Killing Moon

32 Sunday

Orangotango

The press conference began at four o’clock.

Katrine looked out over the Parole Hall. It was packed and the atmosphere was electric. The names of the victim and the man in custody had obviously begun to circulate. She stifled a yawn as Kedzierski outlined to those present how the case had developed. It was already a long Sunday, and it was far from over. She had sent a text to Harry to ask how it was going and he had replied: Gert and I have gone for a drink. Cocoa. She had responded with ha ha and a stern-faced emoji and tried not to think about them, clearing space in her mind for what she needed to concentrate on. Kedzierski had finished and opened the floor for questions. They came thick and fast.

‘NRK, please,’ the head of Information said, in an attempt to maintain order.

‘How can you have DNA evidence against Markus Røed when we know he has refused to submit to a DNA test?’

‘Because the police haven’t taken a DNA test,’ Katrine said. ‘The DNA material was obtained by an individual outside the police who also had it analysed and thus confirmed a match to the DNA at the crime scene.’

‘Who was this individual?’ a voice asked, cutting through the buzz of the others in the hall.

‘A private investigator,’ Katrine said.

The buzz of conversation abruptly ceased. And in that brief pocket of silence, she said his name. And enjoyed it. Because she knew Bodil Melling — however much she wished to have her head on a plate — couldn’t come after her for telling it like it was, that Harry Hole had virtually solved the case for them.

‘What was Røed’s motive for killing Susanne Andersen and Bert—’

‘We don’t know,’ Sung-min said, interrupting the journalist.

Katrine glanced sideways at him. It was true they didn’t know, but they had had time to discuss it, and it was Sung-min who had mentioned the old murder case — also a Harry Hole case — where a jealous husband had, in addition to killing his wife, also murdered random women and men to make it appear as part of a serial killing and focus attention away from himself.

‘VG,’ Kedzierski said.

‘If Harry Hole has solved the case for you, why isn’t he here?’ Mona Daa asked.

‘This is a press conference with spokespeople from the police,’ Kedzierski said. ‘You can talk to Hole yourselves.’

‘We’ve tried getting in touch with him but he’s not answering.’

‘We can’t—’ Kedzierski began, but was interrupted by Katrine.

‘He probably has his hands full with other matters, then. As have we, so if there’re no more questions pertaining to the case...’

A furore of protests rang out around the hall.

It was six o’clock.

‘A beer,’ Harry said.

The waiter nodded.

Gert looked up from the cup of cocoa and let go of the straw. ‘Gwanny says people who dwink bee don’t go to heaven. And then they won’t meet my daddy, because he’s dead.’

Harry looked at the boy, and a thought struck him. That if one beer sent him to hell, then that was where he would meet Bjørn Holm. He looked around. They were sitting at several of the tables, the lonely men with their half-litres of beer as sole company and collocutor. They didn’t remember him and he didn’t remember them, even though they were as ingrained in Schrøder’s as the tobacco smell he could still perceive in the walls and furniture, a generation after the introduction of the smoking ban. Back then they had been older than him, but it was as though the inscription above the skeletons in the Capuchin Crypt had been imprinted on their foreheads: What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be. For Harry had of course always been aware of a line of alcoholism stretching back through his lineage, like a little demonic bloodsucker sitting within, screaming for sugar and spirits, that had to be fed, a damn parasite transmitted through the genes.

The phone rang. It was Krohn. He sounded more resigned than angry.

‘Congratulations, Harry. I saw in the online newspapers that it was you who got Markus arrested.’

‘I gave both of you advance warning.’

‘With methods the police themselves couldn’t use.’

‘That was the reason you hired me.’

‘Fine. The contract states that three police lawyers must consider it highly likely that Røed is convicted.’

‘We’ll have that by tomorrow. And then the amount needs to be transferred too.’

‘Speaking of which. That account in the Cayman Islands that I’ve been provided with...’

‘Don’t ask me about it, Krohn.’

There was a pause.

‘I’m hanging up now, Harry. I hope you can sleep.’

Harry dropped the phone back into the inside pocket of Røed’s suit. Turned his attention to Gert, who at that moment was primarily occupied with his cocoa and the large paintings of old Oslo covering the walls. When the waiter returned with the half-litre, Harry asked him to take it back and paid him. It obviously wasn’t the waiter’s first experience of an alcoholic who checked himself at the last moment, and he disappeared with the beer without a word or a raised eyebrow. Harry looked at Gert. Thought about the lineage.

‘Granny is right,’ he said. ‘Beer isn’t good for anyone. Remember that.’

‘OK.’

Harry smiled. The boy had picked up this ‘OK’ from Harry. He only hoped he wouldn’t pick up much else. He had no desire for a descendant created in his own image, on the contrary. The almost automatic tenderness and love he felt for the boy on the other side of the table was just about his being happy, more than he himself had been. A scratching sound came from the straw, and at that moment Harry’s phone vibrated.

A text from Katrine.

Home now. Where are you two?

‘Time to go home to Mummy,’ Harry said, tapping a message to say they were on the way.

‘Whew aw you going?’ Gert asked, kicking the table leg.

‘I’m going to the hotel,’ Harry said.

‘Nooo.’ The boy lay a small, warm hand upon his. ‘You aw going to sing dat song when I go to bed. About the dwink.’

‘The drink?’

‘Coke-cane...’ Gert sang.

Harry wanted to laugh but had to swallow the lump in his throat instead. Bloody hell. What was that exactly? Was it what Ståle called priming? Did Harry only feel this way because the certainty that he was the father of the child had been planted in him? Or was it something more physical or biological, something in the blood calling, pulling two people helplessly towards one another?

Harry got to his feet.

‘Which animal ah you?’ Gert asked.

‘Orangotango,’ Harry said, and lifted Gert out of his chair and performed a pirouette that earned applause from one of the lonely guests. He put Gert down, and they walked hand in hand towards the door.

It was ten o’clock at night, and Prim had just fed Boss and Lisa. He sat down in front of the TV to watch the news again. To enjoy once again the results of what he had staged. Although the police didn’t say it directly, he could tell by the platitudes they were spouting that they hadn’t found any evidence at the scene. He had made the right decision when Helene got out of the car, and he’d had to kill her on the gravel road. Leaving behind DNA was unavoidable — a hair, a flake of skin or sweat — and seeing as he couldn’t carry out such a thorough clean-up on a road where witnesses might show up, he’d had to ensure that the gravel road wasn’t identified as the crime scene. So, he had taken the body in the car and deposited it at the end of the island, which he could be fairly certain was deserted late on an autumn night leaving him to carry out his work behind the cover of the tall reeds. And be fairly certain also that Helene’s body would be found when families and children descended on the area the next day. First, he had cut off her head, then gone over her body, washing and scraping off his own DNA from under the nails she had dug into his thighs when she had ridden him in the car. Care had to be taken, because although he had never been convicted of anything, the police had his DNA profile in their database.

The female news presenter on the TV was speaking via telephone to a male police lawyer, while a photo of him along with his name — Chris Hinnøy — appeared in the top-right corner of the screen. They were talking about Røed being remanded in custody. It was no wonder they were beginning to run out of exciting angles, the news channels had largely focused on the arrest of Markus Røed and the murder of his wife all day, even Bodø/Glimt’s narrow victory over Molde had received scant coverage. The same with the online newspapers, everything was about Markus Røed. Which, in an indirect way, meant that it was about him, Prim. Granted, now that the online editions had put up so many pictures of Markus Røed, pictures of Harry Hole had begun to crop up as well. They wrote that it had been he — the outsider, the private investigator — who had linked Markus Røed’s DNA to the saliva on Susanne’s breast. As if that was so amazing. As if the police shouldn’t have found out something like that by themselves ages ago. He was actually beginning to get pretty annoying, this Harry Hole. What business had he being in the limelight? The stage ought to be reserved for the case, the mystery, his mystery. They should dwell even more on the fact that Markus Røed, a man of privilege, a man who thought himself above the law, had now been wonderfully exposed and put in the stocks. People loved that sort of thing, Prim certainly did, it was sugar for the soul. Still, the public had received a hefty dose. He hoped his stepfather had access to the newspapers where he was, that he had ample opportunity to suffer, that this public humiliation was now the acid bath Prim had drawn for him. The confusion, desperation and fear Markus Røed must be feeling. Had the thought of taking his own life occurred to him yet? Prim wondered. No, the trigger for suicide, the factor that had pushed his mother to suicide, was hopelessness, and his stepfather still had hope. He had Johan Krohn himself acting on his behalf, and the only evidence the police had was some saliva. They were going to have to balance that against the false alibi Helene had given Markus for the nights Susanne and Bertine went missing. But what the police lawyer on TV had just said disturbed Prim.

This Chris Hinnøy had explained that there would be a preliminary hearing tomorrow where the judge would doubtless grant the police the usual four weeks of remand in custody, and — given the evidence and serious nature of the crime — further detention thereafter if required. That, in Norwegian law, there was no time limit on how long a person could be held in custody, so in principle years could pass. And it was of particular importance that the police were afforded generous access to the detention of people of advantage and means who could otherwise use their money or influence to have evidence destroyed, tamper with witnesses, yes, there were even examples of them attempting to influence investigators.

‘Like Harry Hole?’ the interviewer asked, as if that had anything to do with it!

‘Hole is paid by Røed,’ the police lawyer said. ‘But Hole has been educated and trained within the Norwegian police and clearly possesses the integrity we expect of members of the force, both past and present.’

‘Thank you for joining us, Chris Hinnøy...’

Prim turned the volume down. Swore while he pondered matters. If the police lawyer was right, then Markus Røed could stay locked up indefinitely, safe in a cell where he couldn’t be reached. That wasn’t the plan.

He tried to think.

Did the plan — the grand plan — need changing?

He looked at the pink slug on the coffee table. At the slimy trail it had left behind after a half-hour’s exertion. Where was it going? Did it have a plan? Was it hunting something? Or fleeing? Was it aware that sooner or later the cannibal slugs would find the trail and take up pursuit? That coming to a standstill was death?

Prim pressed his fingers against his temples.

Harry ran, felt his heart pump blood out to his body as he watched the news presenter thank Hinnøy.

Chris Hinnøy was one of the three police lawyers Harry and Johan Krohn had contacted a couple of hours ago to ask them to provide a subjective and unofficial assessment of the likelihood of Markus Røed being found guilty given the evidence in the case. Two of them had wanted to answer straight off, but Krohn had asked them to sleep on it until the morning.

The trainer of Bodø/Glimt was being interviewed on the news, and Harry shifted his gaze from the TV screen attached to the treadmill to the mirror in front of him.

He had the hotel’s small gym to himself. He had left his suit hanging in his room and put on a hotel bathrobe, which was now hanging on a peg behind him. The mirror in front covered the entire wall. He was running in underwear, a T-shirt and his handmade John Lobb shoes, which functioned surprisingly well as running shoes. He looked ridiculous, of course, but didn’t give a shit. On his way down he had even stopped by the reception in this outfit and said he had met an affable priest in the bar but forgotten his name. The black female receptionist had nodded and smiled. ‘He isn’t a guest at the hotel, but I know who you mean, Mr Hole. Because he was here enquiring about you as well.’

‘Really? When?’

‘Not long after you checked in, I don’t remember exactly when. He asked for your room number. I told him we don’t give out that information but that I could place a call to your room. He declined and left.’

‘Mm. Did he say what he wanted?’

‘No, just that he was... curious.’ She’d said the last word in English. And smiled again. ‘People tend to speak English to me.’

‘But he’s American, isn’t he?’

‘Maybe.’

Harry turned up the speed on the treadmill. He still had the pace. But was he running well enough? Would he ultimately be able to outrun everything? Everything behind him? Those who were out after him? Interpol had access to the guest lists of every hotel in the world, as did every halfway decent hacker. Suppose the priest was there to keep an eye on him, suppose he was the one who, in two days, when the deadline expired without the debt being paid, was going to take care of Harry. So what? Debt collectors don’t kill their debtors before all hope of getting their money is out, and then only as a warning to other debtors. And now Røed had been arrested. Saliva on the victim’s nipple. You don’t get better fucking forensic evidence than that. In the morning, the three police lawyers would say the same thing, the money would be transferred, the debt cleared, and he and Lucille would be free. So why was his mind still churning? Was it because it felt as though there was something else he was trying to run from, something that had to do with this case?

The phone, which Harry had placed in the bottle holder in the treadmill, rang. No initials appeared on the screen, but he recognised the number, and answered.

‘Talk to me.’

He heard laughter in response. Then a soft voice. ‘I can’t believe you’re still using that same expression from back when we worked together, Harry.’

‘Mm. I can’t believe you’re still using the same number.’

Mikael Bellman laughed again. ‘Congratulations on Røed.’

‘Which part?’

‘Oh, both on the job and the arrest.’

‘What do you want, Bellman?’

‘Now now.’ He laughed again, that charming, hearty laughter so effective in making men and women believe that Mikael Bellman was a warm, sincere individual, someone they could trust. ‘I must admit, you become a little spoilt as Minster of Justice, you get used to being the one pressed for time, it’s never the person you’re talking with.’

‘I’m not pressed for time. Not any longer.’

The pause that followed was a long one. When Bellman continued, the cordiality sounded slightly more forced.

‘I rang to say we appreciate what you’ve done on this case, it demonstrates integrity. We in the Labour Party care about equality before the law, and that’s why I gave the green light for an arrest earlier today. It’s important to send out the signal that in a functioning state governed by the rule of law there are no advantages in being wealthy and famous.’

‘Quite the opposite, perhaps,’ Harry said.

‘Pardon?’

‘I wasn’t aware that the Minister of Justice had to authorise arrests.’

‘This isn’t just any arrest, Harry.’

‘That’s what I mean. Some are more important. And it doesn’t exactly hurt the Labour Party to be seen going after a well-heeled sleazeball.’

‘My point, Harry, is that I’ve sweet-talked Melling and Winter, and they’re willing to have you on board the investigation moving forward. There is some work remaining before we file charges. Now that your employer has been arrested, I assume you’re out of a job. Your contribution is important to us, Harry.’

Harry had slowed the treadmill to walking speed.

‘They’d like you to be present when Røed is interviewed in the morning.’

What’s important to you is that it looks like the hero of the hour is on your team, Harry thought.

‘Well, what do you say?’

Harry considered it. Felt the distaste and distrust Bellman always evoked in him. ‘Mm. I’ll be there.’

‘Good. Bratt will keep you up to speed. I have to run. Goodnight.’

Harry ran for another hour. When he realised he wasn’t going to outrun what was bothering him, he sat down in one of the chairs, letting the sweat seep into the cushion cover as he called Alexandra.

‘Have you missed me?’ she cooed.

‘Mm. That club, Tuesdays...’

‘Yeah?’

‘They had club nights every Tuesday. Didn’t your friend say something about Villa Dante carrying on the tradition?’