'What make was the watch?' Harry asked.
'The glass was reflecting,' Beate said. 'But I magnified the negative. It says Seiko SQ50 on the dial.'
'Clever girl. But I didn't see an explanation.'
'This is the explanation.'
Beate typed and two pictures of the man they had just seen appeared on the screen. One while he was taking out his card; the other while he was looking at his watch.
'I've chosen these two pictures because his face is in roughly the same position and this way it's easy to see. They've been taken with an interval of a little over a hundred seconds. Can you see that?'
'No,' Harry said truthfully. 'I can tell I'm no good at this. I can't even see if it's the same person in the two pictures. Or if he's the man I saw in Tøyen Park.'
'Good. Then you've seen it.'
'Seen what?'
'Here's the picture of him off the credit card,' Beate said and clicked. A picture of a man with short hair and a tie appeared.
'And here are the ones
Dagbladet
took of him in Egertorget.'
Two further pictures.
'Can you tell if this is the same person?' Beate asked.
'Well, no.'
'Nor can I.'
'
You
can't? If
you
can't it means it's not the same person.'
'No,' Beate said. 'It means here we have a case of what is known as hyperelasticity. Called
visage du pantomime
by professionals.'
'What on earth are you talking about?'
'A person who can change their appearance without any need for make-up, disguise or plastic surgery.'
Harry was waiting for all the investigative team to sit down in the red zone's meeting room before he spoke. 'We know now that we're after one man and only one man. For the time being let's call him Christo Stankic. Beate?'
Beate switched on the projector and an image of a face with closed eyes and a mask of something like red spaghetti appeared on the screen.
'What you see here is an illustration of our facial musculature,' she began. 'Muscles we use to form expressions and thereby change our appearance. The most important are located in the forehead, around the eyes and around the mouth. For example, this is the
musculus frontalis
, which, along with the
musculus corrugator supercilii
, is used to raise and furrow the eyebrows. The
orbicularis oculi
is used to close the eyelids or create folds in the part of the face around the eyes. And so on.'
Beate pressed the remote control. The image was replaced by one of a clown with large inflated cheeks.
'We have hundreds of muscles like these in our faces and even those whose job it is to pull faces use just a tiny percentage of the options available. Actors and entertainers train facial muscles to achieve maximum movement which we others lose as a rule at a young age. However, even actors and mime artists tend to use the face for imitative movements to express certain emotions. And, important as they are, they are quite universal and few in number. Anger, happiness, being in love, surprise, a chuckle, a roar of laughter and so on. Nature, though, has given us this mask of muscles to make several million, indeed, an almost unlimited number of facial expressions. Concert pianists have trained the link between brain and finger musculature to such an extent that they can perform ten different simultaneous operations, independently of each other. And we don't even have many muscles in our fingers. So what is the face not capable of?'
Beate moved on to the clip of Christo Stankic outside the ATM.
'Well, we are capable of this for example.'
The film advanced in slow motion.
'The changes are almost imperceptible. Tiny muscles are being tensed and slackened. The result of the small muscle movements is a changed expression. Does the face change that much? No, but the part of the brain that recognises faces – the fusiform gyrus – is very, very sensitive to even minor changes, since its function is to distinguish between thousands of physiologically similar faces. Via the facial muscles' gradual adjustments we end up with what seems to be a different person. Viz., this.'
The recording froze as it reached the last frame.
'Hello! This is Earth calling Mars.'
Harry recognised the voice of Magnus Skarre. Someone laughed, and Beate blushed.
'Sorry,' Skarre said, looking round him with a self-satisfied chuckle. 'That's still the Stankic dago. Science fiction is entertaining but guys who tense a bit here and slacken a bit there and become unrecognisable, that's a trifle far-fetched, if you ask me.'
Harry was on the point of breaking in, but changed his mind. Instead he observed Beate with interest. Two years ago a comment like that would have crushed her on the spot and he would have had to sweep up the pieces.
'As far as I know, no one was asking you,' Beate said, her cheeks still bright red. But since you feel that way let me give you an example I am sure you will understand.'
'Whoa,' exclaimed Skarre, holding his hands up in defence. 'That wasn't meant personally, Lønn.'
'When people die something called rigor mortis sets in.' Beate continued undeterred, but Harry could see her nostrils were flared. 'The muscles in the body, and in the face too, stiffen. It's the same as tensing muscles. And what is the typical reaction when the next of kin has to identify the corpse?'
In the ensuing silence all that could be heard was the hum of the projector fan. Harry was already smiling.
'They don't recognise them,' said a loud, clear voice. Harry had not heard Gunnar Hagen enter the room. 'Not an unusual problem in war when soldiers have to be identified. Of course, they're in uniform, but sometimes even comrades in their own unit have to check the dog tags to be sure.'
'Thank you,' Beate said. 'Did that help the grey matter, Skarre?'
Skarre shrugged, and Harry heard someone laugh out loud. Beate switched off the projector.
'The plasticity or mobility of the face is a very personal thing. To some extent it may be achieved through practice and to some extent, one has to assume, it's genetic. Some people cannot differentiate between the left and right sides of their face; others, with practice, can operate all the muscles independently of each other. Like a concert pianist. And that's called hyperelasticity or
visage du pantomime
. Known cases would suggest there is a strong genetic element. The ability was learned young or as a child and those who have an extreme degree of hyperelasticity often suffer from personality disorders – or have experienced terrible traumas while growing up.'
'So what you're saying is that we're dealing with a crazy man here?' Gunnar Hagen said.
'My area of expertise is faces, not psychology,' Beate said. 'But at any rate it cannot be excluded. Harry?'
'Thank you, Beate.' Harry got to his feet. 'So now you know what we're up against, guys. Questions? Yes, Li?'
'How do we catch a creature like this?'
Harry and Beate exchanged glances. Hagen coughed.
'I have no idea,' Harry said. 'All I know is that this will not be over until he has done his job. Or we have done ours.'
There was a message from Rakel when Harry returned to his office. He rang her straight away to be spared the brooding.
'How's it going?' she asked.
'Right to the Supreme Court,' Harry said. It was an expression Rakel's father had used. An insider joke among Norwegian soldiers back from the Eastern Front after the war and facing trial. Rakel laughed. The gentle ripple for which he once would have been willing to sacrifice everything to hear every day. It still worked.
'Are you alone?' she asked.
'No. Halvorsen is sitting here listening as always.'
Halvorsen raised his head from the Egertorget witnesses' statements and pulled a grimace.
'Oleg needs someone to talk to,' Rakel said.
'Oh yes?'
'Pssh, that was clumsy. Not someone. He needs to talk to you.'
'Needs?'
'Another correction. He
said
he wants to talk to you.'
'And asked you to ring?'
'No. No, he would never have done that.'
'No.' Harry smiled at the thought.
'So . . . Would you have time one evening, do you think?'
'Of course.'
'Great. You could come and eat with us.'
'Us?'
'Oleg and me.'
'Mm.'
'I know you've met Mathias—'
'Yes,' Harry said quickly. 'Seems a nice guy.'
'Yes.'
Harry didn't know how to interpret her intonation.
'Are you still there?'
'I'm here,' Harry said. 'Look, we've got a murder case on our hands and things are hotting up here. Could I have a think and ring you later with a day?'
Pause.
'Rakel?'
'Yes, that would be fine. How are things otherwise?'
The question was so out of place that for a moment Harry wondered whether it was meant as irony.
'The days pass,' Harry said.
'Nothing new happened in your life since we last spoke?' Harry breathed in. 'I have to be off, Rakel. I'll ring you when I've found a day. Say hello to Oleg from me. OK?'
'OK.'
Harry put down the receiver.
'Well?' Halvorsen said. 'A convenient day?'
'It's a meal. Something to do with Oleg. What would Robert be doing in Zagreb?'
Halvorsen was about to say something when there was a soft knock at the door. They both turned. Skarre was standing in the doorway.
'Zagreb police have just rung,' he informed them. 'The credit card was issued on the basis of a false passport.'
'Mmm,' Harry hummed, leaning back in the chair and putting his hands behind his head. 'What would Robert be doing in Zagreb, Skarre?'
'You know what I think.'
'Dope,' Halvorsen said.
'Didn't you mention a girl asking for Robert in the Fretex in Kirkeveien, Skarre? In the shop they thought she was from Yugoslavia, didn't they?'
'Yes. It was the shop manager. She—'
'Call Fretex, Halvorsen.'
The office was quiet as Halvorsen flicked through the Yellow Pages and dialled a number. Harry started to drum his fingers on the table wondering how to phrase it: he was pleased with Skarre. He cleared his throat once. But then Halvorsen passed him the telephone.
Sergeant Major Rue listened, spoke and acted. An efficient woman, Harry was able to confirm two minutes later when he rang off and coughed again.
'That was one of her para 12 boys, a Serbian, who remembered the girl. He thinks her name is Sofia, but is not sure. He was certain she was from Vukovar.'
Harry found Jon in bed in Robert's flat with an open Bible on his stomach. He looked anxious, as if he hadn't slept. Harry lit a cigarette, sat down on the fragile kitchen chair and asked Jon what he thought Robert had been doing in Zagreb.
'No idea. He said nothing to me. Perhaps it was something to do with the secret project I'd lent him money for.'
'OK. Do you know anything about a girlfriend – a young Croatian girl by the name of Sofia?'
'Sofia Miholjec? You're kidding!'
''Fraid not. Does that mean you know who she is?'
'Sofia lives in one of our buildings in Jacob Aalls gate. Her family was among the Croatian refugees in Vukovar the commander brought here. But Sofia . . . Sofia is fifteen.'
'Maybe she was just in love with Robert? Young girl. Good-looking, grown lad. It's not exactly unusual, you know.'
Jon was about to answer, but stopped himself.
'You said Robert liked young girls,' Harry said.
Jon studied the floor. 'I can give you the address of the family so you can ask her.'
'OK.' Harry glanced at his watch. 'Anything you need?'
Jon looked around. 'I should go round to my flat. Pick up some clothes and toiletries.'
'Fine. I'll take you. Grab your coat and hat. It's got even colder.'
The drive took twenty minutes. They passed the dilapidated old Bislett stadium that was due to be demolished, and Schrøder restaurant, outside which stood a man in a thick woollen coat and hat whom Harry recognised. Harry parked illegally in front of the entrance to Gøteborggata 4, they entered and waited in front of the lift. Harry saw from the red number over the door that the lift was on the third floor, Jon's. Before they had time to press the button they heard the lift start to move and could see from the numbers that it was on its way down. Harry rubbed his palms against his thighs.
'You don't like lifts,' Jon said.
Harry eyed him in surprise. 'Is it obvious?'
Jon smiled. 'My father doesn't, either. Come on. Let's take the stairs.'
They set off and some way up Harry heard the lift door open beneath them.
They let themselves into the flat and Harry stood by the door while Jon went to the bathroom and fetched a toilet bag.
'Strange,' Jon said with a frown. 'It's as if someone has been here.'
Jon slipped into the bedroom and returned with a bag.
'It smells funny,' he said.
Harry had a look around. There were two glasses on the sink, but no milk or other visible signs of liquid on the rims that would reveal anything. No wet marks left by melted snow on the floor, just a few splinters of light wood in front of the desk which must have come from one of the drawers. One drawer front looked as if it had split.
'Let's get moving,' Harry said.
'Why's my vac there?' Jon asked, pointing. 'Have your people been using it?'
Harry knew SOC procedures and none of them involved using the vacuum cleaner at the scene of the crime.
'Does anyone else have a key to this flat?' Harry asked.
Jon hesitated. 'Thea, my girlfriend. But she would never have used the vac here of her own accord.'
Harry studied the splinters of wood in front of the desk which would have been the first thing a vacuum cleaner would have swallowed. Then he went over to the machine. The attachment had been removed from the plastic shaft attached to the end of the hose. Cold shivers ran down his spine. He lifted the hose and peered down it. Ran a finger around the circular black edge and looked at his fingertip.
'What's that?' Jon asked.