Police

2

Officer Anton Mittet took the half-full plastic cup from the small, red Nespresso D290 machine, bent down and placed it on the floor. There was no furniture to put it on. Then he took out another coffee capsule, automatically checked that the aluminium foil lid wasn’t perforated, that it was in fact unused, before inserting it in the coffee machine. Set an empty plastic cup under the spout and pressed one of the illuminated buttons.

He checked his watch while the machine began to sputter and groan. Soon be midnight. Shift change. She was waiting for him at home, but he thought he should teach the new girl the ropes first; after all she was only a police trainee. Silje, was that her name? Anton Mittet stared at the spout. Would he have offered to get coffee if it had been a male colleague? He wasn’t sure, and it made no difference anyway, he had given up answering that kind of question. It was suddenly so quiet he could hear the final, almost transparent, drops dripping into the cup. There was no more colour or taste to be had from the capsule, but it was vital to catch every last droplet; it was going to be a long night shift for the young woman. Without any company, without any action, without anything to do, other than to stare at the inside of the Rikshospital’s unpainted, bare concrete walls. Then he decided he would have a coffee with her before leaving. He took both cups with him and returned. His footsteps resounded against the walls. He passed closed, locked doors. Knowing there was nothing or no one behind them, only more bare walls. For once Norway had built for the future with the Rikshospital, realising that Norwegians were becoming more numerous, aged, infirm and needy. They had taken a long-term approach, the way the Germans had with their autobahns and the Swedes with their airports. But had it felt like that for them, the few motorists crossing the German countryside in isolated majesty on the concrete leviathans in the thirties or the Swedish passengers hurrying through the oversized lounges in Arlanda during the sixties? Had they sensed that there were ghosts? That despite it being brand new and unspoilt, and despite no one having died in a car accident or a plane crash yet, there were ghosts. That at any moment car headlamps could pick out a family standing on the kerb, staring blankly into the light, bleeding, ashen, the father impaled, the mother’s head the wrong way round, a child with limbs on one side only. That charred bodies could come through the plastic curtain on the baggage carousel in the arrivals hall at Arlanda, still glowing, burning the rubber, silent screams issuing from their open mouths, smoke coiling upwards. None of the doctors had been able to tell him what this wing would be used for eventually; all that was certain was that people would die behind these doors. It was already in the air; invisible bodies with restless souls had already been admitted.

Anton rounded a corner, and another corridor extended before him, sparsely lit, equally bare and so symmetrical that it created a curious trompe d’oeil: the uniformed woman sitting on the chair at the far end of the corridor looked like a little picture on a flat wall in front of him.

‘I’ve got a cup of coffee for you,’ he said, standing by her. Twenty? Bit more. Maybe twenty-two.

‘Thanks, but I brought some with me,’ she said, lifting a Thermos from the little rucksack she had placed beside her chair. There was a barely perceptible lilt to her intonation, the residue of a northern dialect perhaps.

‘This is better,’ he said, with his hand still outstretched.

She hesitated. Then took it.

‘And it’s free,’ Anton said, discreetly putting his hand behind his back and rubbing the burnt fingertips on the cold material of his jacket. ‘We’ve got a whole machine all to ourselves in fact. It’s in the corridor down by-’

‘I saw it when I came,’ she said. ‘But the regulations are that we mustn’t at any time move away from the patient’s door, so I brought some coffee from home.’

Anton Mittet took a sip from his cup. ‘Good thinking, but there’s only one corridor leading to this room. We’re on the third floor and all the other doors are locked between here and the coffee machine. It’s impossible to get past us even if we’re helping ourselves to coffee.’

‘That sounds reassuring, but I think I’ll stick to the rules.’ She sent him a fleeting smile. And then, perhaps as a counterbalance to the implicit reproof, she took a sip from the cup.

Anton felt a stab of irritation and was about to say something about the independent thinking that would come with experience, but he hadn’t managed to formulate it before his attention was caught by something further down the corridor. A white figure appeared to be floating towards them. He heard Silje get up. The figure took on firmer features. And became a plump blonde nurse in a loose hospital uniform. He knew she was on the night shift. And that tomorrow night she was free.

‘Evening,’ the nurse said with a mischievous smile, holding up two syringes in one hand, walking towards the door and placing the other on the handle.

‘Just a moment,’ Silje said, stepping up. ‘I’m afraid I have to examine your ID. Also, have you got today’s password?’

The nurse sent Anton a surprised look.

‘Unless my colleague here can vouch for you,’ Silje said.

Anton nodded. ‘Just go in, Mona.’

The nurse opened the door and Anton watched her enter. In the darkened room he could make out the machinery around the bed and toes sticking out from under the duvet. The patient was so tall they’d had to requisition a longer bed. The door closed.

‘Good,’ Anton said with a smile to Silje, and could see she didn’t like it. Could see she regarded him as a male chauvinist who had just assessed and graded a younger female colleague. But she was a student for Christ’s sake, she was supposed to learn from experienced officers during her training year. He stood rocking back on his heels, unsure how to tackle the situation. She spoke up first.

‘As I said, I’ve read the rules and regulations. And I suppose you have a family waiting for you.’

He lifted his coffee to his mouth. What did she know about his civil status? Was she insinuating something, about him and Mona, for example? That he had driven her home a couple of times after her shift and it hadn’t stopped there?

‘The teddy bear sticker on your bag,’ she smiled.

He took a long swig from his cup. And cleared his throat. ‘I’ve got time. As it’s your first shift perhaps you ought to use the opportunity to ask any questions you may have. Not everything’s in the rules and regulations, you know.’ He shifted feet. Hoping she could hear and understand the subtext.

‘As you wish,’ she said with the irritating self-confidence you have to be under twenty-five to be so presumptuous as to possess. ‘The patient in there, who is he?’

‘I don’t know. That’s also in the rules. He’s anonymous and has to stay that way.’

‘But you know something.’

‘Do I?’

‘Mona. You can’t be on first-name terms with people without having chatted first. What did she tell you?’

Anton Mittet weighed her up. She was attractive, that was true enough, but there was no warmth or charm about her. Bit too slim for his taste. Untidy hair and a top lip that looked as if it was held in place by an over-taut tendon, causing two uneven front teeth to appear. But youth was on her side. Firm and fit underneath the black uniform, he would bet on it. So if he told her what he knew, would it be because he was subconsciously calculating that his obliging attitude would increase his chances of bedding her by 0.01 per cent? Or because girls like Silje would be inspectors or detectives within five years? They would be his bosses, while he would remain on the beat, an officer on the bottom rung of the ladder, because the Drammen case would always be there, a wall, a stain that could not be removed.

‘Case of attempted murder,’ Anton said. ‘Lost a lot of blood. They reckon he barely had a pulse when he came here. Been in a coma the whole time.’

‘Why the guard?’

Anton shrugged. ‘Potential witness. If he survives.’

‘What does he know?’

‘Drugs stuff. High level. If he wakes up he probably has the goods to bring down some important heroin dealers in Oslo. Plus he can tell us who was trying to kill him.’

‘So they think the murderer will return and finish off the job?’

‘If they find out he’s alive and where he is, yes. That’s why we’re here.’

She nodded. ‘And is he going to survive?’

Anton shook his head. ‘They reckon they can keep him alive for a few more months, but the odds of him pulling out of the coma are slim. Nevertheless. .’ Anton shifted feet again; her probing stare was becoming uncomfortable. ‘Until then we have to keep an eye on him.’

Anton Mittet left her, feeling crushed, went down the stairs from reception and stepped into the autumn night. It was only when he was sitting in his parked car that he noticed his mobile was ringing.

The call came from the Ops Room.

‘Maridalen, murder,’ 01 said. ‘I know you’ve finished for the day, but they need help to secure the crime scene. And as you’re already in uniform. .’

‘How long for?’

‘You’ll be relieved after three hours, max.’

Anton was astonished. These days they did whatever they could to prevent people from working overtime. The combination of rigid rules and budgets didn’t even allow deviations for reasons of practicality. He had an intuition there was something special about this murder. He hoped it wasn’t a child.

‘OK,’ Anton Mittet said.

‘I’ll send you the coordinates.’ This was new: satnav, a detailed map of Oslo and district and an active transmitter for Ops to track you down. That must have been why they rang him. He was closest.

‘OK,’ Anton Mittet said. ‘Three hours.’

Laura would be in bed, but she liked knowing when he would be home from work, so he texted her before putting the car into gear and heading for Lake Maridal.

Anton didn’t need to look at the satnav. At the entrance to Ullevålseterveien there were four patrol cars, and a bit further away orange-and-white tape showed the way.

Anton took the torch from the glove compartment and walked over to the officer outside the cordon. Through the trees he saw lights flashing, but also the forensics team’s lamps, which always reminded him of film sets. Not so daft actually; nowadays they didn’t just take stills, they used HD video cameras as well, which not only captured the victims but the whole crime scene so that at a later date they could go back, freeze and zoom in on details they hadn’t appreciated were relevant at first.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked the officer with crossed arms, who was shivering by the tape.

‘Murder.’ The officer’s voice was thick, his eyes red-rimmed in an unnaturally pale face.

‘So I heard. Who’s the boss here?’

‘Forensics. Lønn.’

Anton heard the buzz of voices from inside the trees. There were lots of them. ‘No one from Kripos or Crime Squad yet?’

‘There’ll be even more officers here soon. The body has just been found. Are you taking over from me?’

Even more. And yet they had given him overtime. Anton examined the officer closer. He was wearing a thick coat, but the shivering had got worse. And it wasn’t that cold.

‘Were you the first on the scene?’

The officer nodded without speaking, looked down. Stamped his feet hard on the ground.

Bloody hell, thought Anton. A child. He swallowed.

‘Well, Anton, did 01 send you?’

Anton looked up. He hadn’t heard the two of them coming, although they emerged from dense thickets. He had seen it before, how forensics officers moved at crime scenes, like somewhat ungainly dancers, bending and twisting, positioning their feet, as though they were astronauts on the moon. Or perhaps it was the white overalls drawing that association.

‘Yes, I had to take over from someone,’ Anton said to the woman. He knew who she was, everyone did. Beate Lønn, the head of Krimteknisk, who had a reputation as a kind of Rain Woman because of her ability to recognise faces, which was often employed to identify bank robbers on grainy disjointed CCTV footage. They said she could recognise even well-disguised robbers if they were ex-cons and she had a database of several thousand mugshots stored in her fair-haired little head. So this murder had to be special, otherwise they wouldn’t send out bosses in the middle of the night.

Beside the petite woman’s pale, almost transparent face her colleague’s appeared to be flushed. His freckled cheeks were adorned with two bright red mutton-chop sideburns. His eyes bulged slightly, as though there was too much pressure inside, which lent him a somewhat gawping expression. But what attracted most attention was the hat which appeared when he removed his white hood: a big Rasta hat in Jamaican colours, green, yellow and black.

Beate Lønn patted the shoulder of the trembling officer. ‘Off you go then, Simon. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but I suggest a strong drink and then bed.’

The officer nodded, and three seconds later he was swallowed up by the darkness.

‘Is it gruesome?’ Anton asked.

‘No coffee?’ Rasta Hat asked, opening a Thermos. These two words told Anton he wasn’t from Oslo. From the provinces, that was clear, but like most Norwegians from Østland Anton had no idea about, and no particular interest in, dialects.

‘No,’ Anton said.

‘It’s always a good idea to take your own coffee to a crime scene,’ Rasta Hat said. ‘You never know how long you’ll have to stay.’

‘Come on, Bjørn. He’s worked on murder investigations before,’ said Beate Lønn. ‘Drammen, wasn’t it?’

‘Right,’ Anton said, rocking on his heels. Used to work on murder investigations, more accurately. And unfortunately he had a suspicion as to why Beate Lønn could remember him. He breathed in. ‘Who found the body?’

‘He did,’ said Beate Lønn, nodding in the direction of the police officer’s car. They could hear the engine revving.

‘I mean who tipped us off?’

‘The wife rang when he didn’t come back from a bike ride,’ Rasta Hat said. ‘Should have been away for an hour, and she was worried about his heart. He was using his satnav, which has a transmitter, so they found him quickly.’

Anton nodded slowly, picturing it all. Two policemen ringing the doorbell, a man and a woman. The officers coughing, looking at the wife with that grave expression which is meant to tell her what they will soon repeat in words, impossible words. The wife’s face, resistant, not wanting to hear, but then it seems to turn inside out, shows her inner emotions, shows everything.

The image of Laura, his wife, appeared.

An ambulance drew up, without a siren or a blue light.

It slowly dawned on Anton. The fast reaction to a missing-person message. The rapidly traced satnav signal. The big turnout. Overtime. The colleague who was so shaken he had to be sent home.

‘It’s a policeman,’ he whispered.

‘I’d guess the temperature here is one and a half degrees lower than in town,’ Beate Lønn said, pulling up a number on her mobile phone.

‘Agreed,’ Rasta Hat said, swigging a mouthful from the Thermos cup. ‘No skin discoloration yet. So somewhere between eight and ten?’

‘A policeman,’ Anton repeated. ‘That’s why they’re all here, isn’t it?’

‘Katrine?’ Beate said. ‘Can you check something for me? It’s about the Sandra Tveten case. Right.’

‘Goddamn!’ Rasta Hat exclaimed. ‘I asked them to wait until the body bags had come.’

Anton turned and saw two men struggling through the forest with a stretcher between them. A pair of cycling shoes poked out from under the blanket.

‘He knew him,’ Anton said. ‘That was why he was shaking like that, wasn’t it?’

‘He said they worked together in Økern before Vennesla started in Kripos,’ Rasta Hat said.

‘Have you got the date to hand?’ Lønn said on the phone.

There was a scream.

‘What the. .?’ Rasta Hat said.

Anton turned. One of the stretcher-bearers had slipped into the ditch beside the path. The beam from his torch swept over the stretcher. Over the blanket that had fallen off. Over. . over what? Anton stared. Was that a head? The thing on top of what was indubitably the human body, had it really been a head? In the years Anton had worked at Crime Squad, before the Great Mistake, he had seen a great many bodies, but nothing like this. The hourglass-shaped substance reminded Anton of the family’s Sunday breakfast, of Laura’s lightly boiled egg with the remains of the shell still hanging from it, cracked with the yellow yolk running out and drying on the outside of the stiff but still soft egg white. Could that really be a. . head?

Anton stood blinking in the darkness as he watched the rear lights of the ambulance disappearing. And he realised that these were replays, he had seen all this before. The white figures, the Thermos, the feet protruding from under the blanket, he had just seen this at the Rikshospital. As though they all had been portents. The head. .

‘Thanks, Katrine,’ Beate said.

‘What was that about?’ Rasta Hat asked.

‘I worked with Erlend on this very spot,’ Beate said.

‘Here?’ Rasta Hat queried.

‘Right here. He was in charge of the investigation. Must have been ten years ago. Sandra Tveten. Raped and killed. Just a child.’

Anton swallowed. Child. Replays.

‘I remember that case,’ Rasta Hat said. ‘Fate’s a funny thing, dying at your own crime scene. Imagine. Wasn’t the Sandra Tveten case also in the autumn?’

Beate nodded slowly.

Anton blinked, and kept blinking. He had seen a body like it.

‘Goddamn!’ Rasta Hat cursed under his breath. ‘You don’t mean to say that. .?’

Beate Lønn took the cup of coffee from him. Took a sip. Passed it back. Nodded.

‘Oh shit,’ Rasta Hat said under his breath.