Police

42

Truls Berntsen raised his hips and forced his head back against the pillow. He closed his eyes, emitted low grunts, and came. Felt the spasms shake his body. Afterwards he lay still, drifting in and out of dreamland. In the distance — he assumed it must have been from the big car park — an alarm had started to wail. Otherwise a resounding silence reigned outside. Odd, really, that in a peaceful place where so many mammals lived above one another it was quieter than in even the most dangerous forests where the slightest sound could mean you had become the prey. He raised his head and met Megan Fox’s eyes.

‘Was it good for you too?’ he whispered.

She didn’t answer. But her eyes didn’t flinch, her smile didn’t wither, the invitation of her body language was the same. Megan Fox, the only person in his life who was constant, loyal and reliable.

He leaned over to the bedside table and grabbed the toilet roll. Cleaned himself up and found the remote control for the DVD player. Pointed it at Megan, who quivered in the freeze-frame on the fifty-inch flat-screen TV, a Pioneer in the series they had to stop making because it was too expensive, too good for the price they commanded. Truls had got the last one, bought with money he had earned by burning evidence against a pilot who had been smuggling heroin for Asayev. Taking the rest of the money to the bank and putting it straight into his account had been idiocy of course. Asayev had been dangerous for Truls. And when Truls had heard Asayev was dead his first thought was that now he was free. The slate had been wiped clean, no one could get him.

Megan Fox’s green eyes glinted at him. Emerald green.

It had been on his mind for a while that he should buy emeralds for her. Ulla dressed in green. Like the green sweater she took off when she was on the sofa reading. He had even dropped by a jeweller’s. The owner had quickly sized Truls up, estimated the carat and value and then explained to him that emeralds of the finest water were even more expensive than diamonds, perhaps he ought to consider something else, what about an elegant opal if it absolutely had to be green? Or perhaps a stone with chrome in, it was the chrome that lent the emerald the green colour, that was all there was to the mystery.

That was all there was to the mystery.

Truls had left the shop with a promise to himself. The next time he was contacted by anyone for a burn scam he would suggest they break into this particular jewellery shop first. And they should burn it. Quite literally. Burn it the same way the young girl at Come As You Are had burned. He had heard it on the police radio while driving around town and had considered going over to see if he could help. After all, his suspension had been lifted. Mikael had said there were only a few formalities to clear up before he could go back to work. His plans to terrorise Mikael were on ice now, they would be able to re-establish their friendship, no problem, and everything would be as before. Yes, at last he would be allowed to join in, have a go, contribute. Get the psycho cop killer. If Truls got the chance he would personally. . well. He glanced at the cabinet beside his bed. Inside, he had enough weapons to expedite fifty psychos.

The doorbell rang.

Truls sighed.

Someone wanted something off him. Experience told him it could be one of four possibilities. 1) He should become a Jehovah’s Witness and dramatically increase his chances of ending up in Paradise. 2) He should donate money to some collection or other for an African president who based his wealth on collection campaigns. 3) He should open the door to a gang of youths who said they’d forgotten the key but only wanted to break into the storage rooms in the cellar. Or 4) Some of the housing co-op sticklers wanted him to go down and do some chore he had forgotten to do. None of them was reason enough to get out of bed.

The bell rang for the third time.

Even Jehovah’s Witnesses gave up after two.

Of course it might be Mikael, wanting to talk about things that were best avoided on the phone. To make sure they were singing from the same hymn sheet if there were any more interviews about the money in his account.

Truls deliberated for a few minutes.

Then he swung his legs out of bed.

‘This is Aronsen from C block. You own a silver-grey Suzuki Vitara, right?’

‘Yes,’ Truls said into the intercom. It should have been an Audi Q5 2.0 6-speed manual. It should have been the reward for the last job for Asayev. The last instalment after serving them up that irritating detective, Harry Hole. Instead he had a Japanese car people made jokes about. Suzuki Viagra.

‘Can you hear the alarm?’

Truls heard it more clearly now through the intercom.

‘Oh, shit,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if I can switch it off with the remote.’

‘If I were you I’d get down here right away. They’d smashed a side window and were taking out the radio and CD player when I arrived. I reckon they’re hanging around to see what will happen.’

‘Oh, shit!’ Truls repeated.

‘Not at all, pleasure to be able to help,’ Aronsen said.

Truls put on his trainers, checked he had his car keys and then a thought struck him. He went back to the bedroom, opened the cabinet door and took out one of the guns, a Jericho 941, shoved it into the waistband of his trousers. Stopped. He knew the plasma TV was prone to screen burn if it was paused for too long. But he’d be back shortly. Then he hurried into the corridor. Just as quiet here.

The lift was on his floor, so he stepped in straight away, pressed the button for the ground floor, realised he hadn’t locked his front door, but didn’t stop the lift. It would only take a few minutes.

Half a minute later he jogged into the clear, chilly evening towards the car park. It was surrounded by flats, but the cars were still frequently broken into. They should put up more lamp posts, the black tarmac swallowed all the light there was; it was too easy to sneak around between the cars after dark. He’d had problems sleeping after the suspension, that’s how it goes when you have the whole day to sleep, wank, sleep, wank, eat and wank. And on some nights he had sat on the balcony with night-vision goggles and the Märklin rifle in the hope of catching some of them in the car park. Sadly, no one had turned up. Or happily. No, not happily. But for Christ’s sake, he wasn’t a murderer.

Of course there was the biker from Los Lobos he had drilled a hole in, but that had been a complete accident. And now he was part of the terrace up in Høyenhall.

Then there was the trip he’d taken to Ila Prison when he’d spread the rumour that Valentin Gjertsen was behind the killings in Maridalen and Tryvann. Not that they were a hundred per cent sure he’d done it, but if he hadn’t there were enough other reasons for the bastard to get as long a sentence as possible. But he couldn’t know the nutters would kill the guy. If it was him they’d killed, that is. The communication on the police radio at the moment suggested not.

The closest Truls had been to murder was of course the lady boy with the make-up in Drammen. But that was something that had to be done, he’d been asking for it. He really fucking had. Mikael had come to Truls and told him about the call he’d received. Some guy claimed he knew that Mikael and a colleague had beaten up the homo working at Kripos. And he had proof. And now he wanted money to stop him taking it further. A hundred thousand kroner. He wanted the money delivered to a deserted area outside Drammen. Mikael told Truls to sort it out, Truls was the one who had gone too far this time, who had caused the problem. And when Truls got in his car to go and meet the guy he knew he was on his own. Completely on his own. And he always had been.

He had followed the signs up some deserted forest roads outside Drammen and stopped at a turnaround by a cliff plummeting down towards the river. Waited for five minutes. Then the car had arrived. It pulled up, with the engine running. And Truls had done as agreed, taken the brown envelope to the car. The side window slid down. The guy was wearing a woollen hat and had a silk scarf tied around the lower half of his face. Truls wondered if the guy was a retard; it was unlikely the car had been stolen, and the plates were fully visible. In addition, Mikael had already traced the conversation to a club in Drammen. There couldn’t be many employees so it wouldn’t be hard to track him down.

The guy had opened the envelope and counted the money. Obviously he had lost count. He started again, frowned and looked up with annoyance. ‘This isn’t a hund-’

The blow had hit him in the mouth, and Truls had felt the baton sink in as his teeth cracked. The second blow had smashed his nose. Easy. Cartilage and thin bones. The third made a soft crunch as it hit the forehead.

Then Truls had walked round and got into the passenger seat. Waited until the guy regained consciousness. And when he did, a short conversation followed.

‘Who. .?’

‘One of them. What proof have you got?’

‘I. . I. .’

‘This is a Heckler amp; Koch and it’s dying to speak. So which of you is going to do it first?’

‘Don’t-’

‘Come on then.’

‘The one you two beat up. He told me. Please, I only needed-’

‘Did he name us?’

‘What? No.’

‘So how do you know who we are?’

‘He only told me the story. Then I checked out the descriptions with someone at Kripos. And it had to be you two.’ When the guy saw his face in the mirror it had sounded like the whine a Hoover makes after you switch it off. ‘My God! You’ve destroyed my face!’

‘Shut up and sit still. Does the man you say we beat up know you’re blackmailing us?’

‘Him? No, no, he’d never-’

‘Are you his lover?’

‘No! He might think so, but-’

‘Anyone else know?’

‘No! I promise! Just let me go. I promise not to-’

‘So no one else knows you’re here now.’

Truls enjoyed the sight of the guy’s gawping expression as the implication of what Truls had said laboriously trickled through to his brain. ‘Yes, yes, they do! Lots of people do-’

‘You’re not that bad at lying,’ Truls said, putting the barrel to the man’s forehead. The gun had felt surprisingly light. ‘But not that good, either.’

Then Truls had pulled the trigger. It hadn’t been a difficult decision. Because there had been no choice. It was just something that had to be done. Sheer survival instinct. The guy had something on them, which sooner or later he would find a way to use. That was the way hyenas like him ticked. Cowardly and subservient face to face, but greedy and patient. They would allow themselves to be humiliated, to be cowed, and wait, but attack as soon as you turned your back.

Afterwards he had wiped the seat and wherever he had left fingerprints, wrapped a scarf around his hand as he released the handbrake and put the car into neutral. Rolled it over the cliff. Listened to the eerie silence as the vehicle fell. Followed by a dull report and the sound of metal buckling. Looked down at the car lying in the river beneath him.

He had got rid of the baton as quickly and efficiently as possible. Quite a way down the forest road he had opened the window and slung it through the trees. It was unlikely to be found, but if it was, there still wouldn’t be any fingerprints or DNA to link it to the murder or him.

The gun was a different matter; the bullet could be linked to the gun and so to him.

Thus he had waited until he drove over Drammen Bridge. He had driven slowly and watched the gun fly over the railing and down to where the river meets the fjord. A place where it would never be found, under ten or twenty metres of water. Brackish water. Dubious water. Neither completely salt water nor completely fresh water. Neither completely wrong nor completely right. Death in marginal areas. But he had read somewhere that there were species which specialised in surviving in these hybrid waters. Species that were so perverted they couldn’t cope with the water normal life forms had to have.

Truls pressed the remote before he reached the car park, and the alarm was silenced right away. There was no one to be seen outside or on the balconies surrounding him, but Truls thought he could detect a collective sigh from the blocks: about bloody time too, pay more attention to your car, you could have set the length of the alarm, you muppet.

A side window was smashed in, that was true. Truls stuck his head in. He couldn’t see any sign of anyone having tampered with the radio. What had Aronsen meant by. . and who was Aronsen? C block, could be anyone. Anyone at all. .

Truls’s brain had come to a conclusion a fragment of a second before he felt the steel on his neck. He instinctively knew it was steel. The steel of a gun barrel. He knew there was no Aronsen. No gang of youths breaking in.

The voice whispered by his ear:

‘Don’t turn, Berntsen. And when I put my hand in your trousers, don’t move. Well, well, feel that. Nice tight abs. .’

Truls knew he was in danger, he just didn’t understand what kind. There was something familiar about Aronsen’s voice.

‘Oooh, bit sweaty, eh, Berntsen? Or do you like it? But this is what I was after. Jericho? What were you going to do with this? Shoot someone in the face? Like you did to René?’

And now Truls Berntsen knew what kind of danger.

Mortal danger.