Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8) (24 page)

Beate went in first. She knew her way around of course. It was more than a cliché to say forensics officers never forgot a crime scene. She came to a halt in the living room. The sunlight fell from the window and lay in crooked rectangles on the bare, evenly faded wooden floor. It must have been sparsely furnished for years. The family had probably taken most of it with them after the murder.

‘Interesting,’ said Ståle Aune, who had taken up a position by a window overlooking the forest between the house and what he assumed to be Berg School. ‘The murderer uses the hysteria he has created himself as bait.’

‘If I got a call like that I would consider it very plausible,’ Katrine said.

‘And that’s why they go there unarmed,’ Beate continued. ‘They think the danger’s over. That the police are already in position, so they can take their time and fill up with petrol on the way.’

‘But,’ Bjørn said with his mouth full of Wasa cracker and caviar, ‘how does the murderer know the victim won’t ring a colleague and find out there isn’t any murder?’

‘Presumably the murderer has told them not to talk to anyone until further notice,’ Beate said, eyeing the crumbs falling on the floor with disapproval.

‘Also plausible,’ Katrine said. ‘Experienced police officers wouldn’t be taken aback by that. They know it’s important to keep a suspicious death quiet for as long as possible.’

‘Why is it important?’ Ståle Aune asked.

‘The murderer might drop his guard when he thinks the body hasn’t been found,’ Bjørn said and sank his teeth into another bit of the crispbread.

‘And Harry reeled all this off just like that?’ Katrine asked. ‘After reading the newspapers?’

‘He wouldn’t be Harry otherwise,’ Beate said, hearing the tram rattle past across the road. From the window she could see the roof of Ullevål Stadium. The windows were too thin to shut out the drone of traffic from Ring 3. And she remembered how cold it had been, how they had frozen in their white overalls. But also how she had formulated the idea that it hadn’t only been the temperature that had made it impossible to be in this room without shivering. Perhaps that was why it had been vacant for so long. Potential tenants or buyers could still feel the cold. The chill of the stories and rumours circling at that time.

‘Fair enough,’ said Bjørn. ‘He’s worked out how the murderer lures the victim. But we already knew they’d gone there willingly, under their own steam. So it’s not exactly a quantum leap in the investigation, is it?’

Beate went over to the second window and her gaze scanned the area. It would be easy to hide the Delta team in the forest, in the dip in the ground by the metro rails and perhaps in the neighbouring houses on both sides. In short, surround this house.

‘He always did come up with such simple ideas you scratched your head afterwards wondering why you hadn’t thought of them,’ she said. ‘The crumbs.’

‘Eh?’ Bjørn said.

‘The crispbread crumbs.’

Bjørn looked down at the floor. Back up at Beate. Then he tore a sheet from his notepad, crouched down and brushed the crumbs onto the paper.

Beate looked up and met Katrine’s enquiring eyes.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Beate said. ‘Why the fuss? This isn’t a crime scene. But it is. Every place where an unsolved crime has been committed is and remains a crime scene with the potential to reveal evidence.’

‘Are you counting on finding clues from the Saw Man here?’ Ståle asked.

‘No,’ Beate said, examining the floor. ‘They must have planed it off. There was so much blood, and it must have stained so deep into the wood, that scrubbing would have made no difference.’

Ståle glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got a patient soon, so what about telling us Harry’s suggestion?’

‘We never informed the press,’ Beate said, ‘but when we found the body in this room we first had to ascertain whether it really was human.’

‘Oooh,’ Ståle said, ‘do we want to hear any more?’

‘Yes,’ Katrine said firmly.

‘The body had been sawn up into such small parts that at first sight it wasn’t easy to tell. He had put the breasts on a shelf in the glass cabinet there. The only evidence we found was a broken jigsaw blade. And . . . yes, those of you who are interested can read the rest in this report.’ Beate patted her shoulder bag.

‘Oh, thank you,’ Katrine said with a smile she must have felt was too sweet, as she quickly replaced it with her serious expression.

‘The victim was a young girl at home on her own,’ Beate said. ‘And we were also aware then that the methods used bore similarities to those in the Tryvann murder. But what is crucial for us is that it’s an unsolved murder. And it was committed on the seventeenth of March.’

It was so quiet in the room that they could hear joyful shouts from the school playground on the other side of the trees.

Bjørn was the first to break the silence. ‘That’s in three days’ time.’

‘Yes,’ Katrine said. ‘And Harry, the sicko, has suggested we set a trap, hasn’t he?’

Beate nodded.

Katrine slowly shook her head. ‘Why did none of
us
think of that?’

‘Because none of us knew exactly how the murderer lured the victims to the crime scene,’ Ståle answered.

‘Harry could still be wrong,’ Beate said. ‘Both with regard to how the murderer operates and that this is the next crime scene. Since the first officer died we’ve passed several dates for unsolved murders in Østland and nothing has happened.’

‘But,’ Ståle said, ‘Harry’s seen a similarity between the Saw Man and the other murders. Disciplined planning combined with apparently unbridled brutality.’

‘He called it gut instinct,’ Beate said. ‘But by that he meant—’

‘Analysis based on non-systematised facts,’ Katrine said. ‘Also known as Harry’s method.’

‘So he says it will happen in three days,’ Bjørn said.

‘Yes,’ Beate said. ‘And he had another prediction. He pointed out, like Ståle, that the last murder was even more like the original with him putting the victim in a car and rolling him over a cliff. That the murderer was continuing to perfect the killings. The next logical step would be for him to choose the identical murder weapon.’

‘A jigsaw,’ Katrine gasped.

‘That would be typical of a narcissistic serial killer,’ Ståle said.

‘And Harry was sure it would take place here?’ Bjørn asked, looking around him with a grimace.

‘In fact, that was where he was least sure of himself,’ Beate said. ‘The murderer had easy access to all the other crime scenes. This house has stood vacant for many years as no one has wanted to live where the Saw Man had been. But nevertheless it is locked. It’s true the Tryvann hut was broken into, but this house has neighbours. Luring a policeman here would involve much greater risk. So Harry thinks he might change the pattern and entice the victim somewhere else. But we’ll set the trap for the cop killer here, and see if he rings.’

There was a tiny pause as they all appeared to be chewing on the fact that Beate had used the name the press had adopted, the cop killer.

‘And the victim . . .?’ Katrine asked.

‘I have here,’ Beate said, patting her shoulder bag again, ‘everyone who worked on the Saw Man case. They’ll be told to stay at home with the phone switched on. Whoever is called will act cool and just confirm they’re on their way. Then he will ring the Ops Room, say where he’s going and then we’ll swing into action. If it’s not Berg but somewhere else, Delta will be moved there.’

‘So we have to act cool when a serial killer calls?’ Bjørn queried. ‘I dunno if my acting’s up to that.’

‘They don’t need to conceal their trepidation,’ Ståle said. ‘Quite the contrary, it would be suspicious if a policeman’s voice
didn’t
quiver when he got a call about the murder of a colleague.’

‘I’m more concerned about Delta and the Ops Room,’ Katrine said.

‘Yes, I know,’ Beate said. ‘Too much going on to avoid Bellman’s attention. Hagen is informing him as we speak.’

‘And what happens to our group when he finds out?’

‘If this has a chance of succeeding, that’s a minor matter, Katrine.’ Beate impatiently rubbed the button dangling from her ear. ‘Let’s make a move. No point hanging around here and being seen. And don’t leave anything behind.’

Katrine had taken a step towards the door when she froze.

‘What’s the matter?’ Ståle asked.

‘Didn’t you hear it?’ she whispered.

‘Hear what?’

She raised one foot and sent Bjørn a narrow-eyed look. ‘The crunching noise.’

Beate laughed her surprisingly light laugh while, with a deep sigh, the Skreia native took out his notebook and crouched down again.

‘Well, I’ll be . . .’

‘What?’

‘It’s not crumbs,’ he said, leaning forward and peering under the table. ‘Old chewing gum. The rest is stuck under here. It’s probably so desiccated that bits crumble off.’

‘Perhaps it’s the murderer’s?’ Ståle suggested with a yawn. ‘People stick chewing gum under their seats in cinemas and on buses, but not under their own dining-room table.’

‘Interesting theory,’ Bjørn said, holding up a piece to the window. ‘I reckon for months we could have found DNA in the spit of a lump like that. But this is all dried out.’

‘Come on, Sherlock,’ Katrine grinned. ‘Chew it and tell us what brand—’

‘That’s enough, you lot,’ Beate interrupted. ‘Out now.’

Arnold Folkestad set down his teacup and looked at Harry. He scratched his red beard. Harry had seen him plucking spruce needles from it when he came to work, after cycling from the little house he had somewhere in the forest that was still so bizarrely close to the city centre. But Arnold had made it clear that colleagues who pigeonholed him as a progressive environmental activist because of his long beard, bicycle and house in the forest were wrong. He was only a tight-fisted weirdo who liked the silence.

‘You’d better tell her to rein herself in,’ Harry said. ‘It would seem more . . .’ He couldn’t find the word. Didn’t know if it existed. If so, it was somewhere between ‘correct’ and ‘less embarrassing for all concerned’.

‘Is Harry Hole frightened of a little girl in the front row who’s got a bit of a crush on her lecturer?’ Arnold Folkestad chuckled.

‘More correct and less embarrassing for all concerned.’

‘You’re going to have to sort this out yourself, Harry. Look, there she is . . .’ Arnold nodded towards the square outside the canteen window. Silje Gravseng was standing on her own a few metres from a throng of students chatting and laughing. She looked up at the sky, followed something with her eyes.

Harry sighed. ‘Perhaps I should wait a bit. Statistically speaking, I suppose these teacher infatuations are short-lived in a hundred per cent of cases.’

‘Speaking of stats,’ Folkestad said, ‘I’ve heard they’re claiming that that patient Hagen had under guard at the Rikshospital died of natural causes.’

‘So they say.’

‘The FBI ran some statistics on that. They examined all the cases where the prosecution’s key witness had died in the period between the official summons as a witness and the start of the trial. In serious trials, where the accused faced more than ten years’ prison, witnesses died of so-called unnatural causes in seventy-eight per cent of cases. The stats led to several witnesses being given a second post-mortem, after which the figure rose to ninety-four.’

‘So?’

‘Ninety-four is high, don’t you think?’

Harry stared out at the square. Silje was still looking at the sky. The sun was shining on her upturned face.

He cursed under his breath and drank the rest of his coffee.

Gunnar Hagen, balancing on one of the spindle-back chairs in Bellman’s office, looked up in surprise at the Chief of Police. Hagen had just told him about the small working group he had set up, in direct conflict with the Chief’s instructions, and the plan to set a trap in Berg. The surprise was caused by the fact that the Chief’s unusually good mood had not appeared to be upset by the news.

‘Excellent,’ Bellman exclaimed, clapping his hands. ‘Finally something proactive. May I pass on the plan and the map, so that we can get cracking?’

‘We? Do you mean that you personally—?’

‘Yes, I think it would be only natural for me to lead this, Gunnar. Such a big operation involves top-level decisions—’

‘There’s just one house and one man who—’

‘Then it’s right that I, as the most senior ranking officer, involve myself when there is so much at stake. And it is of paramount importance that the operation is kept secret. Do you understand?’

Hagen nodded. Secret if it doesn’t bear fruit, he thought. If, on the other hand, it leads to success and an arrest, publicity will be of paramount importance, and Mikael Bellman can take the credit and tell the press he was personally in charge of the operation.

‘Understood,’ Hagen said. ‘I’ll get going then. My understanding is therefore that the group in the Boiler Room can also resume their work?’

Mikael Bellman laughed. Hagen wondered what could have caused such a shift in mood. The Police Chief seemed ten years younger, ten kilos lighter and free from the frown he had carried like a deep gash in his forehead since the day he had been appointed.

‘Don’t push it, Gunnar. Liking the idea you’ve come up with doesn’t mean I like my subordinates defying my orders.’

Hagen shrugged, but still tried to capture the Police Chief’s cold, mocking gaze.

‘I’m freezing all activity in your group until further notice, Gunnar. Then we’d better have the requisite chat after this operation. And if in the meantime I find out you’ve so much as run one computer search or made a single phone call regarding this case . . .’

I’m older than him, and I’m a better man, Gunnar Hagen thought, keeping his eyes raised and knowing a mixture of defiance and shame were causing his cheeks to flush.

It’s just decoration, he reminded himself, the gold braid on a uniform.

Then he lowered his gaze.

It was late. Katrine Bratt stared down at the report in front of her. She shouldn’t have done. Beate had just rung to say that Hagen had asked them all to stop their work, direct orders from Bellman. So Katrine should have been at home, lying in bed with a big cup of camomile tea and a man who loved her, or alternatively watching a TV series she loved. Instead of sitting here in the Boiler Room, reading case files and searching for possible flaws, hints of something that didn’t sit right and any vague connections. And this connection was so vague it verged on the inane. Or did it? It had been relatively easy to gain access to the reports on the Anton Mittet murder via the police’s own system. The summarised search of the car had been as detailed as it was soporific. So why had she stopped at this particular sentence? Among all the potential evidence they had removed from Mittet’s car was an ice scraper and a lighter plus some chewing gum stuck to the underside of the driver’s seat.