Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8) (22 page)

‘Two?’

‘Do you understand? Why doesn’t Aune lecture? I thought he loved it.’

‘He wanted a better life. Simpler. More quality time with his nearest and dearest. A wise decision.’

She eyed him. ‘You should persuade him. No one in society should be allowed to stop using such a superior talent when there is most need for it. Don’t you agree?’

Harry chuckled. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you? I think there’s a need for me here, Katrine. And the college won’t contact Aune because they want to see more uniformed lecturers, not civilians.’

‘You’re wearing civvies.’

‘And that’s my point. In fact, I am no longer in the police force, Katrine. It was a choice. Which means that I, we, are in different places now.’

‘How did you get that scar on your temple?’ she asked and noticed Harry almost imperceptibly but instantly flinch. Before he could answer a sonorous voice in the corridor called out.

‘Harry!’

They stopped and turned. A short, bulky man with a full red beard came out of one of the doors and approached them with an uneven rolling gait. Katrine followed Harry as he went to meet the older man.

‘You’ve got a visitor,’ the man roared long before they had reached a normal speaking distance.

‘Indeed,’ Harry said. ‘Katrine Bratt. This is Arnold Folkestad.’

‘I mean you have a visitor in your office,’ Folkestad said, stopping to take a couple of deep breaths before passing Katrine a large, freckled hand.

‘Arnold and I co-lecture on murder investigation,’ Harry said.

‘And since he’s been given the entertaining side of the subject, naturally he’s the more popular of us two,’ Folkestad growled. ‘While I have to bring them down to earth with methodology, forensics, ethics and regulations. The world is unjust.’

‘On the other hand, Arnold knows a bit about pedagogy,’ Harry said.

‘The whelp’s making progress,’ Folkestad chortled.

Harry frowned. ‘This visitor, it’s not . . .?’

‘Relax, it’s not frøken Silje Gravseng, just old colleagues. I gave them some coffee.’

Harry eyed Katrine sharply. Then he turned and marched towards the door. Katrine and Folkestad watched him leave.

‘Er, did I say something wrong?’ Folkestad asked in amazement.

‘I know this might be construed as a pincer movement strategy,’ Beate said, lifting the cup of coffee to her mouth.

‘Do you mean by that it’s
not
a pincer movement?’ Harry said, leaning back on his chair as far as it was possible to go in the tiny office. On the other side of the desk, behind the towering piles of paper, Beate Lønn, Bjørn Holm and Katrine Bratt were squeezed into chairs. The round of greetings was soon over. Brief handshakes, no hugs. No clumsy attempts at small talk. Harry Hole was not the type. Harry Hole was the type to get to the point. And, of course, they knew he already knew what that was.

Beate took a sip, winced inevitably and put the cup down with a disapproving mien.

‘I know you’ve made up your mind not to do any more active investigation,’ Beate said. ‘And I also know you have better reason than most. The question, however, is whether you can make an exception here or not. You are, after all, our sole specialist in serial killings. The state invested money and trained you with the FBI—’

‘—which, as you know, I paid back with blood, sweat and tears,’ Harry broke in. ‘And not just my own blood and tears.’

‘I haven’t forgotten that Rakel and Oleg ended up in the firing line on the Snowman case, but—’

‘The answer’s no,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve promised Rakel that none of us will go back there. And for once I intend to keep a promise.’

‘How’s Oleg?’ Beate asked.

‘Better,’ Harry said, keeping a weather eye on her. ‘As you know, he’s in a detox clinic in Switzerland.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. And Rakel got the job in Geneva?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does she commute?’

‘Four days in Geneva, three at home. It’s good for Oleg to have his mother close by.’

‘I can understand that,’ Beate said. ‘In a way they’re out of every firing line there, aren’t they? And you’re alone during the week. Days when you can do what you like.’

Harry laughed quietly. ‘My dear Beate, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough.
This
is what I want. To lecture. To pass on my knowledge.’

‘Ståle Aune’s with us,’ Katrine said.

‘Good for him,’ Harry said. ‘And for you. He knows as much about serial murders as I do.’

‘Sure he doesn’t know more?’ Katrine said with a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow.

Harry laughed. ‘Nice try, Katrine. OK. He knows more.’

‘My God,’ Katrine said, ‘what’s happened to your competitive streak?’

‘The combination of you three and Ståle Aune is the best possible start for this case. I have another lecture, so . . .’

Katrine slowly shook her head. ‘What’s happened to you, Harry?’

‘Good things,’ Harry said. ‘Good things have happened to me.’

‘Message received and understood,’ Beate said, getting up. ‘But I’d still like to ask if we can consult you now and then.’

She saw he was going to shake his head. ‘Don’t answer no,’ she hastened to add. ‘I’ll ring you later.’

In the corridor, three minutes later, as Harry was striding towards the auditorium, where the students had already gathered, it struck Beate that perhaps it was true, perhaps the love of a woman
could
save a man. And she doubted in this case that another woman’s sense of duty would be enough to whisk him back into the jaws of hell. But that was her task. He had looked shockingly healthy and happy. She would so much have liked to let him go. But she knew they would soon reappear, the ghosts of colleagues that had been killed. And she formulated the next thought: they won’t be the last.

She rang Harry as soon as she was back in the Boiler Room.

Rico Herrem woke with a start.

He blinked in the darkness until his eyes could focus on the white screen three rows in front of him, where a fat woman was sucking off a horse. Felt his racing pulse slow down. No reason to panic, he was still in Fiskebutikken; it was just the vibration of a new arrival that had woken him. Rico opened his mouth and tried to inhale some oxygen from the air that stank of sweat, tobacco and something that might have been fish, but wasn’t. It was forty years since Moen’s Fiskebutikk had sold the original combination of relatively fresh fish over the counter and relatively fresh porn mags under the counter. After Moen had sold up and gone into retirement – so that he could drink himself to death more systematically – the new owners had opened a twenty-four-hour cinema in the basement showing straight porn. But when VHS and DVDs had taken their customers they specialised in procuring and showing films you couldn’t get online, at least not without the police knocking at your door.

The sound was on so low Rico could hear the wanking in the darkness around him. He had been told that was the idea, that was why the sound was on so low. He had long grown out of the boyhood fascination with group wanking, that wasn’t why he was sitting here. It wasn’t why he had headed here straight after his release, sat here for two solid days, broken only by emergency trips to eat, shit and get more booze. He still had four Rohypnol pills in his pocket. He had to make them last.

Of course, he could spend the rest of his life in Fiskebutikken. But he had persuaded his mother to lend him ten thousand kroner, and until the Thai Embassy had sorted out his extended tourist visa Fiskebutikken offered the darkness and anonymity he required to avoid being found.

He inhaled, but it was as though the air consisted entirely of nitrogen, argon and carbon dioxide. He looked at his watch. The luminous hand was on six. In the evening or the morning? It was perpetual night in here, but it had to be evening. The feeling of suffocation came and went. He mustn’t get claustrophobic, not now. Not until he was out of the country. Gone. Far, far from Valentin. God, how he longed for his cell. For the security. The loneliness. The air you could breathe.

The woman on the screen was working hard, but had to follow the horse as it took a few steps forward, causing the picture to blur for a second.

‘Hi, Rico.’

Rico froze. The voice was low, a whisper, but the sound was like an icicle being driven into his ear.

‘
Vanessa’s Friends.
A real eighties classic. Did you know that Vanessa died during the recording? Stamped on by a mare. Jealousy, do you think?’

Rico wanted to turn, but was stopped by a hand squeezing the top of his neck, holding it in a vice-like grip. He wanted to shout, but a gloved hand was already over his mouth and nose. Rico breathed in the smell of pungent, wet wool.

‘It was disappointingly easy to find you. Pervs’ cinema. Rather obvious, don’t you think?’ Low chortle. ‘What’s more it illuminates your red skull like a lighthouse. Looks like your eczema’s bad at the moment, Rico. It flares up during periods of stress, isn’t that correct?’

The hand over his mouth slackened the pressure so that he could get some air. There was a smell of chalk dust and ski grease.

‘There are rumours going round that you spoke to a policewoman at Ila, Rico. Did you have anything in common?’

The woollen glove over his mouth was removed. Rico breathed heavily as his tongue searched for saliva.

‘I didn’t say anything,’ he gasped. ‘I swear. Why would I? I was getting out in a few days anyway.’

‘Money.’

‘I’ve
got
money!’

‘You spent all your money on rope, Rico. I bet you’ve got some pills in your pocket now.’

‘I’m not joking! I’m off to Thailand the day after tomorrow. You won’t have any trouble with me, I promise.’

Rico could hear that sounded like the pleading of a petrified man, but he couldn’t care less. He
was
petrified.

‘Relax, Rico. I don’t intend to do anything to my tattooist. You trust a man you’ve let stick needles in your skin. Don’t you?’

‘You . . . you can trust me.’

‘Good. Pattaya sounds good.’

Rico didn’t answer. He hadn’t said he was going to Pattaya. How . . .? Rico was tipped back slightly as the other man grabbed the seat to help him stand up.

‘Gotta go. I’ve got a job to do. Enjoy the sun, Rico. It’s good for eczema, I’ve heard.’

Rico turned and looked up. The man had masked the bottom half of his face with a scarf, and it was too dark for him to see the eyes properly. He suddenly bent down to Rico.

‘Did you know that when they did the autopsy on Vanessa they found sexual diseases medical science didn’t know existed? Stick to your own species, that’s my advice.’

Rico watched the figure hurry to the exit. Watched him take off the scarf. Glimpsed the face in the green light of the exit sign as it disappeared behind the black felt curtain. The oxygen seemed to pour back into the room, and Rico sucked it in greedily as he blinked at the running stick man on the exit sign.

He was confused.

Confused that he was still alive and confused about what he had just seen. Not confused that pervs were busy checking out escape routes. They had always done that. But that it wasn’t him. The voice had been the same, the laugh too. But the man he had seen in the green light for a fraction of a second was
not
him. It wasn’t Valentin.

17

‘
SO YOU’VE MOVED
in here, have you?’ Beate said, looking around the spacious kitchen. Outside the window, darkness had descended over Holmenkollen Ridge and the neighbouring houses. None of the houses was the same, but they were all twice the size of the house Beate had inherited from her mother in East Oslo and they had hedges that were double the height, double garages and double-barrelled names on the letter boxes. Beate knew she was prejudiced about West Oslo, but it was still strange to see Harry Hole in these surroundings.

‘Yes,’ Harry said, pouring coffee for both of them.

‘Isn’t it . . . lonely?’

‘Mm. Don’t you and the littl’un live on your own as well?’

‘Yes, but . . .’ She didn’t continue. What she wanted to say was that she lived in a cosy yellow house erected in the Einar Gerhardsen socialist spirit of the reconstruction period after the Second World War, sober and practical, with none of the national-romantic fashion that caused the affluent to build log-cabin-like fortresses such as this. With black-stained timbers, which even on sunny days gave an atmosphere of eternal darkness and melancholy to the house Rakel had inherited from her father.

‘Rakel comes home at the weekends,’ he said, lifting his cup to his mouth.

‘So things are good?’

‘Things are very good.’

Beate nodded and studied him. The changes. He had laughter lines around his eyes, but still looked younger. The titanium prosthesis replacing his middle finger on the right hand clinked against the cup.

‘What about you?’ Harry asked.

‘Good. Busy. The little one’s off school staying with his grandmother in Steinkjer.’

‘Really? Scary how quickly . . .’ He half closed his eyes and chuckled.

‘Yes,’ Beate said, sipping her coffee. ‘Harry, I wanted to meet you because I’d like to know what happened.’

‘I know,’ Harry said. ‘I meant to contact you. But I had to sort things out with Oleg. And myself.’

‘Come on then.’

‘OK,’ Harry said, putting down his cup. ‘You were the only person I informed while it was going on. You helped me, and I owe you a great debt of thanks, Beate. And you’re the only person who’ll ever know. But are you sure you want to know? It could put you in a bit of a dilemma.’

‘I was an accessory the moment I started helping you, Harry. And we got rid of violin. It’s not on the streets any more.’

‘Fantastic,’ Harry said drily. ‘The market’s back on heroin, crack and speedballs.’

‘And the man behind violin’s gone. Rudolf Asayev’s dead.’

‘I know.’

‘Oh? You
knew
he was dead? Did you know he was in a coma under a false name at the Rikshospital for more than a year before he died?’

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Asayev? I thought he died in a room at Hotel Leon.’