Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8) (51 page)

‘And high time too, frøken Bratt,’ the voice sang, and she felt so liberated to hear genuine Bergen dialect again. ‘You were supposed to have been here for a physical examination some time ago!’

‘Hans—’

‘Dr Hans, thank you very much. Please be so kind as to remove your top, Bratt.’

‘Pack it in,’ she warned him, with a smile on her lips.

‘May I ask you not to confuse medical expertise with unwanted sexual attentions in the workplace, Bratt?’

‘Someone told me you were back on the beat.’

‘Yep. And where are you at this minute?’

‘In Oslo. By the way, I can see from a list here that you worked at Stovner Police Station at the same time as Mikael Bellman and Truls Berntsen.’

‘That was straight after Police College, and only because of a woman, Bratt. The nightmare with the knockers – have I told you about her?’

‘Probably.’

‘But when it was all over with her, it was over with Oslo as well.’ He burst into song. ‘
Vestland, Vestland über alles
—’

‘Hans! When you worked with—’

‘No one worked
with
those two boys, Katrine. You either worked for them or you worked against them.’

‘Truls Berntsen has been suspended.’

‘And high time too. He’s beaten someone up again, I assume?’

‘Beaten up? Did he beat up prisoners?’

‘Worse than that. He beat up police officers.’

Katrine felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. ‘Oh? Who did he beat up?’

‘Everyone who tried it on with Bellman’s wife. Beavis Berntsen was head over heels in love with them both.’

‘What did he use?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When he beat them up.’

‘How should I know? Something hard, I suppose. At least it looked like that when that young Nordlander was stupid enough to dance too close to fru Bellman at the Christmas dinner.’

‘Which Nordlander?’

‘His name was . . . let me see . . . something with R. Yes, Runar. It was Runar. Runar . . . let me see now . . . Runar . . .’

Come on, Katrine thought, as her fingers automatically scampered across the keyboard.

‘Sorry, Katrine, it’s a long time ago. Perhaps if you take off your top?’

‘Tempting,’ Katrine said. ‘But I’ve found it without your help. There was only one Runar at Stovner at that time. Bye, Hans—’

‘Wait! A little mammogram doesn’t have to—’

‘Have to run, sicko.’

She rang off. Pressed Enter. Let the search engine work while she stared at the surname. There was something familiar about it. Where had she heard it? She closed her eyes, mumbling the name to herself. It was so unusual it couldn’t be chance. She opened her eyes. The result was in. There was a lot. Enough. Medical records. Admission to hospital for drug addiction. The correspondence between the head of a detox clinic in Oslo and the Police Chief. Pure, innocent, blue eyes looking at her. She suddenly knew where she had seen them before.

Harry let himself into the house, and strode over to the CD shelf without removing his shoes. Stuck his fingers between Waits’s
Bad As Me
and
A Pagan Place
which he had placed first in the line of the Waterboys CDs, though not without some agonising, as strictly speaking it was a remastered version from 2002. It was the safest place in the house. Neither Rakel nor Oleg had ever voluntarily selected a CD featuring Tom Waits or Mike Scott.

He coaxed out the key. Brass, small and hollow, weighing almost nothing. And yet it felt so heavy that his hand seemed to be drawn towards the floor as he went over to the corner cupboard. He inserted it in the keyhole and turned. Waited. Knowing there was no way back after he had opened it. The promise would be broken.

He had to use his strength to pull open the swollen cupboard door. He knew it was only old wood being released by the frame but it sounded as though a deep sigh came from inside the darkness. As though it realised it was free at last. Free to inflict hell on earth.

It smelt of metal and oil.

He inhaled. Felt as if he was sticking his hand into a den of snakes. His fingers groped before finding the cold, scaly skin of steel. He grabbed the reptile’s head and lifted it out.

It was an ugly weapon. Fascinatingly ugly. Soviet Russian engineering at its most brutally effective, it could take as much of a beating as a Kalashnikov.

Harry weighed the gun in his hand.

He knew it was heavy, and yet it felt light. Light now that the decision had been taken. He breathed out. The demon was free.

‘Hi,’ Ståle said, closing the Boiler Room door behind him. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yeah,’ Bjørn said from his chair, staring at the phone.

Ståle sat down on a chair. ‘Where . . .?’

‘Harry had to sort something out. Katrine was gone when I arrived.’

‘You look as if you’ve had a tough day.’

Bjørn smiled wanly. ‘You, too, Dr Aune.’

Ståle ran a hand across his pate. ‘Well, I’ve just entered a classroom, embraced my daughter and sobbed with the whole class watching. Aurora claims it was an experience that will mark her for life. I tried to explain to her that fortunately most children are born with enough strength to bear the burden that is their parents’ love and that from a Darwinian point of view she should therefore be able to survive this as well. All because she had a sleepover with Emilie and there are two Emilies in the class. I rang the mother of the wrong Emilie.’

‘Did you get the message that we’ve postponed the meeting for today? A body has been found. Of a girl.’

‘Yes, I know. It was grim by all accounts.’

Bjørn nodded slowly. Pointed to the phone. ‘I have to ring the father now.’

‘You’re dreading it of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘You’re wondering why the father has to be punished in this way? Why he has to lose her twice? Why once isn’t enough?’

‘That sort of thing.’

‘The answer is because the murderer sees himself as the divine avenger, Bjørn.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Bjørn said, sending the psychologist a vacant look.

‘Do you know your Bible? “God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth; the Lord revengeth, and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.” You get the gist anyway, don’t you?’

‘I’m a simple boy from Østre Toten who scraped through confirmation and—’

‘That’s why I’m here now.’ Ståle leaned forward in his chair. ‘The murderer is an avenger, and Harry’s right, he kills out of love, not out of hatred, profit or sadistic enjoyment. Someone has taken something from him that he loved, and now he’s taking from the victims what they loved most. It could be their lives. Or something they value more: their children.’

Bjørn nodded. ‘Roar Midtstuen would have happily given his life to save his daughter.’

‘So what we have to look for is someone who’s lost something they loved. An avenger out of love. Because that . . .’ Ståle Aune clenched his right hand. ‘. . . because that’s the only motive that’s strong enough here, Bjørn. Do you understand?’

Bjørn nodded. ‘I think so. But I reckon I’ll have to call Midtstuen now.’

‘I’ll leave you in peace then.’

Bjørn waited until Ståle had gone, then he dialled the number he had been looking at for so long it felt as if it had been stamped on his retina. He took deep breaths as he counted the rings. Wondering how many times he should let it ring before putting the receiver down. Then all of a sudden he heard his colleague’s voice.

‘Bjørn, is that you?’

‘Yes. You’ve got my number saved then?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I see. Right. I’m afraid there’s something I have to tell you.’

Pause.

Bjørn swallowed. ‘It’s about your daughter. She—’

‘Bjørn, before you go any further, I don’t know what this is about, but I can hear from your tone that it’s serious. And I can’t take any more phone calls about Fia. This is just like it was then. No one could look me in the eye. Everyone rang. Seemed to be easier. Please would you come here? Look me in the eye when you say whatever it is. Bjørn?’

‘Of course,’ Bjørn Holm said, taken aback. He had never heard Roar Midtstuen talk so openly and honestly about his frailty before. ‘Where are you?’

‘It’s exactly nine months today, so as it happens I’m on my way to the place where she was killed. To lay a few flowers, think—’

‘Just tell me exactly where it is and I’ll be there right away.’

Katrine Bratt gave up looking for somewhere to park. It had been easier finding the telephone number and address online. But after ringing four times and getting neither an answer nor an answerphone, she had requisitioned a car and driven to Industrigata in Majorstuen, a one-way street with a greengrocer’s, a couple of galleries, at least one restaurant, a picture-framing workshop, but, well, no free parking spaces.

Katrine made a decision, drove up onto the pavement, killed the engine, put a note on the windscreen saying she was a police officer, which she knew meant sod all to traffic wardens, who, according to Harry, were all that stood between civilisation and total chaos.

She walked back the way she had come, towards Bogstadsveien’s stylish shopping hysteria. Stopped outside a block of flats in Josefines gate where once or twice during her studies at Police College she had ended up for a late-night coffee. So-called late-night coffee. Alleged late-night coffee. Not that she’d minded. Oslo Police District had owned the block and rented out rooms to students at the college. Katrine found the name she was searching for on the panel of doorbells, pressed and waited while contemplating the simple four-storey facade. Pressed again. Waited.

‘No one at home?’

She turned. Automatic smile. Guessed the man was in his forties, perhaps a well-kept fifty-year-old. Tall, still with hair, flannel shirt, Levi’s 501s.

‘I’m the caretaker.’

‘And I’m Detective Katrine Bratt, Crime Squad. I’m looking for Silje Gravseng.’

He studied the ID card she held out and shamelessly examined her from top to toe.

‘Silje Gravseng, yes,’ the caretaker said. ‘Apparently she’s left PHS, so she won’t be here for much longer.’

‘But she’s still here?’

‘Yes, she is. Room 412. Can I pass on a message?’

‘Please. Ask her to ring this number. I want to talk to her about Runar Gravseng, her brother.’

‘Has he done something wrong?’

‘Hardly. He’s sectioned and always sits in the middle of the room because he thinks the walls are people who want to beat him to death.’

‘Oh dear.’

Katrine took out her notebook and wrote her name and number. ‘You can tell her it’s about the police murders.’

‘Yes, she seems to be obsessed by them.’

Katrine stopped writing. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She uses them like wallpaper. Newspaper cuttings about dead policemen, I mean. Not that it’s any of my business. Students can put up what they like, but that’s a bit . . . creepy, isn’t it?’

Katrine looked at him. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Leif Rødbekk.’

‘Listen, Leif. Do you think I could have a peek at her room? I’d like to see the cuttings.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Can I?’

‘No problem. Just show me the search warrant.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t—’

‘I was kidding,’ he grinned. ‘Come with me.’

A minute later they were in the lift on their way to the third floor.

‘The rental agreement says I can go into the rooms as long as I’ve given advance warning. Right now we’re checking all the electric radiators for accumulated dust. One of them caught fire last week. And we tried to give her advance warning before we entered, but Silje didn’t answer the intercom. Sound all right to you, Detective Bratt?’ Another grin. Wolfish grin, Katrine thought. Not without charm. If he’d taken the liberty of using her Christian name at the end of the sentence, it would of course have been over, but he did have a certain lilt. Her gaze sought his ring finger. The smooth gold was matt. The lift doors opened and she followed him down the narrow corridor until he stopped in front of one of the blue doors.

He knocked and waited. Knocked again. Waited.

‘Let’s go in,’ he said, turning the key in the lock.

‘You’ve been very helpful, Rødbekk.’

‘Leif. And it’s a pleasure to be able to help. It’s not every day I run into such a . . .’ He opened the door for her but stood in such a way that if she wanted to go in she would have to squeeze past him. She sent him an admonitory glance. ‘. . . serious case,’ he said with laughter dancing in his eyes and stepped to the side.

Katrine went in. The rooms hadn’t changed a lot. There was still a kitchenette and the bathroom door at one end and a curtain at the other, behind which Katrine remembered there was a bed. But the first thing that struck her was that she had entered a girl’s room and it couldn’t be a very mature girl living here. Silje Gravseng must long for something in the past. The sofa in the corner was covered with a motley collection of teddy bears, dolls and various cuddly toys. Her clothes, strewn across the table and chairs, were brightly coloured, predominantly pink. On the walls there were pictures, a human menagerie of fashion victims; Katrine guessed they were from boy bands or the Disney Channel.

The second thing to strike her was the black-and-white newspaper cuttings between the lurid glamour shots. She walked round the room, but was drawn to the wall above the iMac on the desk.

Katrine went closer although she had already recognised most of the cuttings. They had the same ones on the wall of the Boiler Room.

The cuttings were fastened with drawing pins and bore no other notes than the date written in biro.

She rejected her first thought and instead tested a second: that it was not so strange for a PHS student to be fascinated by such a high-profile ongoing murder case.

Beside the keyboard lay the newspapers the cuttings had been taken from. And between the papers a postcard with a picture of a north Norwegian mountain peak she recognised: Svolværgeita in Lofoten. She picked up the card and turned it over, but there wasn’t a stamp, or an address or signature. She had already put the card down when her brain told her what her eyes had registered where they had automatically searched for a signature. A word in block capitals where the writing had finished. POLITI. She picked up the card again, holding it by the edges this time and read it from the start.