Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (135 page)

The door opened before he had a chance to reach a conclusion.

‘Twenty minutes,’ the prison officer said, and left, slamming the door behind him.

The boy standing before him was so changed that for a second Harry had been on the point of shouting that this was the wrong person, this was not him. This boy was wearing Diesel jeans and a black hoodie advertising Machine Head, which Harry realised was not a reference to the old Deep Purple record but – having calculated the time difference – a new heavy metal band. Heavy metal was of course a clue, but the proof was the eyes and high cheekbones. To be precise: Rakel’s brown eyes and high cheekbones. It was almost a shock to see the resemblance. Granted he had not inherited his mother’s beauty – his forehead was too prominent for that, it lent the boy a bleak, almost aggressive appearance. Which was reinforced by the sleek fringe Harry had always assumed he had inherited from his father in Moscow. An alcoholic the boy had never really known properly – he was only a few years old when Rakel had brought him back to Oslo. Where later she was to meet Harry.

Rakel.

The great love of his life. As simple as that. And as complicated.

Oleg. Bright, serious Oleg. Oleg, who had been so introverted, who would not open up to anyone, apart from Harry. Harry had never told Rakel, but he knew more about what Oleg thought, felt and wanted than she did. Oleg and he playing Tetris on his Game Boy, both as keen as each other to smash the record. Oleg and he skating at Valle Hovin; the time Oleg wanted to become a long-distance runner and in fact had the talent for it. Oleg, who smiled, patient and indulgent, whenever Harry promised
that in the autumn or spring they would go to London to see Tottenham playing at White Hart Lane. Oleg, who sometimes called him Dad when it was late, he was sleepy and had lost concentration. It was years since Harry had seen him, years since Rakel had taken him from Oslo, away from the grisly reminders of the Snowman, away from Harry’s world of violence and murder.

And now he was standing there by the door, he was eighteen years old, half grown up and looking at Harry without an expression, or at least one Harry could interpret.

‘Hi,’ Harry said. Shit, he hadn’t tested his voice; it came out as a hoarse rasp. The boy would think he was on the verge of tears or something. As if to distract himself, or Oleg, Harry pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes and poked one between his lips.

He peered up and saw the flush that had spread across Oleg’s face. And the anger. The explosive anger that appeared from nowhere, darkening his eyes and making the blood vessels on his neck and forehead bulge and quiver like guitar strings.

‘Relax, I won’t light it,’ Harry said, nodding to the NO SMOKING sign on the wall.

‘It’s Mum, isn’t it?’ The voice was also older. And thick with fury.

‘What is?’

‘She’s the one who sent for you.’

‘No, she didn’t, I—’

‘Course she did.’

‘No, Oleg, in fact she doesn’t even know I’m in the country.’

‘You’re lying! You’re lying as usual!’

Harry gaped at him. ‘As usual?’

‘The way you lie that you’ll always be there for us and all that crap. But it’s too late now. So you can just go back to … Timbuktu!’

‘Oleg! Listen to me—’

‘No! I won’t listen to you. You’ve got no business here! You can’t come and play dad now, do you understand?’ Harry saw the boy swallow hard. Saw the fury ebb, only for a new wave of blackness to engulf him. ‘You’re
no one to us any more. You were someone who drifted in, hung around for a few years and then …’ Oleg made an attempt to snap his fingers, but they slipped off each other without a sound. ‘Gone.’

‘That’s not true, Oleg. And you know it.’ Harry heard his own voice, which was firm and sure now, telling him that he was as calm and secure as an aircraft carrier. But the lump in his stomach told him otherwise. He was used to being yelled at during interrogations, it made no difference to him, at best it made him even calmer and more analytical. But with this lad, with Oleg … against this he had no defence.

Oleg gave a bitter laugh. ‘Shall we see if I can do it now?’ He pressed his middle finger against his thumb. ‘Gone … there we are!’

Harry held up his palms. ‘Oleg …’

Oleg shook his head as he knocked on the door behind him, without taking his dark eyes off Harry. ‘Guard! Visit’s over. Lemme out!’

Harry remained in the chair for a few seconds after Oleg had gone.

Then he struggled to his feet and plodded out into a Bots Park bathed in sunshine.

Harry stood looking up at Police HQ. Pondering. Then he walked up to the custody block. But he stopped halfway, leaned back against a tree and pinched his eyes so hard he could feel he was squeezing out water. Bloody light. Bloody jet lag.

‘I JUST WANT TO SEE
them. I won’t take anything,’ Harry said.

The duty officer behind the counter at the custody block eyed Harry and wavered.

‘Come on, Tore, you know me.’

Nilsen cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, but are you working here again, Harry?’

Harry shrugged.

Nilsen tilted his head and lowered his eyelids until his pupils were only half visible. As though he were filtering the optical impression. Filtering out what was unimportant. And what was left evidently fell in Harry’s favour.

Nilsen released a heavy sigh, disappeared and returned with a drawer. As Harry had assumed, the items found on Oleg when he was arrested were held there. Only when it was decided prisoners would be on remand for longer than a couple of days were they moved down to Botsen, but personal effects weren’t always transferred.

Harry studied the contents. Coins. A ring with two keys, a skull and a Slayer badge. A Swiss army knife with one blade and the rest screwdrivers and Allen keys. A throwaway lighter. And one more object.

It shook Harry, even though he already knew. The newspapers had called it ‘a drugs showdown’.

It was a disposable syringe, still in its plastic wrapper.

‘Is that all?’ Harry asked, taking the key ring. He held it under the counter as he scrutinised the keys. Nilsen clearly did not like Harry holding anything out of his sight and leaned over.

‘No wallet?’ Harry asked. ‘No bank card or ID?’

‘Doesn’t seem so.’

‘Could you check the contents list for me?’

Nilsen picked up the folded list at the bottom of the drawer, fiddled around with his glasses and looked at the sheet. ‘There was a mobile phone, but they took it. Probably wanted to see if he had rung the victim.’

‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘Anything else?’

‘What else should there be?’ Nilsen said, skimming the sheet. And concluded he had checked everything. ‘Nope.’

‘Thanks, that was all. Thanks for your help, Nilsen.’

Nilsen nodded slowly. Still wearing his glasses. ‘Keys.’

‘Yes, right.’ Harry put them back in the drawer. Watched Nilsen making sure there were still two.

Harry left, crossed the car park and went into Åkebergveien. Continued down to Tøyen and Urtegata. Little Karachi. Small greengrocers, hijabs and old men on plastic chairs outside their cafes. And to the Watchtower, the Salvation Army cafe for the town’s down-and-outs. Harry knew that on days like today it would be quiet, but as soon as winter and the cold came they would be flocking round the tables. Coffee and freshly made sandwiches. A set of clean clothes, the previous year’s fashion, blue trainers from the army surplus store. In the sickroom on the first floor: attend to the latest wounds from the narcotic battlefields or – if the situation was dire – a vitamin B injection. Harry considered for a moment whether to drop in on Martine. Perhaps she was still working there. A poet had once written that after the great love there were minor ones. She had been one of the minor ones. But that was not the reason. Oslo was not big, and the heavy users gathered either here or at the Mission Cafe in Skippergata. It was not improbable that she had known Gusto Hanssen. And Oleg.

However, Harry decided to take things in the right order, and started
to walk again. Passed the Akerselva. He looked down from the bridge. The brown water Harry remembered from his childhood was as pure as a mountain stream. It was said you could catch trout in it now. There they were, on the paths either side of the river: the dope dealers. Everything was new. Everything was the same.

He went up Hausmanns gate. Passed Jakobskirke. Followed the house numbers. A sign for the Theatre of Cruelty. A graffiti-covered door with a smiley. A burnt-down house, open, cleared. And there it was. A typical Oslo tenement building, built in the 1800s, pale, sober, four storeys. Harry pushed the front door, which opened. Not locked. It led straight to the stairway. Which smelt of piss and refuse.

Harry noted the coded tagging on the way up the floors. Loose banisters. Doors bearing the scars of smashed locks with newer, stronger and additional ones in place. On the second floor he stopped and knew he had found the crime scene. Orange-and-white tape criss-crossing the door.

He put his hand into his pocket and took out the two keys he had removed from Oleg’s key ring while Nilsen was reading the checklist. Harry wasn’t sure which of his own keys he had used to replace them, but Hong Kong was not, after all, the hardest place to have new ones made.

One key was an Abus, which Harry knew was a padlock since he had once bought one himself. But the other was a Ving. He inserted it in the lock. It went half in, then stopped. He pushed harder. Tried twisting.

‘Shit.’

He took out his mobile phone. Her number was listed in his contacts as B. As there were only eight names stored, one letter was enough.

‘Lønn.’

What Harry liked best about Beate Lønn, apart from the fact that she was one of the two best forensics officers he had worked with, was that she always reduced information to the basics, and that – like Harry – she never weighed a case down with superfluous words.

‘Hi, Beate. I’m in Hausmanns gate.’

‘The crime scene? What are you doing …?’

‘I can’t get in. Have you got the key?’

‘Have I got the key?’

‘You’re in charge of the whole shebang up there, aren’t you?’

‘Course I’ve got the key. But I’ve no intention of giving it to you.’

‘Course not. But there are a couple of things you’ve got to double-check at the crime scene, aren’t there? I remember something about a guru saying that in murder cases a forensics officer can never be thorough enough.’

‘So you remember that, do you.’

‘It was the first thing she said to all her trainees. I suppose I can join you and see how you work.’

‘Harry …’

‘I won’t touch anything.’

Silence. Harry knew he was exploiting her. She was more than a colleague, she was a friend, but most important of all: she was herself a mother.

She sighed. ‘Give me twenty.’

Saying ‘minutes’ for her was superfluous.

Saying thank you for him was superfluous. So Harry rang off.

Officer Truls Berntsen walked slowly through the corridors of Orgkrim. Because it was his experience that the slower his steps the faster time went. And if there was anything he had enough of it was time. Awaiting him in the office was a worn chair and a small desk with a pile of reports that were there mostly for appearances’ sake. A computer he used mostly for surfing, but even that had become boring after there had been a crackdown on which websites they could visit. And since he worked with narc and not sexual offences he could soon find himself having to give an explanation. Officer Berntsen carried the brimful cup of coffee through the door to the desk. Paid attention not to spill it on the brochure for the new Audi Q5. 218 horsepower. SUV, but not a Paki car. Bandit car. Left the Volvo V70 patrol car standing. A car that showed you were someone. Showed her, she of the new house in Høyenhall, that you were someone. Not a nobody.

Keeping the status quo. That was the focus now. We’ve achieved definite
gains, Mikael had said at the general meeting on Monday. Which meant: make sure no one new gets their oar in. ‘We can always wish there were even fewer narcotics on the streets. But having achieved so much in such a short time there is always the danger of a relapse. Remember Hitler and Moscow. We shouldn’t bite off more than we can chew.’

Officer Berntsen knew in rough terms what that meant. Long days with your feet on the desk.

Sometimes he longed to be back at Kripos. Murder was not like narc, it wasn’t politics, it was just solving a case, period. But Mikael Bellman himself had insisted Truls should accompany him from Bryn to Police HQ, said he needed allies down there in enemy territory, someone he could trust, someone who could cover his flank if he was attacked. Said it without saying it: the way Mikael had covered Truls’s flank. As in the recent case of the boy on remand with whom Truls had been a bit heavy-handed and who, so terribly unfortunate, had received an injury to the face. Mikael had given Truls a bollocking, of course, said he hated police violence, didn’t want to see it in his department, said that now, alas, it was his responsibility as boss to report Truls to the police lawyer, then she would assess whether it should go further to the Special Unit. But the boy’s eyesight had returned to almost normal, Mikael had dealt with the boy’s solicitor, the charge of possessing drugs had been dropped, and nothing happened after that.

The same as nothing happened here.

Long days with feet on the desk.

And that was where Truls was about to put them – as he did at least ten times a day – when he looked out onto Bots Park and the old linden tree in the middle of the avenue leading up to the prison.

It had been put up.

The red poster.

He felt his skin tingle, his pulse rise. And his mood.

In a flash he was up, his jacket was on and his coffee abandoned.

Gamlebyen Church was a brisk eight-minute walk from Police HQ. Truls Berntsen walked down Oslo gate to Minne Park, left over Dyvekes Bridge
and he was in the heart of Oslo, where the town had originated. The church was unadorned to the point of appearing poor, without any of the trite ornaments on the new Romantic church by Police HQ. But Gamlebyen Church had a more exciting history. At least if half of what his grandmother had told him during his childhood in Manglerud was true. The Berntsen family had moved from a dilapidated city-centre block to the satellite town of Manglerud when it was constructed at the end of the 1950s. But, strangely enough, it was them – the genuine Oslo family with Berntsen workers spanning three generations – who felt like immigrants. For most people in the satellite towns were farmers or people who came to town from far away to create a new life. And when Truls’s father got drunk in the seventies and the eighties and sat in their flat shouting at everyone and everything, Truls fled to his best – and only – friend, Mikael. Or down to his grandmother in Gamlebyen. She had told him that Gamlebyen Church had been built on top of a monastery from the 1200s, in which the monks had locked themselves away from the Black Death to pray, though folk said it was to escape their Christian duty to tend the contagion carriers. When, after eight months without a sign of life, the Chancellor broke down the doors of the monastery, rats were feasting on the monks’ rotting bodies.