Police

PART FOUR
27

Beate Lønn was buried in Gamlebyen Cemetery, beside her father. He hadn’t been buried there because it was his parish but because the cemetery was the closest one to Police HQ.

Mikael Bellman adjusted his tie. Held Ulla’s hand. It had been the PR consultant’s suggestion that she went along. The situation for him as the most senior officer had become so precarious after the latest killing that he needed help. The consultant had explained that it was important for him as Chief of Police to show more personal commitment, empathy, that so far he had appeared slightly too professional. Ulla had stepped up. Of course she had. Stunningly beautiful in the mourning outfit she had chosen with such meticulous care. She was a good wife to him. He would not forget it. Not for a long time.

The priest went on and on about what he called the big questions, about what happens when we die. But of course they weren’t the big questions; those were what had happened before Beate died and who had killed her. Her and three other officers in the course of the last six months.

They were the big questions for the press, who had spent recent days paying homage to the brilliant head of Krimteknisk and criticising the new and shockingly inexperienced Chief of Police.

They were the big questions for Oslo Council, who had summoned him to a meeting where he would have to account for his handling of the murders. They had indicated that they would not pull their punches.

And they were the big questions for the investigation groups, both the large one and the small one Hagen had set up without telling him, but which Bellman had now accepted, as at least it had found a concrete lead to work on, Valentin Gjertsen. Its weakness was that the theory that this ghost might be behind the murders was based on a single witness’s claim that she had seen him alive. And she was now in the coffin by the altar.

In the reports from the forensics team, the police investigation and the pathologist, there hadn’t been enough detail to give a full picture of what had happened, but everything they did know matched the old reports of the murder in Bergslia.

So if you assumed the rest was identical, Beate Lønn had died in the worst way imaginable.

There wasn’t a trace of anaesthetic in any of the body parts they had examined. The pathologist’s report contained the phrases ‘massive internal bleeding in muscles and subcutaneous tissue’, ‘an inflammatory reaction to infection in the tissue’, which, translated, meant that Beate Lønn had been alive not only at the time the relevant parts of her body had been cut off, but unfortunately also some time afterwards.

The severed surfaces suggested a bayonet saw rather than a jigsaw had been used for the carving up of the body. The forensics officers guessed a so-called bimetal blade had been used, that is, a fourteen-centimetre, fine-toothed blade that could cut through bone. Bjørn Holm said this was the one hunters where he came from called the elk blade.

Beate Lønn might have been cut up on the coffee table as it was made of glass and could be cleaned effectively afterwards. The killer had probably taken ammonia with him and black bin bags as none of these had been found at the crime scene.

In the dustcart they had also found the remains of a rug drenched in blood.

What they didn’t find were fingerprints, footprints, fabric, hairs or other DNA material that didn’t belong to the house.

Or any signs of a break-in.

Katrine Bratt had explained that Beate Lønn had finished the call because the doorbell had rung.

It seemed very unlikely that Beate Lønn would have voluntarily let in a stranger, and definitely not in the middle of an operation. So the theory they were working on was that the killer had forced his way in, threatening her with a weapon.

And then, of course, there was the second theory. That it wasn’t a stranger. Because Beate Lønn had a chain on the solid door. And there were plenty of scratch marks, suggesting that it was used regularly.

Bellman looked down the rows. Gunnar Hagen. Bjørn Holm and Katrine Bratt. An elderly lady with a small boy he assumed was Lønn’s son, at any rate the similarity was striking.

Another ghost, Harry Hole. Rakel Fauke. Brunette, with these dark, glinting eyes, almost as beautiful as Ulla, incomprehensible that a guy like Hole could have got his paws on her.

And a bit further back, Isabelle Skøyen. Oslo City Council had to be represented, of course, the press would make a point of it if not. Before they entered the church she had taken him aside, ignoring the fact that Ulla was there, and asked how long he was intending to avoid her phone calls. And he had repeated it was over. And she had regarded him in the way you regard an insect before you tread on it and said she was a leaver, not a leavee. Which he would soon find out. He had felt her eyes on his back as he had walked over to Ulla and offered her his arm.

Otherwise the rows were filled with what he assumed was a mixture of relatives, friends and colleagues, most of them in uniform. He had overheard them consoling one another as best they could: there were no signs of torture and loss of blood had hopefully meant she would have been unconscious in no time.

For a fraction of a second his eyes met someone else’s. And moved on as if he hadn’t seen him. Truls Berntsen. What the hell was he doing here? He hadn’t exactly been on Beate Lønn’s Christmas card list. Ulla pressed his hand lightly, looked at him enquiringly, and he flashed her a quick smile. Fair enough; in death we are all colleagues, he supposed.

Katrine had been wrong. She wasn’t all cried out.

A few times since Beate had been found she had thought there were no tears left. But there were. And she had squeezed them out of a body that was already sore from long bouts of weeping.

She had cried until her body refused and she had thrown up. Cried until she fell asleep from pure exhaustion. And cried from the moment she awoke. And she was crying again now.

And in the hours she slept she was plagued by nightmares, haunted by her own devilish pact. The one where she was willing to sacrifice a colleague in return for the arrest of Valentin. The one she had ratified with her incantation: one more time, you bastard. Strike one more time.

Katrine sobbed aloud.

The loud sob jolted Truls Berntsen upright. He had been falling asleep. The cheap suit was so damned slippery on the worn church pew there was a good chance he would slide right off.

He fixed his eyes on the altarpiece. Jesus with rays of sun coming out of his head. A headlight. Forgiveness of sins. It was a stroke of genius what they had done. Religion hadn’t been selling so well; it was so hard to obey all the commandments once you had the money to succumb to more temptations. So they had come up with this idea that was good enough to believe. A sales idea that did as much for turnover as credit, it almost felt like redemption was free. But, just like with credit, things got out of control, people didn’t care, they sinned for their dear lives, because all you had to do was believe. So around the Middle Ages they had to tighten up, implement debt collection. So they thought up hell and the stuff about the soul burning. And hey presto — you frightened the punters back into the church and this time they settled their accounts. The church became very wealthy, and good for them, they had done such a fantastic job. That was Truls’s genuine opinion on the matter. Even though he believed he would die and that would be that, no forgiveness of sins, no hell. But if he was mistaken, he was in deep trouble, that much was obvious. There had to be limits to what you could forgive, and Jesus would hardly have the imagination to conjure up a couple of the things Truls had done.

Harry was staring straight ahead. Was somewhere else. In the House of Pain with Beate pointing and explaining. He didn’t come to until he heard Rakel’s whisper.

‘You have to help Gunnar and the others, Harry.’

He recoiled. Looked at her in surprise.

She nodded to the altar where the others had already taken up positions by the coffin. Gunnar Hagen, Bjørn Holm, Katrine Bratt, Ståle Aune and Jack Halvorsen’s brother. Hagen had said Harry had to carry the coffin alongside the brother-in-law, who was the second tallest.

Harry got up and walked quickly down the aisle.

You have to help Gunnar and the others.

It was like an echo of what she had said the night before.

Harry exchanged imperceptible nods with the others. Took up the unoccupied position.

‘On the count of three,’ Hagen said softly.

The organ tones intensified, swelled.

Then they carried Beate Lønn outside into the light.

Justisen was packed with people from the funeral.

Over the loudspeakers blared a song Harry had heard there before. ‘I Fought the Law’ by the Bobby Fuller Four. With the optimistic continuation. . ‘and the law won’.

He had accompanied Rakel to the airport express, and in the meantime several of his former colleagues had managed to get very drunk. As a sober outsider Harry was able to observe the almost frantic drinking, as if they were sitting on a sinking ship. At many of the tables they were howling along with Bobby Fuller that the law won.

Harry signalled to the table where Katrine Bratt and the other coffin-bearers sat that he would be back soon and went to the toilet. He had started peeing when a man appeared at his side. He heard him unzip.

‘This is a place for police officers,’ a voice snuffled. ‘So what the hell are you doing here?’

‘Pissing,’ Harry said, without looking up. ‘And you? Burning?’

‘Don’t you try it with me, Hole.’

‘If I did, you wouldn’t be walking around a free man, Berntsen.’

‘Mind your own business,’ groaned Truls Berntsen, leaning against the wall above the urinal with his unoccupied hand. ‘I can stick a murder on you, and you know it. The Russian in Come As You Are. Everyone in the police knows it was you, but I’m the only one who can prove it. And that’s why you don’t dare to mix with me.’

‘What I know, Berntsen, is that the Russian was a dope dealer who tried to dispatch me into the beyond. But if you think your chances are better than his, go ahead. You’ve beaten up policemen before.’

‘Eh?’

‘You and Bellman. A gay officer, wasn’t it?’

Harry could hear the head of steam Berntsen had worked up fizzle and fade.

‘Are you on the booze again, Hole?’

‘Mm,’ Harry said, buttoning up. ‘This must be the season for police haters.’ He went to the sink. Saw in the mirror that Berntsen still hadn’t got the tap flowing again. Harry washed his hands and dried them. Went to the door. Heard Berntsen hiss:

‘Don’t you try anything, I’m telling you. If you take me down, I’ll take you with me.’

Harry went back into the bar. Bobby Fuller had almost finished. And it made Harry think of something. How full of coincidences our lives were. Bobby Fuller was found dead in his car in 1966, soaked in petrol, and some thought he had been killed by the police. He had been twenty-three years old. The same as René Kalsnes.

A new song started. Supergrass and ‘Caught by the Fuzz’. Harry smiled. Gaz Coombes singing about being caught by the fuzz, who want him to spill the beans, and twenty years later the police are playing the song as a tribute to themselves. Sorry, Gaz.

Harry looked around the room. Thought about the long conversation he and Rakel had had yesterday. About all the things you could evade, avoid, elude in life. And what you couldn’t escape. Because this was life, the meaning of existence. All the rest — love, peace, happiness — was what followed, for which this was a prerequisite. By and large, she had done the talking, had explained that he had to. The shadows of Beate’s death were already so long that they covered the June day, however hysterically the sun might shine. He had to. For them both. For them all.

Harry ploughed his way to the table of coffin-bearers.

Hagen got up and pulled out the chair that they had reserved for him. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘Count me in,’ Harry said.

Truls stood by the urinal, still semi-paralysed by what Harry had said. This must be the season for police haters. Did he know anything? Rubbish! Harry knew nothing. How could he? If he did, he wouldn’t have blurted it out like that, like a provocation. But he knew about the homo in Kripos, the one they had beaten up. And how could he know about that?

The guy had tried it on with Mikael, had tried to kiss him in the toilets. Mikael thought someone might have seen. They had pulled a hood over his head in the boiler room. Truls had hit him. Mikael had just watched. As usual. Had only intervened when it was on the point of going too far and told him to stop. No. It had already gone too far. The guy was still lying on the ground when they left.

Mikael had been afraid. The guy was badly hurt, he might get it into his head to report them. So that had been Truls’s first job as a burner. They had used the blue light to race down to Justisen where they had pushed their way through the queue at the bar and demanded to pay for the two Munkholms they’d had half an hour before. The bartender had nodded, said it was good there were honest folk about and Truls had given him such a hefty tip he was sure the guy would remember. Took the receipt displaying the time and date of purchase, drove with Mikael up to Krimteknisk where there was a newcomer Truls knew really wanted a job as a detective. Explained to him it was possible that someone would try to pin an assault on them and he would have to check they were clean. The newcomer had performed a quick, superficial examination of their clothes and hadn’t found any DNA or blood, he said. Then Truls had driven Mikael home and afterwards returned to the boiler room at Kripos. The fudge-packer wasn’t there any more, but the trail of blood indicated he had managed to crawl out under his own steam. So perhaps there wasn’t a problem. But Truls had removed any potential evidence and afterwards driven down to the Havnelager building and dropped the baton in the sea.

The next day a colleague rang Mikael and said the fudge-packer had contacted him from hospital and talked about reporting them for GBH. So Truls had gone up to the hospital, waited until the doctor had done his rounds and then told the guy there was no evidence and no career if he ever so much as breathed a word or turned up for work again.

They never saw or heard anything again from the guy at Kripos. Thanks to him, Truls Berntsen. So fuck Mikael Bellman. Truls had saved the bastard’s skin. At least until now. For now Harry knew about the little matter. And he was a loose cannon. He could be dangerous, Hole could. Too dangerous.

Truls Berntsen observed himself in the mirror. The terrorist. Dead right. He was.

And he had only just started.

He went out to join the others. In time to catch the last part of Mikael Bellman’s speech.

‘. . that Beate Lønn was made of the sterner stuff we hope is typical of our force. Now it is up to us to prove it. In the only way we can honour her memory as she would have wanted it honoured. By catching him. Skål!’

Truls stared at his childhood pal as they all raised their glasses to the ceiling, like warriors raising their spears at the chieftain’s command. Saw their faces glowing, serious, determined. Saw Bellman nod as though they were of one mind, saw that he was moved, moved by the moment, by his own words, by what motivated them, the power they had over others in the room.

Truls went back to the hall by the toilets, stood beside the fruit machine, pressed a coin into the slot of the phone and lifted the receiver. Dialled the switchboard number.

‘Police.’

‘I’ve got an anonymous tip-off. It’s about the bullet in the René Kalsnes case. I know which gun it was fried. . fl. .’ Truls had tried to speak clearly, knowing it would be recorded and played back afterwards. But his tongue wouldn’t obey his brain.

‘Then you should talk to the detectives in Crime Squad or Kripos,’ the operator said. ‘But they’re all at a funeral today.’

‘I know!’ Truls answered, hearing his voice was unnecessarily loud. ‘I just wanted to give you a tip-off.’

‘You know?’

‘Yes. Listen-’

‘I can see you’re ringing from Kafé Justisen. You should find them there.’

Truls glared at the phone. Realised that he was drunk. That he had made a huge blunder. That if this was followed up, and they knew the call came from Justisen, they could just summon the officers who had been there, play the tape and ask if anyone recognised the voice. And that would be too big a risk to take.

‘Just kidding,’ Truls said. ‘Sorry, we’ve had a bit too much beer here.’

He rang off and left. Straight through the room without looking to either side. But when he opened the front door and felt the cold blast of rain he stopped. Turned. Saw Mikael with his hand on a colleague’s shoulder. Saw a group standing round Harry Hole, the piss artist. One of them, a woman, was even hugging him. Truls turned back. Watched the rain.

Suspended. Excluded.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Looked round. The face blurred, as though he was peering through water. Was he really that drunk?

‘That’s fine,’ said the face with the gentle voice as the hand squeezed his shoulder. ‘Slip away. We all feel like that today.’

Truls reacted instinctively, flicked the hand off and headed into the night. Stomped down the street feeling the rain soak through the shoulders of his jacket. To hell with them. To hell with all of them.