Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8) (60 page)

Harry turned into Slemdalsveien, accelerated and passed an oncoming tram. Said a silent prayer that Arnold Folkestad would be on his way home just like him.

He swung into Holmenkollveien. Hoping Rakel wouldn’t freak out when she saw him. Hoping Oleg . . .

God, how he was looking forward to seeing them. Even now, in the state he was in. Especially now.

He slowed before turning into the drive up to the house.

Then he jammed on the brakes.

Put the car into reverse.

Backed up slowly.

He looked at the parked cars he had just passed, lining the pavement. Stopped. Breathed through his nostrils.

Arnold Folkestad had been on his way home, true enough. Just like him.

For parked between two cars which were more typical of Holmenkollen – an Audi and a Mercedes – was a Fiat of indeterminate vintage.

50

HARRY STOOD UNDER
the spruce trees for a few seconds studying the house.

From there he couldn’t see any signs of a break-in, neither through the door with the three locks nor through the bars on the windows.

Of course it was by no means certain that it was Folkestad’s Fiat on the road. Lots of people had a Fiat. Harry had placed his hand on the bonnet. It was still warm. He had left his own car in the middle of the road.

Harry ran through the trees until he was at the back of the house.

Waited, listened. Nothing.

He crept over to the wall. Stretched, peered in through the windows, but saw nothing, only darkened rooms.

He continued round the house until he came to the illuminated windows of the kitchen and the living room.

Stood up on his tiptoes and looked in. Ducked down again. Leaned back against the rough timber and concentrated on breathing. Because he had to breathe now. Had to ensure his brain had enough oxygen to think at speed.

A fortress. And what bloody good had that been?

He had them.

They were there.

Arnold Folkestad. Rakel. And Oleg.

Harry concentrated on memorising what he had seen.

They were sitting in the entrance hall by the front door.

Oleg on a spindle-back chair placed in the middle of the room, with Rakel right behind him. Oleg had a white gag in his mouth, and Rakel was tying him to the chair.

And a few metres behind them, ensconced in an armchair, was Arnold Folkestad with a gun in his hand, evidently giving Rakel orders.

The details. Folkestad’s gun was a Heckler & Koch, standard police issue. Reliable, wouldn’t jam. Rakel’s mobile phone was on the living-room table. Neither of them looked hurt for the moment. For the moment.

Why . . .?

Harry stopped thinking. There wasn’t room, there wasn’t time for any whys, just how he could stop Folkestad.

Harry had already seen that it was an impossible shot. He wouldn’t be able to hit Arnold Folkestad without endangering Oleg and Rakel.

Harry raised his head above the windowsill and ducked down again.

Rakel would soon have finished her job.

Folkestad would soon start his.

He had seen the baton. It was leaning against the bookcase beside the armchair. Soon Folkestad would smash Oleg’s face the way he had with the others. A young boy who wasn’t even a policeman. And Folkestad had to be under the illusion that Harry was already dead, so the revenge was pointless. Why . . .? Stop. No whys.

He had to ring Bjørn. Get Delta sent here. They were in the forest on the wrong side of town. It could easily take forty-five minutes. Fuck! He would have to do this on his own!

Harry told himself he had time.

He had several seconds, maybe a minute.

But he couldn’t hope for the element of surprise if he tried to burst in, not with three locks to open. Folkestad would hear him long before he was inside. Holding a gun to either Rakel’s or Oleg’s head.

Quickly, quickly! Something, anything, Harry.

He took out his mobile phone. Wanting to text Bjørn. But his fingers wouldn’t obey, they had frozen, they were numb, as though the blood supply had been cut off.

Not now, Harry, don’t freeze. This is a standard number. It’s not them, they are . . . victims. Faceless victims. They are . . . the woman you were going to marry, and the boy who called you Dad when he was small and was so tired he forgot himself. The boy you never wanted to disappoint, but whose birthday you still forgot and that – that on its own – could make you cry and you became so desperate you had to trick him. You always had to trick him.

Harry blinked into the darkness.

You old trickster.

The mobile phone on the table. Should he ring Rakel’s phone, see if it would make Folkestad stand up and move away from Rakel and Oleg? Shoot him as he picked it up?

And what if he didn’t? If he stayed where he was?

Harry took another peek. Ducked down, hoping Folkestad hadn’t seen the movement. Folkestad had got up with the baton in his hand and pushed Rakel to one side. And even if he got a clear shot in there was very little chance that at a distance of almost ten metres he would be lucky enough to stop Folkestad in his tracks. A better precision weapon was required than a Russian Odessa and a more suitable calibre than a Makarov 9x18mm. He had to get closer, preferably within two metres.

He heard Rakel’s voice through the window.

‘Take me! Please.’

Harry pressed his head against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. Act, act. But how? Most merciful God, how? Give a terrible sinner of a trickster a hint and he’ll pay you back with . . . whatever you want. Harry inhaled, whispering a promise.

Rakel stared at the man with the red beard. He was standing directly behind Oleg’s chair with the end of the baton resting on his shoulder. In the other hand he was holding a gun pointed at her.

‘I’m really sorry, Rakel, but I can’t spare the boy. He’s the real target, you see.’

‘But why?’ Rakel wasn’t aware of the crying, only the hot tears running down her cheeks, like a physical reaction disengaged from what she felt. Or didn’t feel. The numbness. ‘Why are you doing this, Arnold? It’s just . . . it’s just . . .’

‘Sick?’ Arnold Folkestad smiled, apologetically – or so it seemed. ‘That’s probably what all of you’d like to believe. That we can all enjoy our grandiose revenge fantasies, but none of us is willing, or even capable, of carrying them out.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I can love, I can hate. Well, now I can’t love any more. So I’ve replaced it with . . .’ He raised the baton aloft. ‘. . . this. I’m honouring my beloved. René, you see, wasn’t just any lover. He was . . .’ He put the baton down on the floor, rested it against the back of the chair and groped in his pocket, but without lowering the gun by so much as a millimetre. ‘. . . the apple of my eye. Who was taken from me. And nothing was done about it.’

Rakel stared at what he was holding. Knowing she should be shocked, unnerved, frightened. But she felt nothing; her heart was already frozen.

‘He had such nice eyes, Mikael Bellman did. So I took from him what he took from me. The best he had.’

‘An eye. But why Oleg?’

‘Do you really not understand, Rakel? He’s a seed. Harry told me he was going to be a policeman. And he’s already failed in his duty, and that makes him one of them.’

‘Duty? What sort of duty?’

‘The duty to catch murderers and pass judgement on them. He knows who killed Gusto Hanssen. You look surprised. I’ve had a look at the case. And it’s obvious that if Oleg didn’t kill him himself, he knows who the guilty party is. Anything else is a logical impossibility. Hasn’t Harry told you? Oleg was there, present, when Gusto was killed, Rakel. And do you know what I thought when I saw Gusto in the crime-scene photos? How beautiful he was. He and René were beautiful young men with their whole lives before them.’

‘My boy has his whole life too! Please, Arnold, you don’t need to do this.’

As she took a step towards him he raised the gun. Pointing it, not at her but at Oleg.

‘Don’t worry, Rakel. You’ll have to die as well. You’re not a target as such, but you’re a witness, and I’ll have to dispose of you.’

‘Harry will find you. And he’ll kill you.’

‘I’m sorry to have to bring you so much pain, Rakel. I really do like you. But I think it’s only right that you should know. You see, Harry won’t find anything. He’s already dead, I’m afraid.’

Rakel stared at him in disbelief. He
was
really sorry. Suddenly the phone on the table lit up and emitted a simple whistling tone. She glanced at it.

‘Looks like you’re wrong,’ she said.

Arnold Folkestad frowned. ‘Give me the phone.’

Rakel picked it up and passed it to him. He pressed the gun against Oleg’s neck while grabbing the phone. Read the message quickly. Sent Rakel a sharp glare.

‘“Don’t let Oleg see the present.”’ What’s that supposed to mean?’

Rakel shrugged. ‘It means he’s alive anyway.’

‘Impossible. They said on the radio my bomb had gone off.’

‘Can’t you just get out right now, Arnold? Before it’s too late.’

Folkestad blinked pensively while staring at her. Or through her.

‘I see. Someone beat Harry to it. Went into the flat. Ka-boom. Of course.’ He chuckled. ‘Harry’s on his way here now, isn’t he? He doesn’t suspect a thing. I can shoot you first and then wait for him to come through that door.’

He seemed to run through his reasoning one more time and nodded as if he had come to the same conclusion. And pointed the gun at Rakel.

Oleg began to wriggle on the chair, tried to jump, and groaned desperately through the gag. Rakel stared into the muzzle of the gun. Felt her heart stop beating. As though her brain had accepted the inevitable and was starting to close down. She was no longer afraid. She wanted to die. To die for Oleg. Perhaps Harry would get here before . . . perhaps he would save Oleg. For she knew something now. She closed her eyes. Waited for something she didn’t know. A blow, a stab, pain. Darkness. She had no gods she wanted to pray to.

A lock on the front door rattled.

She opened her eyes.

Arnold had lowered his gun and was staring at the door.

A small pause. Then it began to rattle again.

Arnold stepped back, seized the blanket from the armchair and slung it over Oleg so that it covered both him and the chair.

‘Act as if nothing’s happened,’ he whispered. ‘If you say one word I’ll put a bullet through the back of your son’s head.’

There was a third rattle. Rakel saw Arnold position himself behind Oleg and the chair so that the gun couldn’t be seen from the front door.

Then the door opened.

And there he was. A towering figure, beaming smile, open jacket and ravaged face.

‘Arnold!’ he exclaimed with delight. ‘What a pleasure!’

Arnold laughed back. ‘You’re quite a sight, Harry! What happened?’

‘Cop killer. A bomb.’

‘Really?’

‘Nothing of any consequence. What brings you here?’

‘I was passing. And remembered I had to discuss a couple of things about the timetable. Would you mind coming over here for a second?’

‘Not until I’ve given her a good hug,’ he said and opened his arms to Rakel, who flew into his embrace. ‘How was the trip, darling?’

Arnold cleared his throat. ‘You can let him go now, Rakel. I’ve got a few things to do tonight.’

‘Now you’re being a bit stern, Arnold,’ Harry laughed and let go of Rakel, pushing her away and taking off his coat.

‘Come over here then,’ Arnold said.

‘There’s better light here, Arnold.’

‘My knee hurts. Come over here.’

Harry bent down and pulled at his shoelaces. ‘I’ve been in one helluva an explosion today, so you’ll have to excuse me if I remove my shoes first. You’ll have to use your knee on the way out anyway, so bring the timetable over here if you’re in such a hurry.’

Harry stared down at his shoes. The distance from Arnold and the chair covered with the blanket was six or seven metres. Too far for someone who had admitted that his vision and the shakes meant he couldn’t hit a target more than half a metre away. And now, the target had suddenly crouched down and made itself much smaller by lowering its head and leaning forward so that it was protected by its shoulders.

He pulled at the laces, pretending they were knotted.

Tempting Arnold. He had to tempt him over.

For there was only one way. And perhaps that was what had made him so calm and relaxed. All or nothing. The bet was already made. The rest was in the lap of the gods.

And perhaps it was this calmness that Arnold sensed.

‘As you wish, Harry.’

Harry heard Arnold walking across the floor. Still concentrating on his laces. Knew Arnold had passed Oleg on the chair, Oleg who was perfectly still, as though he knew what was going on.

Then Arnold passed Rakel.

The moment had arrived.

Harry looked up. Stared into the gun muzzle, the black eye staring at him from twenty, thirty centimetres.

He had known from the moment he entered the house that the slightest sudden move would set Arnold off. Shooting the closest person first. Oleg. Had Arnold known that Harry was armed? Had he known that he would take a gun with him to the meeting with Truls Berntsen?

Maybe. Maybe not.

It didn’t make any difference. Harry would never have time to draw a weapon now, however accessible it was.

‘Arnold, why—?’

‘Farewell, my friend.’

Harry watched Arnold Folkestad’s finger tighten around the trigger.

And he knew it wouldn’t be coming, the clarification, the one we think we will glimpse at our journey’s end. Neither the big revelation, why we are born and die, and what the point is of both, plus the bit in between. Nor the small one, what makes a person like Folkestad willing to sacrifice his life to destroy the lives of others. Instead, there would be this syncope, this swift cessation of life, this trivial but logically placed pause in the middle of a word. The where for.

The powder burned with – literally – explosive speed, and the pressure created dispatched the bullet from the brass cartridge at a speed of approximately three hundred and sixty metres per second. The soft lead was shaped by the grooves in the barrel making the bullet rotate so that it would be more stable through the air. But in this case that wasn’t necessary. Because after only a few centimetres of air the chunk of lead penetrated the skin and was slowed in its encounter with the skull. And when the bullet reached the brain its speed was down to three hundred kilometres an hour. The projectile passed through and destroyed first the motor cortex, paralysing all movement, then it pierced the parietal lobe, smashed the functions in the right and front lobes, sliced the optical nerve and hit the inside of the cranium on the opposite side. The angle and reduced speed meant that the bullet, instead of continuing and exiting, ricocheted, hit other parts of the skull at slower and slower rates and finally came to a halt. By then it had already done so much damage the heart had stopped beating.