‘Alpha to . . .’ Harry had not allocated call names and couldn’t remember first names, ‘. . . to the window post by the sofa. Has the target moved? Over.’
He let go of the button and there was a low crackle. Then came the voice:
‘He’s still sitting in the chair.’
‘Roger. We’re going in. Over and out.’
One officer nodded and produced a crowbar while the other backed away and braced himself.
Harry had seen the technique used before; one man prises open the door so that the other can charge in. Not because they couldn’t have broken it open, but because it is the effect of the loud bang, the power and speed that paralyses the target and in nine cases out of ten he freezes on the chair, sofa or bed.
But Harry held up a restraining hand. He pressed the door handle and pushed.
Mathias hadn’t lied; it was unlocked.
The door slid open without a sound. Harry pointed to his chest to say he would go first.
The flat was not minimalist in the way that Harry had imagined.
It was minimalist in the sense that there was nothing there: no shoes in the hall, no furniture, no pictures. Only bare walls begging for new wallpaper or a lick of paint. It looked as if it had been abandoned for a substantial amount of time.
The living-room door was ajar and through the gap Harry could see the arm of the chair, a hand on top. A small hand with a watch. He held his breath, took two long strides, gripped the revolver with both hands and nudged the door open with his foot.
He sensed the other two – who had moved into the edge of his vision – stiffen.
And heard a barely audible whisper. ‘Jesus Christ . . .’
A large illuminated chandelier hung above the armchair and lit up the person sitting there and staring straight at him. The neck bore bruising from strangulation, the face was pale and beautiful, the hair black and the dress sky blue with tiny white flowers. The same dress as in the photo on his kitchen calendar. Harry felt his heart explode in his chest as the rest of his body turned to stone. He tried to move, but could not tear himself away from her glazed eyes. The accusatory glazed eyes. Which accused him of not having acted; he had known nothing of this, but he should have acted, he should have stopped this happening, he should have saved her.
She was as white as his mother had been on her death bed.
‘Check the rest of the flat,’ Harry said in a thick voice, lowering his revolver.
He took an unsteady step towards the body and held her wrist in his hand. It was ice-cold and lifeless, like marble. Yet he could feel a ticking, a weak pulse, and for one absurd moment he thought she had only been made up to look dead. Then he looked down and saw it was the watch which was ticking.
‘There’s no one else here,’ he heard one of the officers behind him say. Then a cough. ‘Do you know who she is?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said, running a finger over the watch face. The same watch a mere few hours ago he had been holding in his own hand. The watch that had been left in his bedroom. That he had put in the bird box because Rakel’s boyfriend was taking her out this evening. To a party. To celebrate that from now on the two of them would be as one.
Again Harry looked at the eyes, her accusing eyes.
Yes, he thought. Guilty on all counts.
Skarre had come into the flat and was standing behind Harry, staring over his shoulder at the dead woman in the chair. Beside him stood the two Delta officers.
‘Strangled?’ he asked.
Harry neither answered nor moved. One shoulder strap of the sky-blue dress had slipped down.
‘Unusual to wear a summer dress in December,’ Skarre said, mostly for the sake of conversation.
‘She usually does,’ Harry said in a voice which sounded as if it came from a long way away.
‘Who does?’ Skarre asked.
‘Rakel.’
The policeman gave a start. He had seen Harry’s ex when she used to work for the police. ‘Is . . . is . . . that Rakel? But . . .’
‘It’s her dress,’ Harry said. ‘And her watch. He’s dressed her up as Rakel. But the woman sitting there is Birte Becker.’
Skarre eyed the corpse in silence. It didn’t look like any other corpse he had seen. This one was as white as chalk and bloated.
‘Come with me,’ Harry said, directing his attention to the two Delta officers before turning to Skarre. ‘You stay here and cordon off the flat. Ring the Crime Scene Unit in Tryvann and tell them they’ve got another job waiting for them.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Dance,’ Harry said.
The flat went quiet after the three men had clattered down the stairs at a run. But seconds later Skarre heard a car starting and the scream of tyres on the tarmac of Vogts gate.
The blue light rotated and lit up the road. Harry was sitting in the front passenger seat and listening to the phone ringing at the other end. From the mirror two miniature bikini-clad women danced to the despairing lament of the siren as the police car slalomed between vehicles on Ring 3.
Please, he implored. Please pick up, Rakel.
He looked at the metal dancers beneath the mirror, thinking he was like them; someone who danced impotently to another’s tune, a comic figure in a farce in which he was always two steps behind events, always racing through doors a little too late and being met by the audience’s laughter.
Harry cracked. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ he yelled and slung the mobile phone at the windscreen. It slid off the dashboard and down to the floor. The officer driving exchanged glances with the other officer in the mirror.
‘Turn off the siren,’ Harry said.
It went quiet.
And Harry’s attention was caught by a sound coming from the floor.
He picked up the phone.
‘Hello!’ he shouted. ‘Hello. Are you at home, Rakel?’
‘Of course I am, you’re ringing the landline.’ It was her voice. A gentle, calm laugh. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘Is Oleg at home, too?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s sitting here in the kitchen eating. We’re waiting for Mathias. What’s up, Harry?’
‘Listen to me carefully now, Rakel. Do you hear me?’
‘You’re frightening me, Harry. What is it?’
‘Put the safety chain on the door.’
‘Why? It’s locked and –’
‘Put the safety chain on, Rakel!’ Harry yelled.
‘OK, OK!’
He heard her say something to Oleg, then a chair scraped and he heard running feet. When the voice was back it was trembling.
‘Now tell me what’s going on, Harry.’
‘I will. First though you have to promise me you won’t let Mathias into the house under any circumstances.’
‘Mathias? Are you drunk, Harry? You have no right –’
‘Mathias is dangerous, Rakel. I’m sitting here in a police car with two other officers on our way up to you now. I’ll explain the rest later. Now I want you to look out of the window. Can you see anything?’
He heard her hesitate. But he said nothing further, just waited. For he knew with a sudden certainty that she trusted him, that she believed him, that she always had done. They were approaching the tunnel by Nydalen. On the verge of the road the snow lay like greyish-white wool. Then her voice was back.
‘I can’t see anything. But I don’t know what I’m looking for, do I.’
‘So you can’t see a snowman?’ Harry asked quietly.
He could tell from the silence that the whole thing was becoming clear to her.
‘Tell me this isn’t happening, Harry,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me this is just a dream.’
He closed his eyes and considered whether she could be right. On his eyelids he saw Birte Becker in the chair. Of course it was a dream.
‘I put your watch in the bird box,’ he said.
‘But it wasn’t there, it . . .’ she began, paused and let out a groan. ‘Oh my God!’
35
DAY 21.
Monster.
F
ROM THE KITCHEN
R
AKEL HAD A VIEW OF ALL THREE SIDES
from which a person might approach the house. At the back there was a short but precipitous scree slope it was difficult to descend, especially now that the snow had settled. She went from window to window. Peered out and tested them to make sure they were firmly shut. When her father had built the house after the war he had put the windows high in the wall, with iron bars covering them. She knew this had something to do with the war and a Russian who had sneaked into their bunker near Leningrad and shot all his sleeping comrades. Everyone apart from him, who had been asleep nearest the door, so exhausted that he hadn’t woken up until the alarm was sounded and discovered that his blanket was strewn with empty cartridges. That was the last night he’d slept properly, he had always said. But she’d always hated the iron bars. Until now.
‘Can’t I go up to my room?’ Oleg said, kicking the leg of the large kitchen table.
‘No,’ Rakel said. ‘You have to stay here.’
‘What’s Mathias done?’
‘Harry will explain everything when he comes. Are you sure you’ve attached the safety chain properly?’
‘Yes, Mum. I wish Dad was here.’
‘Dad?’ She hadn’t heard him use that word before. Except for Harry, but that was several years ago. ‘Do you mean your father in Russia?’
‘He’s not Dad.’
He said it with a conviction that made her shiver.
‘The cellar door!’ she screamed.
‘What?’
‘Mathias has got the cellar key, too. What shall we do?’
‘Simple,’ said Oleg, finishing his glass of water. ‘You put one of the garden chairs under the door handle. They’re just the right height. No chance anyone could get in.’
‘Have you tried?’ she asked, taken aback.
‘Harry did it once when we were playing cowboys.’
‘Sit here,’ she said, heading for the hall and the cellar door.
‘Wait.’
She stopped.
‘I saw how he did it,’ Oleg said, who had got to his feet. ‘Stay here, Mum.’
She looked at him. God, how he had grown in this last year; he would soon be taller than her. And in those dark eyes of his the childishness was giving way to what for the moment was youthful defiance, but which, she could already see, in time would become adult determination.
She hesitated.
‘Let me do it,’ he said.
There was a plea in his tone. And she knew this was important for him, it was about bigger matters. About coming to terms with childish fears. About adult rituals. About becoming like his father. Whoever he thought that was.
‘Hurry,’ she whispered.
Oleg ran.
She stood by the window and stared out. Listening for the sound of a car on the drive. She prayed that Harry would come first. Wondered about how quiet it was. And had no idea where the next thought came from: how quiet it would be.
But then she did hear a sound. A tiny sound. At first she assumed it came from outside. But then she was sure that it came from behind her. She turned. Saw nothing, just the empty kitchen. Then there was that sound again. Like the heavy tick of a clock. Or a finger tapping on a table. The table. She stared. That was where the sound was coming from. And then she saw it. A drop of water had landed on the table. She slowly raised her face to the ceiling. In the middle of the white panelling a dark circle had formed. And from the middle of that circle hung a shiny drop. It let go and landed on the table. Rakel saw it happen, yet the sound made her jump, as if she had received an unexpected slap to the head.
My God, it must be from the bathroom! Had she really forgotten to turn off the shower again? She hadn’t been on the first floor since she came home; she had got to grips with cooking straight away, so it must have been running since this morning. And it
would
have to happen now, in the midst of all this.
She went into the hall, dashed up the stairs and headed for the bathroom. She couldn’t hear the shower. She opened the door. Dry floor. No water running. She closed the bathroom door and stood outside for a couple of seconds. Glanced at the adjacent bedroom door. Slowly walked over. Rested her hand on the handle. Hesitated. Listened again for cars. Then she opened the door. She looked inside the room. She wanted to scream. But instinctively she knew that she mustn’t, she had to be quiet. Perfectly quiet.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Harry screamed and banged a fist onto the dashboard making it quiver. ‘What’s going on?’
The traffic had ground to a halt in front of the tunnel. They had been there now for two long minutes.
The reason came over the police radio that second. ‘There’s been a collision on Ring 3 by the exit of the westbound tunnel at Tåsen. No injuries. Breakdown truck’s on its way.’
On a sudden impulse Harry snatched the microphone. ‘Do you know who it is?’
‘We know it’s two cars, both fitted with summer tyres,’ the nasal radio voice drawled laconically.
‘November snow always brings chaos,’ the officer at the back said.
Harry didn’t answer, just drummed his fingers on the dashboard. He weighed up the alternatives. There was a barricade of cars in front of and behind them; all the blue lights and sirens in the world could not get them through. He could jump out and run to the end of the tunnel, radio a patrol car to meet him there, but it was close on two kilometres.
It was quiet in the car now; all that could be heard was the low hum of idling car engines. The van in front of them nudged forward a metre and the police driver followed. Didn’t brake until he was almost on its rear bumper, as if afraid anything but aggressive driving would cause the inspector to explode again. The sudden braking made the two metal bikini-clad women jingle cheerfully in the silence that followed.
Harry thought about Jonas again. Why, though? What had made him think about Jonas when he was talking to Mathias on the phone? There was something about the sound. In the background.