Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (47 page)

‘What have you got?’

‘It was human blood in the floorboards. The lab dame here says that unfortunately blood is pretty overrated as a source of DNA, so she doubts we’ll find any cell material for a DNA profile. But she checked the blood type and guess what we found.’

Bjørn Holm paused before realising that apparently Harry had no intention of playing
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
and went on.

‘There’s one blood type that eliminates most people, let’s put it like that. Two out of every hundred have it, and in the whole of the archives there are only a hundred and twenty-three criminals with it. If Katrine Bratt has this blood type it’s an excellent indicator that she bled in Ottersen’s barn.’

‘Check with the Incident Room. They’ve got a list of the blood types of every officer at HQ.’

‘Have they? Jeez, then I’ll check them out right away.’

‘But don’t be disappointed if you find out she’s not B negative.’

Harry listened to his colleague’s speechless amazement and waited.

‘How in Christ’s name did you know it was B negative?’

‘How quickly can you meet me at the Anatomy Department?’

It was six o’clock and employees not on flexitime at Sandviken Hospital had gone home some time ago. But the light in Kjersti Rødsmoen’s
office was still burning. The psychiatrist saw that Knut Müller-Nilsen and Espen Lepsvik had their notebooks at the ready then glanced at her own and kicked off.

‘Katrine Rafto tells me she loved her father above all else.’ She peered up at the two men. ‘She was just a girl when he was hung out to dry in the newspapers as a man of violence. Katrine was hurt, frightened and very confused. At school she was bullied because of what was written in the press. Shortly afterwards her parents split up. When Katrine was nineteen her father went missing at the same time as one woman was killed in Bergen and another disappeared. The investigation was dropped, but inside the police force and out it was thought her father had murdered the women and taken his own life knowing that he couldn’t get away with it. Katrine decided then and there that she would join the police, clear up the murders and avenge her father.’

Kjersti Rødsmoen looked up. Neither of the two was taking notes; they were just watching her.

‘So after her law degree she applied to go to Police College,’ Rødsmoen continued. ‘And after finishing her training she was employed by Crime Squad in Bergen. Where she soon started going through her father’s case in her free time. Until this was discovered and stopped, and Katrine applied for a transfer to the Sexual Offences Unit. Is that correct?’

‘Affirmative,’ said Müller-Nilsen.

‘It was seen to that she did not go anywhere near the investigation into her father, so instead she started to examine related cases. While she was going through the national missing persons reports she made an interesting discovery. Namely, that in the years after her father’s disappearance women were being reported missing under conditions that bore several points of similarity with the disappearance of Onny Hetland.’ Kjersti Rødsmoen flicked over the page. ‘However, to make any progress Katrine needed help, and she knew she wouldn’t get this help in Bergen. Accordingly, she resolved to put someone on the case with experience of serial killers. Though this had to happen without anyone knowing that she, Rafto’s daughter, was behind it.’

The Kripos officer, Espen Lepsvik, slowly shook his head as Kjersti continued.

‘After thorough groundwork the choice fell on Inspector Harry Hole at Crime Squad in Oslo. She wrote a letter to him and signed it with the mysterious-sounding sobriquet, the Snowman, in order to awaken his curiosity, and because a snowman had been mentioned in several of the witnesses’ statements connected with the disappearances. A snowman had also been mentioned in her father’s notes on the Ulriken Mountain killing. When Oslo Crime Squad advertised for a detective, stating a preference for a woman, she applied and was invited to an interview. She said they offered her the job more or less before she had even sat down.’

Rødsmoen paused, but as the two men said nothing, she went on. ‘From the very first day Katrine made sure that she came into contact with Harry Hole and was put onto the investigation. With all that she already knew about Hole and the case, it was relatively easy for her to manipulate him and steer him towards Bergen and her father’s disappearance. And, with Hole’s help, she also found her father. In a freezer on Finnøy.’

Kjersti removed her glasses.

‘You don’t need much imagination to understand that an experience of this nature forms the basis of a psychological reaction. The stress became even worse when three times she thought the killer had been unmasked. First Idar Vetlesen, then a …’ she browsed through her notes long-sightedly, ‘Filip Becker. And finally Arve Støp. Only to discover that it was the wrong person each time. She tried to force a confession out of Støp herself, but gave up when she realised that he was not the man she was hunting. She fled from the place when she heard her colleagues approaching. She says she didn’t want to be stopped until she had completed her mission. Which was to identify the perpetrator. At this point I think we can safely say that she was well into the psychosis. She returned to Finnøy where she was convinced Hole would track her down. And, in fact, she turned out to be correct. When he appeared, she disarmed him to make him listen while she instructed him on what he had to do next in the investigation.’

‘Disarmed?’ said Müller-Nilsen. ‘It’s our understanding that she surrendered without any fuss.’

‘She says the injury to her mouth was caused by Harry Hole catching her off guard,’ said Kjersti Rødsmoen.

‘Should we believe a psychotic?’ Lepsvik asked.

‘She’s no longer psychotic,’ Rødsmoen stated with emphasis. ‘We ought to keep her under observation for a couple more days, but after that you should be prepared to take her back. If you still consider her a suspect, that is.’

The last remark was left hanging in the air until Espen Lepsvik leaned across the table.

‘Does that mean you think that Katrine Bratt is telling the truth?’

‘That doesn’t fall within my special field and I cannot comment,’ Rødsmoen said, closing her notebook.

‘And if I were to ask you as a non-specialist?’

A brief smile played on Rødsmoen’s lips. ‘I think you should continue to believe what you already believe, Inspector.’

Bjørn Holm had walked the short distance from the Institute of Forensic Medicine to its neighbour, the Anatomy Department, and was waiting in the garage when Harry arrived by car from Tryvann. Beside Holm was the green-overalled technician with earrings, the one who had been trundling a body away the last time Harry had been here.

‘Lund-Helgesen’s not here today,’ Holm informed him.

‘Perhaps you can show us around then,’ Harry said to the technician.

‘We aren’t allowed to show –’ green overalls began, but was interrupted by Harry.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Kai Robøle.’

‘OK, Robøle,’ Harry said, presenting his police ID. ‘I give you permission.’

Robøle shrugged and unlocked the door. ‘You were lucky to find anyone in. It’s always empty after five o’clock.’

‘I had the impression you people did a lot of overtime,’ Harry said.

Robøle shook his head. ‘Not in the cellar with all the stiffs, man. Here we like to work in daylight.’ He smiled, although he didn’t seem to be amused. ‘What is it you’d like to see?’

‘The most recent bodies,’ Harry said.

The technician unlocked and led them through two doors to a tiled room with eight sunken tanks, four on each side with a narrow aisle between. Each tank was covered with a metal lid.

‘They’re under there,’ Robøle said. ‘Four in each tank. The tanks are filled with alcohol.’

‘Neat,’ said Holm under his breath.

It was impossible to say whether the technician misunderstood on purpose, but he answered: ‘Forty per cent, no mixers.’

‘Thirty-two bodies then,’ Harry said. ‘Is that all?’

‘We have around forty bodies, but these are the latest. They usually have them lying here for a year before we start to use them.’

‘How are they brought in?’

‘By car from the funeral parlour. Some we collect ourselves.’

‘And you bring them in via the garage?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what happens then?’

‘What happens? Well, we preserve them, make an incision at the top of the thigh and inject a fixative. They keep well like that. Then we make metal tags and stamp the number that’s in the paperwork.’

‘Which paperwork?’

‘The paperwork that comes with the body. It’s filed up in the office. We attach one tag to the toe, one to a finger and one to an ear. We try to keep the body parts registered, even when they’ve been split up, so that as much of the body can be cremated together as possible when the time comes.’

‘Do you regularly check the bodies against the paperwork?’

‘Check?’ He scratched his head. ‘Only if we have to transport bodies.
Most bodies are bequeathed here in Oslo, so we supply universities in Tromsø, Trondheim and Bergen when they don’t have enough.’

‘So it’s conceivable that someone might be lying here who shouldn’t be, is it?’

‘Oh no. Everyone here has donated their body to the institute in a will.’

‘That’s what I was wondering,’ Harry said, squatting down by one of the tanks.

‘What?’

‘Listen now, Robøle. I’m going to ask you a hypothetical question. And I want you to think carefully before you answer. OK?’

The technician gave a hurried nod.

Harry stood up to his full height. ‘Is it conceivable that anyone with access to these rooms could bring bodies here through the garage at night, put on a metal tag with a fictitious number, place the body in one of these tanks and assume with a relatively high degree of probability that it will never be discovered?’

Kai Robøle hesitated. Scratched his head a bit more. Ran a finger down the row of earrings.

Harry shifted his weight. Holm’s mouth had slipped half open.

‘In a sense,’ Robøle said. ‘There’s nothing to stop it happening.’

‘Nothing to stop it happening?’

Robøle shook his head and gave a quick laugh. ‘No, not at all. It’s perfectly feasible.’

‘In that case I’d like to see these bodies now.’

Robøle looked up at the tall policeman. ‘Here? Now?’

‘You can start at the back on the left.’

‘I think I’ll have to ring someone to give me authorisation.’

‘If you want to delay our murder investigation, then be my guest.’

‘Murder?’ Robøle screwed up one eye.

‘Heard of the Snowman?’

Robøle blinked twice. Then he turned, walked over to the chains hanging from a motorised pulley in the ceiling, pulled them down to the tank with a loud rattle and attached the two hooks to the metal lid
on the tank, grabbed the remote control and pressed. The pulley hummed and the chains began to coil. From the tank the lid slowly rose as Harry and Holm followed it with staring eyes. Fixed to the underside of the lid were two horizontal sheets of metal, one beneath the other, separated by one vertical sheet. On each side of the central partition lay a naked white body. They resembled pale dolls and this impression was reinforced by the rectangular, black incisions on their thighs. When the bodies were at hip height the technician pressed the stop button. In the ensuing silence they could hear the deep sigh of dripping alcohol echoing around the white-tiled room.

‘Well?’ said Robøle.

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘Next.’

The technician repeated the procedure. Four new bodies rose from the neighbouring tank.

Harry shook his head.

As the third quartet came into view Harry flinched. Kai Robøle, who misinterpreted Harry’s reaction as horror, smiled with satisfaction.

‘What’s that?’ Harry asked, pointing to the headless woman.

‘Probably a return from one of the other universities,’ Robøle said. ‘Ours tend to be whole.’

Harry bent down and touched the body. It was cold, and the consistency unnaturally firm because of the fixative. He ran a finger along the severed edge. It was smooth and the flesh pallid.

‘We use a scalpel on the exterior and then a fine saw,’ the technician explained.

‘Mm.’ Harry leaned across the body, grabbed the woman’s right arm and pulled her over so that she was facing him.

‘What are you doing?’ screamed Robøle.

‘Can you see anything on her back?’ Harry asked Holm who was standing on the other side of the body.

Holm nodded. ‘A tattoo. Looks like a flag.’

‘Which one?’

‘Haven’t a clue. Green, yellow and red. With a pentagram in the middle.’

‘Ethiopia,’ Harry said, letting go of the woman, who fell back into position. ‘This woman did not donate her body, but she has been donated, if I can put it like that. This is Sylvia Ottersen.’

Kai Robøle kept blinking as though hoping something would go away if he blinked enough times.

Harry placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Get hold of someone who has access to the paperwork for the bodies and go through all of them. Now. I have to be on my way.’

‘What’s going on?’ Holm asked. ‘I honestly can’t get my head round this.’

‘Try,’ Harry said. ‘Forget everything you thought you knew and try.’

‘Right, but what’s going on?’

‘There are two answers to that,’ Harry said. ‘One is that we’re closing in on the Snowman.’

‘And the other?’

‘I don’t know.’

I
T WAS THE DAY THE SNOW CAME
. A
T ELEVEN O’CLOCK IN
the morning large flakes appeared from a colourless sky and invaded the fields, gardens and lawns of Romerike like an armada from outer space.

Mathias was sitting alone in his mother’s Toyota Corolla in front of a house in Kolloveien. He had no idea what his mother was doing inside the house. She had said it wouldn’t take long. But it had already taken a long time. She had left the key in the ignition and the car radio was playing ‘Under snø’, by the new girl group, Dollie. He kicked open the car door and went out. Because of the snow an almost unnatural silence had settled over the houses. He bent down, picked up a handful of the sticky white stuff and cupped it into a snowball.