Nemesis (45 page)

‘I’m exhausted, Tom.’ She stood up. ‘If you have any more questions I’m unable to answer, I suggest we deal with them tomorrow.’

Tom Waaler didn’t move. ‘I had an interesting chat with a prison officer in Botsen today. Harry was there last night, right under our noses, while we and half of the uniformed division were out looking for him. Did you know Harry was in league with Raskol?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about or what it has to do with the case.’

‘Me neither, but I suggest you take a seat, Beate. And listen to a little story I think will change your mind about Harry and his friends.’

‘The answer’s no, Tom. Out.’

‘Not even if your father’s in the story?’

He caught the twitch of her mouth and knew he had hit the mark.

‘I have sources which are – how shall I put it? – inaccessible to the regular police officer, meaning I know what happened to your father when he was shot that time in Ryen. And I know who shot him.’

She stared open-mouthed.

Waaler laughed. ‘You weren’t ready for that, were you.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Your father was shot with an Uzi, six bullets in the chest. According to the report he went inside the bank to negotiate, even though he was alone, unarmed and thus had nothing to bargain with. All he could hope to achieve was to make the robbers nervous and aggressive. A huge blunder. Incomprehensible. Especially as your father was legendary for his professionalism. In fact, he had a colleague with him, a promising young officer of whom great things were expected, a prospective rising star. But he’d never experienced a
live
bank raid before and certainly not bank raiders with decent shooters.

‘He’s keen to keep in with his superior officers and that day he’s supposed to drive your father home after work. So your father arrives in Ryen in a car which the report fails to mention is not your father’s. Because it’s in the garage, at home with you, Beate, and Mummy, when you receive the news, isn’t it.’

He could see the veins on her neck engorging, becoming thick and blue.

‘Fuck you, Tom.’

‘Come here now and listen to Daddy’s little story,’ he said, patting the sofa cushion beside him. ‘Because I’m going to speak in a very soft voice and I honestly think you should hear this.’

Reluctantly, she stepped forward a pace, but no further.

‘OK,’ Tom said. ‘On this day in – when was it, Beate?’

‘June,’ she breathed.

‘June, yes. They hear the report on the radio, the bank is close by, they drive there and take up positions outside, armed. The young officer and the experienced inspector. They go by the book, wait for reinforcements or for the robbers to come out of the bank. Not dreaming of entering the bank. Until one of the men appears in the doorway with a gun to the head of the female bank clerk. He calls your father’s name. The man has seen them outside and recognised Inspector Lønn. He shouts he won’t hurt the woman, but he needs a hostage. If Lønn takes her place, that would be fine by them. But he has to drop his gun and go into the bank alone to effect the exchange. And your father, what does he do? He thinks. He has to think quickly. The woman is in shock. People die of shock. He thinks of his own wife, your mother. A June day, Friday, soon the weekend. And the sun . . . was the sun shining, Beate?’

She nodded.

‘He thinks how hot it must be in the bank. The strain. The desperation. Then he makes up his mind. What does he decide? What does he decide, Beate?’

‘He goes in.’ The whisper was thick with emotion.

‘He goes in.’ Waaler lowers his voice. ‘Inspector Lønn has gone in and the young officer waits. Waits for reinforcements. Waits for the woman to come out. Waits for someone to tell him what to do, or that it is just a dream or a training exercise, and he can go home because it’s Friday and the sun is shining. Instead he hears . . .’ Waaler imitated the rattle of a gun with his tongue against his palate. ‘Your father falls against the front door, which opens, and he is spread on the ground, half in, half out. Six shots in his chest.’

Beate collapsed into the chair.

‘The young officer sees the inspector lying there and he knows now it isn’t an exercise. Or a dream. They really do have automatic weapons in there and they do shoot policemen in cold blood. He’s more frightened than he has ever been before or since. He’s read about this, he got good grades in psychology, but something has
cracked. He’s gripped by the panic he wrote so well about in the exam. He gets in his car and drives. He drives and drives until he’s home, and his new young wife comes to meet him and is angry because he’s late for the evening meal. He takes his reprimand standing, like a schoolboy, and promises it will never happen again and they eat. After eating, they watch TV. A reporter says a policeman has been shot during a bank raid. Your father is dead.’

Beate hid her face in her hands. It had all come back to her. The whole day. A look of curious wonderment on the round sun in the meaninglessly blue sky. She had thought it was only a dream, too.

‘Who could the bank raiders be? Who knows the name of your father, who knows the whole bank scene, who knows that of the two police officers standing outside, Inspector Lønn is the one to pose a threat? Who is so cold and calculating that he can place your father in a dilemma and know which choice he will make? So he can shoot him and do what he likes with the scared young officer? Who’s that? Beate?’

The tears were flowing between her fingers. ‘Ras . . .’ she sniffled.

‘I didn’t hear, Beate.’

‘Raskol.’

‘Raskol, yes. And only him. His sidekick was furious. They were robbers, not killers, he said. He was stupid enough to threaten to give himself up and finger Raskol. Fortunately for him, he manages to leave Norway before Raskol catches him.’

Beate was sobbing. Waaler waited.

‘Do you know what the funniest thing about this is? That you allowed yourself to be taken in by your father’s murderer? Just like your father.’

Beate raised her head. ‘What . . . what do you mean?’

Waaler shrugged. ‘You ask Raskol to point out the murderer. He’s after someone who threatened to testify against him in a murder trial. So what does he do? Of course, he points out this person.’

‘Lev Grette?’ She dried her tears.

‘Why not? So you could help him to find him. I read you found
Grette hanging from a rope. That he’d committed suicide. I wouldn’t put money on it. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone got there before you.’

Beate cleared her throat. ‘You’re forgetting a couple of details. First of all, we found a suicide note. Lev didn’t leave a lot in writing, but I talked to his brother, who dug up a few of Lev’s old school exercise books from the loft in Disengrenda. I took them to Jean Hue, the writing expert in
Kripos
, who confirmed the note was written by Lev. Secondly, Raskol is already in prison. Of his own accord. That doesn’t quite square with an intent to murder to avoid punishment.’

Waaler shook his head. ‘You’re a clever girl, but just like your father you lack psychological insight. You don’t understand how the criminal mind works. Raskol isn’t in prison; it’s just a temporary posting to Botsen. A murder conviction would change all that. In the meantime you’re protecting him. And his friend, Harry Hole.’

He leaned forward and placed a hand on her arm. ‘I apologise if it was painful, but now you know, Beate. Your father didn’t bungle anything. And Harry’s working with the man who murdered him. So what do you say? Shall we look for Harry together?’

Beate screwed up her eyes, squeezed out the last tear. Then she opened her eyes again. Waaler held out a handkerchief, which she took.

‘Tom,’ she said. ‘I have to explain something to you.’

‘You don’t need to.’ Waaler stroked her hand. ‘I understand. There’s a conflict of loyalties. Imagine what your father would have done. It’s called being professional, isn’t it.’

Beate observed him. Then she slowly nodded her head. She breathed in. At that moment the telephone rang.

‘Are you going to take it?’ Waaler said, after three rings.

‘It’s my mother,’ Beate said. ‘I’ll ring her back in thirty seconds.’

‘Thirty seconds?’

‘That’s the time it’ll take me to tell you that if I knew where Harry was, you’d be the last person I’d tell.’ She passed him his handkerchief. ‘And for you to put your shoes on and get out.’

Up his back and neck, Tom Waaler could feel the fury rising like a geyser. He took a moment to enjoy the feeling before grabbing her with one arm and forcing her under him. She gasped and resisted him, but he knew she could feel his erection and that the lips she was so tightly clenching would soon open.

After six rings Harry hung up and left the telephone box, so the girl behind him could slip in. He turned his back on Kjølberggata and the wind, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards the car park and the caravans. It was funny really. Here he was, a couple of hefty stones’ throws away from Forensics in one direction, Police HQ in another and the caravan in the third. Wearing a gypsy’s suit. A wanted man. You could kill yourself laughing.

Harry’s teeth chattered. He half-turned when a police car swept down the traffic-laden but unpopulated thoroughfare. Harry hadn’t been able to sleep. Couldn’t bear to be inactive while time was ticking away. He crushed the cigarette end beneath his heel and was about to go when he saw the telephone box was free again. Checked his watch. Almost midnight, strange she wasn’t at home. Perhaps she had been asleep and hadn’t made it to the phone? He dialled the number again. She answered immediately: ‘Beate.’

‘It’s Harry. Did I wake you?’

‘I . . . yes.’

‘Sorry. Shall I call back tomorrow?’

‘No, it’s convenient now.’

‘Are you alone?’

Silence. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You sound so . . . no, forget it. Have you found out anything?’

He heard her gulp as if she was trying to catch her breath.

‘Weber checked the fingerprints on the glass. Most of them are yours. The analysis of the sediment in the glass should be finished in a couple of days.’

‘Great.’

‘As for the laptop in your storeroom, it turns out there was a specialised program running which allows you to set the date and time for when you want an e-mail to be sent. The last change to the e-mails was made the day Anna Bethsen died.’

Harry no longer felt the icy-cold wind.

‘So the e-mails you received were ready and waiting when it was planted,’ Beate said. ‘That explains how your Pakistani neighbour had seen it in your storage space quite a time ago.’

‘Do you mean it had been working away all on its own the whole time?’

‘Connected to the mains, the laptop and mobile phone would manage just fine.’

‘Hell!’ Harry slapped his forehead. ‘But that must mean the guy who programmed the laptop anticipated the whole course of events. The whole bloody thing was a puppet show, and we were the puppets.’

‘Looks like that. Harry?’

‘I’m here. Just trying to let it sink in. Well, better forget it for a while, it’s too much in one go. How about the name of the company I gave you?’

‘The company, yes. What makes you think I’ve done anything about that?’

‘Nothing. Until you just said what you did.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘No, but the way you said it was full of promise.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘You found something, didn’t you.’

‘I found something.’

‘Come on!’

‘I rang the accountants that the locksmith uses and got a lady to send me the national insurance numbers of the employees working there. Four full-time staff and two part-time. I ran the numbers through the Criminal and Social Security Register. Five of them have an unblemished record. But one . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I had to use the scroll to get everything. Mostly drugs. Has been charged with peddling heroin and morphine, but has only been convicted of possession of a small amount of hash. Has done time for breaking and entering and two aggravated robberies.’

‘Violence?’

‘He used a gun in one of the robberies. It wasn’t fired, but it was loaded.’

‘Perfect. He’s our man. You’re an angel. What’s his name?’

‘Alf Gunnerud. Thirty years old, single. Thor Olsens gate 9. Seems to live on his own.’

‘Repeat the name and address.’

Beate did.

‘Mm. Incredible that Gunnerud got a job at a locksmith’s with a record like that.’

‘Birger Gunnerud is listed as the owner.’

‘Right. I see. Sure everything’s alright?’

Silence.

‘Beate?’

‘Everything’s OK, Harry. What are you going to do?’

‘I was thinking of paying a visit to his flat. See if I can find anything of interest. If I do, I’ll ring you from his flat so you can send a car and impound the evidence according to regulations.’

‘When are you going?’

‘Why?’

Another silence.

‘To be sure I’m in when you phone.’

‘Eleven tomorrow. I hope he’ll be at work then.’

When Harry rang off, he stood gazing at the cloudy night sky arching over the town like a yellow dome. He had heard the music in the background. Barely, but it was enough. Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’.

He shoved a coin in the slot and dialled 1881.

‘I need the number for one Alf Gunnerud . . .’