Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (161 page)

‘Any theories?’ Harry asked.

‘No. But she hasn’t gone of her own free will. She’s not the type to clear off like … like some others.’

Harry had no idea whom he actually meant, yet the jibe hit home.

Stein Hanssen scratched a scab on his forearm. ‘What is it you all see in her? Your daughter? Do you think you can
have
your daughters?’

Harry looked at him in surprise. ‘You? What do you mean?’

‘You oldies drooling over her. Just because she looks like a fourteen-year-old Lolita.’

Harry recalled the picture on the wardrobe door. Stein Hanssen was right. And the thought took root in Harry. He might be wrong, Irene might be the victim of a crime that had nothing to do with this case.

‘You study in Trondheim. At the University of Science and Technology?’

‘Yes.’

‘What subject?’

‘Information technology.’

‘Mm. Oleg also wanted to study. Do you know him?’

Stein shook his head.

‘Never spoken to him?’

‘We must have met a couple of times. Very short meetings, you might say.’

Harry scrutinised Stein’s forearm. It was an occupational hazard for
Harry. But apart from the scab there were no other marks. Of course not, Stein Hanssen was a survivor, one of those who would cope. Harry got to his feet.

‘Anyway, I’m sorry about your brother.’

‘Foster-brother.’

‘Mm. Could I take your mobile number? In case anything crops up.’

‘Like what?’

They looked at each other. The answer hung in the air between them, unnecessary to elucidate, unbearable to articulate. The scab had burst and a line of blood was trickling down towards his hand.

‘I know one thing that might help,’ Stein Hanssen said when Harry was outside on the step. ‘The places you’re planning to search for her. Urtegata. Møtestedet Kafé. The parks. The hostels. Junkie hovels. Red-light district. Forget it. I’ve been there.’

Harry nodded. Put on his sunglasses. ‘Keep your mobile switched on, OK?’

Harry went to Lorry Kafé for lunch, but on the steps felt a sudden craving for beer and about-turned in the doorway. Instead he went to a new place opposite the Literature House. Left after a quick scan of the clientele, and ended up in Pla where he ordered a Thai variant of a tapa.

‘Drink? Singha?’

‘No.’

‘Tiger?’

‘Have you only got beer?’

The waiter took the hint and returned with water.

Harry had king prawns and chicken but declined sausage Thai-style. Then he called Rakel at home and asked her to go through the CDs he had taken to Holmenkollen over the years and which had been left there. Some he had wanted to listen to for his own pleasure, and some he had wanted to redeem them with. Elvis Costello, Miles Davis, Led Zeppelin, Count Basie, Jayhawks, Muddy Waters. They hadn’t saved anyone.

She kept what, without any tangible irony, she called ‘Harry music’ in its own section on the rack.

‘I’d like you to read all the titles,’ he said.

‘Are you joking?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

‘OK. The first is Aztec Camera.’

‘Have you—’

‘Yes, I’ve organised them alphabetically.’ She sounded embarrassed.

‘That’s a boy thing.’

‘It’s a Harry thing. And they’re your CDs. Can I read them now?’

After twenty minutes they had got to W and Wilco without Harry picking up on any associations. Rakel heaved a sigh, but went on.

‘ “When You Wake Up Feeling Old”.’

‘Mm. no.’

‘ “Summerteeth”.’

‘Mm. Next.’

‘ “In a Future Age”.’

‘Hang on!’

Rakel hung on.

Harry started laughing.

‘Was that funny?’ Rakel asked.

‘The chorus on “Summerteeth”. It goes like this … 
It’s just a dream he keeps having.’

‘That doesn’t sound great, Harry.’

‘Yes, it does! I mean, the original does. So beautiful that I’ve played it several times for Oleg. But he thought the lyrics went “It’s just a dreamy Gonzales”.’ Harry laughed again. And began to sing:
‘It’s just a dreamy Gonz—
’

‘Please, Harry.’

‘OK. Could you go onto Oleg’s computer and find something on the Net for me?’

‘What?’

‘Google Wilco and find their home page. See if they’ve had any concerts in Oslo this year. And if so, where exactly.’

Rakel came back after six minutes.

‘One.’ She told Harry where.

‘Thank you,’ Harry said.

‘You’ve got that voice again.’

‘Which voice?’

‘The hyped-up one. The boy’s voice.’

Like a hostile armada, the ominous steel-grey clouds came rolling over Oslo fjord at four o’clock. Harry turned from Skøyen towards Frogner Park and parked on Thorvald Erichsens Vei. After ringing Bellman’s mobile three times without any luck he had called Police HQ and been told that Bellman had left early to do some training with his son at Oslo Tennis Club.

Harry watched the clouds. Then he went in and surveyed OTC’s facilities.

A superb clubhouse, shale courts, hard courts, even a centre court with stands. Yet only two of the twelve courts were in use. In Norway you played football and skied. Declaring yourself a tennis player attracted whispers and suspicious glances.

Harry found Bellman on a shale court. He was plucking balls out of a basket and hitting them gently at a boy who might have been practising backhand cross-court shots; it was hard to say, because the balls were going all over the place.

Harry went through the gate behind Bellman, onto the court and stood beside him. ‘Looks like he’s struggling,’ Harry said, taking out his pack of cigarettes.

‘Harry,’ Mikael Bellman said, without stopping or taking his eyes off the boy. ‘He’s getting there.’

‘There’s a certain similarity. Is he …?’

‘My son. Filip. Ten.’

‘Time flies. Talented?’

‘He’s got a bit of his father in him, but I have faith. He just needs to be pushed.’

‘I didn’t think that was legal any more.’

‘We want the best for our children, Harry, but may do them a disservice. Move your feet, Filip!’

‘Did you find out about Martin Pran?’

‘Pran?’

‘The hunchback weirdo at the Radium Hospital.’

‘Oh, yes, the gut instinct. Yes and no. That is, yes, I checked. And no, we’ve got nothing on him. Nothing at all.’

‘Mm. I was thinking about asking for something else.’

‘Down on your knees! What would that be?’

‘A warrant to dig up Gusto Hanssen to see if there was any blood under his nails for a new test.’

Bellman took his eyes off his son, evidently to check whether Harry was serious.

‘There’s a very plausible confession, Harry. I think I can say with some confidence that warrant would be rejected.’

‘Gusto did have blood under his nails. The sample went missing before it was tested.’

‘That sort of thing happens.’

‘Very rarely.’

‘And whose blood is it, in your opinion?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No. But if the first sample was sabotaged that means it spells danger for someone.’

‘This dealer who confessed, for example. Adidas?’

‘Real name: Chris Reddy.’

‘Anyway, aren’t you done with this case now that Oleg Fauke has been released?’

‘Anyway, shouldn’t he have both hands on the racket for backhand?’

‘Do you know anything about tennis?’

‘Seen a bit on TV.’

‘One-handed backhands develop character.’

‘I don’t even know if the blood has anything to do with the killing. Perhaps someone’s frightened of being linked with Gusto?’

‘Such as?’

‘Dubai maybe. Besides, I don’t think Adidas killed Gusto.’

‘Why not?’

‘A hardened dealer suddenly confessing out of the blue?’

‘See your point,’ Bellman said. ‘But it is a confession. And a good one.’

‘And it’s just a drugs killing,’ Harry continued, ducking a stray ball. ‘And you’ve got enough cases to crack.’

Bellman sighed. ‘It’s the same as it’s always been, Harry. Our resources are under too much pressure for us to be able to prioritise cases for which we already have a solution.’

‘A solution? What about
the
solution?’

‘As boss one is obliged to acquire slippery formulations.’

‘OK, so let me offer you two case solutions. In exchange for help with finding a house.’

Bellman stopped hitting balls. ‘What?’

‘A killing in Alnabru. A biker called Tutu. A source informed me he got a drill through his head.’

‘And the source is willing to testify?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And the second?’

‘The undercover guy who washed up by the Opera House. Same source saw him dead on Dubai’s cellar floor.’

Bellman scrunched up one eye. The pigment stains flared up and Harry was reminded of a tiger.

‘Dad!’

‘Go and fill the water bottle in the dressing room, Filip.’

‘The dressing room’s locked, Dad!’

‘And the code is?’

‘The year the king was born, but I don’t remember—’

‘Remember and quench your thirst, Filip.’

The boy shuffled through the gate, arms hanging by his sides.

‘What do you want, Harry?’

‘I want a team combing the area around Frederikkeplassen, at the
university, over a radius of one kilometre. I want a list of all the detached houses that fit this description.’ He passed Bellman a sheet of paper.

‘What happened at Frederikkeplassen?’

‘Just a concert.’

Realising he wasn’t going to be told any more, Bellman looked down at the paper and read aloud: ‘ “Old timber house with long shingle drive, deciduous trees and steps by the front door, no overhang”? Sounds like a description of half the houses in Blindern. What are you after?’

Harry lit a smoke. ‘A rat’s nest. An eagle’s lair.’

‘And if we find it, what then?’

‘You and your officers need a search warrant to be able to do anything while a normal civilian like me could get lost one autumn evening and be forced to take refuge in the nearest house.’

‘OK, I’ll see what I can do. But explain to me first why you’re so keen to catch this Dubai.’

Harry shrugged. ‘Professional deformation perhaps. Get the list and email it to the address at the bottom. Then we’ll see what I can get for you.’

Filip returned without water as Harry was leaving, and on his way to the car he heard a ball hit the racket frame and a low curse.

Distant cannons rumbled in the armada of clouds, and it was as dark as night when Harry got into his car. He started the engine and rang Hans Christian Simonsen.

‘Harry here. What are the current penalties for grave desecration?’

‘Er, four to six years, I would guess.’

‘Are you willing to risk that?’

A tiny pause. Then: ‘To what end?’

‘To catch the person who killed Gusto. And perhaps the person who’s after Oleg.’

‘And if I’m not willing?’

A very tiny pause. ‘I’m in.’

‘OK, find out where Gusto is buried and get some spades, a torch, nail scissors and two screwdrivers. We’ll do it tomorrow night.’

As Harry drove across Solli plass the rain came. It lashed the rooftops,
lashed the streets, lashed the man standing in Kvadraturen opposite the open door to the bar.

The boy in reception sent Harry a dour look as he came in.

‘Would you like to borrow an umbrella?’

‘Not unless your hotel’s leaking,’ Harry said, running a hand through his brush-like hair and sending a fine spray through the air. ‘Any messages?’

The boy laughed as if it were a joke.

As Harry was climbing the stairs to the second floor he thought he heard footsteps further down and stopped. Listened. Silence. Either it had been the echo of his own steps he had heard, or else the other person had stopped as well.

Harry walked on slowly. In the corridor he increased his speed, inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. Scanned the darkened room and peered across the yard to the woman’s illuminated room. No one there. No one there, no one here.

He switched on the light.

As it came on he saw his reflection in the window. And someone else standing behind him. At once he felt a heavy hand squeeze his shoulder.

Only a phantom can be so fast and silent, Harry thought, whirling round, but he knew it was already too late.

‘
I SAW THEM
.
ONCE
. It was like a wake.’

Cato still had his large, dirty hand resting on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry heard himself gasp and felt his lungs pressing against the inside of his ribs.

‘Who?’

‘I was talking to someone selling the devilry. His name was Bisken and he wore a leather dog collar. He came to me because he was frightened. The police had hauled him in for possession of heroin, and he had told Beret Man where Dubai lived. Beret Man had promised him protection and an amnesty if he would testify in court. And while I was standing there they came in a black car. Black suits, black gloves. He was old. Broad face. He looked like a white aborigine.’

‘Who?’

‘I saw him, but … he wasn’t there. Like a phantom. And when Bisken saw him he didn’t move, didn’t try to run or struggle when they took him with them. After they’d gone it was as if I’d dreamt it all up.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘Because I’m a coward. Have you got a ciggy?’

Harry gave him the pack, and Cato fell into the chair.

‘You’re chasing a ghost, and I don’t want to be involved.’

‘But?’

Cato shrugged and held out his hand. Harry passed him the lighter.

‘I’m an old, dying man. I have nothing to lose.’

‘Are you dying?’

Cato lit his cigarette. ‘It’s not acute, perhaps, but we’re all dying, Harry. I just want to help you.’

‘With what?’

‘Don’t know. What plans have you got?’

‘Can I trust you?’

‘Christ, no, you can’t trust me. But I’m a shaman. I can also make myself invisible. I can come and go without anyone noticing.’ Harry rubbed his chin. ‘Why?’

‘I told you why.’

‘I’m asking again.’

Cato looked at Harry, first with a reproachful glare. Then, when that didn’t help, he heaved a deep sigh of annoyance. ‘Perhaps I had a son once myself. One I didn’t treat as well as I should have. Perhaps it’s a new opportunity. Don’t you believe in fresh opportunities, Harry?’