Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (149 page)

‘This one will fit on your back better,’ the tattooist said, pointing to one of the drawings.

‘
Tupoy
,’ Sergey muttered. Idiot.

‘Eh?’

‘Everything has to be exactly the same as the drawing. Do I have to tell you every time?’

‘Yeah, well, I can’t do it all today.’

‘Yes, you can, do it all. Double pay.’

‘Urgent, is it?’

Sergey responded with a brief nod. Andrey had rung him every day, kept him up to date. So when he had called today, Sergey had not been prepared. Prepared for what Andrey had to say.

The necessary had become necessary.

And Sergey had known there was no way out.

He had immediately brought himself up short: no way out? Who wanted out?

Perhaps he’d thought of escape because Andrey had warned him. Told him that the policeman had managed to disarm an inmate they had paid to kill Oleg Fauke. Fair enough, the inmate was only a Norwegian and hadn’t killed anyone with a knife before, but it meant that this wasn’t going to be as easy as the last time. Shooting their dope seller, the boy, had been a simple execution. This time he would have to sneak up on the policeman, wait till he had him where he wanted and take him when he least expected it.

‘I don’t want to be a killjoy but the tattoos you’ve already got are not exactly quality workmanship. The lines are unclear, and the ink’s poor. Shouldn’t we freshen them up a little?’

Sergey didn’t answer. What did the guy know about quality workmanship? The lines were unclear because the tattooist in prison had to use a sharpened
guitar string attached to an electric shaver as a needle, and the ink was made from melted shoe sole mixed with urine.

‘Drawing,’ Sergey said, pointing. ‘Now!’

‘And you’re sure you want a pistol? It’s your choice, but my experience is that people are shocked by violent symbols. Just so you’re warned.’

The guy clearly knew nothing about Russian criminals’ tattoos. Didn’t know that the cat meant he had been convicted for stealing, the church with two cupolas meant he had two convictions. Didn’t know that the burn marks on his chest were from a magnesium powder dressing he had held directly on his skin to remove a tattoo. The tattoo had been of female genitals and had been given to him while he had been doing a second stint in prison by members of the Georgian Black Corn gang who thought he owed them money after a card game.

Nor did the tattooist know that the pistol in the drawing, a Makarov, the Russian police’s service weapon, denoted that he, Sergey Ivanov, had killed a policeman.

He knew nothing, and that was fine, it was best for everyone if he stuck to tattooing butterflies, Chinese symbols and colourful dragons on well-fed Norwegian youths who thought their catalogue tattoos were a statement about something.

‘Shall we begin then?’ the tattooist asked.

Sergey hesitated. The tattooist had been right, this was urgent. But why was it so urgent, why couldn’t he wait until the policeman was dead? Because if he was caught after the murder and sent to a Norwegian prison, where unlike in Russia there were no tattooists, he wouldn’t be able to get the bloody tattoo he needed.

But there was another answer to the question as well.

Was he getting the tattoo before the murder because, deep down, he was afraid? So afraid he was not sure he would be able to go through with it? That was why he had to have the tattoo now, to burn all the bridges behind him, remove all possibilities of a retreat so that he
had
to carry out the murder? No Siberian urka can live with a lie carved into his skin, that goes without saying. And he had been happy, he
knew
that
he had been happy, so what were these thoughts, where did they come from?

He knew where they came from.

The dope seller. The boy with the Arsenal shirt.

He had started to appear in his dreams.

‘Yes, let’s begin,’ Sergey said.

‘THE DOCTOR RECKONS
OLEG WILL
be on his feet again within a few days,’ Rakel said. She was leaning against the fridge holding a cup of tea.

‘Then he’ll have to be moved to somewhere absolutely no one can get their hands on him,’ Harry said.

He was standing by her kitchen window and looking down on the town, where the cars of the afternoon rush hour were crawling like glow-worms along the main roads.

‘The police must have such places for witness protection,’ she said.

Rakel had not become hysterical. She had taken the news of the knife attack on Oleg with a kind of resigned composure. As though it was something she had been half expecting. At the same time Harry could see the indignation on her face. Her fight face.

‘He has to be in a prison, but I’ll talk to the public prosecutor about a move,’ Hans Christian Simonsen said. He had come as soon as Rakel had rung, and he sat at the kitchen table with circles of sweat under the arms of his shirt.

‘See if you can circumvent official channels,’ Harry said.

‘What do you mean?’ the solicitor asked.

‘The doors were unlocked, so at least one of the prison guards must
have been in on this. As long as we’re in the dark about who was involved, we have to assume that everyone could have been.’

‘Aren’t you being a touch paranoid now?’

‘Paranoia saves lives,’ Harry said. ‘Can you fix that, Simonsen?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. What about where he is now?’

‘He’s in Ullevål Hospital, and I’ve made sure there are two officers I trust looking after him. One more thing: Oleg’s attacker is in hospital, but he will end up with restricted rights afterwards.’

‘No post or visitors?’ Simonsen asked.

‘Yep. Can you make sure we find out what he says in his statement to the police or his solicitor?’

‘That’s trickier.’ Simonsen scratched his head.

‘They probably won’t get a word out of him, but try anyway,’ Harry said, buttoning his coat.

‘Where are you going?’ Rakel asked, holding his arm.

‘To the source,’ Harry said.

It was eight o’clock in the evening, and the traffic in the capital of the country with the world’s shortest working day had eased long ago. The boy standing on the steps at the bottom of Tollbugata was wearing shirt number 23. Arshavin. He had his hoodie drawn over his head and wore a pair of oversized white Air Jordan trainers. The Girbaud jeans were ironed and so stiff they could almost stand up by themselves. Full gangsta gear, everything was copied down to the last detail from the latest Rick Ross video, and Harry assumed that when the trousers slipped down the right boxer shorts would be revealed, no scars from knives or bullets, but at least one violence-glorifying tattoo.

Harry walked over to him.

‘Violin, a quarter.’

The boy looked down at Harry without taking his hands from the pockets of his zip hoodie and nodded.

‘Well?’ Harry said.

‘You’ll have to wait,
boraz
.’ The boy spoke with a Pakistani accent which
Harry presumed he dropped when he was eating his mother’s meatballs in their one hundred per cent Norwegian home.

‘I haven’t got time to wait for you to get a group together.’

‘Chillax, it’ll be quick.’

‘I’ll pay you a hundred more.’

The boy measured Harry with his eyes. And Harry knew roughly what he was thinking: an ugly businessman in a weird suit, regulated consumption, scared to death that colleagues and family will chance by. A man asking to be screwed.

‘Six hundred,’ the boy said.

Harry sighed and nodded.

‘Idra,’ the boy said and began to walk.

Harry presumed the word meant he had to follow.

They rounded the corner and went through an open gate into a backyard. The dope man was black, probably a North African, and he was leaning against a stack of wooden pallets. His head was bobbing up and down to the beat of the music from an iPod. One earplug hung down by his side.

‘Quarter,’ said Rick Ross in the Arsenal shirt.

The dope man took something from a deep pocket and passed it to Harry palm down so that it couldn’t be seen. Harry looked at the bag he’d been given. The powder was white, but with tiny, dark flecks.

‘I have a question,’ Harry said, putting the bag into his jacket pocket.

The other two braced themselves, and Harry saw the dope man’s hand move behind his back. He guessed he had a small-calibre pistol in his trouser waistband.

‘Either of you seen this girl?’ He held up the photo of the Hanssen family.

They peered and shook their heads.

‘I’ve got five thousand for anyone who can give me a lead, a rumour, anything.’

They looked at each other. Harry waited. Then they shrugged and turned back to Harry. Perhaps they allowed the question because they had
experienced this before, a father searching for his daughter in Oslo’s junkie community. Nonetheless, they lacked the requisite cynicism or imagination to invent a story to cash in on a reward.

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘But say hello to Dubai for me and tell him I have some information that may be of interest. Concerning Oleg. Say he can come to Hotel Leon and ask for Harry.’

The next moment it was out. And Harry was right, it looked like a Cheetah-series Beretta. Nine millimetre. Snub-nosed, nasty piece of work.

‘Are you
baosj
?’

Kebab Norwegian. Police.

‘No,’ Harry said, trying to swallow the nausea that always rose whenever he looked down the muzzle of a gun.

‘You’re lying. You don’t shoot violin, you’re an undercover cop.’

‘I’m not lying.’

The dope man nodded to Rick Ross, who went to Harry and pulled up the sleeve of his jacket. Harry tried to take his eyes off the gun. There was a low whistle. ‘Looks like Norskie here shoots up after all,’ Rick Ross said.

Harry had used a standard sewing needle, which he’d held over a lighter flame. He’d made deep incisions and wriggled it around in four or five places on his forearm and rubbed ammonium soap into the wounds to give them a more inflamed red colour. Finally he had perforated the vein on his elbow so that blood appeared under the skin and created some impressive bruises.

‘I think he’s lying anyway,’ the dope man said, moving his legs apart and grabbing the stock of the gun with both hands.

‘Why? Look, he’s got a syringe and aluminium foil in his pocket as well.’

‘He’s not frightened.’

‘What the fuck do you mean? Look at the guy!’

‘He’s not frightened enough. Hey,
baosj
, show us a syringe now.’

‘Have you gone schitz, Rage?’

‘Shut up!’

‘Chillax. Why so angry?’

‘Don’t think Rage liked you using his name,’ Harry said.

‘You shut up too! A shot! And use your own bag.’

Harry had never melted or injected before, at least not when sober, but he had used opium and knew what was involved: melting the substance into a fluid form and drawing it into a syringe. How difficult could that be? He crouched down, poured powder into the foil, some fell to the ground and he licked his finger, dabbed it up and rubbed it into his gums, tried to seem keen. It tasted bitter like other powders he had tested as a policeman. But there was another taste as well. An almost imperceptible tang of ammonium. No, not ammonium. He remembered now, the tang reminded him of the smell of overripe papaya. He flicked the lighter, hoping they attributed his slight clumsiness to the fact that he was working with a gun to his head.

Two minutes later he had the syringe charged and ready.

Rick Ross had regained his gangsta coolness. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and was posing with legs wide, arms crossed and head tipped back.

‘Shoot,’ he commanded. He twitched and held up a defensive palm. ‘Not you, Rage!’

Harry looked at the two of them. Rick Ross had no marks on his bare forearms, and Rage looked a bit too alert. Harry pumped his left fist up towards his shoulder twice, flicked his forearm and inserted the needle at the prescribed thirty-degree angle. And hoped it looked professional to someone who did not inject himself.

‘Ahh,’ Harry groaned.

Professional enough for them not to think about how far the needle penetrated a vein or just the flesh.

He rolled his eyes and his knees gave way.

Professional enough for them to fall for a faked orgasm.

‘Don’t forget to tell Dubai,’ he whispered.

Then he staggered to the street and swayed westwards towards the Royal Palace.

Only in Dronningens gate did he straighten up.

In Prinsens gate he got the delayed effect. Caused by those parts of the
drug that had found blood, that had reached the brain via the roundabout routes of capillaries. It was like a distant echo of the rush from a needle straight into an artery. Yet Harry felt his eyes filling with tears. It was like being reunited with a lover you thought you would never see again. His ears filled, not with heavenly music, but heavenly light. And all at once he knew why they called it violin.

It was ten o’clock at night, and the lights were out in the Orgkrim offices, and the corridors were empty. But in Truls Berntsen’s office the computer screen cast a blue light on the policeman sitting with his feet on the desk. He had put fifteen hundred on Man City to win and was about to lose it. But now they had a free kick. Eighteen metres and Tévez.

He heard the door open, and his right index finger automatically hit the escape button. But it was too late.

‘Hope it’s not my budget paying for streaming.’

Mikael Bellman took a seat on the only other chair. Truls had noticed that as Bellman had risen through the ranks he had changed the pronunciation they had grown up with in Manglerud. It was only when he talked to Truls that he sometimes went back to their roots.

‘Have you read the paper?’

Truls nodded. Since there had been nothing else to read he had kept going after the crime and sport pages were finished. He had seen a good deal about the council secretary Isabelle Skøyen. She had begun to be photographed at premieres and social events after
Verdens Gang
had run a profile that summer of her entitled ‘The Street Sweeper’. She had been credited as the architect behind the clean-up of Oslo’s streets, at the same time launching herself as a national politician. At any rate her steering committee had made progress. Truls thought he had noticed her neckline plunging in step with opposition support, and her smile in the photographs was soon as broad as her backside.