Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (134 page)

The cocaine.

He had forgotten to wipe down the card after chopping up the last line. That had to be it.

But it was only a few grains, which he could easily explain away by saying he had lent his ID card to someone at a party. That wasn’t his biggest problem now. The bag. It would be searched. As a pilot he had trained and practised emergency procedures so often it was almost automatic. That was the intention, of course, even when panic seized you this was what you would do, this brain kicked in for lack of other orders: the emergency procedures. How many times had he visualised this situation: the customs officials asking him to go with them? Thinking what he would do? Practising it in his mind? He turned to the flight attendant with a resigned smile, caught sight of her name tag. ‘I’ve been picked out, it seems, Kristin. Could you take my bag?’

‘The bag comes with us,’ the official said.

Tord Schultz turned back. ‘I thought you said the dog picked me out, not the bag.’

‘That’s true, but—’

‘There are flight documents inside which the crew needs to check. Unless you want to take responsibility for delaying a full Airbus 340 to Bangkok.’ He noticed that he – quite literally – had puffed himself up, filled his lungs and expanded his chest muscles in his captain’s jacket. ‘If we miss our slot that could mean a delay of several hours and a loss of hundreds of thousands of kroner for the airline.’

‘I’m afraid rules—’

‘Three hundred and forty-two passengers,’ Schultz interrupted. ‘Many of them children.’ He hoped she heard a captain’s grave concern, not the incipient panic of a dope smuggler.

The official patted the dog on the head and looked at him.

She looks like a housewife, he thought. A woman with children and responsibility. A woman who should understand his predicament.

‘The bag comes with us,’ she said.

Another official appeared in the background. Stood there, legs apart, arms crossed.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ Tord sighed.

The head of Oslo’s Crime Squad, Gunnar Hagen, leaned back in his swivel chair and studied the man in the linen suit. It was three years since the sewn-up gash in his face had been blood red and he had looked like a man on his last legs. But now his ex-subordinate looked healthy, had put on a few sorely needed kilos, and his shoulders filled out the suit. Suit. Hagen remembered the murder investigator in jeans and boots, never anything else. The other difference was the sticker on his lapel saying he was not staff but a visitor: HARRY HOLE.

But the posture in the chair was the same, more horizontal than sitting.

‘You look better,’ Hagen said.

‘Your town does too,’ Harry said with an unlit cigarette bobbing between his teeth.

‘You think so?’

‘Wonderful opera house. Fewer junkies in the streets.’

Hagen got up and went to the window. From the sixth floor of Police HQ he could see Oslo’s new district, Bjørvika, bathed in sunshine. The clean-up was in full flow. The demolition work over.

‘There’s been a marked fall in the number of fatal ODs in the last year.’

‘Prices have gone up, consumption down. And the City Council got what it craved. Oslo no longer tops OD stats in Europe.’

‘Happy days are here again.’ Harry put his hands behind his head and looked as if he was going to slide out of the chair.

Hagen sighed. ‘You didn’t say what brings you to Oslo, Harry.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘No. Or, more specifically, to Crime Squad.’

‘Isn’t it normal to visit former colleagues?’

‘Yes, for other, normal, sociable people, it is.’

‘Well.’ Harry bit into the filter of the Camel cigarette. ‘My occupation is murder.’

‘Was murder, don’t you mean?’

‘Let me reformulate that: my profession, my area of expertise, is murder. And it’s still the only field I know something about.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘To practise my occupation. To investigate murders.’

Hagen arched an eyebrow. ‘You’d like to work for me again?’

‘Why not? Unless I’m very much mistaken I was one of the best.’

‘Correction,’ Hagen said, turning back to the window. ‘You were
the
best.’ And repeated in a lower tone: ‘The best and the worst.’

‘I fancy one of the narco murders.’

Hagen gave a dry smile. ‘Which one? We’ve had four in the last six months. We haven’t made an ounce of headway with any of them.’

‘Gusto Hanssen.’

Hagen didn’t answer, continued to study the people sprawled over the grass. And the thoughts came unforced. Benefit cheats. Thieves. Terrorists. Why did he see that instead of hard-working employees enjoying a few
well-earned hours in the September sunshine? The police look. The police blindness. He half listened to Harry’s voice behind him.

‘Gusto Hanssen, nineteen years old. Known to police, pushers and users. Found dead in a flat in Hausmanns gate on 12 July. Bled to death after a shot to the chest.’

Hagen burst out laughing. ‘Why do you want the only one that’s cleared up?’

‘I think you know.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Hagen sighed. ‘But if I were to employ you again I would put you on one of the others. On the undercover cop case.’

‘I want this one.’

‘There are, in round figures, about a hundred reasons why you will never be put on that case, Harry.’

‘Which are?’

Hagen turned to Harry. ‘Perhaps it’s enough to mention the first. The case has already been solved.’

‘And beyond that?’

‘We don’t have the case. Kripos does. I don’t have any vacancies. Quite the opposite, I’m trying to make cuts. You’re not eligible. Should I go on?’

‘Mm. Where is he?’

Hagen pointed out of the window. Across the lawn to the grey-stone building behind the yellow leaves of the linden trees.

‘Botsen,’ Harry said. ‘On remand.’

‘For the moment.’

‘Visits out of bounds?’

‘Who traced you in Hong Kong and told you about the case? Was it—?’

‘No,’ Harry interrupted.

‘So?’

‘So.’

‘Who?’

‘I might have read about it on the Net.’

‘Hardly,’ Hagen said with a thin smile and lifeless eyes. ‘The case was in the papers for one day before it was forgotten. And there were no names.
Only an article about a drugged-up junkie who had shot another junkie over dope. Nothing of any interest for anyone. Nothing to make the case stand out.’

‘Apart from the fact that the two junkies were teenage boys,’ Harry said. ‘Nineteen years old. And eighteen.’ His voice had changed timbre.

Hagen shrugged. ‘Old enough to kill, old enough to die. In the new year they would have been called up for military service.’

‘Could you fix up a chat for me?’

‘Who told you, Harry?’

Harry rubbed his chin. ‘Friend in Krimteknisk.’

Hagen smiled. And this time the smile reached his eyes. ‘You’re so damned kind, Harry. To my knowledge, you have three friends in the police force. Among them Bjørn Holm in Krimteknisk. And Beate Lønn in Krimteknisk. So which one was it?’

‘Beate. Will you fix me up with a visit?’

Hagen sat on the edge of his desk and observed Harry. Looked down at the telephone.

‘On one condition, Harry. You promise to keep miles away from this case. It’s all sunshine and roses between us and Kripos now, and I could do without any more trouble with them.’

Harry grimaced. He had sunk so low in the chair now he could study his belt buckle. ‘So you and the Kripos king have become bosom pals?’

‘Mikael Bellman stopped working for Kripos,’ Hagen said. ‘Hence, sunshine and roses.’

‘Got rid of the psychopath? Happy days …’

‘On the contrary.’ Hagen’s laugh was hollow. ‘Bellman is more present than ever. He’s in this building.’

‘Oh shit. Here in Crime Squad?’

‘God forbid. He’s been running Orgkrim for more than a year.’

‘You’ve got new wombos, I can hear.’

‘Organised crime. They merged a load of the old sections. Burglary, trafficking, narc. It’s all Orgkrim now. More than two hundred employees, biggest unit in the Crime Department.’

‘Mm. More than he had in Kripos.’

‘Yet his salary went down. And you know what that means when people take lower paid jobs?’

‘They’re after more power,’ Harry said.

‘He was the one who got the drugs market under control, Harry. Good undercover work. Arrests and raids. There are fewer gangs and there’s no in-fighting now. OD figures are, as I said, on the way down …’ Hagen pointed a finger at the ceiling. ‘And Bellman’s on the way up. The boy’s going places, Harry.’

‘Me too,’ Harry said, rising to his feet. ‘To Botsen. I’m counting on there being a visitor’s permit in reception by the time I arrive.’

‘If we’ve got a deal?’

‘Course we have,’ Harry said, grabbing his ex-boss’s outstretched hand. He pumped it twice and made for the door. Hong Kong had been a good school for lying. He heard Hagen lift the telephone receiver, but as he reached the threshold he turned nonetheless.

‘Who’s the third?’

‘What?’ Hagen was looking down at the keypad while tapping with a heavy finger.

‘The third friend I have in the force?’

Unit Head Gunnar Hagen put the receiver to his ear, sent Harry a weary look and said with a sigh: ‘Who do you think?’ And: ‘Hello? Hagen here. I’d like a visitor’s permit … Yes?’ Hagen laid a hand over the receiver. ‘No problem. They’re eating now, but get there for around twelve.’

Harry smiled, mouthed a thank-you and closed the door quietly after him.

Tord Schultz stood in the booth, buttoning up his trousers and putting on his jacket. They had stopped short of examining orifices. The customs official – the one who had stopped him – was waiting outside. Standing there like an external examiner after a viva.

‘Thank you for being so cooperative,’ she said, indicating the exit.

Tord guessed they’d had long discussions about whether they would
say ‘we’re sorry’ whenever a sniffer dog had identified someone, but no dope was found. The individual stopped, delayed, suspected and shamed would undoubtedly consider an apology appropriate. But should you complain about someone doing their job? Dogs identified innocent people all the time, and a complaint would be a partial admission that there was a flaw in the procedure, a failure in the system. On the other hand, they could see by his stripes that he was a captain. Not a three-striper, not one of the failed fifty-year-olds who had stayed in the right-hand seat as a first officer because they had messed up their career. No, he had four stripes, which showed that he had order, control; he was a man who was a master of the situation and his own life. Showed that he belonged to the airport’s Brahmin caste. A captain was a person who ought to welcome a complaint from a customs official, whether it was appropriate or not.

‘Not at all, it’s good to know someone is on the mark,’ Tord said, looking for his bag. In the worst-case scenario they had searched it; the dog hadn’t detected anything there. And the metal plates around the space where the package was hidden were still impenetrable for existing X-rays.

‘It’ll be here soon,’ she said.

There were a couple of seconds when they silently regarded each other.

Divorced, Tord thought.

At that moment another official appeared.

‘Your bag …’ he said.

Tord looked at him. Saw it in his eyes. Felt a lump grow in his stomach, rise, nudge his oesophagus. How? How?

‘We took out everything and weighed it,’ he said. ‘An empty twenty-six-inch’ Samsonite Aspire GRT weighs 5.8 kilos. Yours weighs 6.3. Would you mind explaining why?’

The official was too professional to smile overtly, but Tord Schultz still saw the triumph shining in his face. The official leaned forward a fraction, lowered his voice.

‘… or shall we?’

*   *   *

Harry went into the street after eating at Olympen. The old, slightly dissipated hostelry he remembered had been renovated into an expensive Oslo West version of an Oslo East place, with large paintings of the town’s old working-class district. It wasn’t that it wasn’t attractive, with the chandeliers and everything. Even the mackerel had been good. It just wasn’t … Olympen.

He lit a cigarette and crossed Bots Park between Police HQ and the prison’s old, grey walls. He passed a man putting a tatty red poster on a tree and banging a staple gun against the bark of the ancient, and protected, linden. He didn’t seem to be aware of the fact that he was committing a serious offence in full view of all the windows at the front of the building which contained the biggest collection of police officers in Norway. Harry paused for a moment. Not to stop the crime, but to see the poster. It advertised a concert with Russian Amcar Club at Sardines. Harry could remember the long-dissolved band and the derelict club. Olympen. Harry Hole. This was clearly the year for the resurrection of the dead. He was about to move on when he heard a tremulous voice behind him.

‘Got’ny violin?’

Harry turned. The man behind him was wearing a new, clean G-Star jacket. He stooped forward as though there were a strong wind at his back, and he had the unmistakable bowed heroin knees. Harry was going to reply when he realised G-Star was addressing the poster man. But he carried on walking without answering. New wombos for units, new terms for dope. Old bands, old clubs.

The facade of Oslo District Prison, Botsen in popular parlance, was built in the mid-1800s and consisted of an entrance squeezed between two larger wings, which always reminded Harry of a detainee between two policemen. He rang the bell, peered into the video camera, heard the low buzz and shoved the door open. Inside stood a uniformed prison officer, who escorted him up the stairs, through a door, past two other officers and into the rectangular, windowless Visitors’ Room. Harry had been there before. This was where the inmates met their nearest and dearest. A half-hearted attempt had been made to create a homely atmosphere. He avoided the sofa, sat
down on a chair, well aware of what went on during the few minutes the inmate was allowed to spend with a spouse or girlfriend.

He waited. Noticed he still had the Police HQ sticker on his lapel, pulled it off and put it in his pocket. The dream of the narrow corridor and the avalanche had been worse than usual last night, he had been buried and his mouth had been stuffed with snow. But that was not why his heart was beating now. Was it with expectation? Or terror?