Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8) (31 page)

‘Good,’ Beate said, trying to sound as if she meant it. She bent down and looked into the back of the car, but all she could see was a silhouette beneath the reflection of herself in the morning sun. ‘Can someone lower the window?’

She tried to breathe calmly as the window slid soundlessly down.

She recognised him at once. He didn’t look at her, he stared straight ahead, stared into the Oslo morning with half-closed eyes, as though still in the dream he hadn’t wanted to wake up from.

‘Have you searched him?’ she asked.

‘Close encounter of the third kind,’ the plain-clothes man grinned. ‘No, he didn’t have a weapon on him.’

‘I mean, have you searched him for drugs? Checked his pockets?’

‘Well, no. Why would we?’

‘Because this is Chris Reddy, also known as Adidas, several convictions for selling speed. He tried to run, so you can bet your life he’s got something on him. So strip him.’

Beate Lønn straightened up and went back to the Amazon.

‘I thought she did fingerprints,’ she heard the plain-clothes man say to Bjørn Holm, who had come to join them. ‘Not that she recognised junkies.’

‘She recognises anyone who’s ever been in Oslo Police archives,’ Bjørn said. ‘Look a bit closer next time, OK?’

When Bjørn got in the car and glanced at her, Beate knew she looked like a grumpy old cow, with her arms crossed, fuming as she stared ahead.

‘We’ll collar him on Sunday,’ Bjørn said.

‘Let’s hope so,’ Beate said. ‘Everything set up in Bergslia?’

‘Delta’s done a recce and found their positions. They said it was simple with all the forest around. But they’re in the neighbouring house as well.’

‘And everyone who investigated the original crime has been informed?’

‘Yes. Everyone will be near a phone all day and report in if they receive a call.’

‘That goes for you too, Bjørn.’

‘And you. By the way, why wasn’t Harry on that case? He was an inspector in Crime Squad then.’

‘Mm, he was indisposed.’

‘On the booze?’

‘How are we using Katrine?’

‘She’s got a position in Berg Forest, with a good view of the house.’

‘I want regular mobile contact with her all the time she’s there.’

‘I’ll tell her.’

Beate glanced at her watch. 09.16. They drove down Thomas Heftyes gate and Bygdøy allé. Not because it was the shortest way to Police HQ, but because it was the most scenic. And because it killed some time. Beate glanced at her watch again. 09.22. D-Day in two days. Sunday.

Her heart was still beating fast.

Was already beating fast.

Johan Krohn kept Harry waiting in reception the usual four minutes past the time of the appointment before coming out. Gave a couple of obviously superfluous messages to the receptionist before directing his attention to the two people sitting there.

‘Hole,’ he said, fleetingly studying the policeman’s face to diagnose mood and attitude before proffering his hand. ‘You’ve brought your own lawyer, have you?’

‘This is Arnold Folkestad,’ Harry said. ‘He’s a colleague, and I’ve asked him to join me so that I have a witness to what is said and agreed.’

‘Wise, very wise,’ said Johan Krohn, without anything in his tone or expression suggesting he meant it. ‘Come in, come in.’

He led the way, looked quickly at a surprisingly petite, feminine wristwatch and Harry took the hint: I’m a busy lawyer with limited time for this relatively minor matter. The office was executive size and smelt of leather, which Harry assumed came from the bound chronological volumes of
Norsk Rettstidende
filling the shelves. And a perfume he recognised. Silje Gravseng was sitting in a chair, half turned towards them, half turned towards Johan Krohn’s massive desk.

‘Endangered species?’ Harry asked, running a hand across the desk before taking a seat.

‘Standard teak,’ Krohn said, occupying the driving seat behind the rainforest.

‘Standard yesterday, endangered today,’ Harry said, nodding briefly to Silje Gravseng. She answered by slowly lowering her eyelids and opening them again, as if she mustn’t move her head. Her hair was tied in a ponytail so tight it made her eyes narrower than usual. She was wearing a suit that could easily suggest she worked in the office. She seemed calm.

‘Shall we get down to business?’ said Johan Krohn, who had adopted his customary pose with his fingertips pressed together. ‘Frøken Gravseng has testified that she was raped in your office at the Politihøyskole at around midnight on the night in question. The evidence so far: scratch marks, bruises and a torn dress. All this has been photographed and can be used as proof in a court of law.’

Krohn shot Silje a quick glance to ensure she was bearing up under the strain before continuing.

‘The medical examination at the Rape Crisis Centre didn’t, it is true, reveal any tears or bruising, but it rarely does. Even in brutal attacks we’re only talking about fifteen to thirty per cent of cases. There is no sign of semen as you had enough presence of mind to ejaculate externally, on frøken Gravseng’s stomach to be precise, before you told her to get dressed, dragged her to the door and threw her out. Shame she didn’t have the same presence of mind as you did in retaining some of the sperm as evidence. Instead, she cried in the shower for hours and did her utmost to wash away all the signs of her defilement. Not so surprising, perhaps, a very understandable and normal reaction for a young girl.’

Krohn’s voice had acquired a slightly indignant quiver, which Harry assumed wasn’t genuine, but rather designed to demonstrate how effective this testimony could be in court.

‘But the staff at the Rape Crisis Centre are required to describe the victim’s psychological state in a few lines. We are talking here about professionals with long experience of rape victims’ behaviour, and accordingly these are descriptions that the court would set great store by. And, believe me, in this case the psychological observations support my client’s statement.’

An almost apologetic smile flitted across the lawyer’s face.

‘But before going over the evidence in any more detail let’s establish whether you have given my proposal any more thought, Hole. If you have concluded that accepting my offer is the right path – and I hope for everyone’s sake you have – I have the written contract here. Which, I hardly need say, will remain confidential.’

Krohn passed a black leather document case to Harry while sending eloquent glances to Arnold Folkestad, who nodded slowly.

Harry opened the case and scanned the A4 sheet.

‘Mm. I resign from PHS and waive any work in, or in connection with, the police force. And I do not talk under any circumstances with or about Silje Gravseng. Ready for signature, I can see.’

‘It’s not exactly complicated, so if you’ve already done your own calculations and come to the correct solution . . .’

Harry nodded. Looked across at Silje Gravseng, who was sitting there, as stiff as a post, staring back at him, her face pale and expressionless.

Arnold Folkestad coughed quietly, and Krohn turned his attention to him with a friendly gaze while straightening his wristwatch in a studied casual manner. Arnold held out a yellow folder.

‘What’s this?’ Krohn asked, taking it with one raised eyebrow.

‘Our suggestion for an agreement,’ Folkestad said. ‘As you’ll see, we suggest Silje Gravseng terminates her course at PHS with immediate effect and does not apply under any circumstances for a job in, or in connection with, the police force.’

‘You are joking . . .’

‘And she does not try under any circumstances to contact Harry Hole again.’

‘This is preposterous.’

‘In return, we will – out of consideration for all parties – refrain from legally pursuing this false accusation and attempted blackmail of a PHS employee.’

‘In that case, see you in court,’ Krohn said, managing to avoid the cliché sounding like one. ‘And even if you suffer as a result I am looking forward to conducting the prosecution.’

Folkestad shrugged. ‘Then I’m afraid you’re going to be a bit disappointed, Krohn.’

‘Let’s see who will be disappointed.’ Krohn had already risen to his feet and done up one button of his jacket, a sign he was on his way to the next meeting, when he caught Harry’s eye. He hesitated.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind taking the trouble,’ Folkestad said, ‘I would suggest you read the documents behind the proposed agreement.’

Krohn opened the file again. Flicked through. Read.

‘As you can see,’ Folkestad continued, ‘your client has followed the lectures at PHS about rape, in which, among other things, there is a description of how rape victims tend to react psychologically.’

‘That doesn’t mean—’

‘May I ask you to wait with your objections until the end and now flick over to the next page, Krohn? There you will find a signed, and for the moment unofficial, witness statement from a male student who was standing outside the front entrance where he saw frøken Gravseng leaving PHS at the time in question. He states that she looked angry rather than frightened. He doesn’t mention anything about a torn dress. On the contrary, he says she appeared to be both dressed and unhurt. And he admits to studying her very closely.’ He turned to Silje Gravseng. ‘A compliment to you, I assume . . .’

She sat as still as before, but her cheeks had coloured up and her eyes were blinking non-stop.

‘As you can see, Harry Hole went over to him a maximum of one minute, so sixty seconds, after frøken Gravseng had passed him. Hole stayed with the witness until I arrived and took Hole to Krimteknisk, which is –’ Folkestad motioned with his hand – ‘on the next page, there, yes.’

Krohn read it, and slumped back in his chair.

‘The report says that Hole has none of the things you would expect a man who has just committed rape to have. No skin under the nails, no genital secretions or pubic hairs from other persons on his hands or his genitals. And this gives the lie to frøken Gravseng’s statement about scratching and penetration. Furthermore, there are no marks on Hole’s body to suggest she had been fighting him at all. The only suggestion of contact is two hairs on his clothes, but they are no more than one would expect after she had leaned across him, see page three.’

Krohn flicked through without looking up. His eyes danced down the page, his lips forming a profanity after three seconds, and Harry knew the myth was true: no one in Norwegian justice circles could read an A4 document faster than Johan Krohn.

‘Finally,’ Folkestad said, ‘if you look at the volume of Hole’s ejaculate only half an hour after the alleged rape, it shows four millimetres. A second ejaculation within the same half an hour would produce less than ten per cent of that. In short, unless Harry Hole’s testicles are made of something very special he did not have an ejaculation at the time frøken Gravseng claims.’

In the ensuing silence Harry could hear a car horn outside, shouting, then laughter and swearing. The traffic was at a standstill.

‘It’s not exactly complicated,’ Folkestad said, tentatively smiling into his beard. ‘So if you’ve done your calculations and—’

The hydraulic snort of brakes being released. And then the bang as Silje Gravseng got up from her chair immediately followed by the bang of the door as she left the room.

Krohn sat with his head lowered for some time. When he raised it again, his gaze was directed at Harry.

‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘As a defence counsel we have to accept that our clients lie to save their skins. But this . . . I should have read the situation better.’

Harry shrugged. ‘You don’t know her, do you?’

‘No,’ Krohn said. ‘But I know you.
Should
know you after so many years, Hole. I’ll get her to sign your agreement.’

‘And if she won’t?’

‘I’ll explain to her the consequences of making a false accusation. And an official expulsion from PHS. She’s not stupid, you know.’

‘I know,’ Harry said, getting up with a sigh. ‘I know.’

Outside, the traffic had started again.

Harry and Arnold Folkestad walked up Karl Johans gate.

‘Thank you,’ Harry said. ‘But I’m still wondering how you grasped everything so quickly.’

‘I have some experience of OCD,’ Arnold smiled.

‘Sorry?’

‘Obsessive compulsive disorder. When a person with that predisposition has made a decision, she stops at nothing. Action is in itself more important than the consequences.’

‘I know what OCD is. I have a psychologist pal who has accused me of being halfway there myself. What I meant was, how did you twig so fast that we needed a witness and that we had to get ourselves to Krimteknisk?’

Arnold Folkestad chuckled. ‘I don’t know if I can tell you that, Harry.’

‘Why not?’

‘What I can tell you is that I was involved in a case where two policemen were about to be reported by someone they’d beaten senseless. But by doing something similar to what we’ve just done they got one over on him. One of them burnt the evidence that counted against them. And what was left wasn’t enough, so the man’s lawyer advised him to drop the charge because they wouldn’t get anywhere. I reckoned the same would happen here.’

‘Now you’re making it sound as if I really did rape her, Arnold.’

‘Sorry.’ Arnold laughed. ‘I had been half expecting that something like this would happen. The girl’s a ticking time bomb. Our psychological tests should have disqualified her before she was offered a place on the course.’

They walked across Egertorget. Images flickered through Harry’s brain. A smile from a laughing girlfriend one May when he was young. The body of a Salvation Army soldier in front of the Christmas kettle. A town full of memories.

‘So who were the two policemen?’

‘One pretty high up.’

‘Is that why you won’t tell me? And you were part of it? Guilty conscience?’

Arnold Folkestad shrugged. ‘Anyone who doesn’t dare to stand up for justice should have a guilty conscience.’

‘Mm. A policeman with a history of violence and a predilection for burning evidence. There aren’t many of them. We wouldn’t by any chance be talking about an officer by the name of Truls Berntsen, would we?’