‘What’s at the crossroads?’ asked Gunnar Hagen who had insisted on joining the Monday-morning meeting in Harry’s office.
Skarre looked at Hagen uncertainly to check if the POB was joking.
‘Dealers, whores, punters,’ he said. ‘It’s the new in place after we chased them out of Plata.’
‘Only there?’ Hagen asked, jutting out his chin. ‘I was told it was more widespread now.’
‘It’s like the centre,’ Skarre said. ‘But of course you’ll find them down towards the Stock Exchange and up towards Norges Bank. Round the Astrup Fearnley Art Museum, Gamle Logen Concert Hall and the Church Mission café . . .’ He stopped when Harry yawned out loud.
‘Sorry,’ Harry apologised. ‘It was a hard weekend. Go on.’
‘The detective couldn’t remember seeing him buy dope. He thought Vetlesen was frequenting Hotel Leon.’
At that moment Katrine Bratt came through the door. She was unkempt, pale, and her eyes were slits, but she sang out a cheery Bergensian greeting as she searched the room for a chair. Bjørn Holm leapt up from his, flourished a hand and went to look for another.
‘Leon in Skippergata?’ Hagen queried. ‘Is that somewhere where they sell drugs?’
‘Could well be,’ Skarre said. ‘But I’ve seen loads of black hookers going in there, so I suppose it must be a so-called massage place.’
‘Hardly,’ Katrine Bratt said, standing with her back to them as she hung her coat on the coat stand. ‘Massage parlours are part of the indoor market, and the Vietnamese have got that now. They stay in the suburbs, in discreet residential areas, use Asian women and keep away from the territory of the African outdoor market.’
‘I think I’ve seen a poster for cheap rooms hanging outside,’ Harry said. ‘Four hundred kroner a night.’
‘That’s right,’ Katrine said. ‘They have small rooms which are officially hired out by the day, but in practice on an hourly basis. Black money. Customers don’t exactly ask for a receipt. But the hotel owner, who earns the most, is white.’
‘Lady’s spot on,’ Skarre grinned at Hagen. ‘Strange that Bergen Sexual Offences Unit should suddenly be so well up on Oslo brothels.’
‘They’re the same everywhere,’ Katrine said. ‘Want a bet on anything I said?’
‘The owner’s a Paki,’ Skarre said. ‘Two hundred kronerooneys.’
‘Done.’
‘OK,’ Harry said, clapping his hands. ‘What are we sitting here for?’
The owner of Leon Hotel was Børre Hansen, from Solør, in the east, with skin as greyish-white as the slush the so-called guests brought in on their shoes and left on the worn parquet floor by the counter underneath the sign saying
RESEPTION
in black letters. As neither the clientele nor Børre were particularly interested in spelling, the sign had remained there, uncontested, for as long as Børre had had it: four years. Before that, he had travelled up and down Sweden selling Bibles, trying his hand at border trade with discarded porno films in Svinesund and acquiring an accent that sounded like a cross between a dance musician and a preacher. It was in Svinesund that he had met Natasha, a Russian erotic dancer, and they had only escaped from her Russian manager by the skin of their teeth. Natasha had been given a new name and now she lived with Børre in Oslo. He had taken over the Leon from three Serbians who for a variety of reasons were no longer able to stay in the country, and he continued where they left off, since there had been no reason to alter the business model: hiring out the rooms on a short-term – often extremely short-term – basis. The revenue generally came in the form of cash, and the guests were undemanding with regard to standards and maintenance. It was a good business. A business he did not want to lose. Consequently he disliked everything about the two people standing in front of him, most of all their ID cards.
The tall man with the cropped hair placed a picture on the counter. ‘Seen this man?’
Børre Hansen shook his head, relieved in spite of everything that it was not him they were after.
‘Sure?’ said the man, resting his elbows on the counter and leaning forward.
Børre looked at the picture again, thinking he should have scrutinised the ID card more closely; this guy seemed more like one of the dopeheads hanging round the streets than a policeman. And the girl behind him didn’t look like a policewoman, either. True, she had that hard look, the whore look, but the rest of her was lady, all lady. If she had got herself a pimp who didn’t rob her, she could have earned five times her wage, at least.
‘We know you’re running a brothel here,’ the policeman said.
‘I’m running a legit hotel, I’ve got a licence and all my papers are in order. Do you want to see?’ Børre pointed to the little office directly behind the reception area.
The policeman shook his head. ‘You hire out rooms to prostitutes and their clients. It’s against the law.’
‘Listen here,’ Børre said, swallowing. The conversation had taken the course he had feared. ‘I’m not interested in what my guests get up to so long as they pay their bills.’
‘But I am,’ said the policeman in a low voice. ‘Have a closer look at the picture.’
Børre looked. The photo must have been taken some years before because he seemed so young. Young and carefree, without a trace of despair or anguish.
‘Last time I checked, prostitution in Norway was not illegal,’ Børre Hansen said.
‘No,’ the policewoman said. ‘But running a brothel is.’
Børre Hansen did his best to assume an indignant expression.
‘As you know, at regular intervals the police are obliged to check that hotel regulations are being complied with,’ the policeman said. ‘Such as emergency exits from all rooms in case of fire.’
‘Submission of foreign guests’ registration forms,’ added the policewoman.
‘Fax machine for incoming police inquiries about guests.’
‘VAT account.’
He was teetering. The policeman delivered the knockout blow.
‘We’re considering bringing in the Fraud Squad to check the accounts you hold for certain customers who undercover police have observed coming and going in recent weeks.’
Børre Hansen could feel the nausea coming. Natasha. The mortgage. And incipient panic at the thought of freezing cold, pitch-black winter evenings on unfamiliar steps with Bibles under his arms.
‘Or we might not,’ the policeman said. ‘It’s a question of priorities. A question of how to use the police’s limited resources. Isn’t it, Bratt?’
The policewoman nodded.
‘He rents a room twice a week,’ Børre Hansen said. ‘Always the same room. He’s there all evening.’
‘All evening?’
‘He has several visitors.’
‘Black or white?’ the woman asked.
‘Black. Only black.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know. It varies. Eight. Twelve.’
‘At the same time?’ the policewoman exclaimed.
‘No, they change. Some come in pairs. They’re often in pairs on the street as well of course.’
‘Jesus,’ the policeman said.
Børre Hansen nodded.
‘What name does he sign in under?’
‘Don’t remember.’
‘But we’ll find it in the guest book, won’t we? And in the accounts?’
The back of Børre Hansen’s shirt was soaked with sweat under his shiny suit jacket. ‘They call him Dr White. The women who ask for him, that is.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Nothing to do with me. He . . .’ Børre Hansen hesitated. He didn’t want to say any more than he had to. On the other hand, he wanted to show a willingness to cooperate. And this was already a lost customer. ‘He carries one of those big doctor’s bags with him. And always asks for . . . extra towels.’
‘Oooh,’ said the woman. ‘Sounds dodgy. Have you seen any blood when you clean the room?’
Børre didn’t answer.
‘
If
you clean the room,’ the policeman corrected. ‘Well?’
Børre sighed. ‘Not much, not more than . . .’ He paused.
‘Than usual?’ the woman asked sarcastically.
‘I don’t think he hurts them,’ Børre Hansen hastened to say, and regretted it instantly.
‘Why not?’ the policeman snapped.
Børre shrugged. ‘They wouldn’t come back, I suppose.’
‘And it’s just women?’
Børre nodded. But the policeman must have noticed something. A nervous tautening of his neck muscles, a little twitch in the bloodshot membrane of his eye.
‘Men?’ he asked.
Børre shook his head.
‘Boys?’ asked the policewoman who clearly scented the same as her colleague.
Børre Hansen shook his head again, but with that little, almost imperceptible delay that arises when the brain has to choose between alternatives.
‘Children,’ said the policeman, lowering his forehead as if about to charge. ‘Has he had children here?’
‘No!’ Børre shouted, feeling the sweat break out over his whole body. ‘Never! I draw the line at that. There have only been the two times . . . And they didn’t come in. I threw them back out on the street!’
‘African?’ the man asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Boys or girls?’
‘Both.’
‘Did they come alone?’ the woman asked.
‘No, with women. The mothers, I believe. But, as I said, I didn’t let them go up to his room.’
‘You said he comes here twice a week. Does he have fixed times?’
‘Monday and Thursday. From eight to midnight. And he’s always on time.’
‘Tonight too?’ the man said, looking at his colleague. ‘OK, thanks for your assistance.’
Børre released the air from his lungs and discovered that his legs were aching – he had been standing on his toes the whole time. ‘Glad to help,’ he said.
The police officers walked towards the door. Børre knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t receive an assurance.
‘But . . .’ he said as they were leaving, ‘. . . but then we have a deal, don’t we?’
The policeman turned, with one eyebrow raised in surprise. ‘About what?’
Børre swallowed. ‘About these . . . inspections?’
The policeman rubbed his chin. ‘Are you implying that you have something to hide?’
Børre blinked twice. Then he heard his own high-pitched nervous laughter as he gushed: ‘No, no, of course not! Ha – ha! Everything here’s in order.’
‘Excellent, so you have nothing to fear when they come. Inspections are not my responsibility.’
They left with Børre opening his mouth, about to protest, to say something, he just didn’t know what.
The telephone welcomed Harry on his return to the office.
It was Rakel wanting to give him back the DVD she had borrowed off him.
‘
The Rules of Attraction
?’ Harry repeated, taken aback. ‘Have you got it?’
‘You said it was on your list of most underrated modern films.’
‘Yes, but you never like those films.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘You didn’t like
Starship Troopers
.’
‘That’s because it’s a crap macho film.’
‘It’s satire,’ Harry said.
‘Of what?’
‘American society’s inherent fascism. The Hardy Boys meet Hitler Youth.’
‘Come on, Harry. War on giant insects on a remote planet?’
‘Fear of foreigners.’
‘Anyway, I liked that seventies film of yours, the one about bugging . . .’
‘
The Conversation
,’ Harry said. ‘Coppola’s best.’
‘That’s the one. I agree
that
is underrated.’
‘It’s not underrated,’ Harry sighed. ‘Just forgotten. It was nominated for an Oscar for best film.’
‘I’m having dinner with some friends this evening. I can drop the film off on my way home. Will you be up at around midnight?’
‘Might be. Why not drop by on your way to the meal instead?’
‘Bit more stressful, but I can do it of course.’
Her answer had come fast. But not fast enough for Harry not to hear it.
‘Mm,’ he said. ‘I can’t sleep anyway. I’m inhaling fungus and I can’t catch my breath.’
‘You know what? I’ll pop it in the mailbox downstairs so you don’t have to get up. OK?’
‘OK.’
They rang off. Harry saw that his hand was trembling. Concluded it had to be down to lack of nicotine and made for the lift.
Katrine came out of her office door as if she knew it was him stomping along. ‘I spoke to Espen Lepsvik. We can have one of his guys for the job tonight.’
‘Great.’
‘Good news?’
‘What?’
‘You’re smiling.’
‘Am I? Must be happy then.’
‘About what?’
He patted his pocket. ‘Cigarette.’
Eli Kvale was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, looking out at the garden and listening to the comforting rumble of the dishwasher. The black telephone was on the worktop. The receiver had grown hot in her hands, from squeezing it so tight, but it had been a wrong number. Trygve had enjoyed the fish au gratin – it was his favourite, he had said. But he said that about most things. He was a good boy. Outside, the grass was brown and lifeless; there were no signs of the snow that had fallen. And who knows? Perhaps she had just dreamt the whole thing?
She flicked aimlessly through a magazine. She had taken off the first few days that Trygve was at home so that they could have a bit of time together. Have a good chat, just the two of them. But now he was sitting with Andreas in the living room and they were doing what she had made space for. That was fine, they had more to talk about. They were so similar after all. And in fact she had always liked the idea of a good chat more than the reality. Because the conversation always had to stop somewhere. At the huge, insurmountable wall.
Of course, she had agreed to call the boy after Andreas’s father. At least let the boy take a name from Andreas’s side. She had been close to spilling the beans before she was due to give birth. About the empty car park, about the darkness, about the black prints in the snow. About the knife to her neck and the faceless breath against her cheek. On the way home, with his seed running into her knickers she had prayed to God that it would continue to run until it was all gone. But her prayers had not been answered.