Bjørn ran desperately after him, cursing. Harry had grabbed a pot containing a two-metre-high palm tree, dragged it over to the lift and pressed the button. As the shiny aluminium doors slid apart, he jammed the pot between them and pointed to a white door with a green exit sign.
‘If you take the fire escape and I take the main stairs we have all the escape routes covered. Meet you on the sixth, Holm.’
Bjørn Holm was drenched with sweat before he reached the second floor on the narrow iron staircase. Neither his body nor his head were prepared for this. He was a forensics officer, for Christ’s sake! His bag was
re
constructing dramas, not constructing them.
He stopped for a moment. But all he could hear was the fading echo of his own footsteps and his own panting. What would he do if he met someone? Harry had told him to bring his service revolver along to Seilduksgata, but had Harry meant that he would have to use it? Bjørn took hold of the railing and started running again. What would Hank Williams have done? Buried his head in a drink. Sid Vicious? Shown him a finger and legged it. And Elvis? Elvis. Elvis Presley. Right. Bjørn Holm wrapped his fingers round his revolver.
The steps finished. He opened the door and there, at the end of the corridor, was Harry leaning back against the wall beside a brown door. He had his revolver in one hand and was holding the other to his mouth. Forefinger over his lips as he watched Bjørn and pointed to the door. It was ajar.
‘We’ll do it room by room,’ Harry whispered when Bjørn was alongside. ‘You take the ones on the left, I’ll take the ones on the right. Same rhythm, back to back. And don’t forget to breathe.’
‘Wait!’ Bjørn whispered. ‘What if Katrine’s there?’
Harry studied him and waited.
‘I mean . . .’ Bjørn Holm went on, trying to articulate what he meant. ‘In a worst-case scenario would I shoot . . . a colleague?’
‘In the
worst
-case scenario,’ Harry said, ‘a colleague would shoot
you
. Ready?’
The young forensics officer from Skreia nodded and promised himself that if this went well he would wear bloody hair oil.
Harry silently prodded the door open with his foot and went in. He felt the current of air at once. The draught. He reached the first door to the right and grabbed the handle with his left hand as he pointed the revolver. Pushed the door open and went in. It was a study. Empty. Over the desk hung a large map of Norway with pins stuck in it.
Harry walked back into the hall where Holm was waiting for him. Harry motioned to Holm to keep his revolver raised the whole time.
They moved through the apartment with stealth.
Kitchen, library, fitness room, conservatory, guest room. All empty.
Harry felt the temperature drop. And as they came into the living room he saw why. The sliding door to the terrace and pool was wide open; white curtains flapped nervously in the wind. On either side of the room ran narrow pathways, each leading to a door. Harry pointed to Holm to take the door on the right while he took up position in front of the other.
Harry breathed in, huddled up to make the target as small as possible and opened.
In the darkness he could make out a bed, white linen and something that might have been a body. His left hand groped for a switch inside the door.
‘Harry!’
It was Holm.
‘Over here, Harry!’
Holm’s voice was excited, but Harry turned a deaf ear and concentrated on the darkness in front of him. His hand found the switch and the next moment the room was bathed in light from overhead spots. It was empty. Harry checked the cupboards, then left. Holm stood outside the other door with his gun pointing in the room.
‘He’s not moving,’ Holm whispered. ‘He’s dead. He . . .’
‘Then you needn’t have called me so urgently,’ Harry said, walking to the bath, bending over the naked man and removing the pig mask. A thin, red stripe ran around his neck, his face was pale and swollen and his eyes were bulging out from beneath the eyelids. Arve Støp was barely recognisable.
‘I’ll ring the Crime Scene people,’ Holm said.
‘Hang on.’ Harry held a hand in front of Støp’s mouth. Then he took the editor’s shoulder and shook him.
‘What are you doing?’
Harry shook harder.
Bjørn laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘But Harry, can’t you see . . . ?’
Holm recoiled. Støp had opened his eyes. And now he was drawing breath – like a skin-diver breaking the surface – deep, painful and with a rattle in his throat.
‘Where is she?’ Harry said.
Støp was unable to focus his eyes and short gasps were all that emerged from his mouth.
‘Wait here, Holm.’
Holm nodded and watched his colleague leave the bathroom.
Harry stood on the edge of Arve Støp’s roof terrace. Twenty-five metres below glittered the black water of the canal. In the moonlight he could discern the sculpture of the woman on stilts in the water and the deserted bridge. And there . . . something shiny bobbing on the surface of the water, like the belly of a dead fish. The back of a black leather coat. She had jumped. From the sixth floor.
Harry stepped up to the edge of the terrace, between the empty flower boxes. An image from the past flashed through his brain. Østmarka, and Øystein who had dived from the mountain into Lake Hauktjern. Harry and Tresko dragging him to the shore. Øystein in bed at Rikshospitalet with what looked like scaffolding around his neck. What Harry had learned from this was that you should jump from great heights, not dive. And remember to keep your arms into your body so that you don’t break your collarbone. But above all you have to make up your mind before you look down, and jump before terror has engaged your common sense. And that was why Harry’s jacket slid to the terrace floor with a soft smack while Harry was already in the air listening to the roar in his ears. The black water accelerated towards him. As black as tarmac.
He put his heels together and the next moment it was as if the air had been knocked out of him and a large hand was trying to tear off his clothes, and all sound was gone. Then came the numbing cold. He kicked and rose to the surface. Got his bearings, located the coat and began to swim. He had already started losing sensation in his feet and knew he only had a few minutes before his body would stop functioning in this temperature. But he also knew that if Katrine’s laryngeal reflex was working and closed itself when it came into contact with water it would be the sudden cooling down that could save her, it would stop the metabolism, send the body’s cells and organs into hibernation mode and allow the vital functions to survive on a minimum of oxygen.
Harry lunged and glided through the thick, heavy water towards the glistening leather.
Then he was there and he grabbed her.
His first unconscious thought was that she was already heaven-bound, consumed by demons. For only her coat was there.
Harry cursed, spun round in the water and stared up at the terrace. Followed the edge up to the eaves, the metal pipework and the sloping roofs that led down the other side of the building, to other buildings. Other terraces and the multitude of fire escapes and routes through the labyrinth of facades in Aker Brygge. He trod water with legs that could no longer feel while confirming to himself that Katrine had not even underestimated him; he had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. And for a moment of madness he considered death by drowning; it was supposed to be pleasant.
It was four o’clock in the morning and on the bed in front of Harry, wearing a dressing gown, sat a trembling Arve Støp. The tan seemed to have been sucked from his complexion, and he had shrunk into an old man. But his pupils had regained their normal size.
Harry had taken a boiling hot shower and seated himself in a chair, wearing a sweater from Holm and tracksuit bottoms he had borrowed off Støp. In the living room they could hear Bjørn Holm trying to organise the hunt for Katrine Bratt via a mobile phone. Harry had told him to contact the Incident Room to put out a general alert; the police at Gardemoen Airport in case she attempted to take one of the early morning flights; and the Special Forces Unit, Delta, to raid her flat, even though Harry was fairly sure that they wouldn’t find her there.
‘So you think this was not just a sex game but Katrine trying to kill you?’ Harry asked.
‘Think?’ Støp said with chattering teeth. ‘She was trying to strangle me!’
‘Mm. And she asked you if you had an alibi for the times of the murders?’
‘For the third time, yes!’ Støp groaned.
‘So she thinks you’re the Snowman?’
‘Christ knows what she thinks. The woman’s obviously off her chump.’
‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘But that doesn’t prevent her from having a point.’
‘And what sort of point would that be?’ Støp looked at his watch.
Harry knew that Krohn was on his way and that the solicitor would muzzle his client as soon as he was there.
He made up his mind and leaned forward. ‘We know that you’re the father of Jonas Becker and Sylvia Ottersen’s twins.’
Støp’s head shot up. Harry had to take a risk.
‘Idar Vetlesen was the only person who knew. You’re the one who sent him to Switzerland and paid for the Fahr’s syndrome course he enrolled on, aren’t you. The disease you yourself inherited.’
Harry could see he wasn’t far off the mark by the way Arve Støp’s pupils dilated.
‘It’s my guess Vetlesen told you we were putting the squeeze on him,’ Harry persisted. ‘Perhaps you were frightened he would crack. Or perhaps he was exploiting the situation to extort favours? Money, for example.’
The editor stared at Harry in disbelief and shook his head.
‘Nevertheless, Støp, you would obviously have had a lot to lose if the truth about these paternities had come out. Enough to give you a motive for killing those who could expose you: the mothers and Idar Vetlesen. Isn’t that correct?’
‘I . . .’ Støp’s gaze began to roam.
‘You?’
‘I have . . . nothing else to say.’ Støp fell forward and lowered his head into his hands. ‘Talk to Krohn.’
‘Fine,’ Harry said. He didn’t have much time. Though he did have one last card. A good one. ‘I’ll tell them you said that.’
Harry waited. Støp was still bent forward, motionless. Then at last he raised his head.
‘Who’s
them
?’
‘The press of course,’ Harry chatted. ‘There is reason to believe they will give us a bit of a grilling, don’t you think? This is what you people would call a scoop, wouldn’t you?’
Something clicked behind Støp’s eyes.
‘How do you mean?’ he asked, but with intonation that suggested he already knew the answer.
‘A well-known figure thinks he’s luring a young woman home whereas in fact the opposite is the case,’ Harry said, studying the painting on the wall behind Støp. It seemed to represent a naked woman balancing on a tightrope. ‘He’s persuaded to wear a pig mask in the belief that this is a sex game and this is how he’s found by the police, naked and crying in his bath.’
‘You can’t tell them that!’ Støp exploded. ‘That . . . that’s breaking the principle of client confidentiality, isn’t it.’
‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘it might be breaking the image you’ve built up around yourself, Støp. However, it doesn’t break any obligation to remain silent. More the opposite.’
‘The opposite?’ Støp almost yelled. The chattering of teeth was gone now and the colour was back in his cheeks.
Harry coughed. ‘My only capital and means of production is my personal integrity.’ Harry waited until he saw that Støp was savouring his own words. ‘And as a policeman that means, among other things, keeping the public informed to the extent that it is possible without damaging the investigation. In this case, it is possible.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Støp said.
‘I can, and I will.’
‘That . . . that would crush me.’
‘More or less the way
Liberal
crushes someone every week on the front page?’
Støp opened and closed his mouth like a fish in an aquarium.
‘But of course, even for men with personal integrity there are compromises,’ Harry pointed out.
Støp studied him hard.
‘I hope you appreciate,’ Harry said, smacking his lips as if to memorise the precise wording, ‘that as a policeman I have a duty to exploit this situation.’
Støp nodded slowly.
‘Let’s start with Birte Becker,’ Harry said. ‘How did you meet her?’
‘I think we should stop there,’ a voice said.
They turned to the door. Appearances suggested that Johan Krohn had found time to shower, shave and iron his shirt.
‘OK,’ Harry said with a shrug. ‘Holm!’
Bjørn Holm’s freckled face appeared in the doorway behind Krohn.
‘Ring Odin Nakken of
Verdens Gang
,’ Harry said, facing Arve Støp. ‘Is it all right if I return your clothes later today?’
‘Wait,’ said Støp.
The room went silent as Arve Støp raised both hands and rubbed the backs of his hands against his forehead as though to start his blood circulating.
‘Johan,’ he said at length, ‘you’ll have to go. I can manage this on my own.’
‘Arve,’ the solicitor said, ‘I don’t think you should –’
‘Go home and sleep, Johan. I’ll call you later.’
‘As your solicitor I have to –’
‘As my solicitor you have to keep your mouth shut and hop it, Johan. Got that?’
Johan Krohn straightened up, mobilised the remainder of his wounded solicitor dignity, then changed his mind on seeing Støp’s expression. Nodded quickly, turned and left.
‘Where were we?’ Støp asked.
‘At the beginning,’ said Harry.
27
DAY 20.
The Beginning.
A
RVE STØP SAW
B
IRTE
B
ECKER FOR THE FIRST TIME ONE
cold winter’s day in Oslo, during a lecture he was giving for an events agency at Sentrum Auditorium. It was a motivation seminar where companies sent their jaded employees for a so-called ‘top-up’, that is, lectures intended to make them work even harder. In Arve Støp’s experience most lecturers at this seminar were businessmen who had enjoyed a bit of success with not very original ideas, gold medallists from major championships in minor sports, or mountaineers who had made a career out of climbing up mountains and coming down them again to tell others about the experience. What they had in common was that they claimed that their success was a result of their very special willpower and morale. They were motivated. This was what was supposed to be motivating.