'Have you touched anything?' she asked.
'Touched? No, why would I do that? I've been sitting in the chair.'
Jon got up and, without knowing why, pulled the knife out of the desk, folded it and put it in his pocket.
'It's all yours,' he said, leaving the room. The door was closed quietly behind him. He had reached the stairs when he realised it was an idiotic thing to do, to walk off with the knife, and he turned to take it back. Outside the closed door, he heard the woman's voice laughing: 'My goodness, what a shock that gave me! He's the spitting image of his brother. At first I thought I was seeing a ghost.'
'They don't look at all similar,' said the man.
'You've only seen a photo . . .'
A terrible thought struck Jon.
SK-655 to Zagreb took off from Gardemoen Airport, at 10.40 on the dot, banked left over Lake Hurdal and set a course south towards the navigation tower in Aalborg, Denmark. Since it was an unusually cold day the atmospheric layer known as the tropopause had sunk so low that the McDonnell Douglas MD-81 was already climbing through it when they were over central Oslo. And since planes in the tropopause leave vapour trails in the sky, he would have seen – if he had looked up from where he was standing and shivering by the phone boxes in Jernbanetorget – the plane he had a ticket for in the pocket of his camel-hair coat.
He had left his bag in a luggage locker in Oslo Central Station. Now he needed a hotel room. And he had to complete the job. And that meant he had to have a gun. But how to get hold of one in a town where you don't have a single contact?
He listened to the woman in directory enquiries explaining in singsong Scandinavian English that there were seventeen entries in the Oslo telephone book for people under the name of Jon Karlsen and she was afraid that she could not give him all of them. However, yes, she could give him the number for the Salvation Army.
The lady at Salvation Army Headquarters said they had a Jon Karlsen, but he was not at work today. He told her he wanted to send him a Christmas present. Did she have his home address?
'Let me see. Gøteborggata 4, post number 0566. Nice that someone is thinking about him, poor thing.'
'Poor thing?'
'Yes, his brother was shot dead yesterday.'
'Brother?'
'Yes, in Egertorget. It's in today's paper.'
He thanked her for her help and hung up.
Something touched him on the shoulder and he whirled round.
It was the paper cup that explained what the young man wanted. True, the denim jacket was a little grubby, but he was clean-shaven, had a modern hairstyle, substantial clothes and an open, alert gaze. The young man said something, but when he demonstrated with a shrug that he didn't speak Norwegian, the young man broke into perfect English:
'I'm Kristoffer. I need money for a room tonight. Or else I'll freeze to death.'
It sounded like something he had learned on a marketing course, a brief and concise message plus his name to add an effective emotional immediacy. The request came with a broad smile.
He shook his head and made to go, but the beggar stood in front of him with the cup. 'Come on, mister. Haven't you ever had to sleep rough, frozen, dreading the night?'
'As a matter of fact I have.' For one crazy moment he felt like telling him he had hidden in a water-filled foxhole for four days waiting for a Serbian tank.
'Then you know what I'm talking about, mister.'
He answered with a slow nod. Stuffed his hand in his pocket, took out a note and gave it to Kristoffer without looking. 'You'll sleep rough anyway, won't you?'
Kristoffer pocketed the money, nodded and said with an apologetic smile: 'Have to prioritise my medicine, mister.'
'Where do you usually sleep?'
'Down there.' The junkie pointed and he followed the long, slim forefinger with the trim nail. 'Container terminal. They're going to build an opera house there in the summer.' Kristoffer flashed another broad smile. 'And I love opera.'
'Isn't it a bit cold there now?'
'Tonight it might have to be the Salvation Army. They always have a free bed in the Hostel.'
'Do they?' He studied the boy. He looked well groomed, and his smile revealed a set of shining white, even teeth. Nevertheless he smelt decay. As he listened he thought he could hear the crunching of a thousand jaws, of flesh being consumed from inside.
11
Wednesday, 17 December. The Croat.
H
ALVORSEN SAT PATIENTLY BEHIND THE STEERING WHEEL
waiting for a car with a Bergen number plate in front of him. Its wheels spun round on the ice as the driver pressed the accelerator to the floor. Harry was talking to Beate on his mobile phone.
'What do you mean?' Harry shouted to drown the noise of the racing engine.
'It doesn't look like it's the same person in these two pictures,' Beate repeated.
'It's the same woolly hat, same raincoat and same neckerchief. It must be the same person, mustn't it?'
She didn't answer.
'Beate?'
'The faces are unclear. There's something strange. I'm not quite sure what. Maybe something to do with the light.'
'Mm. Do you think we're on a wild goose chase?'
'I don't know. His position in front of Karlsen tallies with the technical evidence. What's all that noise?'
'Bambi on ice. See you.'
'Hang on!'
Harry hung on.
'There's one more thing,' Beate said. 'I looked at the other pictures, from the day before.'
'Yeah?'
'I can't see any faces that match, but there is one small detail. There's a man wearing a yellowish coat, maybe a camel-hair coat. He's got a scarf . . .'
'Mm. A neckerchief, you mean?'
'No, it looks like an ordinary woollen scarf, but it's tied in the same way as he – or they – ties the neckerchief. The right-hand side sticks up from the knot. Have you seen it?'
'No.'
'I've never seen anyone tie a scarf in that way before,' Beate said.
'Email me the pictures and I'll have a look.'
The first thing Harry did on getting back to the office was to print out Beate's pictures.
When he went to the print room to collect them Gunnar Hagen was already there.
Harry nodded, and the two men stood in silence watching the grey machine spitting out sheet after sheet.
'Anything new?' Hagen asked at length.
'Yes and no,' Harry replied.
'The press are on my back. Would be good if we had something to give them.'
'Ah, yes, I almost forgot to say, boss. I tipped them off that we were looking for this man.' Harry took one of the printouts from the pile and pointed to the man with the neckerchief.
'You did what?' Hagen said.
'I tipped off the press. To be exact,
Dagbladet
.'
'Without going through me?'
'Routine number, boss. We call them constructive leaks. We say the information is from an anonymous source in the police so that the newspaper can pretend they have been doing serious investigative journalism. They like that, so they give it more column space than if we had asked them to publish pictures. Now we can get some help from the general public to identify the man. And everyone is happy.'
'I'm not, Hole.'
'I'm genuinely sorry to hear that then, boss,' Harry said, and underlined the genuineness with a concerned expression.
Hagen glared at him with his upper and lower jaw moving sideways in opposite directions, in a kneading motion that reminded Harry of a ruminant.
'And what is so special about this man?' Hagen said, snatching the printout from Harry.
'We're not quite sure. Maybe there are many of them. Beate Lønn thinks they . . . well, tie the neckerchief in a particular way.'
'That's a cravat knot.' Hagen took another look. 'What about it?'
'What did you say it was, boss?'
'A cravat knot.'
'Do you mean a tie knot?'
'A Croat knot, man.'
'What?'
'Isn't this basic history?'
'I'd be grateful if you would enlighten me, boss.'
Hagen placed his hands behind his back. 'What do you know about the Thirty Years War?'
'Not enough, I suppose.'
'During the Thirty Years War, before he marched into Germany, Gustav Adolf, the Swedish King, supplemented his disciplined but small army with what were reckoned to be the best soldiers in Europe. They were the best because they were considered totally fearless. He hired Croat mercenaries. Did you know that the Norwegian word
krabat
comes from Swedish and its original meaning was
Croat
, in other words a fearless maniac?'
Harry shook his head.
'Although the Croats were fighting in a foreign country and had to wear King Gustav Adolf 's uniform, they were allowed to retain a marker to distinguish them from the others: the cavalry neckerchief. It was a neckerchief the Croats tied in a special way. The item of clothing was adopted and developed further by the French, but they kept the name, which became
cravate
.'
'
Cravate
. Cravat.'
'Exactly.'
'Thank you, boss.' Harry took the last printout of the pictures off the paper tray and studied the man with the scarf Beate had ringed. 'You may just have given us a clue.'
'We don't need to thank each other for doing our jobs, Hole.' Hagen took the rest of the printouts and marched out.
Halvorsen peered up as Harry raced into the office.
'Got a lead,' Harry said. Halvorsen sighed. This phrase tended to mean loads of work and nothing to show for it.
'I'm going to ring Alex in Europol,' Harry said.
Halvorsen knew Europol was Interpol's little sister in The Hague, set up by the EU after the terrorist actions in Madrid in 1998 to focus specifically on international terror and organised crime. What he didn't know was why this Alex was often willing to help Harry when Norway was not in the EU.
'Alex? Harry, from Oslo. Could you check something out for me, please?'
Halvorsen listened to Harry asking Alex in his jerky but effective English to search the database for offences committed by suspected international criminals in Europe over the last ten years. Search words: 'contract killing' and 'Croat'.
'I'll wait,' Harry said, and waited. Then, in surprise, 'That many?' He scratched his chin, then asked Alex to add 'gun' and 'nine millimetre' to the search.
'Twenty-three hits, Alex? Twenty-three murders with a Croat as the suspect? Jesus! Well, I know that wars create professional hit men, but nevertheless. Try "Scandinavia". Nothing? OK, have you got any names, Alex? None? Hang on a sec.'
Harry looked at Halvorsen as though hoping for a few timely words, but Halvorsen just shrugged.
'OK, Alex,' Harry said. 'One last attempt.'
He asked him to add 'red neckerchief ' or 'scarf ' to the search.
Halvorsen could hear Alex laughing on the line.
'Thanks, Alex. Talk to you soon.'
Harry put down the receiver.
'Well?' said Halvorsen. 'Lead gone up in smoke?'
Harry nodded. He had slumped a few notches lower in his chair, but then straightened up with a start. 'We have to think along new lines. What have we got? Nothing? Great, I love blank sheets of paper.'
Halvorsen remembered Harry had once said that what separates a good detective from a mediocre one is the ability to forget. A good detective forgets all the times his gut instinct lets him down, forgets all the leads he has believed in that led nowhere. And pitches in, naive and forgetful again, with undiminished enthusiasm.
The telephone rang. Harry snatched at the receiver. 'Harr—' But the voice at the other end was already in full flow.
Harry got up from behind the desk and Halvorsen could see the knuckles on his hand around the receiver going white.
'Wait, Alex. I'll ask Halvorsen to take notes.'
Harry held his hand over the receiver and called to Halvorsen: 'He tried one last time for fun. Dropped
Croat
,
nine millimetre
and the other things, and searched under
red scarf
. Found Zagreb in 2000 and 2001. Munich in 2002 and Paris in 2003.'
Harry went back to the phone. 'This is our man, Alex. No, I'm not sure, but my gut feeling is. And my head says that two murders in Croatia are not a coincidence. Have you any further details Halvorsen can jot down?'
Halvorsen watched Harry gape in astonishment.
'What do you mean
no description
? If they remember the scarf, they must have noticed other things. What? Normal height? Is that all?'
Harry shook his head as he listened.
'What's he saying?' Halvorsen whispered.
'Wide discrepancies between statements,' Harry whispered back.
Halvorsen noted down 'discrepancies'.
'Yes, great, email me the details. Well, thanks for now, Alex. If you find anything else, such as a suspected haunt or something like that, give me a buzz, OK? What? Ha ha. Right, I'll send you a copy of me and my wife.'
Harry rang off and noticed Halvorsen's quizzical stare.
'Old joke,' Harry said. 'Alex thinks all Scandinavian couples make private porno films.'
Harry dialled another number, discovered while he was waiting for an answer that Halvorsen was still looking at him and sighed. 'I've never even been married, Halvorsen.'
Magnus Skarre had to shout to be heard over the coffee machine, which appeared to be suffering from a serious lung condition. 'Perhaps there are a number of hit men from a hitherto unknown gang who wear red scarves as a kind of uniform.'
'Rubbish,' drawled Toril Li, taking her place in the coffee queue behind Skarre. She was holding an empty mug with the slogan 'The World's Best Mum'.
Ola Li gave a little chuckle. He took a seat by the table inside the kitchenette which functioned as a canteen for the Crime and Vice Squads.
'Rubbish?' said Skarre. 'It could be terrorism, couldn't it? Holy war against the Christians? Muslims. Then all hell would be let loose. Or perhaps it's los dagos. They wear red scarves, don't they?'