The Redeemer (45 page)

'Yes, she watched him in the mirror. Then he fell on the corner. Where we found a Croatian coin.'

He focused on the corner. That was where the beggar with the beard had been standing the last time he had been here. Perhaps he had seen something? But now it was minus twenty-two and no one was around.

'Let's go to Forensics,' Harry said.

Without a word they drove up Toftes gate to Ring 2. Past Ullevål Hospital. They were passing white gardens and English-style brick houses in Sognsveien when Harry broke the silence.

'Pull in.'

'Now? Here?'

'Yes.'

She checked her mirror and did as he said.

'Put the hazard lights on,' Harry said. 'And then concentrate on me. Do you remember the association game I taught you?'

'You mean the one about speaking before you think?'

'Or saying what you think before thinking that you shouldn't think that. Empty your mind.'

Beate closed her eyes. Outside, a family passed them on skis.

'Ready? OK. Who sent Robert Karlsen to Zagreb?'

'Sofia's mother.'

'Mm,' Harry said. 'Where did that come from?'

'No idea,' Beate said, opening her eyes. 'She has no motive as far as we're aware. And she is definitely not the type. Perhaps because she is a Croat like Stankic. My subconscious doesn't have such complicated thoughts.'

'All of that may be correct,' Harry said. 'Apart from the last part about your subconscious. OK. Ask me.'

'Must I ask . . . aloud?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Just do it,' he said, closing his eyes. 'I'm ready.'

'Who sent Robert Karslen to Zagreb?'

'Nilsen.'

'Nilsen? Who's Nilsen?'

Harry opened his eyes again.

He blinked into the lights of the oncoming traffic, a little dazed. 'I suppose it must be Rikard.'

'Funny game,' Beate said.

'Drive,' Harry said.

Darkness had fallen over Østgård. The radio on the windowsill jabbered away.

'Is there really no one who can recognise you?' Martine asked.

'There are some who can,' he said. 'But it takes time to learn my face. Not many have taken the time.'

'So it's not about you. It's the others?'

'Maybe. But I don't want them to recognise me. That's . . . something I do.'

'You flee.'

'No, on the contrary. I infiltrate. I invade. I make myself invisible and sneak into places I want to be.'

'But if no one sees you, what's the point?'

He looked at her in surprise. There was a jingle on the radio and then a woman's voice began to speak with the neutral gravity of a newsreader.

'What is she saying?' he asked.

'It's going to get even colder. Nursery schools closing. Old people warned to stay inside and not to save electricity.'

'But you saw me,' he said. 'You recognised me.'

'I'm a people-watcher,' she said. 'I see them. That's my one talent.'

'Is that why you're helping me?' he asked. 'Is that why you haven't tried to run away even once?'

She studied him. 'No, that's not why,' she said at length.

'Why?'

'Because I want Jon Karlsen to die. I want him to be even deader than you are.'

He gave a start. Was she out of her mind?

'Me, dead?'

'That's what they have been claiming on the news for the past few hours,' she said, nodding towards the radio.

She breathed in and put on the grave, imperious voice of the newsreader. 'The man suspected of the Egertorget murder died last night, shot by police Special Forces during a raid on the container terminal. According to Sivert Falkeid, the Special Forces commander, the suspect refused to surrender and went for his gun. Oslo Crime Squad head, Chief Inspector Gunnar Hagen, has said the case will be put in the hands of SEFO, the independent police investigation authority, as a matter of routine. Chief Inspector Hagen commented that this case is another example of the police having to deal with ever more brutal organised crime and that discussion of whether to arm the police should not only be about effective law enforcement but also the safety of our police officers.'

He blinked twice. Three times. Then it dawned on him. Kristoffer. The blue jacket.

'I'm dead,' he said. 'That's why they left before we arrived. They think it's over.' He placed his hand on Martine's. 'You want Jon Karlsen to die.'

She stared into space. Breathed in as if she were going to speak, then released the air with a groan as though the words she had found were not the correct ones, and tried again. At the third attempt she succeeded. 'Because Jon Karlsen knew. He's known for all these years. And that's why I hate him. And that's why I hate myself.'

Harry eyed the naked corpse on the table. It almost didn't affect him any more to see them like this. Almost.

Room temperature was around fourteen degrees and the smooth cement walls returned a short, harsh echo as the female pathologist answered Harry's question.

'No, we weren't thinking of doing an autopsy on him. The queue's long enough as it is, and the cause is fairly obvious in this case, don't you think?' She motioned towards the face with the big, black hole that had taken with it most of the nose and the top lip, leaving the mouth and the upper set of teeth open.

'Bit of a crater,' Harry said. 'Doesn't look like the work of an MP5. When will I have the report?'

'Ask your boss. He asked for it to go straight to him.'

'Hagen?'

'Yup. So you'd better ask him for a copy if you're in a hurry.'

Harry and Beate exchanged glances.

'Listen,' said the pathologist, the corners of her mouth stretched in what Harry realised was meant to be a smile, 'we're understaffed this weekend and I have a lot on my plate, so if you wouldn't mind?'

'Of course,' Beate said.

The pathologist and Beate made for the door, but both stopped when they heard Harry's voice.

'Has anyone noticed this?'

They turned to Harry, who was bent over the body.

'He's got syringe marks. Have you checked his blood for drugs?'

The pathologist sighed. 'He came in this morning and all we have managed to do is put him in the freezer.'

'When can you have it done?'

'Is it vital?' she asked, and seeing Harry's hesitation, went on. 'An honest answer would be nice, because if we prioritise it that will mean all the other cases you're nagging us for will be even more delayed. It's hell right now, coming in to Christmas.'

'Well,' Harry said, 'perhaps he had the odd fix.' He shrugged. 'But he's dead. And so I suppose it's not that vital. Did you take his watch?'

'Watch?'

'Yes, he was wearing a Seiko SQ50 when he was withdrawing money from the ATM the other day.'

'He didn't have a watch.'

'Mm,' Harry said, looking at his own bare wrist. 'Must have lost it.'

'I'll nip down to the intensive care unit,' Beate said when they were outside.

'OK,' Harry said, 'I'll catch a taxi. Will you get the identity confirmed?'

'What do you mean?'

'So that we're one hundred per cent certain that's Stankic lying in there.'

'Of course, that's the usual procedure. The body has blood type A, which matches the blood we found on Halvorsen's pockets.'

'It's the most common blood type in Norway, Beate.'

'Yes, but they're checking the DNA profile as well. Are you not convinced?'

Harry shrugged. 'It has to be done. When?'

'Tuesday at the earliest, alright?'

'Three days? Not alright.'

'Harry . . .'

Harry held up his hands in defence. 'Fine. I'll go. Get some sleep, OK?'

'To be frank, you look like you need it more than I do.'

Harry rested a hand on her shoulder. Felt how thin she was under the jacket. 'He's a toughie, Beate. And he wants to be here. OK?'

Beate bit her lower lip. Gave the impression she was going to say something, but flashed a quick smile and nodded.

In the taxi Harry took out his mobile phone and called Halvorsen's mobile. But, as expected, there was no answer.

Then he punched in the number of Hotel International. He got reception and asked to be put through to Fred in the bar. Fred? Which bar?

'The other bar,' Harry said.

'It's the policeman,' Harry said when he had the barman on the line. 'The one who was in yesterday asking about
mali spasitelj
.'

'
Da
?'

'I have to talk to her.'

'She's had bad news,' Fred said. 'Goodbye.'

Harry sat listening to the severed connection for a while. Then he put his mobile in his inside pocket and gazed out of the side window at the dead streets. Imagined her in the cathedral lighting another candle.

'Restaurant Schrøder,' the taxi driver announced, pulling in.

Harry sat at his usual table staring into his half-full beer glass. The socalled restaurant was in fact a plain, shabby café serving alcohol, but it had an aura of pride and dignity that may have been thanks to the clientele, or perhaps the staff, or perhaps the impressive and out-ofplace paintings adorning the smoke-stained walls.

There weren't many people just before closing time. But in came a new customer, who glanced round the room while unbuttoning the coat he wore over his tweed jacket and hastened towards Harry's table.

'Good evening, my friend,' said Ståle Aune. 'This appears to be your regular corner.'

'It's not a corner,' Harry said without a hint of a slur. 'It's an angle. Corners are on the outside. You walk round a corner, you don't sit in one.'

'What about the expression
a corner table
?'

'That's not a table in a corner, but a table with corners. As in
a corner
sofa
.'

Aune gave a smile of pleasure. This was his type of conversation. The waitress arrived and sent him a brief, suspicious glance when he ordered tea.

'So dunces are not sent to the corner then, I assume?' he said, straightening his red and white dotted bow tie.

Harry smiled. 'Are you trying to tell me something, Mr Psychologist?'

'Well, I assume you rang me because you wanted me to tell you something.'

'How much do you charge to tell people that right now they are ashamed of themselves?'

'Be careful, Harry. Drinking makes you not only irritable but irritating. I have not come here to divest you of your self-respect, your bollocks or your beer. But your current problem is that all three are in that glass.'

'You are eternally right,' Harry said, raising his glass. 'And that's why I have to hurry up and finish this drink.'

Aune stood up. 'If you want to talk about your drinking, we can do this as usual in my office. This consultation is over and you're paying for the tea.'

'Wait,' Harry said. 'Look.' He turned round and put the rest of his beer on the empty table behind him. 'This is my magic trick. I control my boozing by ordering half a litre which I take an hour to drink. A little sip every alternate minute. Like a sleeping pill. Then I go home and from the very next day I'm on the wagon. I wanted to talk to you about the attack on Halvorsen.'

Aune hesitated. Then he sat down again. 'Terrible business. I heard the details.'

'And what can you see?'

'Glimpse, Harry. Glimpse, and hardly that.' Aune nodded amiably to the waitress, who brought his tea. 'But, as you know, I glimpse better than the other good-for-nothings in my line of work. What I can see is that there are similarities between this attack and the murder of Ragnhild Gilstrup.'

'Tell me.'

'Deep, heartfelt anger being vented. Violence caused by sexual frustration. As you know, bouts of fury are typical of borderline personalities.'

'Yes, except that this individual seems to be able to control the fury. If not, we would have had more clues at the crime scenes.'

'Good point. It may be a fury-driven assailant – or a "person who commits violence" as the old maids in my profession would have us call them – who on a day to-day basis may seem sedate, almost defensive. There was a recent article in the
American Journal of Psychology
about such people with what they call
slumbering rage
. What I call Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. And when Mr Hyde wakes up . . .' Aune brandished the forefinger of his left hand while taking a sip of tea, '. . . it's Judgement Day and Armageddon at once. But once the fury has been released they cannot control it.'

'Sounds like a handy personality trait for a professional contract killer.'

'Not at all. What are you referring to?'

'Stankic loses points for style in the murder of Ragnhild Gilstrup and the attack on Halvorsen. There's something . . . unclinical about it. Quite different from the murders of Robert Karlsen and the others in the reports Europol sent us.'

'An angry, unstable contract killer? Well, I suppose there are unstable airplane pilots and unstable managers of nuclear power stations, too. Not everyone is in a job they ought to be in, you know.'

'I'll drink to that.'

'In fact, I wasn't thinking about you just now. Do you know you have certain narcissistic qualities, Inspector?'

Harry smiled.

'Will you tell me why you're ashamed?' Aune asked. 'Do you think it's your fault Halvorsen was stabbed?'

Harry cleared his throat. 'Well, it was me who gave him the task of looking after Jon Karlsen. And it was me who should have taught him where you keep your gun when on babysitting duties.'

Aune nodded. 'So it's all your fault. As usual.'

Harry looked to the side and across the room. The lights had begun to flash and the few customers left were obediently drinking up and putting on scarves and hats. Harry put a hundred-kroner note on the table and kicked a bag out from under his chair. 'Next time, Ståle. I haven't been home since Zagreb and now I need some shuteye.'

Harry followed Aune to the door, but was unable to stop himself glancing at the beer in the glass still standing on the table behind them.

As Harry was unlocking the door to his flat he noticed the smashed glass and swore aloud. It was the second time his flat had been broken into within a year. He noted that the intruder had taken the time to tape the glass so as not to arouse the curiosity of passing residents. Yet had not taken the time to depart with the stereo or the TV. Easy enough to understand since neither was this year's model. Or the previous year's. And there were no other marketable items of value.