Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8) (16 page)

‘We’re working for Bergen,’ Beate said. ‘Well, why not?
Skål
to Bergen, folks!’

They raised their glasses.

As they stood on the pavement outside Justisen, light drizzle was falling, emphasising the smell of rock salt, oil and tarmac.

‘Let me take this opportunity to thank you for having me back,’ said Ståle Aune, buttoning up his Burberry.

‘The untouchables ride again,’ Katrine smiled.

‘Just like the old days,’ Bjørn said, contentedly patting his stomach.

‘Almost,’ Beate said. ‘There’s one person missing.’

‘Hey!’ Hagen said. ‘We agreed we wouldn’t talk about him again. He’s gone and that’s that.’

‘He’ll never be completely gone, Gunnar.’

Hagen sighed. Peered up at the sky. Shrugged.

‘Maybe not. There was a PHS student doing a shift at the Rikshospital. She asked me if Harry Hole had ever
not
managed to solve a case. I thought at first she was just being nosy because she had studied one of his cases. I answered that the Gusto Hanssen case was never really solved. And today I heard that my secretary had received a call from PHS requesting copies of that very case file.’ Hagen smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps he’s becoming a legend, after all.’

‘Harry will always be remembered,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘Unsurpassed and unparalleled.’

‘Maybe,’ Beate said. ‘But we’ve got four people here who are close on his heels. Aren’t we?’

They looked at each other. Nodded. Took their leave with brief, firm handshakes and headed off in three different directions.

12

MIKAEL BELLMAN SAW
the figure above his gunsights. He scrunched up one eye, slowly pulled the trigger, listening to his heartbeat. Calm but heavy. He felt the blood being pumped to his fingertips. The figure wasn’t moving, he just had a sense it was. He let go of the trigger, took a deep breath and focused once more. Got the figure in the sights again. Pulled. Saw the figure twitch. Twitch in the right way. Dead. Mikael Bellman knew he had hit the head.

‘Bring the body over and we’ll do a post-mortem,’ he shouted, lowering his Heckler & Koch P30L. Tore off his ear and eye protectors. Heard the electric hum and the wires singing and saw the figure dance towards them. It came to a halt half a metre in front of him.

‘Good,’ said Truls Berntsen, letting go of the switch. The humming stopped.

‘Not bad,’ Mikael said, studying the paper target with the holes over half the torso and the head. Nodded to the target with the severed head in the lane beside his. ‘But not as good as yours.’

‘Good enough to pass the test. I heard ten point two per cent failed this year.’ With practised hands, Truls changed his paper target, pressed the switch and a new figure sang its way back. It stopped at the flecked green metal plate twenty metres away. Mikael heard high-pitched laughter coming from a few lanes to the left. Saw two young women huddle together and glance over at them. Probably PHS students who had recognised him. All the sounds here had their own frequencies, so that even over the gunfire Mikael could hear the thwack of paper and the clunk of lead on metal. Followed by the tiny click as the bullet fell into the box for collecting the compressed shells beneath the target.

‘In practice, more than ten per cent of the force are incapable of defending themselves or anyone else. What does the Chief of Police say to that?’

‘Not all officers can train as much as you do, Truls.’

‘Have so much time to spare, you mean?’

Truls laughed his irritating grunted laugh as Mikael looked at his subordinate and childhood friend. At the higgledy-piggledy jumble of teeth his parents had never seen fit to have checked, at the red gums. Everything was apparently as before, yet something had changed. Perhaps it was just the recent haircut. Or was it the suspension? That kind of thing had a tendency to affect people you hadn’t thought were so sensitive. Perhaps especially them, those who were not in the habit of venting their emotions, who kept them hidden, hoping they would pass with time. Those were the ones who could crack. Put a bullet through their temples.

But Truls seemed content. He was laughing. Mikael had once told Truls that his laughter made people panic. He should try to change it. Practise to find a more normal, more pleasant laugh. Truls had only laughed even louder. And pointed at Mikael. Pointed a finger at him without saying a word, only this eerie snorted laugh.

‘Aren’t you going to ask?’ Truls enquired, pushing cartridges into the magazine of his gun.

‘What about?’

‘About the money in my account.’

Mikael shifted his weight. ‘Was that why you invited me here? For me to ask you?’

‘Do you want to know how the money got there?’

‘Why should I harass you now?’

‘You’re the Chief of Police.’

‘And you took the decision not to say anything. I thought it was stupid of you, but I respect it.’

‘Do you?’ Truls clicked the magazine into place. ‘Or are you leaving me alone because you already
know
where it came from, Mikael?’

Bellman eyed his childhood friend. He could see it now. See what had changed. It was the sick gleam. The one from their childhood, the one he got when he was angry, when the older kids in Manglerud were threatening to beat up the loudmouth with the girlie good looks who had taken Ulla, and Mikael had had to push Truls in front of him. Set the hyena on them. The mangy, whipped hyena who had already had to take so many beatings. So many that one more didn’t make much difference. And when Truls had that gleam in his eye, the hyena gleam, it meant he was willing to die, and if he got his teeth into you, he would never, ever let go. He would lock his jaws and stay there until you went down on your knees or he was pulled off. But Mikael had seen the gleam only rarely as time went on. More recently there had of course been the time when they had dealt with the homo in the boiler room, and also, when Mikael had told him about the suspension. What had changed now, though, was that the gleam didn’t go. It was there all the time, as if he had some kind of fever.

Mikael slowly shook his head in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about, Truls?’

‘Maybe the money came indirectly from you. Maybe you were paying me the whole time. Maybe you led Asayev to me.’

‘I think you’ve inhaled too much gun smoke, Truls. I never had anything to do with Asayev.’

‘Maybe we should ask him about that?’

‘Rudolf Asayev’s dead, Truls.’

‘Bloody convenient, eh? Everyone who could talk happens to have snuffed it.’

Everyone, Mikael Bellman thought. Except you.

‘Except me,’ Truls grinned.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Mikael said, pulling down his target and folding it.

‘Oh yes,’ Truls said. ‘The Wednesday date.’

Mikael froze. ‘What?’

‘I remember you always used to leave the office at this time on Wednesdays.’

Mikael studied him. It was odd – even after knowing Truls Berntsen for thirty years Mikael still wasn’t sure how stupid or smart he was. ‘Right. But let me just say you’d better keep that kind of speculation to yourself. As things stand, it can only hurt you, Truls. And it might be best not to say too much. It could put me in a tricky spot if I’m summoned as a witness. Understand?’

But Truls had already put the protectors over his ears and turned to the target. Staring eyes behind the glasses. One flash. Two. Three. The gun seemed to try to detach itself, but Truls’s grip was too tight. The hyena grip.

In the car park Mikael felt the phone vibrate in his trouser pocket.

It was Ulla.

‘Did you manage to talk to pest control?’

‘Yes,’ Mikael said, who hadn’t given it a thought, let alone spoken to anyone.

‘What did they say?’

‘They said the smell you think is coming from the terrace could well be a dead mouse or a rat somewhere in there. But since it’s concrete we can’t do much. Whatever it is will rot and the smell will go of its own accord. They advised us not to break up the terrace. OK?’

‘You should have had professionals do the terrace, not Truls.’

‘He did it in the middle of the night, without asking me. I’ve told you before. Where are you, darling?’

‘I’m meeting a girlfriend. Will you be home for dinner?’

‘Oh, yes. And don’t worry about the terrace. All right, darling?’

‘All right.’

He hung up. Thinking he had said darling twice, and that was one time too many. Made it sound as if it was a lie. He started the car, pressed the accelerator, released the clutch and felt the wonderful pressure of the seat rest against his head as the new Audi surged across the car park. Thought about Isabelle. How he felt. Felt his blood pumping already. And thought about the strange paradox that had not been a lie. His love for Ulla never felt more real than just before he was going to fuck another woman.

Anton Mittet sat on the terrace. His eyes were closed and he could feel the sun warming his skin, just. Spring was fighting, but for the moment winter had the upper hand. Then he opened his eyes, and again his gaze fell on the letter on the table by him.

The Drammen Health Centre logo was embossed in blue.

He knew what it was, the result of his blood test. He was about to tear it open, but deferred it again and instead looked up and across the River Drammen. When they had seen the brochure for the new flats in Elveparken, to the west in Åssiden, they hadn’t hesitated. The children had flown the nest and taming the stubborn garden had not become an easier job over the years, and nor had maintaining the old, much too big, timber house in Konnerud they had inherited from Laura’s parents. Selling the whole lot and buying a modern, manageable flat was supposed to give them more time and money to do what they had spoken about for so many years. Travelling together. Visiting distant lands. Experiencing the things this short life on earth still had to offer.

So why hadn’t they travelled after they made the move? Why had he deferred that as well?

Anton straightened his sunglasses, shuffled the letter around. Fished the phone from his baggy trouser pocket instead.

Was it everyday life that was so hectic with the days just coming and going, coming and going? Was it the view of Drammen that was so blissfully comforting? Was it the thought of having to spend so much time together, the fear of what it could reveal about both of them, about their marriage? Or was it the Case, the Fall, that had drained his energy, his initiative, leaving him in a state of mind in which daily routine appeared to be the sole escape from total collapse? And then Mona happened . . .

Anton looked at the display.
GAMLEM CONTACT RIKSHOSPITAL
.

There were three options beneath. Call. Send text. Edit.

Edit. Life should have that button as well. Everything could have been so different. He would have reported the baton. He wouldn’t have invited Mona for coffee. He wouldn’t have fallen asleep.

But he
had
fallen asleep.

Fallen asleep while on duty, on a hard wooden chair. Him, someone who usually struggled to fall asleep in his own bed after a long day. It was incomprehensible. And he had wandered around half dazed for a long time afterwards as well, even the dead man’s face and the ensuing commotion hadn’t been enough to wake him; he had stood there like a zombie with this fog in his brain, incapable of doing anything or even answering questions clearly. Not that it would have necessarily saved the patient if he had stayed awake. The autopsy hadn’t shown anything other than that the patient might have died of a stroke. But Anton hadn’t done his job. Not that anyone would ever find out; he hadn’t said a word. But
he
knew. Knew that he had screwed up again.

Anton Mittet looked down at the buttons.

Call. Send text. Edit.

It was time. Time to do something. Do something right. Just do it. Don’t put it off.

He pressed Edit. Another option appeared.

He chose. Chose correctly. Delete.

Then he took the envelope and tore it open. Took the letter out and read. He had gone to the health centre early in the morning after the patient had been found dead. Explained he was a police officer on his way to work, he had taken a pill, but didn’t know what it contained, he felt strange and was worried about going to work in case it had side effects. At first the doctor had wanted him to call in sick, but Anton had insisted they take a blood sample.

His eyes ran down the letter. He didn’t understand all the words and names or what the numbers by them signified, but the doctor had added two summarising sentences to clarify:

. . . nitrazepam is found in strong hypnotic drugs. You MUST NOT take any more of these tablets without consulting a doctor first.

Anton closed his eyes and sucked in air through clenched teeth.

Shit.

He had been right about his suspicion. He had been doped. Someone had doped him. Not only that, he had an inkling how. The coffee. The noise in the corridor. The container with only one capsule left. He had wondered if the lid had been perforated. The solution must have been injected through the lid with a syringe. Then the perpetrator only had to wait for Anton to go and brew his own Mickey Finn, espresso with nitrazepam.

They said the patient had died of natural causes. Or rather, there was no evidence to suggest anything suspicious had taken place. But a substantial part of their conclusion was of course Anton’s statement that no one had been to see the patient subsequent to the previous doctor’s visit two hours before the heart stopped beating.

Anton knew what he had to do. He had to report this. Now. He lifted the phone. He had to report the blunder. Explain why he hadn’t told them straight out that he had fallen sleep. He looked at the display. This time not even Gunnar Hagen could save him. He put the phone down. He
would
ring. Not right now though.

Mikael Bellman knotted his tie in the mirror.

‘You were good today,’ a voice from the bed said.

Mikael knew it was true. He watched Isabelle Skøyen get up behind him and pull on her stockings. ‘Is that because he’s dead?’