Killing Moon

39 Thursday

Ornamental kale

Harry entered the cemetery. The florist in Grønlandsleiret had suggested he place ornamental kale on the grave. Not only because it resembled a beautiful flower, but because the colours would only turn prettier as the temperature dropped over autumn.

He picked up a branch that must have broken off in the previous night’s storm and now lay partly across the headstone, placed it by the trunk of the tree, walked back, squatted down and used his hands to work the pot of flowering kale down into the soil.

‘We’ve found him,’ Harry said. ‘I thought you’d like to know, because I expect you’re keeping tabs.’

He peered up at the crisp, blue sky. ‘I was right about it being someone on the periphery of the case, a person we had seen but not seen. As regards everything else, I was wrong. I’m always looking for motive, you know that, believe that’s what will lead us in the right direction. And of course, there’s always a motive. But it’s not always shining so brightly that we can use it as a lodestar, is it? Not when the motive is so locked away in the darkness of insanity as here, at any rate. Then I give up on the why and concentrate on the how. It’s better to just let Ståle and his people take care of the sick why afterwards.’ Harry cleared his throat. ‘Stop beating around the bush and get to the how? OK, then.’

It was three o’clock when Øystein Eikeland entered Jernbanetorget, where he had met Harry a week and a half earlier. It seemed like an eternity ago. Passing the tiger statue, he saw Al bent double with one hand resting on the wall of the old Central Station building.

‘How’s it going, Al?’ Øystein said.

‘Took some bad shit,’ he said, retching one more time before straightening up. Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his parka. ‘Otherwise good. What about you? Long time...’

‘Yeah, I’ve been busy with some other stuff,’ Øystein said, looking down at the pool of vomit. ‘Remember I asked you about that party at Markus Røed’s. Told you it was because I was wondering who the other dude selling beak was.’

‘He was handing it out for free, but yeah, what about him?’

‘I probably should have told you that I was asking because I’m working for a private investigator.’

‘Oh?’ Al fastened his blue eyes on Øystein. ‘The cop who was here, Harry Hole?’

‘You know who he is?’

‘I do read the newspapers!’

‘Really? Wouldn’t have thought that.’

‘Not that often, but after you told me about those two girls at the party I’ve been following that particular case.’

‘Have you now?’ Øystein looked around. The square looked the same as always. The same clientele. Tourists looking like tourists, students like students, buyers like buyers. He should stop now. Was supposed to stop now. Or rather, was supposed to leave now. Why did he always have to overdo things, why couldn’t he abide by Keef’s commandment about moderation? All he was meant to do was point out Al in the crowd and distract him slightly. But no, he had to...

‘Or have you been doing a little more than just following the case, Al?’

‘What?’ Al’s eyes appeared to grow bigger. The whites were now visible all the way round.

‘He met the girls at the party, or maybe he provided them with cocaine before,’ Harry said to the headstone. ‘I suppose he liked them. Or hated them, who knows. Maybe the three girls liked him too, he is a good-looking kid and has a charisma about him. The charisma of loneliness, Øystein calls it. So, yeah, perhaps that was how he lured them in. Or he lured them with cocaine. He wasn’t at home during the raid on his apartment this morning — according to Øystein he keeps regular working hours at Jernbanetorget. Single, apparently, but the bed was neatly made up. They found a lot of interesting stuff. All kinds of knives. Hard porn. A car Forensics are going over as we speak. A poster of Charles Manson above the bed. And a gold snuff bullet with the initials B.B. on it, which I’m guessing someone who knew Bertine Bertilsen will identify as hers. It contained green cocaine. You liked that, huh? But listen to this. There were eight kilos of white cocaine underneath the bed which they said seemed pretty pure. Eight kilos, mind. Stepped on a little and you’re talking a street value of over ten million kroner. He doesn’t have any convictions but has been arrested twice. One was a gang-rape case. Seems he wasn’t even there, but that was how his DNA ended up in the database. We haven’t had time to dig around in his past yet, or his childhood, but you wouldn’t get high odds betting on it being of the shitty kind. So there you have it.’ Harry checked the time. ‘They’re taking him into custody around now, I imagine. He’s known to be vigilant bordering on paranoid, and the combo of the collection of knives together with how crowded with people it gets down there means they’re using Øystein as a distraction. Bad idea involving amateurs, if you ask me, but they were the orders from above apparently.’

‘What the fuck do you mean?’ Al said.

‘Nothing,’ Øystein said, keeping an eye on Al’s hands, buried deep in the pockets of his parka.

It occurred to him that he was possibly in danger now. So why was he standing here dragging this out? He looked at Al’s hands. What did he have in those pockets? At that moment he realised what it was he liked. That finally for once he was the centre of attention, that at this very moment radio communications were probably squawking: ‘Why is he still standing there?’, ‘He’s got some bottle’, ‘Fuck me, talk about cool!’

Øystein saw two dancing red dots of light appear on the chest of Al’s parka.

His moment in the limelight was over.

‘Have an all right day, Al.’

Øystein turned and walked towards the road and the bus stops.

A red bus passed right in front of him, and in the reflection flickering across the windows he saw three people in the square start to move simultaneously as they each slipped a hand inside their clothing.

He heard Al’s screams and just had time to catch sight of them wrestling him to the ground, two of them with pistols pointed at Al’s back, the third with handcuffs which he clamped around Al’s wrists. Then the bus drove past, and he looked up Karl Johans gate towards the Palace, watched the people streaming towards him and away from him, and he thought for a second about all the people he had met and left behind in his life.

Harry rose on stiff knees and looked down at the pink-tinged flower. Which was cabbage. Raised his gaze to the name on the headstone. Bjørn Holm.

‘So now you know, Bjørn. And I know where you lie. Maybe I’ll be back some day. They miss you at the Jealousy Bar as well, by the way.’

Harry turned and walked in the direction of the gate he had entered by.

Took out his phone and rang Lucille’s number again.

No answer this time either.

Mikael Bellman was standing by the window as Vivian handed him a short report on the successful arrest at Jernbanetorget.

‘Thanks,’ he said, his gaze as usual seeking out the centre of things. ‘I’d actually like to issue a statement. A press release praising the tireless work of the police, their work ethic and professionalism in dealing with difficult cases. Could you work up a draft?’

‘Of course,’ she said, and he heard the enthusiasm in her voice. It was the first time she had been entrusted with writing anything from scratch. Still, he sensed trepidation.

‘What is it, Vivian?’

‘You’re not concerned that it might be perceived as presumption of guilt?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

Bellman turned to face her. She was so pretty. So smart. But so young. Was he beginning to prefer them a little older? Wise rather than bright?

‘Write it as a general tribute to the police all across the country,’ he said. ‘A Minister of Justice doesn’t comment on individual cases. Then those who want to link it to the solving of this specific case can do so if they wish.’

‘But this case is what everyone is talking about so most people will make that connection?’

‘I hope so.’ Bellman smiled.

‘And that will be perceived as...?’ She looked at him, uncertain.

‘Do you know why prime ministers send telegrams of congratulation when someone wins a gold medal at the Winter Olympics? Because those telegrams end up in the newspapers so that the Prime Minister can bask a little in the reflected glory and remind the people who created the conditions to facilitate such a small country being able to take so many gold medals. Our press release will be correct, but also show that I’m on the same wavelength as the people. We’ve put a drug-pushing serial killer behind bars, and that’s even better than a rich guy. We won the gold medal. You understand?’

She nodded. ‘I think so.’