule out the possibility that it matches anything from the crime scenes, OK?’

They glided through the streets. It was like spooling back a slow-motion replay of their frantic drive twenty minutes earlier.

‘Do Mormons actually use crucifixes?’ Harry asked.

‘No,’ Wyller said. ‘They believe the cross symbolises death and is heathen. They believe in the resurrection.’

‘Hm. So a Mormon with a crucifix on his wall would be like …’

‘A Muslim with a drawing of Muhammad.’

‘Exactly.’ Harry turned the radio up. The White Stripes. ‘Blue Orchid’. Guitars and drums. Sparseness. Clarity.

He turned it up even louder, without knowing what it was he was trying to drown out.

Hallstein Smith was twiddling his thumbs. He was alone in the boiler room, and without the others there wasn’t a great deal he could do. He had completed his concise profile of the vampirist, and had surfed the Net reading the most recent articles about the vampirist murders. Then he had gone back and read what the media had written during the five days that had passed since the first murder. Hallstein Smith was wondering if he should make the most of the time to work on his PhD thesis when his phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Smith?’ a woman’s voice said. ‘This is Mona Daa from VG.’

‘Oh?’

‘You sound surprised.’

‘Only because I didn’t think we had any coverage down here.’

‘Speaking of coverage, can you confirm that the vampirist is probably responsible for the disappearance of a female member of staff from Schrøder’s Restaurant last night?’

‘Confirm? Me?’

‘Yes, you work for the police now, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, but I’m not in a position to say anything at all.’

‘Because you don’t know or because you can’t say?’

‘Both, perhaps. If I were to say something, it would have to be something general. As an expert on vampirism, in other words.’

‘Great! Because I’ve got a podcast—’

‘A what?’

‘Radio. VG has its own radio station.’

‘Oh, OK.’

‘Could we invite you in to talk about the vampirist? In general terms, of course.’

Hallstein Smith thought about it. ‘I’d have to get permission from the lead detective.’

‘Good, I’ll wait to hear from you. On a different subject, Smith. I wrote that piece about you. Which I assume you were happy with. Seeing as it did indirectly get you to the centre of the action.’

‘Yes. Sure.’

‘In return, could you tell me who at Police HQ lured me out to the container terminal yesterday?’

‘Lured you to do what?’

‘Never mind. Have a good day.’

Hallstein Smith was left staring at his phone. Container terminal? What was she talking about?

Truls Berntsen let his eyes roam across the rows of pictures of Megan Fox on his computer. It was almost frightening, the way she’d let herself go. Was it just the pictures or the fact that she’d turned thirty? Or knowing what childbirth must have done to the body that had defined perfection in the 2007 film Transformers? Or was it the fact that he himself had lost eight kilos of fat in the past two years, replacing them with four kilos of muscle and nine women fucked? Had that made his distant dreams of Megan Fox that bit less distant? The way one light year is less than two. Or was it simply the fact that in ten hours’ time he would be sitting with Ulla Bellman, the only woman he had ever lusted after more than Megan Fox?

He heard someone clear their throat and looked up.

Katrine Bratt was standing there, leaning against the partition.

After Wyller had moved down to that laughable boys’ club in the boiler room, Truls had been able to immerse himself fully in The Shield. He had now seen all the available seasons, and hoped Katrine Bratt wasn’t about to do anything that spoiled his free time.

‘Bellman wants to see you,’ she said.

‘OK.’ Truls switched his computer off, stood up and walked past Katrine Bratt. So close that he would have smelt her perfume if she had been wearing any. He thought all women really ought to use a bit of perfume. Not as much as the ones who overdid it, the ones who suffered solvent damage, but a bit. Enough to set his imagination going about how they really smelt.

While he waited for the lift he had time to wonder what Mikael wanted. But his mind was blank.

It wasn’t until he was standing in the Police Chief’s office that he realised he’d been found out. When he saw Mikael’s back over at the window, and heard him say, with no introduction: ‘You’ve let me down, Truls. Did the bitch approach you, or was it the other way round?’

It was like having a bucket of cold water tipped over him. What the hell had happened? Had Ulla broken down and confessed in a fit of guilty conscience? Or had Mikael pressurised her? And what the hell was he supposed to say now?

He cleared his throat. ‘She came to me, Mikael. She was the one who wanted it.’

‘Of course the bitch wanted it, they take whatever they can get. But the fact that she got it from you, my closest confidant, after all we’ve been through.’

Truls almost couldn’t believe that he was talking that way about his wife, the mother of his children.

‘I didn’t think I could say no to meeting up and having a chat, it wasn’t supposed to go any further.’

‘But it did, didn’t it?’

‘Nothing’s happened at all.’

‘Nothing at all? Do you not understand that you’ve told the murderer what we know and don’t know? How much did she pay?’

Truls blinked. ‘Pay?’ The penny dropped.

‘I’m assuming Mona Daa didn’t get the information for free? Tell me, and don’t forget that I know you, Truls.’

Truls Berntsen grinned. He was off the hook. And repeated: ‘Nothing’s happened at all.’

Mikael turned round, slammed his hand down on the desk and snarled: ‘Do you think we’re idiots?’

Truls studied the way the patches on Mikael’s face switched between white and red, as if the blood was sloshing back and forth inside. The patches had grown bigger over the years, like a snake shedding its skin.

‘Let’s hear what you think you know,’ Truls said, and sat down without asking.

Mikael looked at him in surprise. Then he sat down on his own chair. Because perhaps he had seen it in Truls’s eyes. That he wasn’t frightened. That if Truls was thrown overboard, he’d take Bellman with him. All the way down.

‘What I know,’ Mikael said, ‘is that Katrine Bratt showed up in my office early this morning to tell me that because I’d asked her to keep a close eye on you, she’d asked one of her detectives to keep you under surveillance. You were evidently already suspected of being the source of the leaks, Truls.’

‘Who was the detective?’

‘She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.’

Of course not, Truls thought. In case you find yourself in a tricky situation, where it would be useful to be able to deny all knowledge. Truls might not be the smartest guy in the world, but he wasn’t as stupid as those around him thought, and he had gradually started to work out how Mikael and the others up at the top of the hierarchy reasoned.

‘Bratt’s detective was proactive,’ Mikael said. ‘He discovered that you’d been in telephone contact with Mona Daa at least twice in the past week.’

A detective checking phone calls, Truls thought. Who had been in touch with telecoms companies. Anders Wyller. Little Truls wasn’t stupid. Oh no.

‘To confirm that you were Mona Daa’s source, he called her. He pretended to be the vampirist, and to prove it he asked her to call her source to check a detail that only the perpetrator and the police could know.’

‘The smoothie mixer.’

‘So you admit it?’

‘That Mona Daa called me, yes.’

‘Good. Because the detective woke Katrine Bratt last night to say he had a list of calls from the telecom company showing that Mona Daa called you right after he made his hoax call to her. This is going to be very hard to explain away, Truls.’

Truls shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to explain. Mona Daa called me, asked about a smoothie mixer, and naturally I refused to comment and referred her to the lead detective. The conversation lasted ten, maybe twenty seconds, as the list of calls no doubt confirms. Maybe Mona Daa already suspected that it was a bluff to try to uncover her source. So she called me instead of her source.’

‘According to the detective, she later went to the agreed location out in the container terminal to meet the vampirist. The detective even photographed the whole thing. So someone must have given her confirmation about the smoothie maker.’

‘Perhaps Mona Daa arranged to meet first, and then went to her source and got confirmation face-to-face. Police officers and journalists both know how easy it is to get hold of information showing who called who, and when.’

‘Speaking of which, you had two other telephone conversations with Mona Daa, one of which lasted several minutes.’

‘Check the list. Mona Daa called me, I’ve never called her. The fact that it takes a pit bull like Daa several minutes of banging on before she realises that she’s not going to get anything, and that she still tries again later to lance the boil, is her problem. I have quite a bit of time during the day.’

Truls leaned back in his chair. Folded his hands and looked at Mikael, who was sitting there nodding as if he was absorbing what Truls had said, thinking through possible holes that they might have missed. A little smile, a degree of warmth in those brown eyes, seemed to indicate that he had come to the conclusion that this might work, that they might be able to get Truls off the hook.

‘Good,’ Mikael said. ‘But now that it turns out you aren’t the leak, Truls, who could it be?’

Truls pouted his lips, the way his slightly plump French online date had taught him to do every time she asked him the complicated question ‘When are we going to meet again?’

‘You tell me. No one wants to be seen talking to a journalist like Daa in a case like this. No, the only person I’ve seen doing that is Wyller. Hang on – unless I’m remembering wrong, he gave her a number she could call him on. Actually, yes, she told him where he could get hold of her too, at that gym, Gain.’

Mikael Bellman looked at Truls. With a surprised little smile, like someone discovering after many years that their spouse can sing, has blue blood or a university degree.

‘So what you’re implying, Truls, is that our leak is probably someone who’s new here.’ Bellman stroked his chin thoughtfully with his forefinger and thumb. ‘A natural assumption seeing as the problem of the leak has only recently emerged, one which doesn’t – what’s the word I’m looking for? – reflect the culture we’ve nurtured within the Oslo Police in recent years. But I don’t suppose we shall ever know who it is or isn’t, seeing as the journalist is legally obliged to protect the identity of her source.’

Truls laughed his grunting laugh. ‘Good, Mikael.’

Mikael nodded. Leaned forward and, before Truls had time to react, grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him towards him.

‘How much did the bitch pay you, Beavis?’

22

TUESDAY AFTERNOON

MEHMET PULLED THE bathrobe tighter around him. He stared at the screen of his phone and pretended not to see the men coming and going in the rudimentary changing room. The entrance fee to the Cagaloglu Hamam gave no time limit on how long you could spend in the baths. But obviously, if a man were to sit in a changing room for hours looking at other naked men, there was a risk he might become unpopular. That’s why he kept moving about at regular intervals, between the sauna and the perpetually fog-clouded steam room as well as the pools of varying temperatures, from steaming hot to cold. And there was a practical reason, too: the rooms were connected by a number of doors, so he risked not seeing everyone if he didn’t move around. But right now the changing room was so cold that he wanted to get back into the warm. Mehmet looked at the time. Four o’clock. The Turkish tattooist thought he had seen the man with the demon tattoo at the baths early in the afternoon, and there probably wasn’t anything to say that serial killers couldn’t be creatures of habit too.

Harry Hole had explained that Mehmet was the perfect spy. Firstly, he was one of only two people who stood any chance of recognising Valentin Gjertsen’s face. Secondly, as a Turk he wouldn’t stand out in a bathhouse that was mostly frequented by his compatriots. Thirdly, because Valentin, according to Harry, would have spotted a police officer instantly. Besides, they had a mole at Crime Squad who was leaking everything to VG and God knows who else. So Harry and Mehmet were the only two people who knew about this operation. But the moment Mehmet let Harry know he had seen Valentin, it would take less than fifteen minutes before he was on the scene with armed police officers.

And in return, Harry had promised Mehmet that Øystein Eikeland was the perfect stand-in at the Jealousy Bar. A guy who had looked like an old scarecrow when he walked through the door, with the smell of a hard but enjoyable hippie lifestyle clinging to his shabby denim clothes. And when Mehmet asked if he’d stood behind a bar before, Eikeland had stuck a roll-up between his lips and sighed: ‘I’ve spent years in bars, lad. Standing, kneeling and lying down. Never on that side of the counter, though.’

But Eikeland was Harry’s trusted choice, so he just had to hope that nothing too bad happened. A week at most, Harry had said. Then he could go back to his bar. Harry had performed a little bow when he was given the key, on a key ring with a broken plastic heart, the logo of the Jealousy Bar, and told Mehmet that they needed to discuss the music. That there were people over thirty who don’t get dandruff from new music, and that there was even hope for someone bogged down in the Bad Company swamp. The thought of that discussion alone was worth at least a week of tedium, Mehmet thought as he scrolled down VG’s website, even though he must have read the same headlines ten times now.

FAMOUS VAMPIRISTS IN HISTORY. And while he stared at the screen and waited for the rest of the article to load, something odd happened. It was as if he couldn’t breathe for a moment. He looked up. The door to the baths swung shut. He looked around. The other three men in the changing room were the same ones as before. Someone had entered and walked through the room. Mehmet locked his phone in his locker, got up and followed.

The boilers in the next room were rumbling. Harry looked at the time. Five past four. He pushed his chair back, folded his hands behind his head and leaned against the brick wall. Smith, Bjørn and Wyller looked at him.

‘It’s been sixteen hours since Marte Ruud went missing,’ Harry said. ‘Anything new?’

‘Hair,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘The team at the scene found strands of hair by the main entrance at Schrøder’s. They look like they could be a match for the hairs we got from Valentin Gjertsen off the handcuffs. They’ve been sent for analysis. Hair suggests a struggle, and also that he didn’t clean up after himself this time. And that also means that there couldn’t have been too much blood, so there’s reason to hope that she was alive when they left.’

‘OK,’ Smith said. ‘There’s a chance she’s alive, and that he’s using her as a cow.’

‘Cow?’ Wyller asked.

The boiler room fell silent. Harry grimaced. ‘You mean he … he’s milking her?’

‘The body takes twenty-four hours to reproduce one per cent of the body’s red blood cells,’ Smith said. ‘At best, it might quench his thirst for blood for a while. At worst, it might mean that he’s even more focused on regaining power and control. And that he’s going to try again to find the people who’ve humiliated him. Which means you and yours, Harry.’

‘My wife is under police guard, round the clock, and I’ve left a message for my son telling him to be careful.’

‘So it’s possible that he might attack men as well?’ Wyller asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Smith said.

Harry felt his trouser pocket vibrate. He pulled out his phone. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s Øystein. How do you make a daiquiri? I’ve got a difficult customer and Mehmet isn’t answering.’

‘How should I know? Doesn’t the customer know?’

‘No.’

‘Something to do with rum and lime. Ever heard of Google?’

‘Of course, I’m not an idiot. That’s on the Internet, isn’t it?’

‘Try it, you might like it. I’m hanging up now.’ Harry ended the call. ‘Sorry. Anything else?’

‘Witness statements from people in the vicinity of Schrøder’s,’ Wyller said. ‘No one saw or heard anything. Odd, on such a busy street.’

‘It can be pretty deserted there around midnight on a Monday night,’ Harry said. ‘But getting someone, conscious or unconscious, away from there without being seen? Hardly. He might have been parked right outside.’

‘There’s no vehicle registered to Valentin Gjertsen, and no vehicle was leased under that name yesterday,’ Wyller said.

Harry spun towards him.

Wyller looked back quizzically. ‘I know the chances of him using his real name are pretty much zero, but I checked anyway. Isn’t that …?’

‘Yeah, that’s absolutely fine,’ Harry said. ‘Send the photofit picture to the car-rental companies. And there’s a twenty-four-hour Deli de Luca next to Schrøder’s—’

‘I was at the morning meeting of the investigative team and they’ve checked the security cameras there,’ Bjørn said. ‘Nothing.’

‘OK, anything else I should know about?’

‘They’re working in the USA to get access to the victims’ IP addresses on Facebook using a subpoena rather than going via a court,’ Wyller said. ‘That means we wouldn’t get the contents, but all the addresses of people they’ve sent and received messages to and from. It could be a matter of weeks rather than months.’

Mehmet was standing outside the door of the hararet. He had seen the door close as he emerged into the baths from the changing room. And it was in the hararet that the man with the tattoo had been seen. Mehmet knew it wasn’t very likely that Valentin would show up as soon as this, on the first day. Unless he came several times a week, of course. So why stand there hesitating?

Mehmet swallowed.

Then he pulled the door of the hararet open and went inside. The thick steam moved, swirled around, disappeared out through the door, opening a corridor into the room. And for a moment Mehmet found himself staring at the face of a man sitting on the second bench up. Then the corridor closed again and the face was gone. But Mehmet had seen enough.

It was him. The man who had come into the bar that evening.

Should he run out straight away or sit down for a while first? After all, the man had seen Mehmet staring at him, and if he walked out at once surely he’d get suspicious?

Mehmet stood where he was by the door.

It felt like the steam he was breathing in was making his airways tighter. He couldn’t wait any longer, he had to get out. Mehmet nudged the door gently and slipped out. Ran across the slippery tiles with short, careful steps so as not to fall, and reached the changing room. He swore as he struggled with the code on his padlock. Four digits. 1683. The Battle of Vienna. The year when the Ottoman Empire ruled the world, or at least the part of the world that was worth ruling. When the empire couldn’t expand any further, and the decline began. Defeat after defeat. Was that why he had picked that year, because it somehow reflected his own story, a story of having everything and losing it? Eventually he managed to open the lock. He grabbed his phone, tapped at it and held it to his ear. Stared at the door to the baths, which had swung shut again, every moment expecting the man to come rushing in and attack him.

‘Yes?’

‘He’s here,’ Mehmet whispered.

‘Sure?’

‘Yes. In the hararet.’

‘Keep an eye on it, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

‘You’ve done what?’ Bjørn Holm said, taking his foot off the clutch as the lights turned green on Hausmannsgate.

‘I hired a civilian volunteer to watch the Turkish baths in Sagene,’ Harry said, looking in the wing mirror of Bjørn Holm’s legendary 1970 Volvo Amazon. Originally white, later painted black, with a chequered rally stripe across the roof and boot. The car behind disappeared in a cloud of black exhaust fumes.

‘Without asking us?’ Bjørn blew his horn and overtook an Audi on the inside.

‘It’s not entirely by the book, so there was no reason to make any of you accomplices.’

‘There are fewer traffic lights if you take Maridalsveien,’ Wyller said from the back seat.

Bjørn changed into a lower gear and wrenched the car to the right. Harry felt the pressure of the three-point seat belt that Volvo had been the first to install, but they had no slack which meant you could hardly move.

‘How are you doing, Smith?’ Harry called over the roar of the engine. He wouldn’t usually have brought an external adviser on an active operation like this, but at the last moment he decided to take Smith in case they found themselves in a hostage situation, when the psychologist’s ability to read Valentin could come in handy. The way he had read Aurora. The way he had read Harry.

‘A bit carsick, that’s all,’ Smith smiled weakly. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘Old clutch, heater and adrenalin,’ Bjørn said.

‘Listen up,’ Harry said. ‘We’ll be there in two minutes, so I repeat: Smith, you stay in the car. Wyller and I will go in through the front door, Bjørn will watch the back door. You said you know where it is?’

‘Yep,’ Bjørn said. ‘And your man is still online?’

Harry nodded and put his phone to his ear. They pulled up in front of an old brick building. Harry had looked at the plans. It was a former factory which now housed a printing firm, some offices, a recording studio and the hamam, and there was only one other door apart from the front entrance.

‘Everyone loaded, safety off?’ Harry asked, breathing out as he unfastened the tight seat belt. ‘We want him alive. But if that’s not possible …’ He looked up at the glinting windows on either side of the main entrance as he heard Bjørn recite in a low voice: ‘Police, warning shot, then shoot the bastard. Police, warning shot, then—’

‘Let’s go,’ Harry said.

They got out of the car, crossed the pavement and split up by the front entrance.

Harry and Wyller went up the three steps and in through a heavy door. The hallways inside smelt of ammonia and printers’ ink. Two of the doors had shiny gilded signs with ornate writing: small, optimistic law firms that couldn’t afford to rent in the city centre. On the third door was an unassuming sign saying CAGALOGLU HAMAM, so unassuming that it gave the impression they didn’t want customers who didn’t already know where it was.

Harry opened the door and walked in.

He found himself in a passageway with peeling paint on the walls and a simple desk, where a broad-shouldered man with dark stubble and a tracksuit was sitting and reading a magazine. If Harry hadn’t known better, he would have thought he’d walked into a boxing club.

‘Police,’ Wyller said, sticking his ID between the magazine and the man’s face. ‘Sit completely still and don’t warn anyone. This will be over in a couple of minutes.’

Harry carried on down the passageway and saw two doors. One said CHANGING ROOM, the other HAMAM. He went into the baths, and heard Wyller follow close behind him.

There were three small pools laid out in a row. To their right were booths containing massage tables. To the left were two glass doors which Harry assumed led to the sauna and steam room, and a plain wooden door that he remembered from the plans as the door to the changing room. In the nearest pool two men looked up and stared at them. Mehmet was sitting on a bench by the wall, pretending to look at his phone. He hurried over to them and pointed towards the glass door with a misted plastic sign saying HARARET.

‘Is he alone?’ Harry asked quietly as he and Wyller each pulled out their Glocks. He heard frantic splashing from the pool behind him.

‘No one’s entered or left since I called you,’ Mehmet whispered.

Harry went over to the door and tried to look in, but saw nothing but impenetrable whiteness. He gestured to Wyller to cover the door. He took a deep breath and was about to go in when he changed his mind. The sound of shoes. Valentin’s suspicions mustn’t be aroused by the entrance of someone who wasn’t barefoot. Harry pulled his shoes and socks off with his free hand. Then he pulled the door open and went in. The steam swirled around him. Like a bridal veil. Rakel. Harry didn’t know where the thought had come from, and thrust it aside. And managed to catch a glimpse of a solitary figure on the wooden bench in front of him before he closed the door behind him and was enveloped in whiteness again. That and silence. Harry held his breath and listened for the other man’s breathing. Had the man had time to see that the new arrival was fully clothed and holding a pistol? Was he scared? Was he scared the way Aurora had been scared when she saw his cowboy boots outside her toilet cubicle?

Harry raised his pistol and moved towards where he had seen the figure. And he could make out the shape of a seated man against the white. Harry squeezed the trigger until it resisted.

‘Police,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.’ And another thought struck him. That in a situation like this he would usually say or we’ll shoot. It was simple psychology, it gave the impression that there were more of them, and increased the chances of the person surrendering immediately. So why had he said ‘I’? And now that his brain had accepted one question, others appeared: why was he on his own here, rather than the Delta team that specialised in this sort of job? Why had he really stationed Mehmet here in complete secrecy and not told anyone at all until after Mehmet had called?

Harry felt the slight resistance of the trigger against his index finger. So slight.

Two men in a room where no one else could see them.

Who would be able to deny that Valentin, who had already killed several people with just his bare hands and iron teeth, had attacked Harry, forcing Harry to shoot him in self-defence?

‘Vurma!’ the figure in front of him said, and raised his arms in the air.

Harry leaned closer.

The skinny man was naked. His eyes were wide with terror. And his chest was covered with grey hair, but was otherwise unblemished.

23

TUESDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

‘WHAT THE HELL?!’ Katrine bratt yelled, throwing the rubber she’d picked up from her desk. It hit the wall just above Harry Hole’s head where he was sitting slumped in a chair. ‘As if we didn’t have enough problems, you manage to break pretty much every damn rule in the book, plus a couple of the country’s laws for good measure. What were you thinking?’

Rakel, Harry thought, tipping backwards until his chair hit the wall. I was thinking about Rakel. And Aurora.

‘What?’

‘I was thinking that if there was a shortcut which meant we could bring Valentin Gjertsen in just one day earlier, it might save someone’s life.’

‘Don’t give me that, Harry! You know bloody well that isn’t how it works. If everyone thought and acted—’

‘You’re right, I know that. And I know that Valentin Gjertsen came very close to being caught. He saw Mehmet, recognised him from the bar, realised what was going on and snuck out the back way while Mehmet was in the changing room phoning me. And I know that if it had been Valentin Gjertsen sitting in that steam room when we got there, you’d already have forgiven me and started praising proactive, creative police work. Exactly what you set up the boiler-room team for.’

‘You bastard!’ Katrine snarled, and Harry saw her searching her desk for something else to throw at him. Fortunately she rejected the stapler and the sheaf of judicial correspondence from America relating to Facebook. ‘I did not give you licence to act like cowboys. I haven’t seen a single newspaper that isn’t running the raid at the baths as the lead on their website. Weapons in a peaceful bathhouse, innocent civilians in the firing line, a naked ninety-year-old threatened with a pistol. And no arrest! It’s all just so …’ She raised her hands and looked up at the ceiling, as if she were surrendering judgement to higher powers. ‘… amateurish!’

‘Am I being fired?’

‘Do you want to be fired?’

Harry saw her in front of him. Rakel, sleeping, her thin eyelids twitching, like Morse code from the land of coma. ‘Yes,’ he said. And he saw Aurora, the anxiety and pain in her eyes, the damage in there that could never be healed. ‘And no. Do you want to fire me?’

Katrine groaned, stood up and went over to the window. ‘Yes, I want to fire someone,’ she said with her back to him. ‘But not you.’

‘Mm.’

‘Mm,’ she mimicked.

‘Do you feel like elaborating?’

‘I’d like to fire Truls Berntsen.’

‘That goes without saying.’

‘Yes, but not for being useless and lazy. He’s the one who’s been leaking to VG.’

‘And how did you find that out?’

‘Anders Wyller set a trap. He went a bit too far – I think perhaps there was a degree of payback as far as Mona Daa was concerned. Either way, we won’t have any trouble from her if she’s been paying a public official for information, seeing as she should have known that could lead to charges for corruption.’

‘So why haven’t you fired Berntsen?’

‘Guess,’ she said, going back to her desk.

‘Mikael Bellman?’

Katrine threw a pencil, not at Harry but the closed door. ‘Bellman came in here, sat where you’re sitting now, and said that Berntsen had convinced him of his innocence. And then he implied that it could have been Wyller himself who had been talking to VG and then tried to pin the blame on Berntsen. But that we couldn’t prove anything yet, so it would be best to let it go and concentrate on catching Valentin, that was the only thing that mattered. What do you make of that?’

‘Well, maybe Bellman’s right, maybe it’s best to delay washing our own dirty laundry until we’ve stopped wrestling in the gutter.’

Katrine pulled a face. ‘Did you think of that one all by yourself?’

Harry extracted his packet of cigarettes. ‘Speaking of leaks. The papers are saying I was at the bathhouse, and that’s OK, I got recognised. But no one apart from the boiler room and you know about Mehmet’s role in this. And I’d rather keep it that way, just to be on the safe side.’

Katrine nodded. ‘I actually raised that with Bellman and he agreed. He says we’ve got a lot to lose if it gets out that we’re using civilians to do our work for us, that it makes us look desperate. He said that Mehmet and his role in this shouldn’t be mentioned to anyone, including the investigative team. I think that makes sense, even if Truls is no longer allowed to take part in meetings.’

‘Really?’

Katrine raised one corner of her mouth. ‘He’s been given his own office where he can file away reports about cases that are nothing to do with the vampirist murders.’

‘So you have fired him after all,’ Harry said, sticking a cigarette between his lips. His phone vibrated against his thigh. He pulled it out. A text from Dr Steffens.

Tests finished. Rakel’s back in 301.

‘I need to go.’

‘Are you still with us, Harry?’

‘I need to think about that.’

Outside Police HQ Harry found his lighter in a hole in the lining of his jacket, and lit the cigarette. He looked at the people walking past him on the path. They seemed so calm, so untroubled. There was something very disconcerting about that. Where was he? Where the hell was Valentin?

‘Hi,’ Harry said as he walked into room 301.

Oleg was sitting next to Rakel’s bed, which was back in place. He looked up from the book he was reading but didn’t respond.

Harry sat down on the other side of the bed. ‘Any news?’

Oleg leafed through the book.

‘OK, listen,’ Harry said, taking his jacket off and hanging it on the back of his chair. ‘I know you think that when I’m not sitting here it means I care more about work than I do about her. That there are others who could solve the murders, but that she only has you and me.’

‘Isn’t that true, then?’ Oleg said, without looking up from the book.

‘I’m of no use to her right now, Oleg. I can’t save anyone in here, but out there I can make a difference. I can save lives.’

Oleg closed his book and looked at Harry. ‘Good to hear that you’re driven by philanthropy. Otherwise one might think it was something else.’

‘Something else?’

Oleg dropped the book in his bag. ‘A desire for glory. You know, all that Harry-Hole-is-back-to-save-the-day stuff.’

‘Do you think that’s what it’s about?’

Oleg shrugged. ‘The important thing is what you think. That you can convince yourself with that bullshit.’

‘Is that how you see me? A bullshitter?’

Oleg stood up. ‘Do you know why I always wanted to be like you? It wasn’t because you were all that great. It was because I didn’t have anyone else. You were the only man in the house. But now I can see you more clearly, I need to do all I can not to end up like you. Deprogramming initiated, Harry.’

‘Oleg …’

But he had already left the room.

Damn, damn.

Harry felt his phone buzz in his pocket and switched it off without looking at it. Listened to the machine. Someone had increased the volume so that it made a slightly delayed bleeping sound every time the green line jumped.

Like a clock counting down.

Counting down for her.

Counting down for someone out there.

What if Valentin was sitting looking at a clock right now, as he waited for the next one?

Harry started to pull out his phone. Then let go of it again.

The low, slanting light meant that when he put his broad hand on top of Rakel’s thin one, blue veins cast shadows across the back of his hand. He tried not to count the bleeps.

By 806 he couldn’t sit still any longer, and stood up and walked round the room. He went out, found a doctor who didn’t want to go into any details but said that Rakel’s condition was stable, and that they had discussed bringing her out of the coma.

‘Sounds like good news,’ Harry said.

The doctor hesitated before replying. ‘We’re only discussing it,’ he said. ‘There are arguments against it as well. Steffens is on duty tonight, you can talk to him when he gets here.’

Harry found the cafeteria, got something to eat and went back to room 301. The police officer outside the door nodded.

It had got dark in the room and Harry lit the lamp on the table next to the bed. He tapped a cigarette out of the packet as he studied Rakel’s eyelids. Her lips, which had become so dry. He tried to reconstruct the first time they met. He had been standing on the drive in front of her house, and she’d walked towards him, like a ballerina. After so many years, was he remembering it right? That first look. The first words. The first kiss. Maybe it was inevitable that you revised your memories, little by little, so that they eventually became a story, with the logic of a story, with weight and meaning. A story that said they had been on their way towards this all along, one that they repeated to each other, like a ritual, until they believed it. So when she disappeared, when the story of Rakel and Harry disappeared, what would he believe in then?

He lit the cigarette.

Inhaled, exhaled, saw the smoke swirl up towards the smoke alarm, dissipate.

Disappear. Alarm, he thought.

His hand slid into his pocket and grasped the cold, dormant phone.

Damn, damn.

A calling, as Steffens had put it: what did that mean? When you take a job you hate because you know you’re the best at it? Somewhere you can be useful. Like a self-effacing herd animal. Or was it like Oleg said, personal glory? Was he longing to be out there, shining, while she lay in here wasting away? OK, he’d never noticed any great sense of responsibility to society, and the recognition of colleagues or the public had never meant much. So what did that leave?

That left Valentin. That left the hunt.

There was a double knock, and the door slid open quietly. Bjørn Holm snuck in and sat down on the other chair.

‘Smoking inside a hospital,’ he said. ‘A six-year sentence, I reckon.’

‘Two years,’ Harry said, passing the cigarette to Bjørn. ‘Do me a favour and be my accomplice?’

Bjørn nodded towards Rakel. ‘You’re not worried she might get lung cancer?’

‘Rakel loves passive smoking. She says she likes both the fact that it’s free, and that my body has already absorbed most of the toxins before I blow the smoke out again. I act as a combination of wallet and cigarette filter for her.’

Bjørn took a drag. ‘Your voicemail’s switched off, so I figured you were here.’

‘Hm. For a forensics expert you’ve always been pretty good at deduction.’

‘Thanks. How’s it going?’

‘They’re talking about bringing her out of the coma. I’m choosing to see that as good news. Something urgent?’

‘No one we’ve spoken to from the bathhouse recognised Valentin from the photofit picture. The guy behind the desk said there were loads of people coming and going the whole time, but that he thought our man could be someone who usually shows up in a coat covering his bathrobe, with a cap pulled low, and that he always pays cash.’

‘So the payment doesn’t leave any electronic record. Bathrobe on underneath, so there’s no risk of anyone seeing the tattoo when he gets changed. How does he get from his home to the baths?’

‘If he has a car, he must have had the car keys in the pocket of his bathrobe. Or bus money. Because there was absolutely nothing on the clothes we found in the changing room, not even fluff in the pockets. We can probably find some DNA on them, but they smelt of detergent. I reckon even his coat had been recently washed in a machine.’

‘That fits with the obsessive cleanliness at the crime scenes. The fact that he takes his keys and money into a steam sauna suggests he’s ready for a quick escape.’

‘Yes. No witnesses who saw a man in a bathrobe on the streets of Sagene either, so he can’t have caught the bus this time, at least.’

‘He had his car parked near the back door. It’s no accident that he’s managed to stay hidden for four years, he’s smart.’ Harry rubbed the back of his neck. ‘OK. We chased him away. What now?’

‘We’re checking the security cameras in shops and petrol stations near the baths, looking for caps and maybe a bathrobe sticking out beneath a coat. By the way, I’m going to cut the coat open first thing tomorrow. There’s a tiny hole in the lining of one pocket, and it’s possible that something could have slipped in and got lost among the padding.’

‘He’s avoiding security cameras.’

‘You think?’

‘Yes. If we do see him, it will be because he wants to be seen.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Bjørn Holm unbuttoned his parka. His pale forehead was damp with sweat.

Harry blew cigarette smoke towards Rakel. ‘What is it, Bjørn?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You didn’t have to come up here to give me that report.’

Bjørn didn’t answer. Harry waited. The machine bleeped and bleeped.

‘It’s Katrine,’ Bjørn said. ‘I don’t understand. I saw from my call list that she tried to ring me last night, but when I called back she said her phone must have dialled me by accident.’

‘And?’

‘At three o’clock in the morning? She doesn’t sleep on top of her phone.’

‘So why didn’t you ask her?’

‘Because I didn’t want to nag. She needs time. Space. She’s a bit like you.’ Bjørn took the cigarette from Harry.

‘Me?’

‘A loner.’

Harry snatched the cigarette back just as Bjørn was about to take a drag.

‘You are,’ Bjørn protested.

‘What do you want?’

‘It’s driving me mad, going round not knowing anything. So I was wondering …’ Bjørn scratched his beard hard. ‘You and Katrine are close. Could you …?’

‘Check the lie of the land?’

‘Something like that. I’ve got to get her back, Harry.’

Harry stubbed the cigarette out on the leg of the chair. Looked at Rakel. ‘Sure. I’ll talk to Katrine.’

‘But without her …’

‘… knowing it’s come from you.’

‘Thanks,’ Bjørn said. ‘You’re a good friend, Harry.’

‘Me?’ Harry put the butt back in the cigarette packet. ‘I’m a loner.’

When Bjørn had gone Harry closed his eyes. Listened to the machine. The countdown.

24

TUESDAY EVENING

HIS NAME WAS Olsen, and he ran Olsen’s, but the place had been called that when he took it over twenty years ago. Some people thought it was an unlikely coincidence, but how unlikely is it when unlikely things happen all the time, every day, every single second? Because someone has to win the lottery, that much is obvious. Even so, the person who wins it not only thinks that it’s unlikely, but that it’s a miracle. For this reason, Olsen didn’t believe in miracles. But this was a borderline case. Ulla Swart had just come in and sat down at Truls Berntsen’s table, where he had already been sitting for twenty minutes. The miracle was that it was an arranged meeting. Because Olsen was in no doubt that it was an arranged meeting, he had spent over twenty years standing here watching nervous men unable to stand still, or sitting drumming their fingers, waiting for the girl of their dreams. The miracle was that when she was young Ulla Swart had been the most beautiful girl in the whole of Manglerud, and Truls Berntsen the biggest pile of shit and loser in the gang that hung out in Manglerud shopping centre and went to Olsen’s. Truls, or Beavis, had been Mikael Bellman’s shadow, and Mikael hadn’t been top of the popularity lists either. But he had at least had his appearance and way with words on his side, and had managed to get the girl the hockey boys and bikers alike all drooled over. And then he went and became Chief of Police, so Mikael must have had something. Truls Berntsen, on the other hand: once a loser, always a loser.

Olsen went over to the table to take their order and try to hear what they were saying during this unlikely meeting.

‘I got here a bit early,’ Truls said, nodding towards the almost empty glass of beer in front of him.

‘I’m late,’ Ulla said, pulling her handbag over her head and unbuttoning her coat. ‘I almost didn’t get away.’

‘Oh?’ Truls took a small, quick sip of beer to hide how shaky he was.

‘Yes, it … it’s not easy, this, Truls.’ She smiled briefly. Noticed Olsen, who had sailed up behind her without a sound.

‘I’ll wait a while,’ she said, and he vanished.

Wait? Truls thought. Was she going to see how it went? Leave if she changed her mind? If he didn’t live up to expectations? And what expectations were they, given that they had practically grown up together?

Ulla looked round. ‘God, the last time I was here was at that school reunion ten years ago, do you remember?’

‘No,’ Truls said. ‘I didn’t come.’

She picked at the sleeves of her sweater.

‘That case you’re working on now is terrible. Shame you didn’t catch him today. Mikael told me what happened.’

‘Yeah,’ Truls said. Mikael. So the first thing she did was bring him up, and hold him in front of her like a shield. Was she just nervous, or did she not know what she wanted? ‘What did he say about it?’

‘That Harry Hole had used that bartender who saw the killer before the first murder. Mikael was very angry.’

‘The bartender at the Jealousy Bar?’

‘I think so.’

‘Used him to do what?’

‘To sit in that Turkish bathhouse and keep an eye out for the murderer. Didn’t you know?’

‘I’ve been working with … some other murder cases today.’

‘Oh. Well, it’s nice to see you. I can’t stay long, but—’

‘Long enough for me to get another beer?’

He saw her hesitate. Damn.

‘Is it the children?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Are they ill?’

Truls saw Ulla’s brief confusion before she grabbed the lifebelt he was offering her. Offering them both.

‘The little one’s a bit poorly.’ She shivered under her thick sweater, and looked as if she was trying to curl up inside as she looked around. Only three of the other tables were occupied, and Truls assumed she didn’t know any of the other customers. She certainly looked a bit more relaxed after her scan. ‘Truls?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I ask you an odd question?’

‘Of course.’

‘What is it you want?’

‘Want?’ He took another sip to gain himself a timeout. ‘Now, you mean?’

‘I mean, what do you want for yourself? What does everyone want?’

I want to take off your clothes, fuck you and hear you scream for more, Truls thought. And after that, I want you to go to the fridge, get me a cold beer, then lie in my arms and say that you’re giving it all up for me. The kids, Mikael, that fuck-off great house where I built the veranda, everything. All because I want to be with you, Truls Berntsen, because now, after this, it’s impossible for me to go back to anyone but you, you, you. And then I want us to fuck some more.

‘It’s being liked, isn’t it?’

Truls gulped. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Being liked by the people we like. Other people aren’t as important, are they?’

Truls felt his face make an expression, but didn’t know what it was supposed to mean.

Ulla leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘And from time to time, when we think we aren’t liked, when we get trampled on, we feel like trampling on them in return, don’t we?’

‘Yes,’ Truls said, nodding. ‘We feel like trampling on them in return.’

‘But that urge disappears as soon as we realise that we’re liked after all. And you know what? This evening Mikael said he likes me. In passing, and not directly, but …’ She bit her lower lip. That wonderful, blood-filled lower lip that Truls had been staring at since they were sixteen years old. ‘That’s all it takes, Truls. Isn’t that strange?’

‘Very strange,’ Truls said, looking down into his empty glass. And wondering how to formulate what he was thinking. That sometimes someone saying they like you doesn’t mean a damn thing. Especially when it’s Mikael fucking Bellman saying it.

‘I don’t think I ought to make the little one wait any longer.’

Truls looked up and saw Ulla peering at her watch with an expression of deep concern. ‘Of course not,’ he said.

‘I hope we get longer next time.’

Truls managed not to ask when that was going to be. He merely stood up, tried not to hug her longer than she hugged him. And sat down heavily on his chair when the door closed behind her. Felt rage building. Heavy, slow, painful, wonderful rage.

‘Another beer?’ Olsen had silently appeared again.

‘Yes. Actually, no. I need to make a call. Does that still work?’ He gestured towards the booth with the glass door where Mikael claimed to have fucked Stine Michaelsen during a student party when the place was so packed that no one could see what was going on below chest height. Least of all Ulla, who was standing in the queue at the bar to buy beer for them.

‘Sure.’

Truls went inside and looked up the number on his own mobile phone.

Tapped the payphone’s shiny square buttons.

Waited. He had decided to wear a tight shirt to show off the fact that he had bigger pecs, bigger biceps and a narrower waist than Ulla probably remembered. But she had hardly looked at him. Truls puffed himself up and felt his shoulders touch both sides of the booth. It was even smaller than that fucking office they’d stuffed him in today.

Bellman. Bratt. Wyller. Hole. They could all burn in hell.

‘Mona Daa.’

‘Berntsen. What will you pay to find out what really happened at the bathhouse today?’

‘Have you got a teaser?’

‘Yep. Oslo Police risk life of innocent bartender to catch Valentin.’

‘We can probably come to an arrangement.’

He wiped the condensation from the bathroom mirror and looked at himself.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered. ‘Who are you?’

He closed his eyes. Opened them again.

‘I’m Alexander Dreyer. But call me Alex.’

From the living room behind him he heard insane laughter. Something that sounded like a machine or a helicopter, and then the terrified screams that marked the transition between ‘Speak to Me’ and ‘Breathe’. It was those screams he had tried to conjure up, but none of them had wanted to scream like that.

The condensation was almost gone from the mirror. He was finally clean now. And he could see the tattoo. A lot of people, mostly women, had asked why he had chosen to have a demon engraved into the skin of his chest. As if he had chosen it. They knew nothing. Nothing about him.

‘Who are you, Alex? I’m a claims manager at Storebrand. No, I don’t want to talk about insurance, let’s talk about you instead. What do you do, Tone? Would you like to scream for me while I slice your nipples off and eat them?’

He walked from the bathroom to the living room, and looked down at the picture lying on the desk, beside the white key. Tone. She had been on Tinder for two years, and lived on Professor Dahls gate. She worked in a horticultural nursery and wasn’t all that attractive. And she was a bit plump. He would have preferred her to be thinner. Marte was thin. He liked Marte. Her freckles suited her. But Tone. He ran his hand across the red hilt of the revolver.

The plan hadn’t changed, even though it had come close to falling apart today. He didn’t recognise the guy who had come into the hararet, but it was obvious that the guy recognised him. His pupils had dilated, you could see his pulse rate rise, and he had stood paralysed in the thinner mist near the door before hurrying out. But not before the air was thick with the smell of his fear.

As usual, the car had been parked by the pavement less than a hundred metres from the back door that opened onto a little-used street. Obviously he had never been a regular at any bathhouse that didn’t have an escape route of that sort. Or a bathhouse that wasn’t clean. And he never went into a bathhouse without having his keys in the pocket of his bathrobe.

He wondered if he should shoot Tone after biting her. Just to create a bit of confusion. See what sort of headlines that led to. But that would be breaking the rules. And the other was already angry at him for breaking them with the waitress.

He pressed the revolver against his stomach to feel the shock of cold steel before putting it down. How close were the police? VG had said that the police were hoping that some sort of legal process would force Facebook to surrender addresses. But he didn’t understand things like that, and wasn’t bothered by them. It didn’t trouble Alexander Dreyer or Valentin Gjertsen. His mother said she named him after Valentino, the first and greatest romantic lead in cinema history. So she only had herself to blame for giving him a name to live up to. At first it had been relatively risk-free. Because when you rape a girl before you’re sixteen, and the lucky girl is past the age of consent, she’s old enough to know that if the court concludes that it was consensual sex rather than rape, then she risks punishment for having sex with a minor. After you turn sixteen the risk of being reported is greater. Unless you rape the woman who named you Valentino. Mind you, was that really rape? When she’d started locking herself in her room, and he told her it was her or the girls in the neighbourhood, teachers, female relatives, or just random victims picked off the streets, and then she unlocked the door? The psychologists he had told that to hadn’t believed him. Well, after a while they had believed him. All of them.

Pink Floyd moved on to ‘On the Run’. Agitated drums, pulsing synthesisers, the sound of feet running, fleeing. Fleeing from the police. From Harry Hole’s handcuffs. Wretched pervert.

He picked up the glass of lemonade from the table. Took a little sip, looked at it. Then he threw it at the wall. The glass shattered and the yellow liquid ran down the white wallpaper. He heard swearing from the neighbouring flat.

Then he went into the bedroom. Checked her ankles and wrists were securely tied to the bedposts. He looked down at the freckled waitress as she lay asleep in his bed. She was breathing evenly. The drug was working the way it should. Was she dreaming? About the blue-black man? Or was he the only one who did that? One of the psychologists had suggested that this recurring nightmare was a half-forgotten childhood memory, that it was his own father he had seen sitting on top of his mother. That was rubbish, obviously, he had never seen his father; according to his mother he had raped her once and then vanished. A bit like the Virgin Mary and the Holy Spirit. Which made him the Messiah. Why not? The one who would return in judgement.

He stroked Marte’s cheek. It had been a long time since he’d had a real, live woman in his bed. And he definitely preferred Harry Hole’s waitress to his own usual, dead Japanese girlfriend. So yes, it was a great shame that he was going to have to give her up. A shame that he couldn’t follow the demon’s instincts and had to listen to the other’s voice instead, the voice of reason. The voice of reason had been angry. Its instructions detailed. A forest beside a deserted road to the north-east of the city.

He went back to the living room, sat down on the chair. The smooth leather felt good against his naked skin, which was still tingling with pain from the boiling hot shower. He switched on the new phone, into which he had already inserted the SIM card he had been given. Tinder and the VG app were next to each other. He clicked on VG first. Waited. Having to wait was part of the excitement. Was he still the lead story? He could understand the B-list celebrities who’d do anything to be seen. A singer preparing food with some clown of a television cook because – as she doubtless believed – she needed to stay current.

Harry Hole stared gloomily at him.

Elise Hermansen’s bartender exploited by police.

He clicked on ‘Read more’ below the picture. Scrolled down.

Sources say that that bartender was stationed in a Turkish bathhouse to spy for the police …

The guy in the hararet. Working for the police. For Harry Hole.

… because he’s the only person who can identify Valentin Gjertsen with any certainty.

He stood up, felt the leather let go of his skin with a slurping sound, and went back to the bedroom.

He looked in the mirror. Who are you? Who are you? You’re the only one. The only one who’s seen and knows the face I’m looking at now.

There wasn’t any name or picture of the man. And he hadn’t looked at the bartender that evening in the Jealousy Bar. Because eye contact makes people remember. But now they had had eye contact. And he remembered. He ran his finger across the demon’s face. The face that wanted to get out, that had to get out.

In the living room ‘On the Run’ came to an end with the roar of an aeroplane and a madman’s laughter, before the plane crashed in a violent, drawn-out explosion.

Valentin Gjertsen closed his eyes and saw the flames in his mind’s eye.

‘What are the risks in waking her?’ Harry said, looking at the crucifix hanging above Dr Steffens’s head.

‘There are various answers to that,’ Steffens said. ‘And one that’s true.’

‘And that is?’

‘That we don’t know.’

‘Like you don’t know what’s wrong with her.’

‘Yes.’

‘Hm. What do you know, really?’

‘If you’re asking in general terms, we know quite a lot. But if people knew how much we don’t know, they’d be scared, Harry. Needlessly scared. So we try to keep quiet about that.’

‘Really?’

‘We say we’re in the repair business, but we’re actually in the consolation business.’

‘So why are you telling me this, Steffens? Why aren’t you consoling me?’

‘Because I’m pretty sure you know that consolation is an illusion. As a murder detective you’re also selling something more than you say you are. You give people a feeling of comforting justice, of order and security. But there’s no perfect, objective truth, and no true justice.’

‘Is she in any pain?’

‘No.’

Harry nodded. ‘Can I smoke in here?’

‘In a doctor’s office in a public hospital?’

‘Sounds comforting, if smoking’s as dangerous as they say.’

Steffens smiled. ‘A nurse told me that the cleaner found ash on the floor under the bed in room 301. I’d rather you did that outside. How’s your son dealing with this, by the way?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Upset. Scared. Angry.’

‘I saw him earlier. His name’s Oleg, isn’t it? Has he stayed in 301 because he doesn’t want to be here?’

‘He didn’t want to come in with me. Or talk to me. He thinks I’m letting her down by continuing to work on the case while she’s lying here.’

Steffens nodded. ‘Young people have always had an enviable confidence in their own moral judgements. But he may have a point, in that increased efforts by the police aren’t always the most effective way to fight crime.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Do you know what made crime rates go down in the USA in the nineties?’

Harry shook his head, put his hands on the armrests and looked at the door.

‘Think of it as a break from all the other things going on in your mind,’ Steffens said. ‘Guess.’

‘I don’t know about guessing,’ Harry said. ‘It’s generally accepted that it was Mayor Giuliani’s zero-tolerance policy, and an increased police presence.’

‘And that’s wrong. Because crime rates didn’t just fall in New York, but right across the USA. The answer is actually the more liberal abortion laws that were introduced in the 1970s.’ Steffens leaned back in his chair and paused, as if to let Harry think it through for himself. ‘Single, dissolute women having sex with men who vanish the next morning, or at least as soon as they realise she’s pregnant. Pregnancies like that have been a conveyor belt producing criminal offspring for centuries. Children without fathers, without boundaries, without a mother with the money to give them an education or moral backbone or to teach them the ways of the Lord. These women would happily have taken their embryonic children’s lives if they hadn’t risked being punished for it. And then, in the 1970s, they got what they wanted. The USA harvested the fruits of the holocaust that was the result of liberal abortion laws fifteen, twenty years later.’

‘Hm. And what do the Mormons say about that? Unless you’re not a Mormon?’

Steffens smiled and steepled his fingers. ‘I support the Church in much of what it says, Hole, but not in its opposition to abortion. In that instance I support the heathens. In the 1990s ordinary people could walk down the streets of American towns without having to be afraid of being robbed, raped and murdered. Because the man who would have murdered them had been scraped out of his mother’s womb, Harry. But where I don’t support liberal heathens is in their demands for so-called free abortions. A foetus’s potential for good or evil will, twenty years later, benefit or damage a society so much that the decision to abort ought to be taken by that society, not by an irresponsible woman roaming the streets for someone to sleep with that night.’

Harry looked at the time. ‘You’re suggesting state-regulated abortion?’

‘Not a pleasant job, obviously. So anyone doing it would naturally have to regard it as … well, as a calling.’

‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’

Steffens held Harry’s gaze for a few seconds. Then he smiled again. ‘Of course. I believe firmly in the inviolability of the individual.’

Harry got to his feet. ‘I’m assuming I’ll be informed of when you’re going to wake her. Presumably it would be good for her to see a familiar face when she comes round?’

‘That’s one consideration, Harry. And tell Oleg to look in if there’s anything he wants to know.’

Harry made his way to the main entrance of the hospital. Shivering outside in the cold, he took two drags on his cigarette, realised that it didn’t taste of anything, stubbed it out and hurried back inside.

‘How’s it going, Antonsen?’ he asked the police guard outside room 301.

‘Fine, thanks,’ Antonsen said, looking up at him. ‘There’s a picture of you in VG.’

‘Really?’

‘Want to see?’ Antonsen took out his smartphone.

‘Not unless I look particularly good.’

Antonsen chuckled. ‘Maybe you don’t want to see it, then. I have to say, it looks like you’re starting to lose it at Crime Squad. Pointing pistols at ninety-year-olds and using bartenders as spies.’

Harry stopped abruptly with his hand on the door handle. ‘What was that last bit again?’

Antonsen held his phone out in front of him and squinted, evidently long-sighted. He managed to read ‘Barten—’ before Harry snatched the phone from him.

Harry stared at the screen. ‘Fuck, fuck. Have you got a car, Antonsen?’

‘No, I cycle. Oslo’s so small, and you get a bit of exercise, so—’

Harry tossed the phone in Antonsen’s lap and yanked open the door of room 301. Oleg looked up just long enough to see it was Harry before looking down at his book again.

‘Oleg, you’ve got a car – you’ve got to drive me to Grünerløkka. Now.’

Oleg snorted without raising his eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘That wasn’t a request, it was an order. Come on.’

‘An order?’ His face contorted in fury. ‘You’re not even my father. Thanks for that.’

‘You were right. You said grade trumps everything. Me, detective inspector, you, trainee police officer. So wipe your tears and shift your arse.’

Oleg gawped at him, speechless.

Harry turned and hurried off along the corridor.

Mehmet Kalak had abandoned Coldplay and U2 and was trying out Ian Hunter on his clientele.

‘All the Young Dudes’ rang out from the speakers.

‘Well?’ Mehmet said.

‘Not bad, but David Bowie did it better,’ the clientele said. Or, more accurately, Øystein Eikeland, who had taken up position on the other side of the bar since his job had come to an end. And seeing as they had the place to themselves, Mehmet turned the volume up.

‘Doesn’t make any difference how loud you crank Hunter up!’ Øystein cried, and raised his daiquiri. It was his fifth. He claimed that because he had mixed them himself, they must therefore be counted as trial samples in conjunction with his apprenticeship as a bartender, and were an investment and thus tax-deductible. And because he was entitled to a staff discount, but intended to claim them back on his tax at full price, he was actually making a profit from his drinking.

‘I wish I could stop now, but I should probably mix myself one more if I’m going to have enough to pay the rent,’ he sniffled.

‘You make a better customer than a bartender,’ Mehmet said. ‘That’s not to say that you’re a useless bartender, just that you’re the best customer I’ve had—’

‘Thank you, dear Mehmet, I—’

‘—and now you’re going home.’

‘I am?’

‘You are.’ To show that he meant it, Mehmet turned the music off.

Øystein opened his mouth, as if there was something he really wanted to say, something he assumed would form itself into words if he just opened his mouth, but that didn’t happen. He tried again, then closed his mouth and merely nodded. He did up his taxi driver’s jacket, slid off the bar stool, and walked rather unsteadily towards the door.

‘No tip?’ Mehmet called with a smile.

‘Tips aren’t tax-dec … deluct … are no good.’

Mehmet picked up Øystein’s glass, squirted some washing-up liquid in it and rinsed it under the tap. There hadn’t been enough customers that evening to use the dishwasher. His phone lit up on the inside of the counter. It was Harry. And as he dried his hands to answer it, it struck him that there was something about the time. The time that had passed between Øystein opening the door and it closing again. It had taken slightly longer than usual. Someone had held the door open for a few seconds. He looked up.

‘Quiet night?’ the man standing at the bar asked.

Mehmet tried to breathe so he could answer. But couldn’t.

‘Quiet is good,’ Valentin Gjertsen said. Because it was him. The man from the steam room.

Mehmet silently reached his hand out towards his phone.

‘Please, don’t answer that, and I’ll do you a favour.’

Mehmet wouldn’t have taken the offer if it hadn’t been for the large revolver that was pointing right at him.

‘Thanks, you’d only have regretted it.’ The man looked around. ‘A shame you don’t have any customers. For you, I mean. It suits me fine, it means I’ve got your full attention. Well, I suppose I’d have had that anyway, because you’re naturally curious about what I want. If I’ve come for a drink, or to kill you. Am I right?’

Mehmet nodded slowly.

‘Yes, that’s a reasonable concern seeing as you’re the only person currently alive who can identify me. That’s a fact, by the way? Even the plastic surgeon who … well, enough of that. Anyway, I’m going to do you a favour, seeing as you didn’t take that call, and that business of shopping me to the police is no more than could be expected of a socially responsible person. Don’t you think?’

Mehmet nodded again. And tried to fend off the unavoidable thought. That he was going to die. His brain tried desperately to find other possibilities, but just kept coming back to: you’re going to die. But, as if in answer to his thoughts, there was a knock on the window over by the door. Mehmet looked past Valentin. A pair of hands and a familiar face were pressed against the glass, trying to peer inside. Come in, for God’s sake, come in.

‘Don’t move,’ Valentin said calmly without turning round. His body was hiding the revolver, so the person at the window couldn’t see it.

Why the hell didn’t he just come in?

The answer came a moment later, with a loud banging on the door.

Valentin had locked the door when he came in.

The face was back at the window, and the man was waving his hands to get his attention, so he had evidently seen them inside.

‘Don’t move, just signal that you’re closed,’ Valentin said. There was no trace of stress in his voice.

Mehmet stood still with his hands by his sides.

‘Now, or I’ll kill you.’

‘You’re going to do that anyway.’

‘You can’t know that with one hundred per cent certainty. But if you don’t do as I say, I promise I’ll kill you. And then the person outside. Look at me. I promise.’

Mehmet looked at Valentin. Swallowed. Leaned slightly to one side, into the light, so that the man outside the window could see him more clearly, and shook his head.

The face was there for a couple of seconds. A wave, not all that easy to see. Then Geir Sølle was gone.

Valentin watched in the mirror.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Where were we? Oh yes, good and bad news. The bad news is that the obvious thought that I’m here to kill you is so obvious that … well, it’s correct. In other words, we’re now up to one hundred per cent certainty. I’m going to kill you.’ Valentin looked at Mehmet with a sad expression. Then he burst out laughing. ‘That’s the longest face I’ve seen today! And of course I can understand that, but don’t forget the good news. Which is that you get to choose how you die. Here are the options, so listen carefully. Are you with me? Good. Do you want to be shot in the head or have this drainage tube stuck in your neck?’ Valentin held up something that looked like a large drinking straw made of metal, one end of which was cut diagonally to form a sharp point.

Mehmet just stared at Valentin. The whole thing was so absurd that he was starting to wonder if this was a dream he was about to wake up from. Or was the man in front of him dreaming all of this? But then Valentin jabbed the tube towards him and Mehmet automatically took a step back and hit the sink.

Valentin snapped: ‘Not the drainage tube, then?’

Mehmet nodded cautiously as he saw the sharpened metal point glint in the light from the mirror shelf. Needles. That had always been his greatest fear. Having things inserted into his body through his skin. That was why he ran away from home and hid in the forest as a child when they were going to vaccinate him.

‘An agreement is an agreement, so no tube.’ Valentin put the straw down on the bar and pulled a pair of black antique-looking handcuffs from his pocket, all without the barrel of the revolver moving an inch from Mehmet. ‘Pass one of them behind the metal bar on the mirror unit, fasten them round your wrists, and lay your head in the sink.’

‘I …’

Mehmet didn’t see the blow coming. Just registered a crashing sound in his head, an instant of blackness, and the fact that he was facing a different direction when his vision returned. He realised he’d been hit with the revolver and that the barrel was now pressed to his temple.

‘The drainage tube,’ a voice whispered close to his ear. ‘Your choice.’

Mehmet picked up the strange, heavy handcuffs and passed one behind the metal bar. He fastened them round his wrists. He felt something warm trickle down his nose and top lip. The sweet, metallic taste of blood.

‘Tasty?’ Valentin said in a high voice.

Mehmet looked up and met his gaze in the mirror.

‘I can’t stand it myself,’ Valentin smiled. ‘It tastes of iron and beatings. Yes, iron and beatings. Your own blood, fine, but other people’s? And you can taste what they’ve been eating. Speaking of eating, does the condemned man have a last wish? Not that I’m thinking of serving a meal, I’m just curious.’

Mehmet blinked. A last wish? The words found their way in, no more than that, but as if in a dream his mind couldn’t help considering the answer. He hoped that the Jealousy Bar would one day be the coolest in Oslo. That Galatasaray would win the league. That Paul Rodgers’ ‘Ready for Love’ would be played at his funeral. What else? He tried, but couldn’t think of anything. And felt sorrowful laughter welling up inside him.

Harry saw a figure hurrying away from the Jealousy Bar as he approached. The light from the big window fell across the pavement, but he couldn’t hear any music from inside. He went over to the edge of the window and looked in. Saw the back of a figure behind the bar, but it was impossible to tell if it was Mehmet. It looked empty apart from that. Harry moved to the door and cautiously pushed the handle. Locked. The bar was open until midnight.

Harry pulled out the key ring with the broken plastic heart. Slowly inserted the key in the lock. Drew his Glock 17 with his right hand as he turned the key and opened the door with his left. He stepped inside, holding the pistol in front of him with both hands as he used his foot to make sure that the door closed gently behind him. But the sounds of the evening in Grünerløkka had drifted in, and the figure behind the bar straightened up and looked in the mirror.

‘Police,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t move.’

‘Harry Hole.’ The figure was wearing a peaked cap and the angle of the mirror meant Harry couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. More than three years had passed since he had heard this high-pitched voice, but it was like yesterday.

‘Valentin Gjertsen,’ Harry said, and heard the tremble in his own voice.

‘At last we meet again, Harry. I’ve thought about you. Have you thought about me?’

‘Where’s Mehmet?’

‘You’re excited, you have thought about me.’ That high-pitched laugh. ‘Why? Because of my list of accomplishments? Or victims, as you call them. No, wait. It’s obviously because of your list of accomplishments. I’m the one you never caught, aren’t I?’

Harry didn’t answer, just stood where he was by the door.

‘It’s unbearable, is that it? Good! That’s why you’re so good. You’re like me, Harry, you can’t bear it.’

‘I’m not like you, Valentin.’ Harry changed his grip on the pistol, aimed and wondered what was stopping him from going closer.

‘No? You don’t let yourself get distracted by any consideration of the people around you, do you? You keep your eyes on the prize, Harry. Look at yourself now. All you want is your trophy, no matter what the cost. Other people’s lives, your own … If you’re really honest, all of that comes second, doesn’t it? You and me, we ought to sit down and get to know each other better, Harry. Because we don’t meet many people like us.’

‘Shut up, Valentin. Stay where you are, put your hands up where I can see them, and tell me where Mehmet is.’

‘If Mehmet is the name of your spy, I shall have to move in order to show you. And then the situation we find ourselves in will also become much clearer.’

Valentin Gjertsen took a step to one side. Mehmet was half standing, half hanging from his arms, which were tied to the metal bar that ran horizontally across the top of the mirror behind the bar. His head was bent forward, down into the sink, meaning that his long dark curls covered his face. Valentin was holding a long-barrelled revolver to the back of his head.

‘Stay where you are, Harry. As you can see, we have an interesting balance of terror here. From where you’re standing to here it’s – what? – eight to ten metres? The chances of your first shot putting me out of action so that I don’t have time to kill Mehmet are pretty slim, wouldn’t you agree? But if I shoot Mehmet first, you’d be able to fire at me at least twice before I manage to turn the revolver on you. Worse odds for me. In other words, we’ve got a lose-lose situation here, so it really boils down to this, Harry: are you prepared to sacrifice your spy in order to catch me now? Or shall we save him and you can catch me later? What do you say?’

Harry looked at Valentin over the sights of his pistol. He was right. It was too dark and too great a distance for him to be sure of hitting Valentin with a headshot.

‘I interpret your silence to mean that you agree with me, Harry. And because I believe I can hear police sirens in the distance, I presume we don’t have much time.’

Harry had considered telling them not to use sirens, but then they would have taken longer.

‘Put your pistol down, Harry, and I’ll walk out of here.’

Harry shook his head. ‘You’re here because he’s seen your face, so you’ll shoot him and me because now I’ve seen your face too.’

‘So come up with a suggestion within the next five seconds, otherwise I’ll shoot him and gamble on you missing before I hit you.’

‘We maintain the balance of terror,’ Harry said. ‘But with matching disarmament.’

‘You’re trying to drag things out, but the countdown has started. Four, three …’

‘We both turn our guns at the same time and hold them by the barrel in our right hand, with the trigger and hilt visible.’

‘Two …’

‘You head for the door along that wall there, while I head towards the bar past the booths on the other side of the room.’

‘One …’

‘The distance between us will stay the same as it is now, and neither of us would be able to shoot the other before he had time to react.’

The bar was silent. The sirens were closer. And if Oleg had done as he had been told – correction, ordered – he was still sitting in the car two blocks away and hadn’t moved.

The light suddenly vanished, and Harry realised Valentin had turned the dimmer switch behind the bar. And when he turned towards Harry for the first time, it was too dark for Harry to see his face beneath the cap.

‘We turn our guns on the count of three,’ Valentin said and raised his hand. ‘One, two … three.’

Harry grasped the handle with his left hand, then the barrel with his right. He held his pistol in the air. Saw Valentin do the same. It looked like he was holding a flag in the children’s procession on Constitution Day, with the characteristic red grip of a Ruger Redhawk sticking away from the long barrel of the revolver.

‘There, you see,’ Valentin said. ‘Who but two men who truly understand each other could have done that? I like you, Harry. I really like you. So, now we start to move …’

Valentin walked towards the wall, while Harry moved towards the booths. It was so quiet that Harry could hear the creak of Valentin’s boots as they each crept round the other in a semicircle, watching one another like two gladiators who knew that the first skirmish would mean death for at least one of them. Harry realised he’d reached the bar when he heard the low rumble of the fridge, the steady drip in the sink and the insect-like buzz from the stereo’s amplifier. He felt around in the darkness without taking his eyes off the silhouette that stood out against the light from the window. Then he was behind the bar, heard the sounds from the street as the door opened, then footsteps running until they disappeared.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, put it to his ear.

‘Did you hear?’

‘I heard everything,’ Oleg replied. ‘I’ll inform the patrol cars. Description?’

‘Short black jacket, dark trousers, peaked cap with no logo, but he’s bound to have got rid of that already. I didn’t see his face. He ran left, towards Thorvald Meyers gate, so—’

‘—he’s heading for somewhere with a lot of people and traffic. I’ll tell them.’

Harry dropped his phone in his pocket and put his hand on Mehmet’s shoulder. No reaction.

‘Mehmet …’

He could no longer hear the fridge and amplifier. Only the steady dripping. He turned the dimmer switch up. He took hold of Mehmet’s hair and gently lifted his head out of the sink. His face was pale. Too pale.

There was something sticking out of his neck.

It looked like a drinking straw made of metal.

Red drops were still dripping from the end, down into the sink, which was clogged with all the blood.

25

TUESDAY NIGHT

KATRINE BRATT JUMPED out of the car and walked towards the cordon outside the Jealousy Bar. She spotted a man leaning against one of the police cars, smoking. The rotating blue light alternately lit up his ugly-handsome face and cast it into darkness. She shivered and walked over to him.

‘It’s cold,’ she said.

‘Winter’s coming,’ Harry said, blowing his cigarette smoke up so it was caught by the blue light.

‘Emilia’s coming.’

‘Mm, I’d forgotten that.’

‘They say the storm’s going to hit Oslo tomorrow.’

‘Mm.’

Katrine looked at him. She thought she had seen all the possible versions of Harry. But not this one. Not one so empty, crushed, resigned. She felt like stroking his cheek and giving him a hug. But she couldn’t. There were so many reasons why she couldn’t.

‘What happened in there?’

‘Valentin had a Ruger Redhawk, and made me believe I was negotiating for someone’s life. But Mehmet was already dead by the time I got there. A metal tube inserted into his carotid artery. He’d been drained of blood like some damn fish. Just because he … because I …’ Harry started to blink rapidly and stopped talking, and pretended to pick a strand of tobacco from his tongue.

Katrine didn’t know what to say. So she said nothing. Instead she looked at the familiar black Volvo Amazon with the racing stripe that was parked on the other side of the street. Bjørn got out of it and Katrine felt her heart skip a beat when something-or-other Lien got out of the passenger side. What was Bjørn’s boss doing here, out in the field? Had Bjørn offered her a romantic viewing of the many attractions of a murder scene? Damn. Bjørn had spotted them, and Katrine saw them adjust their course and head in their direction.

‘I’m going in, we’ll talk more later,’ she said, snuck under the cordon and hurried towards the door beneath the sign of a broken plastic heart.

‘There you are,’ Bjørn said. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

‘I’ve been …’ Harry took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘… a bit busy.’

‘This is Berna Lien, the new head of Krimteknisk. Berna, Harry Hole.’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ the woman smiled.

‘And I’ve heard nothing about you,’ Harry said. ‘Are you any good?’

She looked at Bjørn, uncertain. ‘Any good?’

‘Valentin Gjertsen’s good,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not good enough, so I’m just hoping there are other people here who are better, or else this bloodbath is just going to continue.’

‘I might have something,’ Bjørn said.

‘Oh?’

‘That’s why I was trying to get hold of you. Valentin’s jacket. When I cut it open I did actually find a couple of things in the lining. A ten-øre coin and two scraps of paper. Because the jacket’s been washed all the ink was gone from the outside, but when I unfolded one of them there was some left inside. It’s not much, but enough to see that it’s a receipt from a cashpoint in Oslo City. Which fits the theory that he consistently avoids debit cards and pays cash. Sadly we can’t see the card number, registration number or when the withdrawal was made, but parts of the date are visible.’

‘How much?’

‘Enough to see that it’s this year, August, and we’ve got enough of the last digit of the date to see that it could only be a 1.’

‘So, 1, 11, 21 and 31.’

‘Four possible days … I’ve been in touch with a woman at Nokas, which looks after DNB’s cashpoint machines. She says they’re allowed to store images from their security cameras for up to three months, so they’ll have this withdrawal on film. It was made at one of the machines at Oslo Central Station, which is one of the busiest in Norway. The official explanation is that it’s because of all the shopping centres in the vicinity.’

‘But?’

‘Everyone accepts cards these days. Except?’

‘Mm. The drug dealers around the station and along the river.’

‘There are over two hundred transactions a day from the busiest machines,’ Bjørn said.

‘Four days, so just under a thousand,’ Berna Lien said eagerly. Harry trod on the smouldering cigarette.

‘We’ll have the recordings first thing tomorrow, and with the efficient use of fast-forward and pause, we can check at least two faces per minute. In other words, seven or eight hours, probably less. Once we’ve identified Valentin, we just have to match the time of the recording to the time of the withdrawal in the cash machine’s register.’

‘And hey presto, we’ve got Valentin Gjertsen’s secret identity,’ Berna Lien said, evidently proud and excited on behalf of her department. ‘What do you think, Hole?’

‘I think, fru Lien, that it’s a shame the man who could have identified Valentin is lying in there with his head in the sink and no pulse.’ Harry buttoned his jacket. ‘But thanks for coming.’

Berna Lien looked angrily from Harry to Bjørn, who cleared his throat unhappily. ‘As I understand it, you were face-to-face with Valentin,’ he said.

Harry shook his head. ‘I never saw his new face.’

Bjørn nodded slowly without taking his eyes off Harry. ‘I see. That’s a shame. A great shame.’

‘Mm.’ Harry looked down at the crushed cigarette butt in front of his shoe.

‘OK. Well, we’ll go inside and take a look.’

‘Have fun.’

He watched them go. The press photographers had already gathered outside the cordon, and now the journalists were beginning to arrive as well. Perhaps they knew something, perhaps they didn’t, perhaps they just didn’t dare, but they left Harry alone.

Eight hours.

Eight hours as of tomorrow morning.

Within the space of another day, Valentin might have killed someone else.

Fuck.

‘Bjørn!’ Harry called, just as his colleague took hold of the door handle.

‘Harry,’ Ståle Aune said, standing in the doorway. ‘Bjørn.’

‘Sorry to call so late,’ Harry said. ‘Can we come in?’

‘Of course.’ Aune held the door open and Harry and Bjørn stepped into the Aune family home. A small woman, thinner than her husband but with exactly the same grey-coloured hair, darted out with quick, nimble steps. ‘Harry!’ she sang. ‘I thought it was you, it’s been far too long. How’s Rakel, do they know any more?’

Harry shook his head and let Ingrid peck his cheek. ‘Coffee, or is it too late? Green tea?’

Bjørn and Harry replied yes please and no thanks simultaneously, and Ingrid disappeared into the kitchen.

They went into the living room and sat down on low armchairs. The walls were lined with bookcases, full of everything from travel guides and old atlases to poetry, graphic novels and heavy academic volumes. But mostly novels.

‘You see I’m reading that book you gave me?’ Ståle picked up the thin book that lay open, spine up, on the table beside his armchair, and showed it to Bjørn. ‘Édouard Levé. Suicide. Harry gave it to me for my sixtieth birthday. I suppose he thought it was time.’

Bjørn and Harry laughed. Evidently not entirely convincingly, because Ståle frowned. ‘Is something wrong?’

Harry cleared his throat. ‘Valentin killed another person this evening.’

‘It pains me to hear that,’ Ståle said, and shook his head.

‘And we have no reason to believe that he’s going to stop.’

‘No. No, you haven’t,’ the psychologist agreed.

‘That’s why we’re here, and this is very hard for me, Ståle.’

Ståle Aune sighed. ‘Hallstein Smith isn’t working, and you want me to take over, is that it?’

‘No. We need …’ Harry fell silent when Ingrid came in and put the tea tray down on the coffee table between the silent men. ‘The sound of the oath of confidentiality,’ she said. ‘See you later, Harry. Give Oleg our love and tell him we’re all thinking of Rakel.’

‘We need someone who can identify Valentin Gjertsen,’ Harry said when she’d gone. ‘And the last person alive who we know has seen him …’

Harry didn’t intend it as a dramatic pause to increase the tension, but so that Ståle would get the fraction of a second his brain required to make the rapid, almost unconscious, yet horribly accurate deductions it was capable of. Not that it would make much difference. He was like a boxer in the process of being punched, but who gets a tenth of a second to shift his weight ever so slightly away from the punch instead of meeting it head-on.

‘… is Aurora.’

In the silence that followed Harry could hear the rasping of the side of the book Ståle was still holding as it slid across his fingertips.

‘What are you saying, Harry?’

‘The day Rakel and I got married, while you and Ingrid were there, Valentin paid Aurora a visit at the handball tournament she was taking part in.’

The book hit the carpet with a muffled thud. Ståle blinked uncomprehendingly. ‘She … he …’

Harry waited as he watched it sink in.

‘Did he touch her? Did he hurt her?’

Harry held Ståle’s gaze, but didn’t answer. Saw him piece the information together. Saw him look at the previous three years in a new light. A light that provided answers.

‘Yes,’ Ståle whispered, grimacing in pain. He took his glasses off. ‘Yes, of course he did. How blind I’ve been.’ He stared into space. ‘And how did you find this out?’

‘Aurora came to see me yesterday and told me,’ Harry said.

Ståle Aune’s eyes swung back to Harry as if in slow motion. ‘You … you’ve known since yesterday, and didn’t say anything to me?’

‘She made me promise.’

Ståle Aune’s voice didn’t rise, it sank. ‘A fifteen-year-old girl who’s been assaulted, whom you know perfectly well needs all the help she can get, and you chose to keep it secret?’

‘Yes.’

‘But for God’s sake, Harry, why?’

‘Because Valentin threatened to kill you if she told anyone what had happened.’

‘Me?’ Ståle let slip a sob. ‘Me? What does that matter? I’m way past sixty with a dodgy heart, Harry. She’s a young girl with her whole life ahead of her!’

‘You’re the person she loves most in the whole world, and I made her a promise.’

Ståle Aune put his glasses on, then raised a trembling finger towards Harry. ‘Yes, you made her a promise! And you kept that promise as long as it didn’t mean anything to you! But now, now you see that you can use her to solve yet another Harry Hole case, that promise doesn’t mean so much any more.’

Harry didn’t protest.

‘Get out, Harry! You’re no friend of this house, and you’re no longer welcome here.’

‘We’re running out of time, Ståle.’

‘Out, now!’ Ståle Aune had got up.

‘We need her.’

‘I’ll call the police. The real police.’

Harry looked up at him. Saw that there was no point. That they’d have to wait, that this would have to run its course, that they could only hope Ståle Aune would see the bigger picture before morning.

He nodded. Levered himself out of the chair.

‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ he said.

Harry saw Ingrid’s pale, silent face in the doorway as they passed the kitchen.

He put his shoes on in the hall and was about to leave when he heard a thin voice.

‘Harry?’

He turned round and couldn’t see where the voice had come from at first. Then, out of the darkness at the top of the stairs, she stepped into the light. She was wearing striped pyjamas that were far too big for her, possibly her father’s, Harry thought.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I had to.’

‘I know,’ Aurora said. ‘It says on the Net that the man who died was called Mehmet. And I heard you.’

At that moment Ståle came running out of the living room, waving his arms and with tears streaming from his eyes. ‘Aurora! You’re not to—’ His voice broke.

‘Dad,’ Aurora said, sitting down calmly on the steps above them, ‘I want to help.’

26

TUESDAY NIGHT

MONA DAA WAS standing by the Monolith, watching Truls Berntsen hurry through the darkness. When they’d arranged to meet in Frognerparken she had suggested a few more discreet, less popular sculptures, seeing as the Monolith was visited by sightseers even at night. But when Truls Berntsen had said ‘What?’ three times she had realised that the Monolith was the only one he was familiar with.

She pulled him round to the west side of the sculpture, away from the two couples who were looking at the view of the church spires to the east. She gave him the envelope containing the money, which he slipped inside his long Armani coat, which for some reason didn’t look like an Armani coat on him.

‘Anything new?’ she asked.

‘There won’t be any more tip-offs,’ Truls said, glancing around.

‘No?’

He looked at her, as if to check if she was joking. ‘The man was murdered, for fuck’s sake.’

‘So you’d better offer something a bit less … fatal next time.’

Truls Berntsen snorted. ‘Christ, you’re even worse than me, the whole lot of you.’

‘Really? You gave us Mehmet’s name, but we still chose not to reveal it or print his picture.’

Truls shook his head. ‘Can you hear yourself, Daa? We just led Valentin straight to a guy who has only done two things wrong. Running a bar that Valentin’s victim happened to visit, and agreeing to help the police.’

‘At least you’re saying “we”. Does that mean you’ve got a guilty conscience?’

‘Do you think I’m some kind of psychopath, or what? Of course I think this is bad.’

‘I’m not going to answer that question. But yes, I agree that it’s pretty bad. Does this mean that you’re not going to be my source any more?’

‘If I say no, does that mean you won’t protect my identity in future?’

‘No,’ Mona said.

‘Good. So you do have a conscience.’

‘Well,’ Mona said, ‘it’s not so much that we care about the source than that we care what our colleagues would say if we blew a source. What are your colleagues saying, by the way?’

‘Nothing. They’ve figured out that I’m the leak, so they’ve isolated me. I’m not allowed to take part in meetings or know anything about the investigation.’

‘No? I can feel myself losing interest in you, Truls.’

Truls snorted. ‘You’re cynical, but at least you’re honest, Mona Daa.’

‘Thanks. I assume.’

‘OK, I might have one last tip-off. But this is about something else entirely.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Police Chief Mikael Bellman is fucking a high-profile woman.’

‘There’s no money in tip-offs like that, Berntsen.’

‘OK, it’s free, just print it anyway.’

‘The editor doesn’t like infidelity stories, but if you’ve got evidence and are willing to stand by the story, I might be able to convince them. But in that case you’d be quoted, with your full name.’

‘With my name? That’s suicide, you can see that, surely? I can tell you where they meet, you could send one of those hidden photographers.’

Mona Daa laughed. ‘Sorry, it doesn’t work like that.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘The press abroad do this sort of thing, but not us here in little Norway.’

‘Why not?’

‘The official explanation is that we don’t sink to that level.’

‘But?’

Mona shrugged her shoulders, shivering. ‘Because there aren’t really any limits to how low we’re actually prepared to go, my personal theory is that it’s another example of everyone’s-got-something-to-hide syndrome.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Married editors are no less unfaithful than anyone else. If you reveal someone’s infidelity, everyone in a small public arena like Norway’s risks being caught in the blast. We can write about affairs in the great big “abroad”, maybe refer to affairs abroad here at home if one public figure has said something careless about another. But investigative journalism into infidelity among people in positions of power?’ Mona Daa shook her head.

Truls blew out scornfully through his nose. ‘So there’s no way to make it public?’

‘Is this something you think should be revealed because Bellman shouldn’t be Police Chief?’

‘What? No, maybe not that.’

Mona nodded and looked up at the Monolith, and the remorseless struggle to reach the top that it depicted. ‘You must really hate him.’

Truls didn’t answer. He just looked rather surprised, as if that was something he hadn’t thought about. And Mona wondered what was going on inside that pockmarked, not particularly attractive face, with its heavy jaw and beady eyes. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

‘I’m going now, Berntsen. We’ll be in touch.’

‘Will we?’

‘Maybe not.’

When Mona had walked some way into the park, she turned round and saw Truls Berntsen in the light of one of the lamps up by the Monolith. He had stuck his hands in his pockets, and was just standing there with his back hunched, looking for something. He seemed so incredibly alone standing there like that, as unmoving as the blocks of stone around him.

Harry stared at the ceiling. The ghosts hadn’t come. Maybe they wouldn’t be coming tonight. You never knew. But they had a new member. What would Mehmet look like when he came? Harry shut the thought out and listened to the silence. Holmenkollen was certainly quiet, there was no denying that. Too quiet. He preferred to hear the city outside. Like night-time in the jungle, full of noises that could warn you in the darkness, tell you when something was coming and when it wasn’t. Silence contained too little information. But that wasn’t it. It was the fact that there was no one beside him in bed.

If he counted, then the number of nights he had shared a bed with anyone was in a clear minority. So why did he feel so alone, he, a man who had always sought out solitude and had never needed anyone else?

He rolled onto his side and tried shutting his eyes.

He didn’t need anyone now either. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need anyone.

He just needed her.

A creaking sound. From the timber walls. Or a floorboard. Perhaps the storm was early. Or the ghosts late.

He turned onto the other side. Shut his eyes again.

The creaking was just outside the bedroom door.

He got up, walked over and opened it.

It was Mehmet. ‘I saw him, Harry.’ Where his eyes had been there were two black sockets that sparked and smoked.

Harry woke with a start.

His phone was purring like a cat on the bedside table next to him.

‘Yes?’

‘This is Dr Steffens.’

Harry felt a sudden pain in his chest.

‘It’s about Rakel.’

Of course it was about Rakel. And Harry knew that Steffens was only saying that to give him the seconds he needed to steel himself for the news.

‘We can’t bring her out of the coma.’

‘What?’

‘She won’t wake up.’

‘Is … will she …?’

‘We don’t know, Harry. I know you must have an awful lot of questions, but so do we. I really can’t tell you anything except that we’re working as hard as we can here.’

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to make sure this wasn’t just the world premiere of a new nightmare. ‘OK, OK. Can I see her?’

‘Not now, we’ve got her in intensive care. I’ll call as soon as we know more. But it might take a while, Rakel is probably going to be in a coma for some time, so don’t hold your breath, OK?’

Harry realised that Steffens was right: he wasn’t breathing.

They hung up. Harry stared at the phone. She won’t wake up. Of course not, she didn’t want to, because who the hell wants to wake up? Harry got out of bed and went downstairs. Opened the kitchen cupboards. Nothing. Empty, empty. He rang for a taxi then went back upstairs to get dressed.

He saw the blue sign, read the name and braked. Pulled in to the side of the road and switched the engine off. Looked around. Forest and road. It reminded him of those anonymous, monotonous stretches of road in Finland, where you get the feeling that you’re driving through a desert of trees. Where the trees stand like a silent wall on either side of the road and a body is as easy to hide as it would be to sink it in the sea. He waited until a car had passed. Checked the mirror. He couldn’t see any lights now, either in front or behind. So he got out onto the road, walked round the car and opened the boot. She was so pale. Even her freckles were paler. And her frightened eyes looked big and black above the muzzle. He lifted her out, and had to help her stand up. He took hold of the handcuffs and led her across the road and over the ditch, towards the black wall of trees. He switched the torch on. Felt her trembling so much that the handcuffs were shaking.

‘There, there, I’m not going to hurt you, darling,’ he said. And could feel that he meant it. He really didn’t want to hurt her. Not any more. And perhaps she knew that, perhaps she understood that he loved her. Perhaps she was trembling because she was only dressed in underwear and his Japanese girlfriend’s negligee.

They headed into the trees, and it was like walking into a building. A different sort of silence settled, while at the same time new noises could be heard. Smaller but clearer, unidentifiable noises. A snapping sound, a sigh, a cry. The ground in the forest was soft, the carpet of pine needles gave a pleasant bounce as they moved forward with soundless steps, like a bridal couple in a church in a dream.

When he had counted to a hundred he stopped. Raised the torch and shone it around them. And the beam of light soon found what he was looking for. A tall, charred tree that had been split in two by lightning. He dragged her towards the tree. She didn’t resist as he undid the handcuffs, pulled her arms around the tree and fastened the cuffs again. A lamb, he thought as he looked at her sitting there on her knees, hugging the tree. A sacrificial lamb. Because he wasn’t the bridegroom: he was the father giving his child away at the altar.

He stroked her cheek one last time and turned to walk away when a voice rang out from among the trees.

‘She’s alive, Valentin.’

He stopped, and instinctively pointed the torch in the direction of the sound.

‘Put that away,’ said the voice in the darkness.

Valentin did as the voice said. ‘She wanted to live.’

‘But the bartender didn’t?’

‘He could identify me. I couldn’t take the risk.’

Valentin listened, but all he could hear was a low whistle from Marte’s nostrils as she breathed.

‘I’ll clean up after you this one time,’ the voice said. ‘Have you got the revolver you were given?’

‘Yes,’ Valentin said. Wasn’t there something familiar about the voice?

‘Put it down next to her and go. You’ll get it back soon enough.’

A thought struck Valentin. Draw the revolver, use the torch to find the other man, kill him. Kill the voice of reason, wipe out any trail that led to him, let the demon reign once more. The counter-argument was that Valentin might need him later.

‘Where and when?’ Valentin called. ‘We can’t use the locker at the bathhouse any more.’

‘Tomorrow. You’ll be informed. Now that you’ve heard my voice anyway, I’ll call.’

Valentin pulled the revolver from its holster and put it down in front of the girl. Took one last look at her. Then he walked away.

When he got back in the car he hit his head twice against the wheel, hard. Then he started the car, indicated to pull out even though there were no other cars in sight, and calmly drove away.

‘Stop over there,’ Harry told the taxi driver, pointing.

‘It’s three o’clock in the morning, and that bar looks very closed.’

‘It belongs to me.’

Harry paid and got out. Where there had been febrile activity just a few hours ago, there was now no one in sight at all. The crime-scene investigators were finished, but there was white tape across the door. The tape was embossed with the Norwegian lion and the words POLICE. SEALED. DO NOT BREAK SEAL. TRANSGRESSION PUNISHABLE BY PENAL CODE 343. Harry inserted the key in the lock and turned it. The tape crackled as he pulled the door open and went inside.

They had left the lights beneath the mirror shelves on. Harry closed one eye and aimed his index finger at the bottles from where he stood by the door. Nine metres. What if he’d fired? What would things look like now? Impossible to know. It was what it was. Nothing to be done about it. Except forget about it, of course. His finger found the bottle of Jim Beam. It had been promoted and now had its own optic. The brothel lighting made the contents shimmer like gold. Harry walked across the room and went behind the bar, grabbed a glass and held it under the bottle. He filled it to the brim. Why fool himself?

He felt his muscles tense, all through his body, and wondered for a moment if he was going to throw up before the first mouthful. But he managed to hold on to both the contents of his stomach and the drink, until the third glass. Then he lurched for the sink, and before the yellow-green vomit hit the metal, he saw that the bottom was still red with congealed blood.

27

WEDNESDAY MORNING

IT WAS FIVE to eight, and in the boiler room the coffee machine had finished rattling for the second time that morning.

‘What’s happened to Harry?’ Wyller wondered, looking at his watch again.

‘Don’t know,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘We’ll have to start without him.’

Smith and Wyller nodded.

‘OK,’ Bjørn said. ‘Right now Aurora is sitting with her father in Nokas’s head office looking at those recordings, along with someone from Nokas and a specialist in security cameras from the Street Crime Unit. If it goes according to plan, they should get through the four days’ footage in eight hours at most. If the receipt we found really is from a withdrawal Valentin himself made, with a bit of luck we could have his new identity within four hours or so. But certainly before eight o’clock this evening.’

‘That’s brilliant!’ Smith exclaimed. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but let’s not count any chickens,’ Bjørn said. ‘Have you talked to Katrine, Anders?’

‘Yes, and we’ve got authorisation to use Delta. They’re ready to go.’

‘Delta, they’re the ones with semi-automatics and gas masks and … er, that sort of thing?’

‘You’re starting to get the hang of it, Smith,’ Bjørn chuckled, and saw Wyller looking at his watch again. ‘Worried, Anders?’

‘Maybe we should call Harry?’

‘Go ahead.’

Nine o’clock. Katrine had just dismissed the investigative team from the conference room. She was gathering her papers when she noticed the man standing in the doorway.

‘Well, Smith?’ she said. ‘Exciting day, eh? What are you lot up to down there?’

‘Trying to get hold of Harry.’

‘Hasn’t he shown up?’

‘He’s not answering his phone.’

‘He’s probably sitting in the hospital, they’re not allowed to have their phones on there. They say it can interfere with the machines and equipment, but that’s supposed to be just as misleading as saying they can disrupt navigation systems on planes.’

She realised that Smith wasn’t listening and was looking past her.

She turned and saw that the picture from her laptop was still being projected onto the screen. A picture from the Jealousy Bar.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s not pretty.’

Smith shook his head like a sleepwalker, without taking his eyes off the screen.

‘Are you OK, Smith?’

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m not OK. I can’t stand the sight of blood, I can’t stand violence, and I don’t know if can stand to see any more suffering. This individual … Valentin Gjertsen … I’m a psychologist, and I’m trying to relate to him as a professional case, but I think I might actually hate him.’

‘None of us is that professional, Smith. I wouldn’t let a little hatred worry me. Doesn’t it feel good to have someone to hate, as Harry says?’

‘Harry says that?’

‘Yes. Or Raga Rockers. Or … Was there something else?’

‘I’ve spoken to Mona Daa at VG.’

‘There’s someone else we can hate. What did she want?’

‘I was the one who called her.’

Katrine stopped sorting her papers.

‘I told her my conditions for agreeing to be interviewed about Valentin Gjertsen,’ Smith said. ‘That I’ll talk about Valentin Gjertsen in general terms, and that I won’t say a thing about the investigation. It’s a so-called podcast, a sort of radio programme that—’

‘I know what a podcast is, Smith.’

‘So at least they can’t misquote me. Whatever I say will actually be broadcast. Do I have your permission?’

Katrine considered. ‘My first question is: why?’

‘Because people are scared. My wife is scared, my children are scared, the neighbours, the other parents at school are scared. And, as a researcher in this field, I have a responsibility to make them a bit less scared.’

‘Don’t they have the right to be a bit scared?’

‘Don’t you read the papers, Katrine? The shops have run out of locks and alarm systems in the last week.’

‘Everyone’s scared of what they don’t understand.’

‘It’s more than that. They’re scared because they thought we were dealing with someone I initially assumed was purely a vampirist. A sick, confused individual who was attacking people as a consequence of profound personality disorders and paraphilias. But this monster is a cold, cynical, calculating fighter who’s capable of making rational judgements, who runs when he needs to, like at the Turkish baths. And attacks when he can, like … like in that picture.’ Smith closed his eyes and turned his head away. ‘And I admit it, I’m scared as well. I lay awake all night wondering how these murders could have been committed by one and the same person. How is that possible? How could I have been so wrong? I don’t understand it. But I have to understand it, no one’s better placed than me to understand it, I’m the only person who can explain it and show them the monster. Because once they’ve seen the monster they’ll understand, and their fear will become manageable. It won’t disappear, but at least they’ll feel they can take rational decisions, and that will make them safer.’

Katrine put her hands on her hips. ‘Let’s see if I understand you correctly. You don’t really understand what Valentin Gjertsen is either, but you want to explain that to the public?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lying, with the intention of calming the situation?’

‘I think I’ll manage the latter better than the former. Do I have your blessing?’

Katrine bit her bottom lip. ‘You’re certainly right that you have a responsibility to inform as an expert, and obviously it would be good if people could be reassured. As long as you don’t say anything about the investigation.’

‘Of course not.’

‘We can’t have any more leaks. I’m the only person on this floor who knows what Aurora’s doing right now, not even the Police Chief has been informed.’

‘My word of honour.’

‘Is that him? Is that him, Aurora?’

‘Dad, you’re nagging again.’

‘Aune, perhaps you and I should go and sit outside for a while, so they can look in peace.’

‘In peace? This is my daughter, Wyller, and she wants—’

‘Do as he says, Dad. I’m OK.’

‘Oh. Sure?’

‘Quite sure.’ Aurora turned to the woman from the bank and the man from the Street Crime Unit. ‘It’s not him, move on.’

Ståle Aune stood up, possibly a little too fast, perhaps that’s why he felt giddy. Or perhaps because he hadn’t got any sleep last night. Or eaten anything today. And had been looking at a screen for three hours without a break.

‘You sit down on this sofa here, and I’ll see if I can get us some coffee,’ Wyller said.

Ståle Aune just nodded.

Wyller walked off, leaving Ståle sitting there, looking at his daughter on the other side of the glass wall. She was gesturing at them to move on, stop, rewind. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her this engaged in anything. Perhaps his initial response and anxiety had been an overreaction. Perhaps the worst was over, perhaps she had somehow managed to move on, while he and Ingrid had been blissfully unaware of what had happened.

And his young daughter had explained to him – the way a psychology lecturer would explain something to a new student – what an oath of confidentiality was. And that she had imposed one on Harry, and that Harry hadn’t broken it until he realised that to do so could save people’s lives – exactly the same way Ståle applied his own oath of confidentiality. And Aurora had survived, in spite of everything. Death. Ståle had been thinking about that recently. Not his own, but the fact that his daughter would also die one day. Why was that thought so unbearable? Maybe it would look different if he and Ingrid became grandparents, seeing as the human psyche is obviously as much a slave to biological imperatives as physical ones, and the impulse to pass on your own genes is presumably a precondition for the survival of the species. He had once asked Harry, long ago, if he didn’t want a child that was biologically his own, but Harry had had his answer ready. He didn’t have the happy gene, only the alcoholic one, and he didn’t think anyone deserved to inherit that. It’s possible that he had changed his mind, because the last few years had at least proved that Harry was capable of experiencing happiness. Ståle took his phone out. He was thinking about phoning Harry and telling him that. That he was a good person, a good friend, father and husband. OK, it sounded like an obituary, but Harry needed to hear it. That he had been wrong to believe that his compulsive attraction to hunting murderers was similar to his alcoholism. That it wasn’t an act of escape, that what he was driven by, far more than Harry Hole the individualist was prepared to admit to himself, was the herding instinct. The good herding instinct. With morals and responsibility towards everyone. Harry would probably just laugh, but that’s what Ståle wanted to tell his friend, if only he’d answer his damn phone.

Ståle saw Aurora’s back straighten up, her muscles tense. Was it …? But then she relaxed again and gestured with her hand that they should go on.

Ståle held the phone to his ear again. Answer, damn it!

‘Successful at my career, sports and family life? Yes, maybe.’ Mikael Bellman looked round the table. ‘But first and foremost I’m just a simple guy from Manglerud.’

He had been worried that the practised clichés would sound hollow, but Isabelle had been right: it only took a little bit of feeling to deliver even the most embarrassing banality with conviction.

‘We’re glad you found the time for this little chat, Bellman.’ The Party Secretary raised his napkin to his lips to indicate that lunch was over, and nodded to the two other representatives. ‘The process is under way and, as I said, we’re extremely pleased that you’ve indicated that you’re inclined to respond positively in the event of an offer being made.’

Bellman nodded.

‘By “we”,’ Isabelle Skøyen interjected, ‘you mean the Prime Minister as well, don’t you?’

‘We wouldn’t have agreed to come here if it weren’t for the positive attitude of the Prime Minister’s office,’ the Party Secretary said.

At first they had invited Mikael to the Government Building for this conversation, but after consulting Isabelle, Mikael had countered by inviting them to neutral territory. Lunch, paid for by the Police Chief.

The Party Secretary looked at his watch. An Omega Seamaster, Bellman noted. Too heavy to be practical. And it made you a target for muggers in every Third World city. It stopped working if you left it off for longer than a day, so you had to wind and wind to reset the time, but if you forgot to tighten the screw afterwards and jumped in the pool, the clock was ruined and the repairs would cost more than four other high-quality watches. In short: he really needed to get that watch.

‘But, as I mentioned, there are other people under consideration. Minister of Justice is one of the weightier ministerial appointments, and I can’t deny that the path is slightly trickier for someone who hasn’t risen through the political ranks.’

Mikael made sure to get his timing spot on, and pushed back his chair and stood up at exactly the same time as the Party Secretary, and was first to hold out his hand and say ‘Let’s talk soon’. He was Chief of Police, damn it, and out of the two of them, it was him rather than this grey bureaucrat with the expensive watch who needed to get back to his responsible job fastest.

Once the representatives of the governing party had left, Mikael and Isabelle Skøyen sat down again. They had been given a private room in one of the new restaurants set among the apartment complexes at the far end of Sørenga. They had the Opera House and Ekebergsåsen behind them, and the new freshwater pool in front of them. The fjord was covered in choppy little waves, and the yachts hung crookedly out there like white commas. The latest weather forecasts predicted that the storm was going to hit Oslo before midnight.

‘That went OK, didn’t it?’ Mikael asked, pouring the last of the Voss mineral water into their glasses.

‘If it weren’t for the positive attitude from the Prime Minister’s office,’ Isabelle mimicked, and wrinkled her nose.

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘That “if it weren’t for” is a modifier they haven’t used before. And the fact that they’re referring to the Prime Minister’s office instead of the Prime Minister herself tells me they’re distancing themselves.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘You heard what I did. A lunch where they mostly asked you about the vampirist case and how quickly you think he can be caught.’

‘Come on, Isabelle, that’s what everyone in the city is talking about right now.’

‘They’re asking because that’s what everything depends on, Mikael.’

‘But—’

‘They don’t need you, your competence or ability to run a department, you do realise that, don’t you?’

‘Now you’re exaggerating, but OK, yes—’

‘They want your eyepatch, your hero status, popularity, success. Because that’s what you’ve got and what this government lacks right now. Take that away and you’re not worth anything to them. And, truth be told …’ She pushed her glass away and stood up. ‘… not to me either.’

Mikael smiled warily. ‘What?’

She took her short fur coat from the hat stand.

‘I can’t deal with losers, Mikael, you know that perfectly well. I went to the press and gave you the credit for saving the day by blowing the dust off Harry Hole. So far he’s arrested a naked ninety-year-old and got an innocent bartender murdered. That doesn’t just make you look like a loser, Mikael, it makes me look like one. I don’t like that, and that’s why I’m leaving you.’

Mikael Bellman laughed. ‘Have you got your period, or what?’

‘You used to know when that was due.’

‘OK,’ Mikael sighed. ‘Speak soon.’

‘I think you’re interpreting “leaving” a little too narrowly.’

‘Isabelle …’

‘Goodbye. I liked what you said about your successful family life. Focus on that.’

Mikael Bellman sat and watched the door close behind her.

He asked the waiter who looked in for the bill, and gazed out across the fjord again. It was said that the people who planned these apartments along the water’s edge hadn’t taken climate change and rising sea levels into account. He had actually thought about that when he and Ulla had their villa built, high up in Høyenhall: that they would be safe there, the sea couldn’t drown them, invisible assailants couldn’t sneak up on them, and no storm could blow the roof off. It would take more than that. He drank from his glass of water. Grimaced and looked at it. Voss. Why were people prepared to pay good money for something that tasted no better than what they could get from the tap? Not because they thought it tasted better, but because they thought other people thought it tasted better. So they ordered Voss when they were out at restaurants with their far-too-boring trophy wives and far-too-heavy Omega Seamaster watches. Was that why he sometimes found himself longing for the old days? For Manglerud, and being drunk at Olsen’s on a Saturday night, leaning over the bar and topping up his beer while Olsen looked the other way, dancing one last slow dance with Ulla as the first line of the Manglerud Stars and the Kawasaki 750 boys glared angrily at him, while he knew that he and Ulla would soon be leaving together, just the two of them, out into the night, walking down Plogveien towards the ice hall and Østensjøvannet, and there he would point out the stars and explain how they were going to get there.

Had they succeeded? Maybe, but it was like when he was a boy, when he was walking in the mountains with his father, when he was tired and thought they had finally reached the summit. Only to discover that beyond that summit lay one that was even higher.

Mikael Bellman closed his eyes.

It was just like that now. He was tired. Could he stop here? Lie down, feel the wind, the heather tickling him, sun-warmed rock against his skin. Say he was thinking of staying here. And he felt a peculiar urge to call Ulla and tell her just that. We’re staying here.

And in response he felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. Of course, it had to be Ulla.

‘Yes?’

‘This is Katrine Bratt.’

‘Right.’

‘I just wanted to inform you that we’ve found out the alias Valentin Gjertsen has been hiding behind.’

‘What?’

‘He withdrew money at Oslo Central Station in August, and six minutes ago we managed to identify him from the recording made by the security camera. The card he used was issued to an Alexander Dreyer, born 1972.’

‘And?’

‘And this Alexander Dreyer died in a car accident in 2010.’

‘Address? Have we got an address?’

‘We have. Delta are on their way there now.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not yet, but I presume you’d like to be kept informed as things develop?’

‘Yes. As things develop.’

They hung up.

‘Sorry.’ It was the waiter.

Bellman looked down at the bill. He tapped an amount that was far too high into the handheld card reader, and pressed Enter. Stood up and stormed out. Catching Gjertsen now would open all the doors.

His tiredness seemed to have blown away.

John D. Steffens turned the light on. The neon lights flickered for a few moments before the buzzing stabilised, casting a cold glow.

Oleg blinked and gasped. ‘Is that all blood?’ His voice echoed around the room.

Steffens smiled as the metal door slid closed behind them. ‘Welcome to the Bloodbath.’

Oleg shivered. The room was kept chilled, and the bluish light on the cracked white tiles only enhanced the feeling of being inside a fridge.

‘How … how much is there?’ Oleg asked as he followed Steffens between the rows of red blood bags, hanging four-deep from metal stands.

‘Enough for us to be able to cope for a few days if Oslo were attacked by Lakotas,’ Steffens said, climbing down the steps into the old pool.

‘Lakotas?’

‘You probably know them as Sioux,’ Steffens said, squeezing one of the bags, and Oleg saw the blood change colour, from dark to light. ‘It’s a myth that the Native Americans the white man met were especially bloodthirsty. Except for the Lakotas.’

‘Really?’ Oleg said. ‘What about the white man? Isn’t bloodthirstiness pretty evenly divided between types of people?’

‘I know that’s what you learn at school now,’ Steffens said. ‘No one’s better, no one’s worse. But believe me, the Lakotas were both better and worse, they were the best fighters. The Apaches used to say that if Cheyenne or Blackfoot warriors came, they would send their young boys and old men to fight them. But if the Lakotas came, they didn’t send anyone. They started to sing songs of death. And hoped for a quick end.’

‘Torture?’

‘When the Lakotas burned their prisoners of war, they did it gradually, with small pieces of charcoal.’ Steffens carried on to where the blood bags were hanging more densely and there was less light. ‘And when the prisoners couldn’t take any more, they were allowed a break with water and food, so that the torture could last a day or two. That food sometimes included chunks of their own flesh.’

‘Is that true?’

‘Well, as true as any written history. One Lakota warrior called Moon Behind Cloud was famous for drinking every drop of blood from all the enemies he killed. That’s clearly a historical exaggeration seeing as he killed a huge number of people and wouldn’t have survived the excessive drinking. Human blood is poisonous in high doses.’

‘Is it?’

‘You take in more iron than your body can get rid of. But he did drink someone’s blood, I know that much.’ Steffens stopped beside one blood bag. ‘In 1871 my great-great-grandfather was found drained of blood in Moon Behind Cloud’s Lakota camp in Utah, where he’d gone as a missionary. In my grandmother’s diary she wrote that my great-great-grandmother thanked the Lord after the massacre of Lakotas at Wounded Knee in 1890. Speaking of mothers …’

‘Yes?’

‘This blood is your mother’s. Well, it’s mine now.’

‘I thought she was receiving blood?’

‘Your mother has a very rare blood type, Oleg.’

‘Really? I thought she belonged to a fairly common blood group.’

‘Oh, blood’s about so much more than groups, Oleg. Luckily hers is group A, so I can give her ordinary blood from here.’ He held his hands out. ‘Ordinary blood that her body will absorb, and then turn into the golden drops which are Rakel Fauke’s blood. And speaking of Fauke, Oleg Fauke, I didn’t just bring you here to give you a break from sitting at her bedside. I was thinking of asking you if I could take a blood sample to see if you produce the same blood as her?’

‘Me?’ Oleg thought about it. ‘Yes, why not, if it could help someone.’

‘It would help me, believe me. Are you ready?’

‘Here? Now?’

Oleg met Dr Steffens’s gaze. Something made him hesitate, but he didn’t quite know what.

‘OK,’ Oleg said. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Great.’ Steffens put his hand in the right pocket of his white coat and took a step closer to Oleg. He frowned irritably when a cheerful tune rang out from his left pocket.

‘I didn’t think there was a signal down here,’ he muttered as he fished out his phone. Oleg saw the screen light up the doctor’s face, reflecting off his glasses. ‘Hello, it looks like it’s Police HQ.’ He put the phone to his ear. ‘Senior Consultant John Doyle Steffens.’

Oleg heard the buzz of the other voice.

‘No, Inspector Bratt, I haven’t seen Harry Hole today, and I’m fairly sure he isn’t here. This is hardly the only place where people have to switch their phones off, perhaps he’s sitting on a plane?’ Steffens looked at Oleg, who shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve found him”? Yes, Bratt, I’ll give him that message if he shows up. Who have you found, out of interest? … Thank you, I am aware of the oath of confidentiality, Bratt, but I thought it might be helpful to Hole if I didn’t have to speak in code. So that he understands what you mean … OK, I’ll just say “We’ve found him” to Hole when I see him. Have a good day, Bratt.’

Steffens put his phone back in his pocket. Saw that Oleg had rolled up his shirtsleeve. He took him by the arm and led him to the steps of the pool. ‘Thanks, but I just saw on my phone that it’s much later than I thought it was, and I’ve got a patient waiting. We’ll have to take your blood another time, Fauke.’

Sivert Falkeid, head of Delta, was sitting at the back of the rapid response unit’s van, barking out concise orders as they lurched along Trondheimsveien. There was an eight-man team in the vehicle. Well, seven men and one woman. And she wasn’t part of the response unit. No woman ever had been. The entry requirements to join Delta were in theory gender-neutral, but there hadn’t been a single woman among that year’s hundred or so applicants, and in the past there had only been five in total, the last of them in the previous millennium. And none of them had made it through the eye of the needle. But who knows, the woman sitting opposite him looked strong and determined, so perhaps she might stand a chance?

‘So we don’t know if this Dreyer is at home?’ Sivert Falkeid said.

‘Just so we’re clear, this is Valentin Gjertsen, the vampirist.’

‘I’m kidding, Bratt,’ Falkeid smiled. ‘So he hasn’t got a mobile phone we could use to pinpoint his location with?’

‘He may well have, but none that’s registered to Dreyer or Gjertsen. Is that a problem?’

Sivert Falkeid looked at her. They had downloaded plans from the Buildings Department of the City Council, and it looked promising. A 45-square-metre two-room apartment on the second floor, with no back door or cellar access directly from the flat. The plan was to send four men in through the front door, with two outside in case he jumped from the balcony.

‘No problem,’ he said.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Go in silently?’

His smile widened. He liked her Bergen accent. ‘You’re thinking we should cut a neat hole in the glass on the balcony and wipe our shoes politely before going in?’

‘I was thinking that there’s no reason to waste grenades and smoke when it’s just one man who hopefully isn’t going to be armed, and doesn’t know we’re coming. And quiet and drama-free gets higher marks for style, doesn’t it?’

‘Something like that,’ Falkeid said, checking the GPS and the road ahead of them. ‘But if we blast our way in, the risk of injury is lower, both for us and for him. Nine out of ten people are paralysed by the blast and light when we throw a grenade, no matter how tough they think they are. I think we’ve saved the lives of more suspects than we have our own people by using that tactic. Besides, we’ve got these shock grenades we’d like to use up before they reach their expiry date. And the lads are restless, they need a bit of rock’n’roll. There’ve been too many ballads recently.’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you? You’re not really that macho and childish?’

Falkeid grinned and shrugged.

‘You know what?’ Bratt had leaned closer, moistened her red lips and lowered her voice. ‘I kind of like that.’

Falkeid laughed. He was happily married, but if he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have turned down a dinner date with Katrine Bratt and a chance to look into those dark, dangerous eyes and listen to those rolling Bergen rrs that sounded like a growling beast of prey.

‘One minute!’ he said loudly, and the seven men lowered their visors in an almost perfectly synchronised movement.

‘A Ruger Redhawk, was that what you said he had?’

‘That’s what Harry Hole said he had in the bar.’

‘Did you hear that, men?’

They nodded. The manufacturer claimed that the plastic in the new visors could stop a 9mm bullet heading for your face, but not one from the larger-calibre Redhawk. And Falkeid thought maybe that was just as well: a false sense of security seemed to have a debilitating effect.

‘And if he resists?’ Bratt said.

Falkeid cleared his throat. ‘Then we shoot him.’

‘Do you have to?’

‘Someone will no doubt come up with an opinion with the benefit of hindsight, but we prefer to be wise in foresight, and shoot people who are contemplating shooting us. Knowing that that’s OK plays an important role in our workplace satisfaction. Looks like we’re here.’

He was standing by the window. Noticed two greasy marks left by fingers on the glass. He had a view across the city, but couldn’t see anything, just heard the sirens. No cause for alarm, you heard sirens all the time. People got caught in house fires, slipped on the bathroom floor, tortured their partners, and that’s when you heard sirens. Irritating, nagging sirens telling people to get out of the way.

On the other side of the wall someone was having sex. In the middle of the working day. Infidelity. To spouses, to employers, probably both.

The sirens rose and fell over the buzzing sound of radio voices behind him. They were on their way, people with uniforms and authority, but without purpose or meaning. All they knew was that it was urgent, that if they didn’t get there in time something terrible would happen.

The air-raid siren. Now, there was a siren that meant something. The sound of doomsday. A wonderful sound that could make your hair stand on end. Hearing that sound, looking at the time, seeing that it wasn’t noon precisely and realising that it wasn’t a test. That was when he would have bombed Oslo, twelve noon. Not a soul would have run for the shelters, they’d just have stood there, staring up at the sky in surprise and wondering what sort of weather it was. Or they’d have lain there fucking with a guilty conscience, unable to act any differently. Because we can’t. We do what we have to because we are who we are. The idea of willpower allowing us to act differently from what’s dictated by who we are, that’s a misunderstanding. It’s the opposite, the only thing willpower does is follow our nature, even when circumstances make that difficult. Raping a woman, breaking down or outsmarting her resistance, running from the police, taking revenge, hiding night and day, doesn’t all this entail defying the obstacles in order to make love to this woman?

The sirens were further away now. The lovers had finished.

He tried to remember how it sounded, the alarm that meant important message, listen to the radio. Did they still use that one? When he was a boy there was one radio station, but which one should you listen to in order to hear that message, which must be incredibly important, yet not quite dramatic enough to mean that you had to run to the shelters. Maybe the plan made provision for them to take over all radio stations, for a voice to announce … what? That it was already too late. That the shelters were closed, because they couldn’t save you, nothing could. That what mattered now was to gather your loved ones around you, say your goodbyes, and then die. Because he had learned this much. That many people organise their entire lives to facilitate one single goal: not to die alone. Few succeed, but the lengths people were prepared to go to because of this desperate fear of crossing that threshold without having someone to hold their hand. Ha. He’d held their hands. How many? Twenty? Thirty? And they hadn’t looked any less terrified or alone as a result. Not even the ones he had loved. Now, they obviously hadn’t had time to love him back, but they had been surrounded by love all the same. He thought about Marte Ruud. He should have treated her better, not let himself get dragged along. He hoped she was dead now, and that it had happened quickly and painlessly.

He heard the shower on the other side of the wall, and the radio voices on his phone.

‘… when the vampirist in some sections of academic literature is described as intelligent and showing no signs of mental illness or social pathology, that creates an impression that we are dealing with a strong and dangerous enemy. But the so-called “Sacramento Vampire”, the vampirist Richard Chase, is probably a more typical comparison when it comes to Valentin Gjertsen’s case. Both demonstrated mental disorders from an early age, bed-wetting, a fascination with fire, impotence. They were both diagnosed with paranoia and schizophrenia. Chase, admittedly, had taken the more common path of drinking animal blood. He also injected himself with chicken blood and made himself ill. Whereas Valentin as a boy was more interested in torturing cats. At his grandfather’s farm, Valentin hid newborn kittens, he kept them in a secret cage so that he could torment them without any of the adults knowing. But both Valentin Gjertsen and Chase become obsessional after they carry out their first vampirist attack. Chase kills all seven of his victims within the space of just a few weeks. And, just like Gjertsen, he kills most of them in their own homes, he goes round Sacramento in December 1977 trying doors, and if they’re open, he takes that as an invitation and goes in, as he explains later under questioning. One of his victims, Teresa Wallin, was three months pregnant, and when Chase found her home alone, he shot her three times and raped her corpse while stabbing her with a butcher’s knife and drinking her blood. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?’

Yes, he thought. But what you daren’t mention is that Richard Trenton Chase removed several of her internal organs, cut off one of her nipples, and collected dog shit from the backyard which he forced into her mouth. Or that he used one victim’s penis as a straw to drink the blood of another of his victims.

‘And the similarities don’t end there. Just like Chase, Valentin Gjertsen is coming to the end of the road. I can’t see him killing more people now.’

‘What makes you so sure of that, herr Smith? You’re working with the police, have you got any specific leads?’

‘What makes me so sure has nothing to do with the investigation, which I naturally can’t comment on, either directly or indirectly.’

‘So why?’

He heard Smith take a deep breath. He could see the absent-minded psychologist in front of him, sitting there taking notes. Eagerly asking about childhood, bed-wetting, early sexual experiences, the forest he set light to, and particularly the cat-fishing, as he called it, which involved getting his grandfather’s fishing rod, throwing the line over the beam in the barn, attaching the hook under the chin of one of the kittens, winding the line back until it was hanging in mid-air, then watching the kitten’s hopeless attempts to climb up and free itself.

‘Because Valentin Gjertsen isn’t anything special, apart from being extremely evil. He’s not stupid, but he’s not particularly intelligent. He hasn’t achieved anything special. Creating something requires imagination, vision, but destruction requires nothing, only blindness. What’s saved Gjertsen from being caught in the past few days isn’t skill, but pure luck. Until he is caught, which will be soon, naturally Valentin Gjertsen remains a dangerous man to get too close to, the way you should watch out for dogs that are frothing at the mouth. But a dog with rabies is dying, and, despite all his evil, Valentin Gjertsen is – to use Harry Hole’s vernacular – just a wretched pervert who’s now so out of control that he’s going to make a big mistake very soon.’

‘So you want to reassure Oslo’s inhabitants by …’

He heard a sound and switched the podcast off. Listened. It was the sound of shuffling feet right outside the door. Someone concentrating on something.

Four men dressed in Delta’s dark uniform were standing at Alexander Dreyer’s door. Katrine Bratt was watching from the corridor, twenty metres away.

One of the men was holding a one-and-a-half-metre battering ram shaped like a giant tube of Pringles with two handles on it.

It was impossible to tell the four of them apart behind their helmets and visors. But she assumed that the man holding up three gloved fingers was Sivert Falkeid.

During the silent countdown she could hear music from the flat. Pink Floyd? She hated Pink Floyd. No, that wasn’t true, she just felt deeply suspicious of people who liked Pink Floyd. Bjørn had said he only liked one Pink Floyd track, then had pulled out an album with a picture of something that looked like a hairy ear on it, said it was from before they became big, and played an ordinary blues track with a howling dog on it. The sort of thing they use on television programmes that have run out of ideas. Bjørn had said he gave any track featuring a bit of decent bottleneck guitar a full amnesty, and the fact that this one featured double bass drums, rough vocals and tributes to dark powers and rotting corpses – just the way Katrine liked it – was also a plus. She missed Bjørn. And now, as Falkeid lowered his last finger to form a clenched fist, and as they swung the battering ram that was about to smash in the door of the man who in the past seven days had murdered at least four, and probably five, people, she thought about the man she had left.

The lock shattered and the door was smashed in. The third man threw a flash grenade and Katrine Bratt covered her ears. The Delta men cast shadows across the corridor in the light from the flat that Katrine registered a fraction of a second before the two explosions that followed.

Three of the men disappeared inside with their MP5s against their shoulders, the fourth stood outside with his weapon trained on the doorway.

She took her hands away from her ears.

The grenade had knocked out Pink Floyd.

‘Clear!’ Falkeid’s voice.

The police officer outside turned to Katrine and nodded.

She took a deep breath and walked towards the door.

Went inside the flat. There was still smoke in the air from the grenade, but surprisingly little smell.

Hall. Living room. Kitchen. The first thing that struck her was that it looked so normal. As if a perfectly ordinary, clean, tidy person lived there. Who made food, drank coffee, watched television, listened to music. No meat hooks hanging from the ceiling, no bloodstains on the wallpaper, no newspaper cuttings about murders and pictures of the victims on the walls.

And the thought hit her. That Aurora had been wrong.

She looked in through the open bathroom door. It was empty, no shower curtain, no toiletries except one object on the shelf below the mirror. She went in. It wasn’t a toiletry. The metal was stained with black paint and red-brown rust. The iron teeth were closed, forming a zigzag pattern.

‘Bratt!’

‘Yes?’ Katrine went into the living room.

‘In here.’ Falkeid’s voice was coming from the bedroom. It sounded calm, measured. As if something was over. Katrine stepped across the threshold and avoided touching the door frame, as if she was already aware that this was a crime scene. The wardrobe door was open, and the Delta men were standing on either side of the double bed with their semi-automatics aimed at the naked body that was lying on top of it, its lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. It was giving off a smell that she couldn’t place at first, so she leaned a bit closer. Lavender.

Katrine pulled her phone out, rang a number and got an answer immediately.

‘Have you got him?’ Bjørn Holm sounded out of breath.

‘No,’ she said. ‘But there’s a woman’s body here.’

‘Dead?’

‘Not living, anyway.’

‘Damn. Is it Marte Ruud? Hang on, what do you mean, “not living”?’

‘Not dead, not alive.’

‘What …?’

‘It’s a sex doll.’

‘A what?’

‘A fuck doll. An expensive one, from the looks of it, made in Japan, very lifelike. At first I thought it was a person. Alexander Dreyer is Valentin, at least, the iron teeth are here. So we’ll have to wait and see if he shows up. Heard anything from Harry?’

‘No.’

Katrine’s gaze fell on a coat hanger and a pair of underpants that were lying on the floor in front of the wardrobe. ‘I don’t like it, Bjørn. He wasn’t at the hospital either.’

‘No one likes it. Shall we put out an alert?’

‘For Harry? What would be the point of that?’

‘You’re right. Listen, don’t disturb things too much, there could be evidence of Marte Ruud there.’

‘OK, but I have a feeling that any evidence has been cleaned up. Judging by the flat, Harry was right, Valentin is extremely clean and tidy.’ Her eyes went back to the coat hanger and underpants. ‘Mind you …’

‘What?’ Bjørn said.

‘Fuck,’ Katrine said.

‘Which means?’

‘He threw some clothes in a bag in a hurry and grabbed his toiletries from the bathroom. Valentin knew we were coming …’

Valentin opened the door. And saw who had been shuffling about outside. The cleaner, who had been bent over holding the key card to the door of his hotel room, straightened up.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she smiled. ‘I didn’t know the room was occupied.’

‘I’ll take those,’ he said, and took the towels from her hand. ‘And could you please clean again?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m not happy with the cleaning. There are finger marks on the window. Please clean the room again, let’s say in an hour?’

Her surprised face disappeared behind the door as he closed it.

He put the towels on the coffee table, sat down in the armchair and opened his bag.

The sirens had fallen silent. If it was them he had heard, perhaps they were inside his flat now, it wasn’t more than a couple of kilometres up to Sinsen, as the crow flies. It had already been half an hour since the other man had called to say that the police knew where he was and what name he was using, that he had to get out. Valentin had packed only the most important things, and left the car there seeing as they had the name it was registered under.

He took the folder out of the bag and leafed through it. Looked at the pictures, addresses. And he realised that for the first time in a very long while, he didn’t know what to do.

He heard the psychologist’s voice inside his ear.

‘… just a wretched pervert who’s now so out of control that he’s going to make a big mistake very soon.’

Valentin Gjertsen stood up and undressed. Picked up the towels and went into the bathroom. Turned on the hot water in the shower. Stood in front of the mirror, waiting for the water to get scalding hot as he watched the condensation spread across the mirror. He looked at the tattoo. Heard his phone start to ring and knew it was him. Reason. Salvation. With new instructions, new orders. Should he ignore it? Was it time to cut the umbilical cord, the lifeline? Time to break free entirely?

He filled his lungs. And screamed.

28

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

‘SEX DOLLS ARE nothing new,’ Smith said, looking down at the plastic and silicon woman on the bed. ‘When the Dutch ruled the seven seas, the sailors used to take a sort of doll-like vagina with them, sewn out of leather. It was so common that the Chinese called it a “Dutch wife”.’

‘Really?’ Katrine asked, watching the white-clad angels of the forensics team as they examined the bedroom. ‘So they spoke English?’

Smith laughed. ‘Got me. The articles in academic journals are in English. In Japan there are brothels containing nothing but sex dolls. The most expensive ones are heated, so they stay at body temperature, they have skeletons which mean you can bend their arms and legs into natural and unnatural positions, and they have automatic lubrication of—’

‘Thank you, I think that’s enough,’ Katrine said.

‘Of course, sorry.’

‘Did Bjørn tell you why he was staying in the boiler room?’

Smith shook his head.

‘He and Lien had things to do,’ Wyller said.

‘Berna Lien? Things to do?’

‘He just said that as long as this wasn’t assumed to be a murder scene, he’d leave it to the others.’

‘Things to do,’ Katrine muttered as she walked out of the bedroom with the other two hot on her heels. Out of the flat, out to the car park in front of the apartment blocks. They stopped behind the blue Honda where two forensics experts were examining the boot. They had found the keys in the flat, and it had been confirmed that the car was registered to Alexander Dreyer. The sky above them was steel grey, and on the far side of Torshovdalen’s billowing grass-covered slopes Katrine could see the wind grabbing the treetops. The latest forecast said that Emilia was only a matter of hours away.

‘Smart of him not to take the car,’ Wyller said.

‘Yep,’ Katrine said.

‘What do you mean?’ Smith asked.

‘The toll stations, car parks and traffic cameras,’ Wyller said. ‘You can run number-plate recognition software on video recordings, it only takes seconds.’

‘Brave new world,’ Katrine said.

‘O brave new world, that has such people in it,’ Smith said.

Katrine turned to the psychologist. ‘Can you imagine where someone like Valentin might go if he ran?’

‘No.’

‘No, as in “no idea”?’

Smith pushed his glasses further up his nose. ‘No, as in “I can’t imagine him running”.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s angry.’

Katrine shivered. ‘You didn’t exactly make him less angry if he heard your podcast with Daa.’

‘No,’ Smith sighed. ‘Maybe I went too far. Again. Fortunately we’ve got decent locks and security cameras after the break-in in the barn. But maybe …’

‘Maybe what?’

‘Maybe we’d feel safer if I had a weapon, a pistol or something.’

‘Regulations don’t permit us to give you a police weapon without a licence and weapons training.’

‘Emergency armament,’ Wyller said.

Katrine looked at him. Perhaps the criteria for emergency armament had been met, perhaps not. But she could see the headlines after Smith had been shot and it emerged that he had requested emergency armament and had been turned down. ‘Can you help Hallstein get issued with a pistol?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. I’ve told Skarre to check trains, boats, flights, hotels and boarding houses. We’ll have to hope that Valentin doesn’t have the paperwork to support other identities apart from Alexander Dreyer.’ Katrine looked up at the sky. She had once had a boyfriend who was keen on paragliding, and he had told her that even if there was no wind on the ground, the air just a couple of hundred metres up could break the speed limit on a motorway. Dreyer. Dutch wife. Things to do? Pistol. Angry.

‘And Harry wasn’t at home?’ she said.

Wyller shook his head. ‘I rang the doorbell, walked round the house, looked in all the windows.’

‘Time to talk to Oleg,’ she said. ‘He must have keys.’

‘I’ll get on to it.’

She sighed. ‘If you don’t find Harry there, it might be an idea to get Telenor to try and locate his phone.’

One of the white-clad forensics guys came over to her.

‘There’s blood in the boot,’ he said.

‘Much?’

‘Yes. And this.’ He held up a large transparent plastic evidence bag. Inside was a white blouse. Torn. Bloody. With lace on it, the way customers had described the blouse Marte Ruud had been wearing the night she went missing.

29

WEDNESDAY EVENING

HARRY OPENED HIS eyes and stared into the darkness.

Where was he? What had happened? How long had he been unconscious? His head felt like someone had hit it with an iron bar. His pulse was throbbing against his eardrums in a monotonous rhythm. All he could remember was that he was locked in. And as far as he could work out, he was lying on a floor covered in cold tiles. Cold like the inside of a fridge. He was lying in something wet, sticky. He raised his hand and stared at it. Was that blood?

Then, slowly, it dawned on Harry that it wasn’t his pulse throbbing against his eardrums.

It was a bass guitar.

Kaiser Chiefs? Probably. It was definitely one of those hip English bands that he’d actually forgotten. Not that Kaiser Chiefs were bad, but they weren’t exceptional and had therefore ended up in the grey soup of things he had heard more than a year ago but less than twenty: they just hadn’t stuck. While he could remember every note and lyric from the very worst songs from the 1980s, the period between then and now was a blank. Just like the period between yesterday and now. Nothing. Just that insistent bass. Or his heartbeat. Or someone banging on the door.

Harry opened his eyes again. He smelt his hand, hoping it wasn’t blood, piss or vomit.

The bass started to play out of time with the song.

It was the door.

‘Closed!’ Harry shouted. And regretted it when it felt like his head was going to explode.

The track ended and the Smiths took over. And Harry realised he must have plugged his own phone into the stereo when he got sick of Bad Company. ‘There is a Light That Never Goes Out’. If only it would. But the hammering on the door merely continued. Harry put his hands over his ears. But when the track reached the last part with nothing but strings, he heard a voice shouting his name. And because it could hardly be someone who had found out that the new owner of the Jealousy Bar was called Harry, and because he recognised the voice, he grabbed hold of the edge of the counter and heaved himself up. First to his knees. Then a forward-leaning posture, which in spite of everything had to qualify as standing, seeing as the soles of his shoes were planted on the sticky floor. He saw the two empty Jim Beam bottles lying on their sides with their mouths over the edge of the counter, and realised that he had lain there marinating in his own bourbon whiskey.

He saw her face outside the window. It looked like she was alone.

He ran one stiff index finger across his throat to indicate that the bar was closed, but she gave him a long stiff finger in return and started banging on the window instead.

And because the noise sounded like a hammer on the already battered parts of his brain, Harry decided that he may as well open the door. He let go of the counter, took a step. And fell over. Both his feet had fallen asleep – how was that possible? He got up again, and with the help of the tables and chairs he staggered to the door.

‘Bloody hell,’ Katrine groaned when he opened the door. ‘You’re drunk!’

‘Possibly,’ Harry said. ‘But I wish I was drunker.’

‘We’ve been looking for you, you bloody idiot! Have you been here all this time?’

‘I don’t know what “all this time” is, but there are two empty bottles on the bar. Let’s hope I took my time and enjoyed it.’

‘We’ve been calling and calling.’

‘Mm. Must have put my phone on flight mode. Do you like the playlist? Listen. This angry lady is Martha Wainwright. “Bloody Mother Fucking Arsehole”. Remind you of anyone?’

‘Fucking hell, Harry, what are you thinking?’

‘I don’t know about thinking. I am – as you can see – in flight mode.’

She grabbed hold of the collar of his jacket. ‘People are being murdered out there, Harry. And you’re standing here trying to be funny?’

‘I try to be funny every fucking day, Katrine. And you know what? It doesn’t make people any better, or any worse. And it doesn’t seem to have any effect on the number of murders either.’

‘Harry, Harry …’

He swayed, and it dawned on him that she had grabbed his collar primarily to stop him falling over.

‘We missed him, Harry. We need you.’

‘OK. Just let me have a drink first.’

‘Harry!’

‘Your voice is very … loud …’

‘We’re going now. I’ve got a car waiting outside.’

‘My bar is having a happy hour, and I’m not ready for work, Katrine.’

‘You’re not going to work, you’re going home to sober up. Oleg’s waiting for you.’

‘Oleg?’

‘We got him to unlock the house up in Holmenkollen. He was so scared of what he was going to find that he made Bjørn go in first.’

Harry closed his eyes. Shit, shit. ‘I can’t, Katrine.’

‘You can’t what?’

‘Call Oleg and say I’m OK, tell him to go back to his mother instead.’

‘He seemed pretty determined to wait there until you arrived, Harry.’

‘I can’t let him see me like this. And I’m no use to you. Sorry, this isn’t up for discussion.’ He took hold of the door. ‘Now go.’

‘Go? And leave you here?’

‘I’ll be OK. Only soft drinks from now on. Maybe a bit of Coldplay.’

Katrine shook her head. ‘You’re coming home.’

‘I’m not going home.’

‘Not your home.’

30

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

THERE WAS ONE hour left until midnight, Olsen’s was packed with fully grown adults, and from the speakers Gerry Rafferty and his saxophone were blowing the ponytails of the people standing closest to them.

‘The sounds of the eighties,’ Liz cried.

‘I think this is from the seventies,’ Ulla said.

‘Yeah, but it didn’t reach Manglerud until the eighties.’

They laughed. Ulla saw Liz shake her head towards a man who looked questioningly at her as he passed their table.

‘This is actually the second time I’ve been here in a week,’ Ulla said.

‘Oh? Was it this much fun last time?’

Ulla shook her head. ‘Nothing’s as much fun as going out with you. Time passes, but you haven’t changed.’

‘No,’ Liz said, tilting her head and studying her friend. ‘But you have.’

‘Really? Have I lost myself?’

‘No, and that’s actually quite annoying. But you don’t smile any more.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘You smile, but you don’t smile. Not like Ulla from Manglerud.’

Ulla tilted her head. ‘We moved.’

‘Yes, you got a husband and children and villa. But that’s a poor exchange for the smile, Ulla. What happened?’

‘Yes, what happened?’ She smiled at Liz and drank. Then looked around. The average age was roughly the same as them, but she couldn’t see any familiar faces. Manglerud had grown, people had moved in, moved on. Some had died, some had just disappeared. And some were sitting at home. Dead and disappeared.

‘Would it be mean of me to guess?’ Liz wondered.

‘Guess away.’

Rafferty had finished his verse and Liz had to shout to drown out the saxophone blasting out again. ‘Mikael Bellman from Manglerud. He took your smile.’

‘That is actually pretty mean, Liz.’

‘Yes, but it’s true, isn’t it?’

Ulla raised her glass of wine again. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Is he being unfaithful?’

‘Liz!’

‘It’s hardly a secret …’

‘What isn’t a secret?’

‘That Mikael likes the ladies. Come on, Ulla, you’re not that naive.’

Ulla sighed. ‘Maybe not. But what am I supposed to do?’

‘The same as me,’ Liz said, taking the bottle of white wine from the ice bucket and topping up both their glasses. ‘Give them a taste of their own medicine. Cheers!’

Ulla could feel that she ought to switch to water. ‘I tried, but I just couldn’t do it.’

‘Try again!’

‘What good would it do?’

‘You only work that out after you’ve done it. Nothing fixes a shaky sex life at home like a really bad one-night stand.’

Ulla laughed. ‘It’s not the sex, Liz.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘It’s … I’m … jealous.’

‘Ulla Swart jealous? It’s not possible to be that beautiful and jealous.’

‘Well, I am,’ Ulla protested. ‘And it hurts. A lot. I want payback.’

‘Of course you want payback, sister! Shaft him where it hurts … I mean …’ Wine sprayed as they burst out laughing.

‘Liz, you’re drunk!’

‘I’m drunk and happy, Mrs Police Chief’s Wife. Whereas you’re drunk and unhappy. Call him!’

‘Call Mikael? Now?’

‘Not Mikael, you idiot! Ring the lucky guy who’s going to get some pussy tonight.’

‘What? No, Liz!’

‘Yes, do it! Call him now!’ Liz pointed at the phone booth by the wall. ‘Call him from in there, then he’ll be able to hear! Actually, calling from in there would be very appropriate.’

‘Appropriate?’ Ulla laughed, and looked at her watch. She was going to have to go home soon. ‘Why?’

‘Why? Bloody hell, Ulla! Because that was where Mikael fucked Stine Michaelsen that time, wasn’t it?!’

‘What is it?’ Harry asked. The room was spinning around him.

‘Camomile tea,’ Katrine said.

‘The music,’ Harry said, feeling the woollen sweater he had been lent scratch his skin. His own clothes were hanging up to dry in the bathroom, and despite the door being closed he could still smell the cloying stench of strong spirits. So his senses were working, even if the room was spinning.

‘Beach House. Haven’t you heard them before?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘That’s the problem. Things are starting to slip away from me.’ He could feel the coarse weave of the bedspread beneath him, which covered the whole of the low, almost two-metre-wide bed that was the only item of furniture in the room apart from a desk and chair, and a good old-fashioned stereo cabinet with a single candle on top of it. Harry presumed both the sweater and stereo belonged to Bjørn Holm. The music sounded like it was floating round the room. Harry had felt this way a few times before: when he had been on the brink of alcohol poisoning and was on his way back to the surface again, passing through all the same stages on the way up that he had been through on the way down.

‘I suppose that’s just the way it is,’ Katrine said. ‘We start off having everything, and then lose it, piece by piece. Strength. Youth. Future. People we like …’

Harry tried to remember what it was Bjørn had wanted him to say to Katrine, but it slipped away. Rakel. Oleg. And just as he felt tears welling up, they were suppressed by rage. Of course we lose them, everyone we try to hold on to, the fates disdain us, make us small, pathetic. When we cry for people we’ve lost, it’s not out of sympathy, because of course we know that they’re free from pain at last. But still we cry. We cry because we’re alone again. We cry out of self-pity.

‘Where are you, Harry?’

He felt her hand on his forehead. A sudden gust of wind made the window rattle. Outside in the street came the sound of something hitting the ground. The storm. It was on its way now.

‘I’m here,’ he said.

The room was spinning. He could sense the warmth not only from her hand, but from the whole of her as they lay there just half a metre apart.

‘I want to die first,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I don’t want to lose them. They can lose me instead. Let them see how it feels for once.’

Her laughter was so gentle. ‘Now you’re stealing my lines, Harry.’

‘Am I?’

‘When I was in hospital …’

‘Yes?’ Harry closed his eyes when her hand slipped to the back of his neck, squeezed gently and sent little jolts up into his brain.

‘They kept changing the diagnosis. Manic depressive, borderline, bipolar. But there was one word that was in all the reports. Suicidal.’

‘Hm.’

‘But it passes.’

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘And then it comes back. Doesn’t it?’

She laughed again. ‘Nothing’s forever, life is by definition temporary and always changing. It’s horrible, but that’s also what makes it bearable.’

‘This too shall pass.’

‘Let’s hope so. You know what, Harry? We’re the same, you and I. We’re made for loneliness. We’re drawn to loneliness.’

‘By getting rid of the people we love, you mean?’

‘Is that what we do?’

‘I don’t know. I just know that when I’m walking on the wafer-thin ice of happiness, I’m terrified, so terrified that I wish it was over, that I was already in the water.’

‘And that’s why we run from those we love,’ Katrine said. ‘Alcohol. Work. Casual sex.’

Something we can be useful for, Harry thought. While they bleed to death.

‘We can’t save them,’ she said, in answer to his thoughts. ‘And they can’t save us. Only we can save ourselves.’

Harry felt the mattress move and knew she had turned towards him, he could feel her warm breath on his face.

‘You had it in your life, Harry, you had the only person you loved. At least the two of you had that. And I don’t know which of you I’ve been most jealous of.’

What was it that was making him so sensitive? Had he taken E or acid? And, if so, where had he got hold of it? He had no idea, the last twenty-four hours were a big blank.

‘They say you shouldn’t meet trouble halfway,’ she said. ‘But when you know that trouble is all that lies ahead of you, meeting it halfway is the only airbag you’ve got. And the best way to fend it off is to live each day like it was your last. Don’t you think?’

Beach House. He remembered this track. ‘Wishes’. It really was something special. And he remembered Rakel’s pale face on the white pillow, in the light yet simultaneously in the dark, out of focus, close, yet distant, a face in the dark water, pressed against the underside of the ice. And he remembered Valentin’s words. You’re like me, Harry, you can’t bear it.

‘What would you do, Harry? If you knew you were about to die?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you—?’

‘I said I don’t know.’

‘What don’t you know?’ she whispered.

‘If I would have fucked you.’

In the silence that followed he heard the scraping sound of metal being blown across the tarmac by the wind.

‘Just feel,’ she whispered. ‘We’re dying.’

Harry stopped breathing. Yes, he thought. I’m dying. And then felt that she had stopped breathing too.

Hallstein Smith heard the wind whistling in the gutters outside and felt the draught right through the wall. Even though they had insulated the walls as well as they could, it was and would remain a barn. Emilia. He had heard of a novel that was published during the war about a storm called Maria, and that that was the reason why hurricanes were given girls’ names. But that changed after the idea of gender equality became widespread in the seventies and people insisted that these catastrophic disasters should have boys’ names as well. He looked at the smiling face above the Skype icon on the big computer screen. The voice was running slightly ahead of the lips: ‘I think I have what I need, thank you so much for being with us, Mr Smith. At what for you must be very late, no? Here in LA it’s nearly 3 p.m. What time is it in Sweden?’

‘Norway. Almost midnight.’ Hallstein Smith smiled. ‘No problem, I’m just glad the press finally realise that vampirism is real, and are interested in it.’

They ended the conversation, and Smith opened his inbox again.

Thirteen unopened emails, but he could see from the senders and subject lines that they were requests for interviews and invitations to give lectures. He hadn’t opened the one from Psychology Today either. Because he knew it wasn’t urgent. Because he wanted to save it. Savour it.

He looked at the time. He had put the kids to bed at half past eight, then had a cup of tea at the kitchen table with May, as usual, going through their day, sharing its small joys and venting its small frustrations. In the past few days he had naturally had more to tell her than vice versa, but he had made sure that the smaller but no less important aspects of the home got as much attention as his own activities. Because what he said was true: ‘I talk too much, and you can read all about this wretched vampirist in the papers, darling.’ He looked out of the window, could just make out the corner of the farmhouse where they were all lying asleep now, all his loved ones. The wall creaked. The moon was slipping in and out of the clouds, scudding faster and faster across the sky, and the bare branches of the dead oak out in the field were waving as if it wanted to warn them that something was coming, that destruction and more death were on the way.

He opened an email inviting him to give a keynote speech at a psychology conference in Lyon. The same conference that had rejected his abstract last year. In his head he composed a reply in which he thanked them, said it was an honour to be asked, but that he had to prioritise more important conferences and therefore had to say no on this occasion, but that they were welcome to try again another time. Then he chuckled and shook his head. There was no reason to get too full of himself, this sudden interest in vampirism would vanish again when the attacks stopped. He accepted the invitation, aware that he could have asked for more in terms of travel, accommodation and fee, but couldn’t be bothered. He was getting what he needed, he just wanted them to listen to him, to join him on this journey into the labyrinths of the human psyche, recognise his work, so that together they could understand and contribute to making people’s lives better. That was all. He looked at the time. Three minutes to twelve. He heard a sound. It could have been the wind, obviously. He clicked the icon to bring up the security cameras on his screen. The first image he saw was from the camera by the gate. The gate was open.

Truls cleared his throat.

She had called. Ulla had called.

He put the washing-up in the dishwasher, rinsed the two wineglasses, he still had the bottle he had bought just in case before that evening when they had met at Olsen’s. He folded the empty pizza boxes and tried to push them down into the bin bag, but it split. Damn. He tucked them out of sight behind the bucket and mop in the cupboard. Music. What did she like? He tried to think back. He could hear something inside his head, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Something about barricades. Duran Duran? It was something a bit like a-ha, anyway. And he had a-ha’s first album. Candles. Damn. He’d had women here before, but on those occasions the mood hadn’t been so important.

Olsen’s was located right in the middle of things, so even if there was a storm on the way it wouldn’t be hard to get a taxi on a Wednesday evening, so she could be here any moment, which meant he couldn’t have a shower, he’d have to make do with washing his cock and armpits. Or armpits and cock, in that order. Fuck, he was stressed! He had been planning a quiet evening with Megan Fox in her prime, and then Ulla had called and asked if it was OK for her to pay a little visit. What did she mean by little visit? That she was going to bail on him like last time? T-shirt. The one from Thailand, with ‘Same Same, But Different’? Maybe she wouldn’t find it funny. And maybe Thailand would make her think of venereal disease. How about the Armani shirt from MBK in Bangkok? No, the synthetic fabric would make him sweat, as well as letting on that it was a cheap copy. Truls pulled on a white T-shirt of unknown origin and hurried into the bathroom. He saw that the toilet needed another go with the brush. But first things first …

Truls was standing at the basin with his cock in his hand when the doorbell rang.

Katrine stared at her buzzing phone.

It was almost midnight, the wind had gained in strength in just the past few minutes, and the gusts were now making howling, groaning, slamming sounds outside, but Harry was fast asleep.

She answered.

‘This is Hallstein Smith.’ His whispering voice sounded upset.

‘So I see. What is it?’

‘He’s here.’

‘What?’

‘I think it’s Valentin.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Someone’s opened the gate, and I … oh God, I can hear the door of the barn. What should I do?’

‘Don’t do anything … Try … Can you hide?’

‘No. I can see him on the camera outside. Dear God, it’s him.’ Smith sounded like he was crying. ‘What should I do?’

‘Fuck, let me think,’ Katrine groaned.

The phone was snatched from her hand.

‘Smith? This is Harry, I’m with you. Have you locked the office door? OK, do that now, and switch the light off. Nice and calmly.’ Hallstein Smith stared at the computer screen. ‘OK, I’ve locked the door and turned the light out,’ he whispered.

‘Can you see him?’

‘No. Yes, now I see him.’ Hallstein saw a figure enter the end of the passageway. He stumbled on the scales, regained his balance, and carried on past the stalls, towards the camera. As the man passed beneath one of the lights, his face was illuminated.

‘Oh God, it’s him, Harry. It’s Valentin.’

‘Stay calm.’

‘But … he’s unlocked the door, he’s got keys, Harry. Maybe he’s got the office key as well.’

‘Is there a window in there?’

‘Yes, but it’s too small and too high up the wall.’

‘Anything heavy you can hit him with?’

‘No. I … I’ve got the pistol, though.’

‘You’ve got a pistol?’

‘Yes, it’s in the drawer. But I haven’t had time to test it.’

‘Breathe, Smith. What does it look like?’

‘Er, it’s black. At Police HQ they said it’s a Glock something-or-other.’

‘Glock 17. Is the magazine inserted?’

‘Yes. And it’s loaded, they said. But I can’t see a safety catch.’

‘That’s OK, it’s in the trigger, so you just have to squeeze the trigger to fire.’

Smith pressed the phone to his mouth and whispered as quietly as he could. ‘I can hear keys in the lock.’

‘How far away is the door?’

‘Two metres.’

‘Stand up and hold the pistol with both hands. Remember, you’re in darkness and he’s got the light behind him, he won’t be able to see you clearly. If he’s unarmed, you shout “Police, down on your knees”. If you see a weapon you shoot three times. Three times. Understood?’

‘Yes.’

The door in front of Smith opened.

And there he stood, silhouetted against the light of the barn behind him. Hallstein Smith gasped for the air that felt like it was being sucked out of the room as the man raised his hand. Valentin Gjertsen.

Katrine jumped. She had heard the bang from the phone, even though Harry was holding it tightly to his ear.

‘Smith?’ Harry cried. ‘Smith, are you there?’

No reply.

‘Smith!’

‘Valentin’s shot him!’ Katrine groaned.

‘No,’ Harry said.

‘No? You told him to fire three times, and he’s not answering!’

‘That was a Glock, not a Ruger.’

‘But why …?’ Katrine stopped when she heard a voice on the phone. She stared at the look of intense concentration on Harry’s face. Tried in vain to work out who he was listening to, if it was Smith or the voice she had only heard in recordings of old interviews, the high voice that had given her nightmares. Who right now was telling Harry what he was thinking of doing to …

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve picked up his revolver? … Good, put it in the drawer and stay sitting where you can see him properly. If he’s lying in the doorway, just leave him there. Is he moving? … OK, no … No, no first aid. If he’s only wounded, he’ll be waiting for you to move closer. If he’s dead, it’s too late. And if he’s somewhere in between, then that’s his bad luck, because you’re just going to sit there and watch. Understood, Smith? Good. We’ll be there in half an hour, I’ll call you when we’re in the car. Don’t take your eyes off him, and call your wife and tell them to stay in the house, and say that we’re on our way.’

Katrine took the phone, as Harry slipped out of bed and vanished into the bathroom. She thought he was saying something to her before she realised he was throwing up.

Truls’s hands were sweating so much he could feel it right through the legs of his trousers.

Ulla was drunk. Even so, she was sitting at the very edge of the sofa and holding the beer bottle he had given her in front of her like a defensive weapon.

‘Imagine, this is the first time I’ve been in your home,’ she said, slurring slightly. ‘And we’ve known each other … how many years?’

‘Since we were fifteen,’ Truls said, who at that precise moment wasn’t capable of any complicated mental arithmetic.

She smiled to herself and nodded, or rather, her head just fell forward.

Truls coughed. ‘It’s getting really windy out there now. This Emilia …’

‘Truls?’

‘Yes?’

‘Could you imagine fucking me?’

He swallowed.

She giggled without looking up. ‘Truls, I hope that pause doesn’t mean—’

‘Of course I can,’ Truls said.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Good.’ She lifted her head and gazed at him with unfocused eyes. ‘Good.’ Her head was swaying on her slender neck. As if it were full of something heavy. A heavy mood. Heavy thoughts. This was his chance. The opening he had been dreaming of, but never imagined he would get: he had been granted permission to fuck Ulla Swart.

‘Have you got a bedroom so we can get it done?’

He looked at her. Nodded. She smiled, but she didn’t look happy. To hell with that. Fuck happy – Ulla Swart was horny, and that was what mattered now. Truls was about to reach out and stroke her cheek, but his hand wouldn’t obey him.

‘Is something wrong, Truls?’

‘Wrong? No, how could there be?’

‘You look so …’

He waited. But nothing more came.

‘So what?’ he prompted.

‘So lost.’ Instead of his hand, it was hers, it was hers stroking his cheek. ‘Poor, poor Truls.’

He was about to knock her hand away. Knock away the hand of Ulla Swart, who after all these years had reached out to touch him without contempt or disgust. What the hell was wrong with him? The woman wanted to get fucked, plain and simple, and that was a job he could manage, he’d never had any trouble getting it up. All he had to do now was get them up from this sofa, out into the bedroom, off with their clothes and then slip the salmon in. She could scream and groan and whine, he wasn’t going to stop before she—

‘Are you crying, Truls?’

Crying? She was obviously so drunk she was seeing things.

He saw her pull her hand back and press it to her lips.

‘Real salt tears,’ she said. ‘Are you upset about something?’

And now Truls felt it. Felt the hot tears running down his cheeks. Felt his nose start to run as well. Felt the pressure in his throat as if he was trying to swallow something that was too big, something that would smother him or make him burst.

‘Is it me?’ she asked.

Truls shook his head, unable to speak.

‘Is it … Mikael?’

It was such an idiotic question that he almost got angry. Of course it wasn’t Mikael. Why the hell would it be Mikael? The man who was supposed to be his best friend, but who, ever since they were boys, had taken every opportunity to tease him in front of the others, only to shove him out in front when they were threatened with a beating. And who later, when they were both in the police, got Beavis to do all the shitty jobs that had to be done so that Mikael Bellman could get where he was today. Why would Truls sit here crying about something like that, over a friendship that had been nothing more than two outsiders who had been forced together, in which one of them had become a success and the other a pathetic loser? Like hell! So what was it, then? Why was it that when the loser had the chance to make up lost ground and fuck his wife, he started crying like an old woman? Now Truls could see tears in Ulla’s eyes too. Ulla Swart. Truls Berntsen. Mikael Bellman. It had been the three of them. And the rest of Manglerud could go to hell. Because they had no one. Only each other.

She took a handkerchief out of her bag and gently wiped beneath her eyes. ‘Do you want me to go?’ she sniffed.

‘I …’ Truls didn’t recognise his own voice. ‘Damned if I know, Ulla.’

‘Me too,’ she laughed, looked at the make-up stains on the handkerchief and put it back in her bag. ‘Forgive me, Truls. This was probably a bad idea. I’ll go now.’

He nodded. ‘Another time,’ he said. ‘In another life.’

‘Nail on the head,’ she said, and stood up.

Truls was left standing in the hall after the door closed behind her, listening to the sound of her steps echoing in the stairwell, gradually getting fainter. He heard the door open far below. Close. She was gone. Completely gone.

He felt … yes, what did he feel? Relief. But also a despair that was almost unbearable, like a physical pain in his chest and stomach which made him think for a moment of the gun in the cupboard in the bedroom, and the fact that he could actually be free right here, right now. Then he sank to his knees and rested his forehead on the doormat. And laughed. A grunting laugh that wouldn’t stop, and just got louder and louder. Hell, it was a wonderful life!

Hallstein Smith’s heart was still racing.

He was doing what Harry had said, keeping his eyes and pistol trained on the motionless man lying in the doorway. He felt nausea rising as he saw the pool of blood spreading towards him across the floor. He mustn’t throw up, he mustn’t lose his concentration now. Harry had told him to fire three times. Should he put another two bullets in him? No, he was dead.

He rang May’s number with trembling fingers. She answered immediately.

‘Hallstein?’

‘I thought you were asleep,’ he said.

‘I’m sitting in bed with the children. They can’t sleep because of the storm.’

‘Of course. Listen, the police are going to be arriving soon. Blue lights and maybe sirens, so don’t be scared.’

‘Scared of what?’ she asked, and he heard the tremble in her voice. ‘What’s going on, Hallstein? We heard a bang. Was that the wind, or something else?’

‘May, don’t worry. Everything’s fine …’

‘I can hear from your voice that everything isn’t fine, Hallstein! The kids are sitting here crying!’

‘I … I’ll come in and explain.’

Katrine steered the car down the narrow gravel road that wound between the fields and patches of woodland.

Harry put his phone in his pocket. ‘Smith went into the farmhouse to be with his family.’

‘It must be OK, then,’ Katrine said.

Harry didn’t respond.

The wind was increasing in strength. In the patches of forest she had to watch out for broken branches and other debris in the road, and out in the open she had to hold the wheel tight as gusts of wind grabbed at the car.

Harry’s phone rang again as Katrine turned into the open gate to Smith’s property.

‘We’re here now,’ Harry said into his phone. ‘When you arrive, cordon off the area but don’t touch anything until Forensics get here.’

Katrine stopped in front of the barn and jumped out.

‘Lead the way,’ Harry said, following her through the barn door.

She heard Harry swear as she turned right towards the office.

‘Sorry, forgot to warn you about the scales,’ Katrine said.

‘It’s not that,’ Harry said. ‘I can see blood on the floor here.’

Katrine stopped in front of the open door to the office. Stared at the pool of blood on the floor. Shit. There was no Valentin there.

‘Keep an eye on the Smiths,’ Harry said behind her.

‘What …?’

She turned round in time to see Harry disappear off to the left and out through the door.

A gust of wind grabbed Harry as he switched on the torch on his phone and aimed it at the ground. He regained his balance. The blood stood out against the pale grey gravel. He followed the thin trail of drops that indicated which direction Valentin had fled in. The wind was on his back. Towards the farmhouse.

No …

Harry drew his Glock. He hadn’t taken the time to check if Valentin’s revolver was in the drawer in the office, so he had to work from the assumption that Valentin was armed.

The trail was gone.

Harry swung his phone around and breathed out in relief when he saw that the blood led away from the track, away from the house. Out across the dry yellow grass, towards the field. Here too the trail of blood was easy to follow. The wind had to be up at full gale force now, and Harry felt the first drops of rain hit his cheek like projectiles. When it really started, it would wash away the trail of blood in a matter of seconds.

Valentin closed his eyes and opened his mouth to the wind. As if it could blow new life into him. Life. Why did everything only reach its full value just as it was in the process of being lost? Her. Freedom. And now life.

Life, draining out of him. He could feel the cooling blood filling his shoes. He hated blood. It was other one who loved blood. The other, the man he had entered into a pact with. And when had he realised that it wasn’t he who was the devil, but the other, the blood-man? That it was he, Valentin Gjertsen, who had sold and lost his soul? Valentin Gjertsen lifted his face towards the sky and laughed. The storm was here. The demon was free.

Harry ran with the Glock in one hand, his phone in the other.

Across the open ground. Downhill, with the wind behind him. Valentin was injured, and would have taken the easiest possible path to get as much distance between himself and those he knew would soon be coming after him. Harry felt the jolts from his feet transmit themselves to his head, felt his stomach want to turn itself inside out again, and swallowed to keep the vomit down. Thought about a forest track. Thought about a guy in new Under Armour gear ahead of him on the path. And ran.

He was getting close to the forest and slowed down. He knew he would have to face the wind when he changed direction.

There was a small, dilapidated shack in among the trees. Rotten planks, corrugated-iron roof. For tools, maybe, or somewhere the animals could shelter from the rain.

Harry shone his phone towards the shack. He couldn’t hear anything but the storm, it was dark and he would hardly have been able to smell blood on a warm day with the wind in the right direction. All the same, he knew that Valentin was here. The way he just knew things at regular intervals, and kept getting them wrong.

He shone the light down at the ground again. There was less of a gap between the drops of blood. Valentin had slowed down here too. Because he wanted to evaluate the situation. Or because he was exhausted. Because he had to stop. And the blood – which had led in a straight line so far – turned off here. Towards the shack. He hadn’t been mistaken.

Harry set off towards the patch of woodland to the right of the shack. He ran in among the trees before he stopped, switched off the light on his phone, raised his Glock and walked in an arc so he could approach the shack from the other side. He lay down and snaked across the ground.

He had the wind in his face now, which lowered the chance of Valentin hearing him. It was carrying sounds towards him, and Harry could hear police sirens in the distance, rising and falling between the gusts.

Harry crept over a fallen tree. A silent flash of lightning. And there, a silhouette standing out against the shack. It was him. He was sitting between two trees with his back to Harry, only five or six metres ahead of him.

Harry aimed his pistol at the figure.

‘Valentin!’

His cry was partially drowned out by a delayed rumble of thunder, but he saw the figure before him stiffen.

‘I’ve got you in my sights, Valentin. Put your gun down.’

It was as if the wind suddenly eased. And Harry heard another sound. High-pitched. Laughter.

‘Harry. You came out to play again.’

‘You shouldn’t give up until the game turns in your favour. Put the gun down.’

‘You found me. How did you know I’d be sitting outside the shack and not inside?’

‘Because I know you, Valentin. You thought I’d look in the most obvious place first, so you sat down outside where you could dispatch one last soul.’

‘Fellow travellers.’ Valentin coughed wetly. ‘We’re twin souls, so our souls ought to be in the same place, Harry.’

‘Put the gun down now, or I’ll shoot.’

‘I often think about my mother, Harry. Do you?’

Harry saw the back of Valentin’s head rock back and forth in the darkness. It was suddenly lit up by another flash of light. More raindrops. Big and heavy this time, not torn by the wind. They were in the eye of the storm.

‘I think of her because she’s the only person I’ve ever hated more than myself, Harry. I’m trying to lay waste to more than she did, but I don’t know if that’s possible. She destroyed me.’

‘And more isn’t possible? Where’s Marte Ruud?’

‘No, more isn’t possible. Because I’m unique, Harry. You and I, we aren’t like them. We’re unique.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Valentin, but I’m not unique. Where is she?’

‘Two bits of bad news, Harry. One. You can forget the little red-haired girl. Two. Yes, you are unique.’ More laughter. ‘It’s not a nice thought, is it? You take refuge in normality, in the averageness of the herd, and think you’ll find a sense of belonging there, something that’s your true self. But the real you is sitting here now, Harry. Wondering whether or not you’re going to kill me. And you use these girls, Aurora, Marte, to fuel your delicious hatred. Because now it’s your turn to decide if someone should live or die, and you’re enjoying it. You’re enjoying being God. You’ve dreamt of being me. You’ve been waiting for your turn to be a vampire. You recognise the thirst – just admit it, Harry. And one day you too will drink.’

‘I’m not you,’ Harry said, and swallowed. He heard the roaring in his head. Felt a fresh gust of wind. A new, shattered raindrop against the hand that was holding the pistol. That was that. They would soon be out of the calm eye.

‘You’re like me,’ Valentin said. ‘And that’s why you’re also being fooled. You and me, we think we’re clever bastards, but we all get fooled in the end, Harry.’

‘Not—’

Valentin spun round and Harry had time to see the long barrel point towards him before he squeezed the trigger of the Glock. Once, twice. Another flash lit up the forest and Harry saw Valentin’s body: just like the lightning, it was frozen in a jagged shape against the sky. His eyes were bulging, his mouth was open, and the front of his shirt dyed red with blood. In his right hand he was holding a broken branch which was pointing at Harry. Then he fell.

Harry got to his feet and went over to Valentin, who was on his knees with his torso slumped against one of the trees, staring into space. He was dead.

Harry aimed the pistol at Valentin’s chest and fired again. A crack of thunder swallowed the sound of the shot.

Three shots.

Not because it made any sense, but because that was what music was like, that was how the story went. There should be three.

Something was approaching; it sounded like thundering hooves against the ground, pushing the air ahead of it and making the trees bend.

Then came the rain.

31

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

HARRY WAS SITTING at smith’s kitchen table with a cup of tea in his hands and a towel around his neck. Rainwater was dripping onto the floor from his clothes. The wind was still howling and the rain was hammering against the windowpanes, making the police cars outside in the yard look like distorted UFOs with their revolving blue lights. It was as if all the water had slowed down slightly in the air currents. Moon. It smelt of moon.

Harry concluded that Hallstein Smith – who was sitting opposite him – was still in shock. His pupils were dilated, his expression apathetic.

‘You’re quite sure …’

‘Yes, he’s completely dead now, Hallstein,’ Harry said. ‘But it’s by no means certain that I’d be alive now if you hadn’t taken his revolver with you when you left him.’

‘I don’t know why I did that, I thought he was dead,’ Smith whispered in a metallic, robotic voice, and stared down at the table where he had laid the long-barrelled revolver beside the pistol he had wounded Valentin with. ‘I thought I hit him in the middle of the chest.’

‘You did,’ Harry said. Moon. That was what the astronauts had reported. That the moon smelt of burnt gunpowder. The smell was partly coming from the pistol Harry was carrying inside his jacket, but mostly from the Glock on the table. Harry picked up Valentin’s red revolver. Sniffed the barrel. That too smelt of powder, but not as much. Katrine came into the kitchen with rain dripping from her black hair. ‘The crime-scene team are down with Gjertsen now.’

She looked at the revolver.

‘It’s been fired,’ Harry said.

‘No, no,’ Smith whispered, mechanically shaking his head. ‘He only pointed it at me.’

‘Not now,’ Harry said, looking at Katrine. ‘The smell of powder hangs around for days.’

‘Marte Ruud?’ Katrine said. ‘Do you think …?’

‘I shot first.’ Smith raised his glassy eyes. ‘I shot Valentin. And now he’s dead.’

Harry leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘And that’s why you’re alive, Hallstein.’

Smith nodded slowly.

Harry signalled to Katrine with his eyes that she should look after Hallstein, and stood up. ‘I’m going down to the barn.’

‘No further than that,’ Katrine said. ‘They’re going to want to talk to you.’

Harry ran from the farmhouse down to the barn, but all the same he was soaked again by the time he reached the office. He sat down at the desk and let his eyes roam around the room. He stopped at the drawing of the man with bat’s wings. It radiated more loneliness than any actual eeriness. Possibly because it seemed so familiar. Harry closed his eyes.

He needed a drink. He thrust the thought aside and opened his eyes again. The picture on the computer screen in front of him was split in two, one window for each security camera. Using the mouse, he moved the cursor over to the clock, wound back to the minutes before midnight, which was roughly the time Smith had called. After twenty seconds or so a shape slid into shot in front of the gate. Valentin. He came from the left. From the main road. Bus? Taxi? He had a white key ready, unlocked the gate and sneaked in. The gate closed behind him, but the latch didn’t click. Fifteen to twenty seconds later Harry saw Valentin on the other image with the empty stalls and scales. Valentin came close to losing his balance on the metal weighing platform, and the dial behind him whirred and showed that this monster who had killed so many people, some of them with his bare hands, weighed just seventy-four kilos, twenty-two kilos less than Harry. Then Valentin walked towards the camera, it was as if he was staring straight into the lens, yet still didn’t see it. Before he disappeared from view Harry saw him put his hand into his deep coat pocket. All Harry could see in the picture now were the empty stalls, the scales and the top part of Valentin’s shadow. Harry reconstructed those seconds, he remembered every word of his phone conversation with Hallstein Smith. The rest of the day and the hours at Katrine’s were completely gone, but those seconds had been riveted into place. It had always been like that, whenever he drank his private brain took on a Teflon coating, while his police brain retained its layer of adhesive, as if one part wanted to forget and the other had to remember. Internal Investigations were going to have to transcribe a very long interview report if they wanted to include all the details he could remember.

Harry saw the edge of the door come into shot as Valentin opened it, then his shadow lifted one arm, then let it fall.

Harry speeded up the replay.

He saw Hallstein from the back as he shuffled past the stalls and went out.

And a minute later Valentin dragged himself out the same way. Harry slowed the video down. Valentin was leaning against the stalls, looked like he might collapse at any moment. But he kept going, metre by metre. He stood on the scales, swaying. The dial showed he was one and a half kilos lighter than when he had arrived. Harry glanced at the pool of blood on the floor behind the computer screen, before watching as Valentin struggled to get the door open. And that was where Harry could feel the will to survive. Unless it was just fear of getting caught? And it occurred to Harry that this film clip was inevitably going to be leaked at some point, and would end up being a hit on YouTube.

Bjørn Holm’s pale face appeared in the doorway. ‘So this is where it started.’ He walked in, and Harry was once again fascinated that this otherwise not particularly elegant forensics expert became a ballet dancer the moment he entered a crime scene. Bjørn crouched down beside the pool of blood. ‘They’re taking him away now.’

‘Mm.’

‘Four entry wounds, Harry. How many of them are from …?’

‘Three,’ Harry said. ‘Hallstein only shot once.’

Bjørn Holm grimaced. ‘He shot an armed man, Harry. Have you thought about what you’re going to say to Internal Investigations about your shots?’

Harry shrugged. ‘The truth, of course. That it was dark and Valentin was holding a branch in an attempt to fool me into thinking he was armed. He knew he was finished, and he wanted me to shoot him, Bjørn.’

‘All the same. Three shots in the chest of an unarmed man …’

Harry nodded.

Bjørn took a deep breath, looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘But of course it’s dark, raining hard, a full-blown storm down in those woods. And if I were to go down there now and have a look on my own, there’s always a chance I might find a pistol hidden where Valentin was lying.’

The two of them looked at each other as the wind made the walls creak.

Harry saw Bjørn Holm’s cheek flush red. And knew what that had cost him. Knew that he was standing there offering Harry more than he actually owned. He was offering him everything he held dear. Their shared values, their moral code. His, their, soul.

‘Thank you,’ Harry said. ‘Thank you, my friend, but I have to say no.’

Bjørn Holm blinked twice. Swallowed. Breathed out in a long, shivering wheeze, and gave a brief, out-of-place chuckle of relief.

‘I’d better get back,’ he said, standing up.

‘Go on,’ Harry said.

Bjørn Holm stood in front of him, hesitating. As if he wanted to say something, or take a step forward and give him a hug. Harry leaned over towards the computer screen again. ‘We’ll talk soon, Bjørn.’

On the screen he watched the forensics expert’s hunched shoulders as he made his way outside.

Harry slammed his fist down on the keyboard. A drink. Fuck, fuck! Just one drink.

His eyes settled on the bat-man.

What was it Hallstein had said? He knew. He knew where I was.

32

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

MIKAEL BELLMAN STOOD with his arms folded, wondering if Oslo Police District had ever held a press conference at two o’clock in the morning before. He was leaning against the wall to the left of the podium, looking out across the room, which contained a mixture of night editors and other newsroom staff, journalists who were probably supposed to be covering the ravages of Emilia and sleepy reporters who had been dragged out of bed. Mona Daa had arrived wearing gym clothes under her raincoat, and looked wide awake.

Up on the podium, beside head of Crime Squad Gunnar Hagen, Katrine Bratt was talking through the details of the raid on Valentin Gjertsen’s flat in Sinsen and the subsequent drama out at Hallstein Smith’s farm. Flashlights kept going off, and Bellman knew that even if he wasn’t sitting up there, the occasional camera was still being aimed at him, so he tried to settle his face into the expression Isabelle had recommended when he called her on the way here. Serious, but with the inner satisfaction of the victor. ‘Remember that people are dead,’ Isabelle had said. ‘So no grinning or obvious celebration. Think of yourself as General Eisenhower after D-Day, you bear the leader’s responsibility for both the victory and the tragedy.’

Bellman stifled a yawn. Ulla had woken him when she got home from her girls’ night out in the city. He couldn’t recall having seen her drunk since they were young. Speaking of drunk: Harry Hole was standing next to him, and if Bellman hadn’t known better he would have sworn that the former detective was inebriated. He looked more exhausted than any of the reporters, and that was booze he could smell on his wet clothes, wasn’t it?

A Rogaland dialect cut through the room. ‘I appreciate that you don’t want to go public with the name of the officer who shot and killed Valentin Gjertsen, but surely you can tell us if Valentin was armed, or shot back?’

‘Like I said, we want to wait until we’re in full command of the facts before making the details public,’ Katrine said, then pointed at Mona Daa who was waving her hand.

‘But you’re willing and able to tell us the details surrounding Hallstein Smith’s involvement?’

‘Yes,’ Katrine said. ‘We have all the details on that point because we have a recording of the incident, and were talking to Smith on the phone as it happened.’

‘So you said, but who was he talking to?’

‘Me.’ She paused. ‘And Harry Hole.’

Mona Daa tilted her head. ‘So you and Harry Hole were here in Police HQ when it happened?’

Mikael Bellman saw Katrine glance at Gunnar Hagen as if to ask for help, but the head of Crime Squad appeared not to notice what she wanted. Nor did Bellman.

‘We don’t want to go into the working methods of the police in too much detail at present,’ Hagen said. ‘Out of consideration for both loss of evidence and our tactics in future cases.’

Mona Daa and the rest of the room seemed content with this, but Bellman could see that Hagen didn’t know what he was hiding.

‘It’s late, and all of us have work to do,’ Hagen said, looking at the time. ‘The next press conference will be at twelve noon, hopefully we’ll have more for you then. In the meantime, have a good night. We can all sleep a bit more soundly now.’

The blitz of flashlights intensified as Hagen and Bratt stood up. Some of the photographers turned their lenses on Bellman, and when some of the people standing up came between Bellman and the cameras, he took a step forward so the photographers could get an unimpeded view.

‘Hold on, Harry,’ Bellman said, without looking round or changing his Eisenhower expression. Once the cascade of flashes had stopped, he turned towards Harry Hole, who was standing there with his arms folded.

‘I’m not going to throw you to the wolves,’ Bellman said. ‘You did your job, you shot a dangerous serial killer.’ He put one hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘And we look after our own. OK?’

The taller policeman looked pointedly at the hand on his shoulder and Bellman removed it. Harry’s voice was hoarser than usual. ‘Enjoy your victory, Bellman. I’m being questioned first thing in the morning, so goodnight.’

Bellman watched Harry Hole as he made his way towards the exit, with his legs wide apart and his knees bent, like a sailor on deck in a rough sea.

Bellman had already conferred with Isabelle, and they had agreed that if this success wasn’t to leave a nasty aftertaste, it would be best if Internal Investigations concluded that there was little or nothing to criticise Hole for. Exactly how they were going to help Internal Investigations to reach this conclusion was as yet unclear, seeing as they couldn’t be bribed directly. But obviously any thinking person was receptive to a bit of common sense. And as far as the press and general public were concerned, Isabelle believed that it had become almost a matter of routine in recent years that mass murders ended with the perpetrator being killed by the police, and that the press and general public had more or less tacitly accepted that this was how society dealt with this sort of case – quickly and efficiently, in a way that appealed to ordinary people’s sense of justice and without the spiralling costs associated with court proceedings in big murder cases.

Bellman looked for Katrine Bratt, aware that the pair of them together would make a good subject for the photographers. But she was already gone.

‘Gunnar!’ he called, loudly enough for a couple of photographers to turn round. The head of Crime Squad stopped in the doorway and came over to him.

‘Look serious,’ Bellman whispered, and held out his hand. ‘Congratulations,’ he said loudly.

Harry was standing beneath one of the street lamps on Borggata, trying to light a cigarette in Emilia’s dying gasps. He was freezing, his teeth were chattering, and he could feel the cigarette bobbing up and down between his lips.

He glanced up at the entrance of Police HQ, where the reporters and journalists were still coming out. Perhaps they were just as tired as him and for that reason weren’t talking noisily among themselves the way they usually did, but were heading down the road towards Grønlandsleiret as a silent, sluggish mass. Or perhaps they could feel it too. The emptiness. The emptiness that comes when a case is solved, when you reach the end of the road and realise that there’s no road left. No more field to plough. But your wife is still in the house, with the doctor and midwife, and there’s still nothing you can do. Nowhere you can be useful.

‘What are you waiting for?’

Harry turned. It was Bjørn.

‘Katrine,’ Harry said. ‘She said she’d drive me home. She’s getting the car from the garage, so if you need a lift as well …’

Bjørn shook his head. ‘Have you spoken to Katrine about what we talked about?’

Harry nodded and made a fresh attempt to light his cigarette.

‘Is that a “Yes”?’ Bjørn wondered.

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘I haven’t asked her where you stand.’

‘You haven’t?’

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. Perhaps he had. Either way, he couldn’t remember the answer.

‘I’m just asking because I was thinking that if the two of you were together around midnight, somewhere that wasn’t Police HQ, then maybe you weren’t just talking about work.’

Harry cupped his hand round the cigarette and lighter as he looked at Bjørn. His childlike, pale blue eyes were bulging out more than usual.

‘I can’t remember anything but work stuff, Bjørn.’

Bjørn Holm looked at the ground and stamped his feet. As if to get his circulation going. As if he couldn’t move from the spot.

‘I’ll let you know, Bjørn.’

Bjørn Holm nodded without looking up, then turned and walked off.

Harry watched him go. With a feeling that Bjørn had seen something, something he himself hadn’t spotted. There! Lit, at last!

A car pulled up beside him.

Harry sighed, tossed the cigarette on the ground, opened the door and got in.

‘What were you two talking about?’ Katrine asked, looking at Bjørn as she drove towards the nocturnal calm of Grønlandsleiret.

‘Did we have sex?’ Harry asked.

‘What?’

‘I don’t remember a thing from earlier this evening. We didn’t fuck?’

Katrine didn’t answer, apparently concentrating on stopping exactly on the white line in front of a red traffic light. Harry waited.

The light turned green.

‘No,’ Katrine said, putting her foot down and easing off the clutch. ‘We didn’t have sex.’

‘Good,’ Harry said, and let out a low whistle.

‘You were too drunk.’

‘What?’

‘You were too drunk. You fell asleep.’

Harry closed his eyes. ‘Shit.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’

‘Not like that. Rakel’s in a coma. While I—’

‘While you’re doing your best to join her there. Forget it, Harry, worse things have happened.’

On the radio a dry voice announced that Valentin Gjertsen, the so-called vampirist, had been shot and killed at midnight. And that Oslo had experienced and survived its first tropical storm. Katrine and Harry drove in silence through Majorstua and Vinderen, towards Holmenkollen.

‘What are your thoughts about Bjørn these days?’ Harry asked. ‘Any possibility of you giving him another chance?’

‘Did he tell you to ask?’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘I thought he had something going on with what’s-her-name Lien.’

‘I don’t know anything about that. OK, fine. You can let me out here.’

‘Don’t you want me to drive you all the way to the house?’

‘You’d only wake Oleg. This is great. Thanks.’ Harry opened the door, but didn’t move.

‘Yes?’

‘Mm. Nothing.’ He got out.

Harry watched the rear lights of the car vanish, then walked up the drive towards the house.

It sat there, looming even darker than the darkness. No lights. No breathing.

He unlocked and opened the door.

Saw Oleg’s shoes but couldn’t hear anything.

He took his clothes off in the laundry room, put them in the basket. Went up to the bedroom, got out some clean clothes. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, so he went down to the kitchen. Put some coffee on and looked out of the window.

Thinking. Then he pushed his thoughts aside and poured the coffee, knowing he wasn’t going to drink it. He could go off to the Jealousy Bar, but he didn’t feel like drinking alcohol either. But he would do. Later.

His thoughts returned.

There were only two of them.

And they were the simplest and the loudest.

One said that if Rakel didn’t survive, he would follow her, walk the same path.

The other was that if she did survive, he would leave her. Because she deserved better and because she shouldn’t have to be the one to leave.

A third thought appeared.

Harry rested his head in his hands.

The thought of whether he wanted her to survive or not.

Damn, damn.

And then a fourth thought.

What Valentin had said out in the forest.

We all get fooled in the end, Harry.

He must have meant that it was Harry who had fooled him. Or did he mean other people? That someone else had fooled Valentin?

That’s why you’re also being fooled.

He had said that just before he fooled Harry into thinking he was pointing a gun at him, but perhaps that wasn’t what he meant. Perhaps it was about more than that.

He started when he felt a hand on the back of his neck.

Turned and looked up.

Oleg was standing behind his chair.

‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ Harry tried to say, but his voice couldn’t seem to settle.

‘You were asleep.’

‘Asleep?’ Harry pushed himself up from the table. ‘No, I was just sitting and—’

‘You were asleep, Dad,’ Oleg interrupted with a little smile.

Harry blinked away the fog. Looked around. Put his hand out and felt the coffee cup. It was cold. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘I’ve been doing some thinking,’ Oleg said, pulling out the chair next to Harry and sitting down.

Harry smacked his lips, loosened the saliva in his mouth.

‘And you’re right.’

‘Am I?’ Harry took a sip of the cold coffee to take away the taste of stale bile.

‘Yes. You have a responsibility that stretches beyond those closest to you. You have to be there for people who aren’t so close. And I have no right to demand that you let them all down. The fact that murder cases are like a drug to you doesn’t change that.’

‘Hm. And you came to this conclusion all on your own?’

‘Yes. With a bit of help from Helga.’ Oleg looked down at his hands. ‘She’s better than me at seeing things from other angles. And I didn’t mean what I said, about not wanting to be like you.’

Harry put his hand on Oleg’s shoulder. Saw that he was wearing Harry’s old Elvis Costello T-shirt to sleep in. ‘My boy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Promise me that you won’t be like me. That’s all I ask of you.’

Oleg nodded. ‘One other thing,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Steffens called. It’s Mum.’

It felt like an iron claw was squeezing Harry’s heart, and he stopped breathing.

‘She’s woken up.’

33

THURSDAY MORNING

‘YES?’

‘Anders Wyller?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good morning, I’m calling from the Forensic Medical Institute.’

‘Good morning.’

‘It’s about that strand of hair you sent for analysis.’

‘Oh?’

‘Did you get the printout I sent you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that isn’t the full analysis, but as you can see there’s a link between the DNA in the hair and one of the DNA profiles we registered in the vampirist case. To be more precise, DNA profile 201.’

‘Yes, I saw that.’

‘I don’t know who 201 is, but we do at least know that it isn’t Valentin Gjertsen. But seeing as it’s a partial match and I haven’t heard anything from you, I just wanted to make sure you’d got the results. Because I’m assuming you want us to complete the analysis?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘No? But—’

‘The case is solved, and you’ve got a lot of other work to be getting on with. By the way, was that printout sent to anyone else but me?’

‘No, I can’t see that there was any request to that effect. Do you want—?’

‘No, there’s no need. You can close the case. Thanks for your help.’