The Redeemer (8 page)

Harry observed her. Her face expressed nothing more than the usual social worker's resignation.

'It must be hell,' Harry said, scratching his leg.

'Yes, you have to be an addict yourself to understand it.'

'To be a parent, I was thinking.'

Martine didn't answer. A man in a torn quilted jacket had come to the neighbouring table. He opened a transparent plastic bag and emptied out a pile of dry tobacco that must have come from hundreds of fag ends. It covered the cigarette paper and the black fingers of the man sitting there.

'Happy Christmas,' the man mumbled and departed with the junkie's old-man gait.

'What doesn't check out?' Martine asked.

'The blood specimen shows almost no toxins,' Harry said.

'So?'

Harry looked at the man next to him. He was desperately trying to roll a cigarette, but his fingers would not obey. A tear ran down his brown cheek.

'I know a couple of things about getting high,' Harry said. 'Do you know if he owed money to anyone?'

'No.' Her answer was curt. So much so that Harry already knew the answer to his next question.

'But you could maybe—'

'No,' she interrupted, 'I cannot make enquiries. Listen, these are people no one cares about, and I am here to help them, not to persecute them.'

Harry gave her a searching look. 'You're right. I apologise for asking and it won't happen again.'

'Thank you.'

'Just one last question?'

'Come on.'

'Would you . . .' Harry hesitated, wondering if he was about to commit a blunder. 'Would you believe me if I said I did care?'

She angled her head and studied Harry. 'Should I?'

'Well, I'm investigating a case everyone thinks is the cut-and-dried suicide of a person no one cared about.'

She didn't answer.

'It's good coffee.' Harry got up.

'You're welcome,' she said. 'And may God bless you.'

'Thank you,' Harry said, feeling, to his surprise, the lobes of his ears flush.

On his way out he stopped in front of the guard and turned, but she had gone. The man in the hoody offered Harry the green plastic bag with the packed lunch, but he turned it down, pulled his coat tighter around him and went out into the streets where he could already see the sun making its blushing retreat into Oslo fjord. He walked towards the Akerselva. In the area known as Eika a man was standing erect in a snowdrift with the sleeve of a quilted jacket rolled up and a needle hanging from his forearm. He smiled as he looked straight through Harry and the frosty mist over Grønland.

6
Monday, 15 December. Halvorsen.

P
ERNILLE
H
OLMEN SEEMED EVEN SMALLER SITTING IN HER
armchair in Fredensborgveien with large, red-rimmed eyes staring at Harry. In her lap she held a glass-framed photograph of her son Per.

'He was nine here,' she said.

Harry had to swallow. Partly because no smiling nine-year-old in a life jacket looks as if they imagined they would end up in a container with a bullet through their head. And partly because the photo reminded him of Oleg, who could forget himself and call Harry '
Pappa
'. Harry wondered how long it would take him to call Mathias Lund-Helgesen '
Pappa
'.

'Birger, my husband, used to go out in search of Per if he had been missing for a few days,' she said. 'Even though I asked him to stop. I couldn't stand having Per here any longer.'

Harry repressed his thought, Why not?

Birger Holmen was at the undertaker's, she had explained, when Harry called by unannounced.

She sniffled. 'Have you ever shared a house with someone who has an addiction?'

Harry didn't answer.

'He stole everything that came to hand. We accepted it. That is, Birger, accepted it. He's the loving one of us two.' She pulled her face into a grimace, which Harry interpreted as a smile.

'He defended Per in everything. Right up to this autumn. Until Per threatened me.'

'Threatened you?'

'Yes, threatened to kill me.' She looked down at the photo and rubbed the glass as though it had become unclear. 'Per rang the bell one morning and I refused to let him in. I was on my own. He wept and begged, but we had played that game before, so I was hard. I went back into the kitchen and sat down. I don't know how he got in, but all of a sudden there he was – standing in front of me with a gun.'

'The same gun he . . .'

'Yes. Yes, I think so.'

'Go on.'

'He forced me to unlock the cupboard where I kept my jewellery. That is, the little I had left. He had already taken most of it. Then he was off.'

'And you?'

'Me? I had a breakdown. Birger came and took me to hospital.' She sniffled. 'Where they wouldn't even give me any more pills. They said I'd had enough.'

'What kind of pills were they?'

'What do you think? Tranquillisers. Enough! When you have a son who keeps you awake at night because you're frightened he'll return . . .' She paused and pressed a clenched fist against her mouth. Tears were in her eyes. Then she whispered in such a low voice that Harry struggled to catch the words: 'Sometimes you don't want to live any longer . . .'

Harry cast his eyes down to his notepad. It was blank.

'Thank you,' he said.

'One night, sir. Is that correct?' asked the female receptionist in Scandia Hotel by Oslo Central Station, without looking up from the reservation on the computer screen.

'Yes,' the man before her answered.

She had made a mental note that he was wearing a light brown coat. Camel hair. Or imitation.

Her long, red nails scurried across the keyboard like frightened cockroaches. Imitation camels in wintry Norway. Why not? She had seen pictures of camels in Afghanistan, and her boyfriend had written that it could be just as cold there as here.

'Will you be paying by cash or credit card, sir?'

'Cash.'

She pushed the registration form and a pen over the counter to him and asked to see his passport.

'No need,' he answered. 'I'll pay now.'

He spoke English almost like a Brit, but there was something about the way he articulated consonants that made her think of Eastern Europe.

'I still have to see your passport, sir. International regulations.'

He nodded in acknowledgement, passed her a smooth thousand-kroner note and his passport. Republika Hrvatska? Probably one of the new countries in the East. She gave him his change, put the note in the cash box and reminded herself to check it against the light when the hotel guest had gone. She endeavoured to maintain a certain style, although she had to concede that for the moment she was working at one of the city's less sophisticated hotels. And this particular guest did not look like a swindler, more like a . . . well, what did he look like in fact? She gave him the plastic card and the spiel about floor, lift, breakfast and checkout times.

'Will there be anything else, sir?' she warbled, confident that her English and service attitude were too good for this hotel. Before very long she would move to somewhere better. Or – if that was not possible – trim her approach.

He cleared his throat and asked where the nearest telephone booth was.

She explained that he could ring from his room, but he shook his head.

She had to think. The mobile phone had in practice meant that most phone boxes in Oslo had been removed, but she thought there was still one close by, in Jernbanetorget, the square outside the station. Although it was only a hundred metres away, she took out a little map, marked it and gave him directions. As they did in the Radisson and Choice hotels. Peering up to see whether he had understood, she was confused for a moment, without quite knowing why.

'It's us against the rest of the world, Halvorsen!'

Harry shouted his regular morning greeting as he burst into their shared office.

'Two messages,' Halvorsen said. 'You've got to report to the new POB's office. And a woman rang asking for you. Stunning voice.'

'Oh?' Harry slung his coat in the direction of the hatstand. It landed on the floor.

'Wow,' Halvorsen exclaimed without thinking. 'At last you've got over it, haven't you?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You're chucking clothes at the hatstand again. And saying, "It's us against the rest of the world!" You haven't done either since Rakel dumped—'

Halvorsen shut up as he saw his colleague's warning expression.

'What did the lady want?'

'To pass on a message. Her name is . . .' Halvorsen searched through the yellow Post-its in front of him. '. . . Martine Eckhoff.'

'Don't know her.'

'Works at the Lighthouse.'

'Aha!'

'She said she'd been making enquiries. And that no one had heard anything about Per Holmen having any debts.'

'Did she now? Mm. Perhaps I ought to ring and check if there was anything else.'

'Oh? OK. Fine.'

'Alright? Why are you looking so cheated?' Harry bent down for his coat, but instead of hanging it up, he put it on. 'Do you know what, Junior? I have to go out again.'

'But the POB—'

'—will have to wait.'

The gate to the container terminal was open, but there was a sign on the fence prohibiting access and directing vehicles to the car park outside. Harry scratched his bad leg, glanced at the long, open expanse between the containers and drove in. The watchman's office was a low building much like a Moelven workman's shed that had been extended at regular intervals over the last thirty years. Which was not that far from the truth. Harry parked in front of the entrance and covered the remaining metres at a quick walk.

The watchman leaned back in his chair, silent, his hands behind his head, chewing on a matchstick, while Harry explained why he was there. And what had happened the night before.

The matchstick was the only thing moving in the watchman's face, but Harry thought he detected the hint of a grin as he told him about the altercation with the dog.

'Black Metzner,' the watchman said. 'The cousin of the Rhodesian ridgeback. Lucky to get it imported. Great guard dog. And quiet, too.'

'I noticed.'

The matchstick jumped in amusement. 'The Metzner is a hunter, so it sneaks up. Doesn't want to frighten the prey.'

'Are you saying the animal intended to . . . er, eat me?'

'Depends what you mean by eat.'

The watchman did not go into any details, just stared at Harry with a blank expression. The interwoven hands framed the whole of his head, and Harry was thinking that either he had unusually big hands or an unusually small head.

'So you didn't see or hear anyone at the time we are assuming Per Holmen was shot?'

'Was shot?'

'Shot himself. Anything?'

'Guard stays indoors in the winter. And the Metzner is quiet, as I said.'

'Isn't that impractical? That it doesn't raise an alarm, I mean?'

The watchman shrugged. 'It gets the job done. And we don't have to go out.'

'It didn't catch Per Holmen when he slipped in.'

'It's a big area.'

'But later?'

'The body, you mean? Bah. That was frozen, wasn't it? And the Metzner's not so keen on dead things. It likes fresh meat.'

Harry shuddered. 'In the police report it says you'd never seen Holmen down here before.'

'That's right enough.'

'I've just been to see his mother and she lent me this family photo.'

Harry put the picture on the watchman's desk. 'Could you have a look and swear to me that you have never seen this person before?'

The watchman lowered his gaze. Rolled the matchstick to the corner of his mouth to answer, then paused. The hands moved from behind his head and he picked up the photo. Studied it at length.

'I made a mistake. I have seen him. He was here in the summer. It wasn't so easy to recognise the . . . what was in the container.'

'I can appreciate that.'

When Harry stood in the doorway to leave a few minutes later, he opened the door a crack at first and checked. The watchman grinned.

'It's locked up during the day. And anyway, a Metzner's teeth are narrow. The wound heals fast. I've been thinking about buying a Kentucky terrier. Jagged teeth. Bite chunks out of you. You were lucky, Inspector.'

'Well,' Harry said, 'you'd better warn Fido that a lady is on her way and she'll give him something else to bite.'

'What?' Halvorsen asked, carefully manoeuvring the car past a snowplough.

'Something soft,' Harry said. 'Kind of clay. Afterwards Beate and her team will put the clay in plaster, let it set and, bingo, you've got a model of a dog's jaw.'

'Right. And that's supposed to prove that Per Holmen was murdered?'

'No.'

'I thought you said—'

'I said that's what I need to prove that it was murder. The missing link in the chain of evidence.'

'I see. And what are the other links?'

'The usual. Motive, murder weapon and opportunity. Turn right here.'

'I don't know. You said your suspicions were based on Holmen using wire cutters to break into the container terminal?'

'I said that was what made me wonder. To be precise, I wondered how a heroin addict so out of his skull that he has to look for refuge in a container would be alert enough to make sure he had wire cutters to get through the gate. Then I had a closer look at the case. You can park here.'

'What I don't understand is how you can claim that you know who the guilty party is.'

'Work it out, Halvorsen. It's not difficult, and you have all the facts.'

'I hate it when you do this.'

'I only want you to be good.'

Halvorsen cast a glance at his older colleague to see if he was joking. They got out of the car.

'Aren't you going to lock up?' Harry asked.

'The lock froze last night. The key broke in it this morning. How long have you known who the guilty person is?'

'A while.'

They crossed the street.

'Knowing
who
is in most cases the easy bit. It's the obvious candidate. The husband. The best friend. The guy with a record. And never the butler. That's not the problem; the problem is proving what your head and your gut have been telling you for ages.' Harry pressed the bell beside 'Holmen'. 'And that's what we're going to do now. Find the little piece that changes apparently unconnected information into a perfect chain of evidence.'