‘Because he told me he would be,’ Harry said. ‘We were sitting by a skating rink and he said the day his life’s work was over and he was so ill he was close to death he would jump from that tower there. As a homage to life.’ Harry pointed to the illuminated ski tower and the in-run soaring up against the black sky above them. ‘And he knew I would remember.’
‘Insane,’ whispered Gunnar Hagen peering up at the darkened glass cage perched on the top of the tower.
‘Could I borrow your handcuffs?’ Harry asked, turning to the driver.
‘You’ve already got some,’ Hagen said, nodding towards Harry’s right wrist where he had attached one cuff. The other hung open. ‘I’d like two pairs,’ Harry said, taking the leather case from the driver. ‘Can you help me? I’m a couple of fingers short here . . .’
Hagen shook his head as he attached half of the driver’s handcuffs around Harry’s other wrist.
‘I’m not happy with you going on your own. It frightens me.’
‘There’s not a lot of room up there and I can talk to him.’ Harry produced Katrine’s revolver. ‘And I’ve got this.’
‘That’s what frightens me, Harry.’
Inspector Hole sent his boss a quick glance before twisting round and opening the car door with his healthy hand.
The police officer accompanied Harry to the entrance of the Skiing Museum which he had to pass through to get to the tower lift. They had taken along a crowbar to smash in the door. But as they approached, the torch light caught fragments of glass glinting on the floor over by the ticket counter. A distant alarm was inhaling and exhaling with a howl somewhere inside the museum.
‘OK, so we know our man’s here,’ Harry said, making sure his revolver was in position at the back of his waistband. ‘Place two men by the rear exit as soon as the next patrol car arrives.’
Harry took the torch, stepped into the dark rooms and hurried past the posters and pictures of Norwegian ski heroes, Norwegian flags, Norwegian ski grease, Norwegian kings and Norwegian Crown princesses, all accompanied by succinct texts proclaiming that Norway was one hell of a nation, and Harry remembered why he had never been able to stomach this museum.
The lift was right at the back. A narrow, enclosed lift. Harry studied the lift door. Felt the cold sweat on his skin. There was a steel staircase next to it.
Eight landings later he regretted his decision. Dizziness and nausea had returned and he was retching. The sound of footsteps on metal echoed up and down the flight of stairs, and the handcuffs dangling from his wrists played iron pipe music against the handrail. His heart ought to have been pumping adrenalin and preparing his body for action at this point. Perhaps he was too drained, too spent. Or perhaps he knew it was all over. The game was up, the outcome obvious.
Harry went on. Set his feet down on the steps, didn’t even bother to try to be quiet, knew he had been heard ages ago.
The staircase led directly to the dark cage. Harry switched off his torch and felt a cold current of air as soon as his head appeared above the floor. Pale moonlight fell into the room. It was about four metres square with glass all round and a steel railing that tourists clung onto with a mixture of terror and joy as they enjoyed the view of Oslo or imagined what it must be like to set off down the in-run on skis. Or fall off the tower, sink like a stone towards the houses and be smashed between the trees far below them.
Harry climbed to the top step, turned to the silhouette outlined against the blanket of light which was the town beneath. The figure was sitting on the railing, framed in the large open window from where the cold air was flowing.
‘Beautiful, eh?’ Mathias’s voice sounded light, almost cheerful.
‘If it’s the view you mean, I agree.’
‘I didn’t mean the view, Harry.’
One of Mathias’s feet was dangling outside, and Harry was standing by the stairs.
‘Did you or the snowman kill her, Harry?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you did it. After all, you’re a clever guy. I was counting on you. Feels dreadful, doesn’t it? Of course, it’s not so easy to see the beauty then. When you’ve just killed the person you love most.’
‘Well,’ Harry said, taking a step closer, ‘I don’t suppose you would know much about that, would you.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’ Mathias leaned his head back against the frame and laughed. ‘I loved the first woman I killed more than anything else on this earth.’
‘So why did you do it?’ Harry felt a stab of pain as he moved his right hand behind his back and round the revolver.
‘Because my mother was a liar and a whore,’ Mathias said.
Harry swung his hand round and raised the revolver. ‘Come down from there, Mathias. With your hands in the air.’
Mathias eyed Harry with curiosity. ‘Do you know there’s a twenty per cent chance that your mother was the same, Harry? A twenty per cent chance that you’re the son of a whore. What do you say to that?’
‘You heard me, Mathias.’
‘Let me make it easier for you, Harry. Firstly, I refuse to obey. Secondly, you can say you couldn’t see my hands, so I could have been armed. Right, fire away, Harry.’
‘Get down.’
‘Rakel was a whore, Harry. And Oleg’s the son of a whore. You should thank me for letting you kill her.’
Harry switched the gun to his left hand. The loose ends of the handcuffs banged against each other.
‘Think about it, Harry. If you arrest me I’ll be declared of unsound mind, pampered in some psychiatric ward for a few years before being released. Shoot me now.’
‘You want to die,’ Harry said, moving nearer. ‘Because you’re going to die of scleroderma.’
Mathias smacked a hand against the window frame. ‘Well done, Harry. You checked what I said about antibodies in my blood.’
‘I asked Idar. And afterwards I researched scleroderma. If you’ve got the disease it’s easy to choose another death. For example, a spectacular death that would appear to crown this so-called life’s work of yours.’
‘I can hear your contempt, Harry. But one day you’ll understand, too.’
‘Understand what?’
‘That we were in the same business, Harry. Fighting disease. But the diseases you and I are fighting can’t be eradicated. All victories are temporary. So it’s just the fight which is our life’s work. And mine finishes here. Don’t you want to shoot me, Harry?’
Harry met Mathias’s eyes. Then he turned the revolver round in his hand. Held it out to Mathias, butt first. ‘Do it yourself, you bastard.’
Mathias frowned. Harry saw the hesitation, the suspicion. Which gradually gave way to a smile.
‘As you wish.’ Mathias stretched across the railing and took the weapon. Caressed the black steel.
‘You made a great error there, my friend,’ he said, pointing the revolver at Harry. ‘You’ll make a nice full stop, Harry. The guarantee that my work will not be forgotten.’
Harry stared into the black muzzle watching the hammer raise its ugly little head. Everything seemed to move slower and the room began to revolve. Mathias took aim. Harry took aim. And swung his right arm. The handcuff made a low whine through the air as Mathias pressed the trigger. The dry click was followed by a metallic smack as the open cuff struck his wrist.
‘Rakel survived,’ Harry said. ‘You failed, you satanic bastard.’
Harry saw Mathias’s eyes widen. Then narrow. Saw them stare at the revolver that had not fired, at the iron around his wrist binding him to Harry.
‘You . . . you removed the bullets.’
Harry shook his head. ‘Katrine Bratt never had bullets in her revolver.’
Mathias looked up at Harry and leaned backwards. ‘Come on.’
Then he jumped.
Harry was jerked forward and lost his balance. He tried to hold on but Mathias was too heavy and Harry a diminished giant, weakened by the loss of flesh and blood. The policeman screamed as he was dragged over the steel rail and sucked towards the window and the abyss. What he saw as he threw his free left arm above his head and behind him was a chair leg and himself sitting alone in a filthy windowless bedsit in Cabrini Green in Chicago. Harry heard the sound of metal on metal, then he tumbled through the night in free fall. The game was at an end now.
Gunnar Hagen stared at the ski jump tower but the swirling snowflakes that had started again obscured his vision.
‘Harry!’ he repeated on his walkie-talkie. ‘Are you there?’
He released the button, but again the answer was intense rustling nothingness.
There were four patrol cars in the open car park by the jump now, and total confusion had reigned when they had heard the scream from the tower a few seconds before.
‘They fell,’ said the officer beside him. ‘I’m sure I saw two figures falling out of the glass cage.’
Gunnar Hagen lowered his head in resignation. He didn’t quite know how or why, but for a moment it seemed to him there was an absurd logic in things ending this way; there was a kind of cosmic balance.
Nonsense. What utter nonsense.
Hagen couldn’t see the police vehicles in the drifting snow, but he could hear the lament of the sirens, like wailing women; they were already on their way. And he knew that the sound would attract the scavengers: the media vultures, the nosy neighbours, the bloodthirsty bosses. They would come to get their favourite titbit off the body, their delicacy. And this evening’s two-course meal – the repugnant snowman and the repugnant policeman – would be to their liking. There was no logic, no balance, just hunger and food. Hagen’s walkie-talkie crackled.
‘We can’t find them! Over.’
Hagen waited, wondering how he would tell his superiors that he had let Harry go alone. How he would explain that he was only Harry’s superior, not his boss and never had been. And that there was a logic there too, and that actually he didn’t give a stuff whether they understood or not.
‘What’s going on?’
Hagen turned. It was Magnus Skarre.
‘Harry fell,’ Hagen said, nodding towards the tower. ‘They’re searching for the body now.’
‘Body? Of Harry? No chance.’
‘No chance?’
Hagen turned to Skarre who was squinting up at the tower. ‘I thought you’d have known the guy by now, Hagen.’
Hagen could feel that despite everything he envied the young officer his conviction.
The walkie-talkie crackled again. ‘They’re not here!’
Skarre turned to him, their eyes met and Skarre rolled his shoulders in a
What-did-I-tell-you?
shrug.
‘Hey, you!’ Hagen shouted to the Land Rover driver and pointed at the searchlight on the roof. ‘Shine it on the glass cage. And get hold of some binoculars for me.’
A few seconds later a beam cut through the night.
‘Can you see anything?’ Skarre asked.
‘Snow,’ Hagen said, pressing the binoculars against his eyes. ‘Shine a bit higher. Stop! Wait . . . My God!’
‘What?’
‘Well, I’ll be damned.’
At that moment the snow retreated like a stage curtain being drawn. Hagen heard several policemen shout. It looked like two men shackled together were dangling from the rear-view mirror of a car. The lower of the two held a hand above his head in a kind of triumphant flourish; the other had both arms stretched out vertically as if he were being crucified sideways. And both were lifeless, with sunken heads as they slowly gyrated in the air.
Through the binoculars Hagen could see the handcuff holding Harry’s left hand to the railing on the inside of the glass cage.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Hagen repeated.
As chance would have it, the young officer from the Missing Persons Unit, Thomas Helle, was crouched down by Harry Hole when he regained consciousness. Four policemen had hauled him and Mathias Lund-Helgesen back up into the glass cage. And in the years to come Helle would tell the story of the infamous inspector’s strange first reactions again and again.
‘He was all wild-eyed and asked if Lund-Helgesen was still alive! As though he was terrified the guy had died. As though that was the worst thing that could have happened. And when I said yes and that he was being taken away in the ambulance he yelled that we had to remove Lund-Helgesen’s shoelaces and belt and make sure he didn’t commit suicide. Have you ever heard anything like it? Showing that much care for a guy who’d just tried to snuff your ex?’
37
DAY 22.
Dad.
J
ONAS THOUGHT HE HAD HEARD THE METALLIC JANGLE
of the wind chimes, but had gone back to sleep. It was only when he heard the choking sounds that he opened his eyes. There was someone in the room. It was Dad; he was sitting on the edge of his bed.
And the choking sounds were him crying.
Jonas sat up in bed. He placed a hand on his father’s shoulder and felt it shaking. It was odd; he had never noticed that his father had such narrow shoulders.
‘They . . . they’ve found her,’ he sobbed. ‘Mum’s . . .’
‘I know,’ Jonas said. ‘I dreamt it.’
The father swivelled round in surprise. In the moonlight seeping through the curtains Jonas could see the tears running down his cheeks.
‘It’s just us now, Dad,’ he said.
His father opened his mouth. Once. Twice. But nothing came out. Then he stretched out his arms, wrapped them around Jonas and drew him close. Held him tight. Jonas laid his head against his father’s neck, felt the hot tears wetting his scalp.
‘Do you know what, Jonas?’ he whispered through the tears. ‘I love you so much. You’re the dearest thing I have. You’re my boy. Do you hear? My boy. And you always will be. We’ll manage, won’t we? Don’t you think?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ Jonas whispered. ‘We’ll manage. You and me.’
38
DECEMBER 2004.
The Swans.
I
T WAS
D
ECEMBER AND THE FIELDS OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL
windows lay bare and brown under a steel-grey sky. On the motorway, studded tyres crunched on dry tarmac and pedestrians scuttled across the footbridge with coat collars turned up and closed faces. But inside the walls of the building people huddled closer. And on the table in the ward the two candles marked the second Sunday of Advent.