It must have been the telephone call to Zagreb from the office that had led the police to the Hostel. And it had happened at such speed! As a result he would not be able to call her. He heard a car coming from behind and had to force himself not to turn round. Instead he listened. It hadn't braked so far. It passed by, followed by a rush of air and a flurry of powdery snow that settled on the tiny strip of neck not covered by the blue jacket, the jacket that the policeman had seen him wearing and meant he was no longer invisible. He had considered discarding the jacket, but a man in a shirt would not only look suspicious but would also freeze to death. He glanced at his watch. There were quite a few hours before the town came to life, before cafés and shops opened where he could find refuge. He had to find somewhere before then. A bolt-hole, a place where he could keep warm and rest until day broke.
He walked by a dirty yellow house front covered with graffiti. His eye was caught by one word painted there. '
Vestbredden
'. The West Bank? A bit further up the street a man was standing bent double in front of an entrance. From a distance it looked like he was resting his head against a door. As he came closer he saw that the man was holding his finger on a bell.
He stopped and waited. This might be his salvation.
A voice crackled from the speaker above the bell and the stooped figure straightened up, swayed and started yelling furiously by way of answer. His reddened, booze-battered skin hung off his face like the folds of a Shar Pei dog. The man stopped and the echoes between the houses died away in the night-still town. There was a low electric buzz and, with some difficulty, he shifted his centre of gravity forwards, pushed open the door and staggered in.
The door began to close and his reactions were lightning fast. Too fast. His sole slipped on the blue ice and he just managed to slap down the palms of his hands on the burning cold surface before the rest of his body hit the pavement. He scrambled up again, saw that the door was on the point of snapping shut, charged forward, stuck out his foot and felt the weight of the door trap his ankle. He sneaked inside and stood listening. Shuffling feet. Which seemed to stop before being painfully resumed. Knocking. A door opened and a woman's voice screamed something in this weird sing-song language of theirs. Then it came to an abrupt end, as though someone had cut her throat. After a few seconds of silence he heard a low whine, the noise children make when they are getting over the shock of hurting themselves. Then the door upstairs banged again and it was quiet.
He let the door close behind him. Among the rubbish under the stairs were a couple of newspapers. In Vukovar they had put paper in their shoes as it insulated and absorbed moisture. His frosty breath was still visible, but for the time being he was safe.
Harry sat in the office behind the reception desk of the Hostel waiting with the receiver against his ear as he tried to visualise the flat he was ringing. He saw photos of friends stuck to the mirror above the telephone. Smiling, in party mood, maybe on a trip abroad. Girlfriends in the main. He saw a flat with simple furnishings but cosy. Words of wisdom on the fridge door. Che Guevara poster in the toilet. Did people still do that?
'Hello?' said a sleepy voice.
'It's me again.'
'Daddy?'
Daddy? Intake of breath and Harry felt himself blush. 'The policeman.'
'Ah yes.' Stifled laughter. Bright and deep at the same time.
'Sorry to wake you, but we—'
'That doesn't matter.'
There was one of those pauses Harry had wanted to avoid.
'I'm at the Hostel,' he said. 'We've been trying to arrest a suspect. The receptionist says you and Rikard Nilsen brought him here earlier this evening.'
'The poor man without any outdoor clothes?'
'Yes.'
'What's he done?'
'We suspect he killed Robert Karlsen.'
'My God!'
Harry noticed she pronounced these two words with equal stress.
'If it's alright by you, I'll send an officer over to talk to you. In the meantime perhaps you might try to remember what he said.'
'OK, but can't it . . . ?'
Pause.
'Hello?' Harry said.
'He said nothing,' she said. 'Just like war refugees. You can see it in the way they move. Like sleepwalkers. As if they're on autopilot. As if they're already dead.'
'Mm. Did Rikard talk to him?'
'Maybe. Do you want his number?'
'Please.'
'One moment.'
She was gone. She was right. Harry thought about the man getting up from the snow. How it had fallen off him, the limp arms and the blank face, like the zombies rising from graves in
Night of the Living Dead
.
Harry heard a cough and spun round in his chair. In the office doorway stood Gunnar Hagen and David Eckhoff.
'Are we disturbing?' Hagen asked.
'Come in,' Harry said.
The two men came in and sat down on the other side of the desk.
'We'd like a report,' Hagen said.
Before Harry could ask who he meant by 'we', Martine's voice was back with the number. Harry jotted it down.
'Thank you,' he said. 'Goodnight.'
'I was wondering—'
'I've got to go,' Harry said.
'Uh-huh. Goodnight.'
He put down the receiver.
'We came as fast as we could,' Martine's father said. 'This is awful. What happened?'
Harry looked at Hagen.
'Tell us,' Hagen said.
Harry gave them the bare bones of the failed arrest, described the bullet hitting the car and the chase through the park.
'But if you were so close and had an MP5 with you, why didn't you shoot him?' Hagen asked.
Harry cleared his throat, but waited. He observed Eckhoff.
'Well?' Hagen said with incipient irritation in his voice.
'It was too dark,' Harry said.
Hagen contemplated his inspector before responding. 'So he was out walking at the time you were entering his room. Any idea why a gunman would be outdoors when it's twenty degrees below and the middle of the night?' The POB lowered his voice. 'I assume you have round-theclock protection for Jon Karlsen.'
'Jon?' said David Eckhoff. 'But he's at Ullevål Hospital.'
'I have an officer posted outside his room,' Harry said, hoping his voice gave an impression of the kind of control he wished he had. 'I was about to check everything was alright.'
* * *
The first four notes of 'London Calling' by the Clash reverberated around the bare walls of the corridor in the neurosurgical ward of Ullevål Hospital. A man with flat hair and a dressing gown, walking with a drip on a stand, sent the police guard a reproachful glance as he passed. He was answering his mobile phone, contrary to hospital regulations.
'Stranden.'
'Hole here. Anything to report?'
'Not much. There's an insomniac wandering the corridors. Dodgylooking, but seems harmless enough.'
The man with the drip continued on his rounds with a sniff.
'Anything earlier this evening?'
'Yep. Spurs got trounced by Arsenal at White Hart Lane. And there was a power cut.'
'And the patient?'
'Not a peep.'
'Have you checked everything is OK?'
'Apart from haemorrhoids, everything seemed fine.'
Stranden listened to the ominous silence. 'Just a joke. I'll go and check right away. Stay on the line.'
The room smelt of something sugary. Sweets, he assumed. The light from the corridor swept across the room and went as the door closed behind him, but he could make out a face on the pillow. He went closer. It was quiet in here. Too quiet. As though sound was missing. One sound.
'Karlsen?'
No reaction.
Stranden coughed and repeated the name a bit louder. 'Karlsen.'
It was so quiet that Harry's voice on the phone rang out loud and clear. 'What's up?'
Stranden put the phone to his ear. 'He's sleeping like a baby.'
'Sure?'
Stranden observed the face on the pillow. And realised that was what was bothering him. Karlsen
was
sleeping like a baby. Grown men tend to make more noise. He leaned over the face to listen to his breathing.
'Hello!' Harry Hole's shout on the mobile phone sounded distant. 'Hello!'
16
Thursday, 18 December. The Refugee.
T
HE SUN WARMED HIM AND THE SLIGHT BREEZE ACROSS THE
sand dunes made the grass ripple and nod in appreciation. He must have been swimming because the towel beneath him was wet. 'Look,' said his mother, pointing. He shaded his eyes and scanned the gleaming, unbelievably blue Adriatic Sea. And there he saw a man wading towards land with a big smile. It was his father. Behind him, Bobo. And Giorgi. A small dog was swimming beside him with its tiny tail upright like a mast. While he was watching them many more rose from the sea. Some he knew very well. Like Giorgi's father. Others were familiar. A face in a doorway in Paris. The features were distorted beyond recognition, into grotesque masks grimacing at him. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the temperature plummeted. The masks started shouting.
He woke to a searing pain in his side and opened his eyes. He was in Oslo. On the floor under the stairs in an entrance hall. A figure stood over him, mouth open wide, shouting something. He recognised one word which was almost the same as in his own language.
Narkoman
.
Then the figure, a man in a short leather jacket, took a step back and lifted his foot. The kick hit him on his sore side and he rolled over in pain. There was another man behind the one wearing the jacket, laughing and holding his nose. The leather jacket pointed to the door.
He eyed the two of them. Put his hand on his jacket pocket and felt it was wet. And that he still had the gun. There were two bullets left in the magazine. But if he threatened them with the gun there was a chance they would alert the police.
The leather jacket yelled and raised his hand.
He held his arm over his head in defence and staggered to his feet. The man holding his nose opened the door with a grin and kicked his backside on the way out.
The door snapped shut behind him and he heard the two men stomping up the stairs. He looked at his watch. Four o'clock in the morning. It was still dark and he was frozen to the marrow. And wet. He could feel with his hand that the back of his jacket was saturated and his trouser legs soaked. He stank of piss. Had he pissed himself? No, he must have been lying in it. A pool. On the floor. Frozen piss that he had thawed with his body heat.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to jog down the road. The cars passing by didn't bother him any more.
The patient mumbled a 'thank you', and Mathias Lund-Helgesen closed the door after him and flopped down into his office chair. Yawned and looked at the clock. Six. An hour to go before the morning shift took over. Before he could go home. A few hours' sleep and then up to Rakel's. She would be lying under the duvet in the large timber-clad house in Holmenkollen at this moment. He still hadn't found the right tone with the boy, but it would come. It usually did for Mathias Lund- Helgesen. It wasn't that Oleg disliked him; it was more that the boy had formed too strong a link with the predecessor. The policeman. Odd how a child could elevate an obviously disturbed alcoholic into a father figure and role model without demur.
He had been thinking of mentioning this to Rakel for a while, but had let the matter drop. It would only make him look like a helpless idiot. Or even make her wonder if he was the right man for them.
And that was what he wanted. To be the right man. He was willing to be whoever he had to be to keep her. And to know who that was, he had to ask of course. So he had done. What it was about that policeman. And she had answered it wasn't anything in particular. Except that she had loved him. And if she hadn't formulated it like that perhaps he wouldn't have mused on why she had never used that word about him.
Mathias Lund-Helgesen dismissed these idle thoughts, checked the name of the next patient on the computer and walked down the central aisle where the nurses first received them. But at this time of night it was deserted, so he went on to the waiting room.
Five people looked at him, eyes begging for it to be their turn. Apart from a man in the far corner, sleeping with his mouth open and his head on the wall. Had to be a drug addict. The blue jacket and the stench of stale urine coming in waves were sure signs. Just as sure as he would complain of pains and ask for pills.
Mathias went over to him and wrinkled his nose. Shook him hard and took a hasty step back. Quite a few addicts, after years of being robbed of drugs and money when they were out of it, had an automatic response if they were woken: thrashing out or stabbing with a knife.
The man blinked and regarded Mathias with surprisingly clear eyes.
'How can I help?' Mathias asked. Standard procedure, of course, was that you only asked a patient this question when you had privacy, but Mathias was exhausted and sick to death of junkies and drunks who took time and resources away from other patients.
The man pulled the jacket around him more tightly and said nothing.
'Hello! I'm afraid you have to tell me why you're here.'
The man shook his head and pointed to one of the others as if explaining it wasn't his turn.
'This is not a lounge,' Mathias said. 'You're not allowed to sleep here. Scram. Now.'
'I don't understand,' the man said.
'Leave,' Mathias said. 'Or I'll call the police.'
To his astonishment, Mathias could feel he had to control himself not to drag this stinking junkie out of the chair. The others had turned to watch.
The man nodded and staggered to his feet. Mathias stood watching him after the glass door had slid to.
'It's good you chuck their kind out,' a voice behind him said.
Mathias gave an absent-minded nod. Perhaps he hadn't told her enough times. That he loved her. Perhaps that was it.
It was half past seven and still dark outside the neurosurgical ward and room 19 where Police Officer Stranden was looking down at the neat yet unoccupied bed where Jon Karlsen had been lying. Soon another patient would be there. That was a strange thought. But now he needed to find a bed to lie in himself. For a long time. He yawned and checked he hadn't left anything on the bedside table, took the newspaper from the chair and turned to leave.