Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (150 page)

‘I’ve had a very unofficial conversation with the Police Commissioner,’ Bellman said. ‘She’s going to appoint me as Chief of Police, reporting to the Minister of Justice.’

‘Shit!’ Truls shouted. Tévez had smashed the free kick against the crossbar.

Bellman got up. ‘By the way, thought you’d like to know. Ulla and I are going to invite a few people over next Saturday.’

Truls felt the same stab in his heart as always whenever he heard Ulla’s name.

‘New house, new job, you know. And you helped to build the terrace.’

Helped? Truls thought. I constructed the whole bloody thing.

‘So unless you’re very busy …’ Bellman said, motioning towards the screen. ‘You’re invited.’

Truls thanked him and accepted. The way he had done ever since they were boys, agreed to play gooseberry, to be a spectator of Mikael Bellman and Ulla’s obvious happiness. Agreed to another evening when he would have to hide who he was and how he felt.

‘One other matter,’ Bellman said. ‘Do you remember the guy I asked you to delete from the visitors’ register in reception?’

Truls nodded without batting an eyelid. Bellman had rung him and explained that a certain Tord Schultz had dropped by to give him information about drug smuggling and tell him they had a burner in their ranks. He was worried about the man’s safety and the name was to be removed from the register in case this burner was working at HQ and had access.

‘I’ve tried to call him several times, but there’s no answer. I’m a bit concerned. Are you absolutely sure Securitas removed his name and no one else found out?’

‘Absolutely, Chief of Police,’ Truls said. City were back in defence and scooped the ball away. ‘By the way, have you heard any more from that annoying inspector at the airport?’

‘No,’ Bellman said. ‘Seems as if he’s accepted it must have been potato flour. Why?’

‘Just wondering, Chief of Police. Regards to the dragon at home.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t use that term, OK?’

Truls shrugged. ‘It’s what you call her.’

‘I mean the Chief of Police stuff. Won’t be official for a couple of weeks.’

*   *   *

The operations manager sighed. The air traffic control officer had phoned to say the Bergen flight was delayed because the captain had not turned up or rung in, and they had to scramble a new one fast.

‘Schultz is having a rough time right now,’ said the manager.

‘He’s not answering his phone, either,’ said the officer.

‘I was afraid of that. He might be doing some solo trips in his free time.’

‘So I’ve heard, yes. But this is not free time. We almost had to cancel the flight.’

‘Bit of a bumpy road at the moment, as I said. I’ll talk to him.’

‘We all have bumpy roads, Georg. I’ll have to write a full report, you understand?’

The operations manager paused. But gave up. ‘Of course.’

As they rang off an image appeared in the operations manager’s memory. One afternoon, barbecue, summer. Campari, Budweiser and enormous steaks straight from Texas, flown in by a trainee. No one saw him and Else sneak into a bedroom. She groaned softly, softly enough not to be heard over the screams of children playing, the incoming flights and carefree laughter outside the open window. Planes coming and going. Tord’s ringing laughter, after another classic flying story. And Tord’s wife’s low groans.

‘YOU’VE BOUGHT VIOLIN?’

Beate Lønn stared in disbelief at Harry, who was sitting in the corner of her office. He had dragged the chair away from the bright morning light into the shadow where he folded his hands round the mug she had passed him. He had hung his jacket over the back of the chair, and sweat lay like cling film over his face.

‘You haven’t …?’

‘You crazy?’ Harry slurped the boiling hot coffee. ‘Alkies can’t get up to that kind of business.’

‘Good, because otherwise I would think that was a botched shot,’ she said, pointing.

Harry looked at his forearm. Apart from the suit, he had only three pairs of underpants, a change of socks and two short-sleeved shirts. He had thought of buying whatever clothes he needed in Oslo, but so far there hadn’t been a free moment. And this morning he had woken up with what seemed so much like a hangover that from habit he almost threw up in the toilet. The result of injecting into flesh was the shape and colour of the USA when Reagan was re-elected.

‘I’d like you to analyse this for me,’ Harry said.

‘Why?’

‘Because of the crime-scene photos showing the bag you found on Oleg.’

‘Yeah?’

‘You’ve got fantastic cameras. You can see the powder was pure white. This powder’s got brown bits. I want to know what it is.’

Beate took a magnifying glass from the drawer and leaned over the powder Harry sprinkled onto the cover of
Forensic Magazine
.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘The samples we’ve had in have been white, but in fact over recent months there hasn’t been a single confiscation, so this is interesting. Especially since an inspector from the police at Gardermoen rang the other day and said something similar.’

‘What?’

‘They found a bag of powder in a pilot’s hand luggage. The inspector wondered how we’d come to the conclusion that it was potato flour. He had seen the brown grains in the powder with his own eyes.’

‘Did he think the pilot was smuggling in violin?’

‘Since there hasn’t been a single confiscation of violin on the borders, the inspector has probably never seen it. White heroin is rare. Most of the stuff that winds up here is brown, so the inspector probably thought the two had been mixed. By the way, the pilot wasn’t coming in, he was going out.’

‘Out?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where to?’

‘Bangkok.’

‘He was taking potato flour to Bangkok?’

‘Perhaps it was for some Norwegians to make white sauce for their fish balls.’ She smiled while blushing at her attempt to be funny.

‘Mm. Something quite different. I’ve just read about an undercover man who was found dead in Gothenburg harbour. There were rumours he’d been a burner. Were there any rumours about him in Oslo?’

Beate shook her head. ‘No. On the contrary. He was more famous for being overkeen to catch the bad guys. Before he was killed, he talked about having a big fish on the hook and wanting to reel it in solo.’

‘Solo.’

‘He didn’t want to say any more, he didn’t trust anyone else. Sound like someone you know, Harry?’

He smiled, got up and threaded his arms into his jacket sleeves.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To visit an old friend.’

‘Didn’t know you had any.’

‘It’s a manner of speaking. I rang the head of Kripos.’

‘Heimen?’

‘Yes. I asked if he could give me a list of people Gusto had spoken to on his mobile before the murder. He answered that, first off, it was such an open-and-shut case they didn’t have a list. Secondly, if they did they would never give it to a … let me see …’ Harry closed his eyes and counted on his fingers. ‘… discharged cop, alkie or traitor like me.’

‘As I said, I didn’t know you had any old friends.’

‘So now I’ll have to try elsewhere.’

‘OK. I’ll have this powder analysed today.’

Harry stopped in the doorway. ‘You said that recently violin had been turning up in Gothenburg and Copenhagen. Does that mean it appeared there after Oslo?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t it usually the other way round? New dope goes to Copenhagen first and then spreads north?’

‘You’re probably right. Why?’

‘Not quite sure yet. What did you say that pilot’s name was?’

‘I didn’t. Schultz. Tord. Anything else?’

‘Yes. Have you considered that the undercover man may have been right?’

‘Right?’

‘To keep his mouth shut and not to trust anyone. He may have known there was a burner somewhere.’

Harry looked around the large, airy cathedral of a reception area at Telenor HQ in Fornebu. At the desk ten metres away two people stood waiting.
He saw them receiving passes and being collected by the person they were visiting at the barriers. Telenor had obviously tightened up their procedures, and his plan of more or less gatecrashing Klaus Torkildsen’s office was no longer viable.

Harry assessed the situation.

Torkildsen would certainly not appreciate the visit. For the simple reason that he had been caught exposing himself, which he had managed to keep secret from his employer, but which Harry had used for several years to pressurise him into giving him access to information, sometimes way beyond what a telephone company was legally entitled to do. Nevertheless, without the authority a police ID card endowed, Torkildsen would probably not even see Harry.

To the right of the four gates leading to the lifts was a larger gate which had been opened to let in a group of visitors. Harry made a swift decision. He strode up to the group and edged to the middle of the throng, which was shuffling towards the Telenor representative holding the gate open. Harry turned to his neighbour, a small man with Chinese features.

‘
Nin hao
.’

‘Excuse me?’

Harry saw the name on the visitor’s pass. Yuki Nakazawa.

‘Oh, Japanese.’ Harry laughed and patted the little man several times on the shoulder, as if he were an old friend. Yuki Nakazawa returned a tentative smile.

‘Nice day,’ Harry said, still with his hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘Yes,’ Yuki said. ‘Which company are you?’

‘TeliaSonera,’ Harry said.

‘Very, very good.’

They passed the Telenor employee and from the corner of his eye Harry could see him coming towards them and knew roughly what he would say. And he was right.

‘Sorry, sir. I can’t let you in without a name badge.’

Yuki Nakazawa looked at the man in surprise.

*   *   *

Torkildsen had been given a new office. After walking a kilometre through an open-plan office Harry finally saw a familiar large physique in a glass cage.

Harry went straight in.

The man was sitting with his back to him, a telephone pressed to his ear. Harry could see the shower of spittle stand out against the window. ‘Now you get the bloody SW2 server up and running!’

Harry coughed.

The chair swivelled round. Klaus Torkildsen was even fatter. A surprisingly elegant, tailored suit succeeded in partially hiding the rolls of flab, but nothing could hide the expression of sheer fear that spread across his extraordinary face. What was so extraordinary about it was that with such an expanse at their disposal, the eyes, nose and mouth had deemed it appropriate to assemble on a small island amid an ocean of face. His eyes descended to Harry’s lapel.

‘Yuki … Nakazawa?’

‘Klaus.’ Harry beamed and stretched out his arms for a hug.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Torkildsen whispered.

Harry dropped his arms. ‘I’m happy to see you too.’

He perched on the edge of the desk. Same place he had always sat. Invade and find higher ground. Simple and effective way to rule. Torkildsen gulped, and Harry saw large, shiny beads of sweat forming on his brow.

‘The mobile network in Trondheim,’ Torkildsen grumbled, indicating the phone. ‘Should have had the server up and running last week. Can’t trust anyone any bloody more. I’m pushed for time. What do you want?’

‘The list of calls to and from Gusto Hanssen’s mobile since May.’ Harry grabbed a pen and wrote the name on a yellow Post-it.

‘I’m management now. I don’t work on the floor.’

‘No, but you can still get me the numbers.’

‘Have you got any authorisation?’

‘If I had I would’ve gone straight to a police contact instead of you.’

‘So why wouldn’t your police solicitor authorise this?’

The old Torkildsen would not have dared to ask this. He had become tougher. Had more confidence. Was it the new promotion? Or something else? Harry saw the back of a photo frame on the desk. The kind of personal photo used to remind yourself you had someone. So, unless it was a dog, it was a woman. Perhaps even with a child. Who would have thought it? The old flasher had got himself a woman.

‘I no longer work for the police,’ Harry said.

Torkildsen smirked. ‘Yet you still want info on conversations?’

‘I don’t need much, just this mobile.’

‘Why should I? If anyone found out I’d passed this kind of info on I’d get the boot. And it wouldn’t be hard to see if I’d been in the system.’

Harry didn’t answer.

Torkildsen gave a bitter laugh. ‘I understand. It’s the same old cowardly blackmail number. If I don’t give you info, contrary to regulations, you’ll make sure my colleagues get to hear about my conviction.’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘No, I won’t talk. I’m simply asking you for a favour, Klaus. It’s personal. My ex-girlfriend’s boy risks life imprisonment for something he didn’t do.’

Harry saw Torkildsen’s double chin jerk and create a wave of flesh that rippled down his neck until it was absorbed into the greater body mass and was gone. Harry had never addressed Klaus Torkildsen by his Christian name before today. Torkildsen looked at him. Blinked. Concentrated. The beads of sweat glinted, and Harry could see the cerebral calculator adding, subtracting and – at length – reaching a result. Torkildsen threw up his arms and leaned back in the chair, which creaked under the weight.

‘Sorry, Harry, I would have liked to help you. But right now I can’t afford that sort of sympathy. Hope you understand.’

‘Of course,’ Harry said, rubbing his chin. ‘It’s completely understandable.’

‘Thank you,’ Torkildsen said, clearly relieved and beginning to struggle up from his chair, so as to escort Harry out of the glass cage and his life.

‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘If you don’t get me the numbers it won’t just be your
colleagues who find out about your flashing but your wife as well. Any kids? Yes? One, two?’

Torkildsen slumped back in the chair. Staring at Harry in disbelief. The old, trembling Klaus Torkildsen. ‘You … you said you wouldn’t …’

Harry shrugged. ‘Sorry. But right now I can’t afford that sort of sympathy.’

It was ten minutes past ten at night and Schrøder’s was half full.