Phantom

30

There were three of them. They were running down a corridor, holding each other’s hands, and Harry shouted that they would have to hold tight when the avalanche hit so they wouldn’t be separated. He heard the snow coming behind them, first as a rumble, next as a roar. Then it was there, the white darkness, the black chaos. He clung on as hard as he could, yet still he felt their hands slipping from his.

Harry woke with a start. Looked at his watch and saw he had been asleep for three hours. He let out his breath in a long wheeze as though he had been holding it. His body felt battered and bruised. His neck ached. He had a thundering headache. And he was sweating. Was so drenched in sweat that his suit had dark patches. He didn’t need to turn to see the reason. The stove. Someone had switched on the sauna.

He got to his feet and staggered into the dressing room. There were clothes lying on the benches, and he heard the sound of racket strings on balls outside. They wanted a sauna after the tennis.

Harry went to the sink. Looked at himself in the mirror. Red eyes, bloated red face. The ridiculous necklace of silver gaffer tape; the edge had dug into the soft skin. He threw water over his face and walked into the morning sun.

Three men, all pensioner-tanned with thin pensioner-legs, stopped playing and stared at him. One of them straightened his glasses.

‘We’re a man short for doubles, young man. Feel like…?’

Harry stared ahead and concentrated on speaking calmly.

‘Sorry, boys. Tennis elbow.’

Harry felt their eyes on his back as he walked down towards Skoyen. There should be a bus around here somewhere.

Truls Berntsen knocked on the unit head’s door.

‘Come in!’

Bellman was standing with the phone to his ear. He looked calm, but Truls knew Mikael too well. The hand that kept going to his well-tended hair, the slightly accelerated manner of talking, the concentrated furrow in his brow.

Bellman cradled the receiver.

‘Stressful morning?’ Truls asked, passing Bellman a steaming cup of coffee.

The unit head looked at the cup with surprise, but took it.

‘The Chief of Police,’ Bellman said, nodding towards the phone. ‘The papers are on his back about this old lady in Madserud alle. Her house has been shot half to bits, and he wants me to explain what happened.’

‘What did you answer?’

‘Ops Room sent out a patrol car after the guard at Vestre Cemetery informed us there were people digging up Gusto Hanssen. The culprits had escaped by the time the car arrived, but then some shooting broke out around Madserud alle. Someone was shooting at someone else who broke into the house. The lady’s in shock, she just says the intruder was a polite young man, two and a half metres tall with a scar on his face.’

‘Do you think the shooting is connected with the grave desecration?’

Bellman nodded. ‘There were clods of mud on her living-room floor that certainly come from the cemetery. So now the Chief of Police is wondering if this is drugs-related, if this is another showdown between gangs. Whether I have the situation under control, that sort of thing.’ Bellman went to the window and stroked the ridge of his narrow nose with his first finger.

‘Is that why you asked me to come?’ Truls asked, taking a careful swig of coffee.

‘No,’ Bellman said with his back to Truls. ‘I was wondering about the night we got that anonymous tip-off that the whole Los Lobos gang would be at McDonald’s. You weren’t on that arrest, were you?’

‘No,’ Berntsen said with a cough. ‘I couldn’t make it. I was ill that night.’

‘Same illness as recently?’ Bellman asked without turning.

‘Eh?’

‘Some officers were surprised that the door to the bikers’ clubhouse wasn’t locked when they arrived. And wondered how this Tutu who, according to Odin, was keeping watch there managed to get away. No one could have known we were coming. Could they?’

‘As far as I know,’ Truls said, ‘there was only us.’

Bellman continued to stare out of the window and rocked on his heels. Hands behind his hips. Rocked back. And rocked forward.

Truls wiped his upper lip. Hoped the sweat wasn’t visible. ‘Anything else?’

Kept rocking. Backwards and forwards. Like a boy trying to see over something, but he’s too short.

‘That was all, Truls. And thank you… for the coffee.’

When Truls was back in his own office he went to the window. Saw what Bellman must have seen. The red poster was hanging from the tree.

It was twelve o’clock, and on the pavement outside Schroder’s there were the usual thirsty souls waiting for Rita to open up.

‘Ooooh,’ she said as she caught sight of Harry.

‘Relax, I don’t want any beer, just breakfast,’ Harry said. ‘And a favour.’

‘I mean the neck,’ Rita said, holding the door for him. ‘It’s gone all blue. And what’s that…?’

‘Gaffer tape,’ Harry said.

Rita nodded and went to take orders. At Schroder’s the policy was that you kept yourself to yourself.

Harry sat down at his regular corner table by the window and rang Beate Lonn.

Got her voicemail. Waited until the beep.

‘Harry here. I’ve bumped into an elderly lady I may have made something of an impression on, so I don’t think I should approach police stations or the like for a while. I’m leaving two specimen bags here at Schroder’s. Come in person and ask for Rita. There’s another favour I’d like to ask. Bellman’s started a collection of addresses in Blindern. I’d like you, as discreetly as possible, to see if you could get copies of the teams’ lists, before they’re sent on to Orgkrim.’

Harry rang off. Then he called Rakel. Voicemail again.

‘Hi, this is Harry. I need some clean clothes which fit, and there used to be some hanging up at your place from… from then. I’m going for a minor upgrade and checking into the Plaza, so if you could send some there in a taxi when you come home that would be…’ He found himself automatically hunting for a word that might have a chance of making her smile. Like ‘spiffing’ or ‘mega’ or ‘wi-icked’. But failed and settled on a conventional ‘great.’

Rita arrived with coffee and a fried egg while Harry was calling Hans Christian. She sent him a reproving look. Schroder’s had a more or less unspoken rule that computers, board games and mobile phones were out of bounds. This was a place for drinking, preferably beer, eating, chatting or shutting up and at a pinch reading newspapers. Presumably reading books was a grey area.

Harry signalled that this would only take a few seconds, and Rita nodded graciously.

Hans Christian sounded relieved and horrified. ‘Harry? Goodness me. Everything alright?’

‘On a scale from one to ten…’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you hear about the shooting in Madserud alle?’

‘Oh Lord! Was that you?’

‘Have you got a weapon, Hans Christian?’

Harry thought he could hear him gulp.

‘Do I need one, Harry?’

‘You don’t. I do.’

‘Harry…’

‘For self-defence only. Just in case.’

Pause. ‘I’ve got an old hunting rifle my father left me. For hunting elk.’

‘Sounds good. Could you get it, wrap it up and deliver it to Schroder’s within three quarters of an hour?’

‘I can try. Wh- what are you going to do?’

‘I,’ Harry said, meeting Rita’s admonishing eyes from the counter, ‘am going to have breakfast.’

On his way to Gamlebyen Cemetery Truls Berntsen saw a black limousine parked outside the gate where he generally entered. And as he approached, the door opened on the passenger side and a man stepped out. He was wearing a black suit and had to be well over two metres tall. Powerful jaw, flat fringe and something indefinably Asian that Truls had always associated with the Sami, Finns and Russians. The jacket must have been made to measure, yet it was still too narrow on the shoulders.

He moved aside and gestured that Truls was to take his place in the passenger seat.

Truls stopped. If these were Dubai’s men it was an unexpected breach of the rules regarding direct contact. He looked around. No one in sight.

He hesitated.

If they had decided to rid themselves of the burner, this is how they would do it.

He looked at the enormous man. It was impossible to read anything from his facial expression, and Truls could not decide whether it was a good or a bad sign that the man had taken the trouble to put on a pair of sunglasses.

Of course he could turn and flee. But what then?

‘Q5,’ Truls mumbled to himself under his breath.

The door was immediately closed after him. It was strangely dark inside, must have been the tinted windows. And the air conditioning must have been unusually effective, it felt as if it was several degrees below zero. In the driver’s seat was a man with the face of a wolf. Black suit as well. Flat fringe. Probably Russian.

‘Nice you could make it,’ said a voice behind Truls. He didn’t need to turn. The accent. It was him. Dubai. The man no one knew. No one else knew. But what good was it to Truls to know a name, to recognise a face? Furthermore, you don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

‘I want you to get hold of someone for us.’

‘Get hold of?’

‘Collect. And deliver to us. You don’t need to bother yourself with the rest.’

‘I’ve told you I don’t know where Oleg Fauke is.’

‘This isn’t Oleg Fauke, Berntsen. This is Harry Hole.’

Truls Berntsen could scarcely believe his own ears. ‘Harry Hole?’

‘Don’t you know who he is?’

‘Course I do. He was at Crime Squad. Mad as a hatter. A drunk. Solved a couple of cases. Is he in town?’

‘He’s staying at Hotel Leon. Room 301. Collect him from there at twelve sharp tonight.’

‘And how should I collect him?’

‘Arrest him. Knock him down. Say you want to show him your boat. Do whatever you like, just get him to the marina at Kongen. We’ll take the rest from there. Fifty thousand.’

The rest. He was talking about killing Harry Hole. He was talking about murder. Of a policeman.

Truls opened his mouth to say no, but the voice on the back seat was quicker.

‘Euros.’

Truls Berntsen’s jaw dropped with a shipwrecked ‘no’ somewhere between his brain and vocal cords. Instead he repeated the words he thought he had heard but scarcely believed.

‘Fifty thousand euros?’

‘Well?’

Truls looked at his watch. He had a bit more than eleven hours. He coughed.

‘How do you know he’ll be in his room at midnight?’

‘Because he knows we’re coming.’

‘Eh? Don’t you mean he doesn’t know you’re coming?’

The voice behind him laughed. It sounded like the motor on a wooden boat. Chug-chug.