Nemesis (21 page)

‘Astrid Monsen said she had never seen Vigdis Albu and the children in the photo. But when I showed her the newspaper photo of her husband, Arne Albu, she didn’t need a second glance. She didn’t know his name, but he visited Anna regularly. She had seen him when she went down to pick up her post. He came in the afternoon and left in the evening.’

‘That’s what’s called working late.’

‘I asked Monsen if the two of them only met during the week and she said he sometimes collected her in his car at the weekend.’

‘Perhaps they liked a little variety and trips into the countryside.’

‘Perhaps, apart from the trip stuff. Astrid Monsen is an observant, meticulous woman. She said he never took her out during the summer. That was what made me think.’

‘Think about what? A hotel?’

‘Possibly. But you can go to a hotel in the summer, too. Think, Halvorsen. Think of something nearby.’

Halvorsen stuck out his lower lip and grimaced to show he had no suggestions to make. Harry smiled and expelled a cloud of smoke: ‘You were the one who found the place.’

Halvorsen, nonplussed, raised an eyebrow. ‘The chalet! It’s obvious!’

‘Isn’t it? A discreet, luxurious love nest when the family is home after the season and inquisitive neighbours have closed their shutters. Just an hour’s drive from Oslo.’

‘But so what?’ Halvorsen said. ‘That doesn’t take us any further.’

‘Don’t say that. If we can prove that Anna has been to the chalet, at least Albu will be forced to respond. It won’t take much. A little fingerprint. A hair. An observant tradesman who occasionally makes a delivery.’

Halvorsen rubbed the back of his neck. ‘But why not go straight to the point and look for Albu’s fingerprints in Anna’s flat? It must be full of them?’

‘I doubt they are still there. According to Astrid Monsen, he suddenly stopped seeing Anna a year ago. Until one Sunday last month. He came to pick her up in his car. Monsen remembers it clearly because Anna rang at her door and asked her to keep an ear open for burglars.’

‘And you think they went to the chalet?’

‘I think,’ Harry said, throwing the smoking cigarette end into a puddle where it hissed and died, ‘that’s one reason Anna put the photograph in her shoe. Can you remember what you learned about forensics at Police College?’

‘The little we had. Don’t you?’

‘No. There are metal cases with the basic equipment in three of the patrol cars. Powder, brush and plastic film for fingerprints. Measuring tape, torch, pliers, that sort of thing. I want you to book one of the cars for tomorrow.’

‘Harry—’

‘And call the grocer in advance to get precise directions. Try to sound honest and upright so that he doesn’t suspect anything. Say you’re building a chalet and the architect you’re working with gave Albu’s chalet as a reference point. You just want to see it.’

‘Harry, we can’t just—’

‘Bring a crowbar, too.’

‘Listen to me!’

Halvorsen’s shout caused two gulls to take off for the fjord with hoarse screams. He counted on his fingers: ‘We don’t have a warrant. We don’t have any proof which might justify one. We’ve got . . . nothing. And most important of all we – or should I say
I
? – don’t have all the facts. You haven’t told me everything, have you, Harry?’

‘What makes you think—?’

‘Simple. Your motive isn’t strong enough. Knowing the woman is not a good enough motive for suddenly disregarding all the rules, breaking into chalets and risking your job.
And
mine. I know you can be a bit nuts, Harry, but you’re no fool.’

‘Harry watched the wet dog-end floating in the puddle. ‘How long have we known each other, Halvorsen?’

‘Soon be two years.’

‘Have I ever lied to you in that time?’

‘Two years isn’t a long time.’

‘Have I ever lied? I’m asking you.’

‘Definitely.’

‘Have I ever lied about anything that
counts
?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘OK. I’m not lying to you now, either. You’re right, I haven’t told you everything. And, yes, you’re risking your job by helping me. All I can say is you would be in even more trouble if I told you the rest. As it is, you’ll have to trust me. Or back out. You can still refuse.’

They sat looking across the fjord. The gulls were two small dots in the distance.

‘What would
you
have done?’ Halvorsen said.

‘Backed out.’

The dots became bigger. The gulls were coming back.

When they returned to Police HQ there was a message from Møller on the answerphone.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said when Harry called. ‘Anywhere at all,’ Møller added when they were outside.

‘Elmer’s,’ Harry said. ‘I need some smokes.’

Møller followed Harry down a muddy track across the grass between Police HQ and the cobbled drive up to Botsen prison. Harry had observed that planners never seemed to appreciate that people will always find the quickest route between two points irrespective of where the road is. At the end of the track was a sign which had been kicked over:
DON’T WALK ON THE GRASS
.

‘Have you heard about the bank robbery in Grønlandsleiret early this morning?’ Møller asked.

Harry nodded. ‘Interesting that he chose to do it a hundred metres from the police station.’

‘Coincidentally, the bank alarm was being repaired.’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ Harry said.

‘Oh? You think it was an inside job?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Or someone knew about the repairs.’

‘Only the bank and the repairers knew. And us.’

‘It wasn’t the bank raid you wanted to talk about, was it, boss?’

‘No,’ Møller said, skipping around a puddle. ‘The Chief Superintendent has been in discussion with the Mayor. All these robberies are bothering him.’

On the path, they stopped for a woman with three children in tow. She was telling them off in an angry, drained voice, and avoided Harry’s eyes. It was visiting time at Botsen.

‘Ivarsson is efficient. No one doubts that,’ Møller said. ‘However, this Expeditor seems to be of a different calibre from what we’re used
to. The Chief Superintendent thinks that conventional methods may not be enough this time.’

‘Perhaps not, but then what? One “two” more or less is no scandal.’

‘A “two”?’

‘Away team wins. Unsolved case. Standard vernacular now, boss.’

‘There’s more at stake than that, Harry. The media have been on our backs all day, it’s been a nightmare. They’re calling him the new Martin Pedersen. And on the website of
Verdens Gang
it says they have found out we call him the Expeditor.’

‘Always the same old story,’ Harry said, crossing the road on red with a circumspect Møller at his heels. ‘The media determine what we prioritise.’

‘Well, he did murder someone after all.’

‘And murders which are no longer in the public eye are dropped.’

‘No!’ Møller snapped. ‘We’re not starting all that again.’

Harry shrugged and stepped over a newspaper stand which had been blown down. In the street a newspaper was flicking through its own pages at a furious tempo.

‘So what do you want?’

‘The Chief is, naturally enough, preoccupied with the PR side of things. An isolated bank raid is forgotten by the general public long before the case is dropped. No one notices that the man hasn’t been caught. On this occasion, however, everyone’s eyes are on us. And the more talk there is about raids of this kind, the more the public’s curiosity is aroused. Martin Pedersen was a normal person who did what many dream about; he was a modern Jesse James escaping from the law. That sort of case creates myths, heroes, and people identify with it. Hence, further recruitment for the bank-robbing industry. The number of bank raids soared right across the country while the press were writing about Martin Pedersen.’

‘You’re frightened of this spreading. Fair enough. What’s that got to do with me?’

‘As I said, no one doubts Ivarsson’s efficiency. No one doubts that. He is a correct, traditional policeman who never oversteps the line.
The Expeditor, however, is no traditional bank robber. The Chief is not happy with the results so far.’ Møller nodded towards the prison. ‘The episode with Raskol has reached his ears.’

‘Mm.’

‘I was in the Chief’s office before lunch and your name was mentioned. Several times, in fact.’

‘My God, should I feel honoured?’

‘You are, at any rate, an investigator who has achieved results using unconventional methods.’

Harry’s smile stretched into a sneer. ‘A kind definition of a kamikaze pilot . . .’

‘In a nutshell, the message is this, Harry. Drop everything else you’re doing and tell me if you need more people. Ivarsson will continue with his team, but we’re relying on you. And one more thing . . .’ Møller had stepped closer to Harry. ‘You have a free rein. We’re willing to accept that rules can be bent. In return, this must stay within the force, of course.’

‘Mm. I think I understand. And if it doesn’t?’

‘We’ll back you up as far as we’re able, but there’s a limit. That goes without saying.’

Elmer turned when the bells above the door rang and nodded towards the little portable radio he was standing in front of: ‘And there was me thinking Kandahar was a skiing club. Twenty Camel?’

Harry assented. Elmer turned down the volume of the radio and the news commentator’s voice joined the buzz of sounds outside – cars, the wind catching the awning, the leaves being swept along the tarmac.

‘Anything for your colleague?’ Elmer motioned towards the door where Møller was standing.

‘He’d like a kamikaze pilot,’ Harry said, opening the packet.

‘Really?’

‘But he’s forgotten to ask the price,’ Harry said and could sense Møller’s sweetly sardonic smile without needing to turn.

‘And what is the going rate for kamikaze pilots nowadays?’ the kiosk owner asked, handing over Harry’s change.

‘If he survives, he’s allowed to take on the jobs he wants afterwards,’ Harry said. ‘That’s the only condition he makes. And the only one he insists on.’

‘Sounds reasonable,’ Elmer says. ‘Have a good day, gentlemen.’

On the way back Møller said he would talk to the Chief Superintendent about the possibility of Harry working on the Ellen Gjelten case for three months. Provided the Expeditor was caught, that was. Harry agreed. Møller hesitated in front of the
DON’T WALK ON THE GRASS
sign.

‘It’s the shortest route, boss.’

‘Yes,’ Møller said. ‘But my shoes will get dirty.’

‘As you wish,’ Harry said, walking up the track. ‘Mine are filthy already.’

The traffic eased after the turn-off to Ulvøya. It had stopped raining and the Ljan road was already dry. Soon it widened into four carriageways and it was like a starting grid for cars to accelerate and race off. Harry looked over at Halvorsen and wondered when he, too, would hear the heart-stopping screams. But Halvorsen didn’t hear anything as he had taken Travis’s exhortation – they were on the radio – literally:

‘
Sing, sing, siiing
!’

‘Halvorsen . . .’

‘
For the love you bring
. . .’

Harry turned down the radio and Halvorsen gave him an uncomprehending look.

‘Windscreen wipers,’ Harry said. ‘You can switch them off now.’

‘Oh, yes, sorry.’

They drove on in silence. Passed the exit for Drøbak.

‘What did you say to the grocer guy?’ Harry asked.

‘You won’t want to know.’

‘But he had delivered food to Albu’s chalet one Thursday five weeks ago?’

‘That was what he said, yes.’

‘Before Albu arrived?’

‘He only said he used to let himself in.’

‘So he has a key?’

‘Harry, there were limits to what I could ask for with my paper-thin pretext.’

‘What pretext did you give?’

Halvorsen sighed. ‘County council surveyor.’

‘County council sur—?’

‘—veyor.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t know.’

Larkollen was just off the motorway, thirteen slow kilometres and fourteen tight bends away.

‘To the right by the red house after the petrol station,’ Halvorsen recited from memory and turned up into a gravel driveway.

‘A
lot
of shower mats,’ Harry mumbled five minutes later when Halvorsen had pulled up and pointed to the enormous log construction between the trees. It looked like an overgrown mountain chalet which following a minor misunderstanding had ended up by the sea.

‘Bit deserted here, isn’t it,’ Halvorsen said, looking at the neighbouring chalets. ‘Just seagulls.
Loads
of seagulls. Perhaps there’s a rubbish dump nearby.’

‘Mm.’ Harry checked his watch. ‘Let’s just park a little further up the road anyway.’

The road ended in a turning area. Halvorsen switched off the ignition and Harry opened the car door and got out. Stretched his back and listened to the screams of the gulls and the distant roar of waves beating against the rocks by the beach.

‘Ah,’ Halvorsen said, filling his lungs. ‘This is a bit different from Oslo air, eh?’

‘No doubt about that,’ Harry said, searching for his packet of cigarettes. ‘Will you take the metal case?’

On the path up to the chalet Harry noticed a large yellow-and-white gull on a fencepost. The head turned slowly round on its body as they passed. Harry felt he could sense the shiny bird’s eyes on his back the whole way up.

‘This won’t be easy,’ Halvorsen declared once they had taken a closer look at the solid lock on the outside door. He had hung his cap on a wrought-iron light above the heavy oak door.

‘Mm. You’ll just have to get stuck in.’ Harry lit a cigarette. ‘I’ll go and have a quick recce in the meantime.’

‘Why is it you’re suddenly smoking so much more than before?’ Halvorsen asked, opening the case.

Harry stood still for a moment and let his eyes drift towards the forest. ‘To give you a chance to beat me at cycling one day.’

Pitch-black logs, solid windows. Everything about the chalet seemed sturdy and impenetrable. Harry wondered if it would be possible to get in through the impressive stone chimney, but rejected the idea. He walked down the path. The rain of recent days had churned it up, but he could easily imagine the small feet and bare legs of children running down a sun-baked path in the summer, on their way to the beach behind the sea-smoothed rocks. He stopped and closed his eyes. Until the sounds came. The buzz of insects, the swish of the tall grass rippling in the breeze, a distant radio and a song floating to and fro on the wind and children’s gleeful shouts from the beach. He had been ten years old and gingerly making his way to the shop to buy milk and bread. The small stones had buried themselves in the soles of his feet, but he had clenched his teeth because he had made up his mind to harden his feet that summer so as to run barefoot with Øystein when he returned home. As he walked back, the heavy shopping bag had seemed to press him deeper into the gravel path; it felt as if he had
been walking on glowing coals. He had focused his attention on something a little way ahead – a large stone or a leaf – and told himself he only had to get there, it wasn’t that far. When he finally did arrive home, one and a half hours later, the milk was off and his mother angry. Harry opened his eyes. Grey clouds were scurrying across the sky.