“Doubt it. You said there were two possible explanations here. Let me guess. The second is that the ballistics boys—”
“Most of them are girls now.”
“—have made a mistake, have mixed up the fatal bullet with one of mine, or something like that.”
“No. The lead bullet in the box in the Evidence Room comes from your gun, Bellman.”
“What do you mean?”
“By what?”
“By saying ‘the bullet in the box in the Evidence Room’ and not ‘the bullet found in Kalsnes’s skull.’ ”
Harry nodded. “Now we’re getting warm, Bellman.”
“Getting warm how?”
“The other possibility, the way I see it, is that someone swapped the bullet in the Evidence Room with one from your gun. There is one thing about the bullet that doesn’t add up. It’s crushed in a way that suggests it hit something much harder than flesh and bone.”
“Right. What do you think it hit then?”
“The steel sheet behind the paper target on the firing range in Økern.”
“What on earth would make you believe that?”
“It’s not so much what I believe as what I know, Bellman. I got the ballistics girls to go up there and run a test with your gun. And guess what? The test bullet looked identical to the one in the evidence box.”
“And what made you think of the firing range precisely?”
“Isn’t it obvious? That’s where police officers fire most of the shots that are not meant to hit people.”
Mikael Bellman slowly shook his head. “There’s more. What is it?”
“Well,” Harry said, taking out his packet of Camels, holding it out to Bellman, who shook his head, “I thought about how many burners I know in the police. And do you know what? I could only think of one.” Harry took the half-smoked cigarette, lit it and took a long, rasping drag. “Truls Berntsen. And as chance would have it I’ve spoken to a witness who recently saw you practising together on the range. The bullets drop into a container after they’ve hit the steel plate. It would be simple for someone to take a used bullet after you’d gone.”
“Do you suspect that our mutual colleague Truls Berntsen planted false evidence to incriminate me, Harry?”
“Don’t you?”
Bellman looked as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind. He shrugged. “I don’t know what Berntsen’s up to, Hole. And, to be honest, I don’t think you do, either.”
“Well, I don’t know how honest you are, but I do know the odd fact about Berntsen. And Berntsen knows the odd fact about you too. Isn’t that true?”
“I have an inkling you’re insinuating something, but I have no idea what, Hole.”
“Oh yes, you do. But not much that can be proved, I would assume, so let’s give it a miss. What I’d like to know is what Berntsen is after.”
“Your job, Hole, is to investigate the police murders, not to take advantage of the situation to conduct a personal witch-hunt against me or Truls Berntsen.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“It’s no secret that you and I have had our differences, Harry. I suppose you see this as a chance to get your own back.”
“What about you and Berntsen? Any differences there? You’re the one who suspended him on suspicion of corruption.”
“No, that was the Appointments Board. And that misunderstanding is about to be rectified.”
“Oh?”
“In fact, it was my mistake. The money that went into his account came from me.”
“From you?”
“He built the terrace on our house, and I paid him in cash, which he put into his account. But I wanted the money back because of faults in the construction. That was why he didn’t declare the sum to the tax authorities. He didn’t want to pay tax on money that wasn’t his. I sent the information to the Fraud Squad yesterday.”
“Faults in the construction?”
“The concrete base is damp and smells. When the Fraud Squad picked up on the mysterious sum of money, Truls was labouring under the misapprehension that it would put me in a tricky position if he said where he got the money from. Anyway, it’s all sorted now.”
Bellman rolled up his jacket sleeve and the dial of his TAG Heuer watch shone in the darkness. “If there are no further questions about the bullet from my gun I have other things to do, Harry. And I suppose you do too. Lectures have to be prepared, for example.”
“Well, I’m spending all my time on this now.”
“You used to spend all your time on this.”
“Meaning?”
“We have to make savings where we can, so I’m going to order, with immediate effect, that Hagen’s alternative little group stops using consultants.”
“Ståle Aune and me. That’s half the group.”
“Fifty per cent of staffing costs. I’m congratulating myself on the decision already. But as the group is barking up the wrong tree I think I’ll cancel the whole project.”
“Have you got that much to fear, Bellman?”
“You don’t have to fear anything when you’re the biggest animal in the jungle, Harry. And I am, after all—”
“—the Chief of Police. You certainly are. The Chief.”
Bellman got up. “I’m glad that’s sunk in. And I know that when you begin to pull in trusted colleagues like Berntsen, this is not an impartial investigation but a personal vendetta stage-managed by a bitter, alcoholic former policeman. And as Chief of Police it is my duty to protect the reputation of the force. So you know what I’ll answer when I’m asked why we shelved the case of the Russian who got a corkscrew inserted around his carotid artery at Come As You Are, don’t you? I’ll answer that we have to prioritise investigations, and that the case is nowhere near shelved, it’s just not a priority at this moment. And even if everyone with a toe in the police force knows the rumours about who was responsible for it, I will pretend I haven’t heard them. Because I’m the Chief of Police.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat, Bellman?”
“Do I need to threaten a PHS lecturer? Have a good evening, Harry.”
Harry watched Bellman sidle along the row down to the fence, buttoning up his jacket as he went. He knew he should keep his mouth shut. This was a card he had decided to hold back in case it was needed. But now he had been told to pack everything in, there was nothing left to lose. All or nothing. He waited until Bellman had one leg over the fence.
“Did you ever meet René Kalsnes, Bellman?”
Bellman froze mid-stretch. Katrine had run a cross-check on Bellman and Kalsnes without coming up with a single hit. And if they had so much as shared a restaurant bill, bought a cinema ticket online, had seats near each other on a plane or a train she would have found it. But, well, he froze. Stood with one leg on either side of the fence.
“Why such a stupid question, Harry?”
Harry took a drag on his cigarette. “It was fairly well known that René Kalsnes sold sex to men whenever the opportunity arose. And you’ve watched gay porn online.”
Bellman hadn’t moved; he had evidently committed himself. Harry couldn’t see the expression on his face in the darkness, only the white patches shining in the same way his watch dial had.
“Kalsnes was known as a greedy cynic without a moral bone in his body,” Harry said, studying the cigarette glow. “Imagine a married man, with significant social standing, being blackmailed by someone like René. Perhaps he had some photos of them having sex. That would sound like a motive for murder, wouldn’t it? But René might have talked about the married man and afterwards someone might come forward and reveal that there was a motive. So the married man gets someone to commit the murder. Someone he knows very well, someone he already has a hold over, someone he trusts. The murder is committed while the married man has a perfect alibi, a meal in Paris, for example. But afterwards the two childhood friends fall out. The hit man is suspended from his job and the married man refuses to tidy up for
him even though, as the boss, he is actually in a position to do this. So the hit man takes a used bullet from the married man’s gun and puts it in the evidence box. Either out of sheer revenge or to pressurise the married man into giving him his job back. You see, it’s not so easy for someone unfamiliar with the art of burning to have this bullet removed again. Did you know, by the way, that Truls Berntsen reported his service pistol missing a year after Kalsnes was shot? I found his name on a list I was given by Katrine Bratt a couple of hours ago.” Harry inhaled. Closed his eyes so that the glow would not affect his night vision. “What do you say to that, Chief of Police?”
“I say: thank you, Harry. Thank you for concluding my deliberations on closing down the alternative group. It will be done first thing in the morning.”
“Does that mean you’re claiming you never met René Kalsnes?”
“Don’t try those questioning techniques on me, Harry. I brought them to Norway from Interpol. Anyone can stumble across gay pictures online, they’re everywhere. And we have no need for groups of detectives who use that sort of thing as valid evidence in a serious investigation.”
“You didn’t stumble across it, Bellman. You paid for films with your credit card and downloaded them.”
“You’re not listening! Aren’t you curious about taboos? When you download pictures of a murder that doesn’t mean you’re a murderer. If a woman is fascinated by the thought of rape, it doesn’t mean she wants to be raped!” Bellman had his other leg over. He was standing on the other side now. Off the hook. He adjusted his jacket.
“Just a final word of advice, Harry. Don’t come after me. If you know what’s good for you. For you and your woman.”
Harry watched Bellman’s back recede into the darkness, and heard only the heavy footsteps sending a dull echo around the stands. He dropped the cigarette end and stamped on it. Hard. Trying to force it through the concrete.
39
Harry found Øystein Eikeland’s battered Mercedes in the taxi rank to the north of Oslo Central Station. The taxis were parked in a circle and looked like a wagon train forming a defensive ring against Apaches, tax authorities, competitors and anyone else who came to take what they considered legally theirs.
Harry took a seat in the front. “Busy night?”
“Haven’t taken my foot off the gas for a second,” Øystein said, carefully pinching his lips around a microscopic roll-up and blowing smoke at the mirror, where he could see the queue behind him growing.
“How often in the course of a night do you actually have a paying passenger in the car?” Harry asked, taking out his packet of cigarettes.
“So few that I’m thinking about switching on the taxi meter now. Hey, can’t you read?” Øystein pointed to the No Smoking sign on the glove compartment.
“I need some advice, Øystein.”
“I say no. Don’t get married. Nice woman, Rakel, but marriage is more trouble than fun. Listen to someone who’s been around the block a few times.”
“You’ve never been married, Øystein.”
“That’s exactly the point.” His childhood pal bared yellow teeth in his lean face and tossed his head, lashing the headrest with his ultra-thin ponytail.
Harry lit a cigarette. “And to think that I asked you to be my best man …”
“The best man has to have his wits about him, Harry, and a wedding without getting smashed is as meaningless as tonic without gin.”
“OK, but I’m not asking you for marriage guidance.”
“Spit it out then. Eikeland’s listening.”
The smoke stung Harry’s throat. The mucous membranes were no longer used to two packs of cigarettes a day. He knew all too well that Øystein couldn’t give him any advice on the case, either. Not good advice anyway. His homespun logic and principles had formed a lifestyle so dysfunctional that it could only tempt those with very specific interests. The pillars of the Eikelandian house were alcohol, bachelorhood, women from the lowest rung, an interesting intellectuality—which was unfortunately in decline—a certain pride and a survival instinct which despite everything resulted in more taxi driving than drinking and an ability to laugh in the face of life and the devil, which even Harry had to admire.
Harry breathed in. “I suspect an officer is behind all these police murders.”
“Then bang him up,” Øystein said, taking a flake of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. Then stopped suddenly. “Did you say police murders? As in police murders?”
“Yup. The problem is that if I arrest this man he’ll drag me down with him.”
“How come?”
“He can prove it was me who killed the Russian in Come As You Are.”
Øystein stared wide-eyed into the mirror. “Did you snuff a Russian?”
“So what do I do? Do I arrest the man and go down with him? In which case Rakel has no husband and Oleg no father?”
“Quite agree.”
“Quite agree with what?”
“Quite agree that you should use them as a front. Very smart to have that kind of philanthropic pretext up your sleeve. You sleep a lot better then. I’ve always gone in for that. Do you remember when we were apple scrumping and I legged it and left Tresko to face the music? Of course he couldn’t run that fast with all the weight and the clogs. I told myself that Tresko needed a thrashing more than me, to stiffen his spine, morally speaking, to point him in the right direction. Because that was where he really wanted to go, privet-hedge country, wasn’t it? While I wanted to be a bandit, didn’t I? What good was a flogging to me for a few lousy apples?”
“I’m not going to let other people take the rap here, Øystein.”
“But what if this guy snuffs a few more cops and you know you could have stopped him?”
“That’s the point,” Harry said, blowing smoke at the No Smoking sign.
Øystein stared at his pal. “Don’t do it, Harry …”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t …” Øystein lowered the window on his side and flicked out what was left of the roll-up, two centimetres of spit-stained Rizla paper. “I don’t want to hear about it. Just don’t do it.”
“Well, the most cowardly option is to do nothing. To tell myself I have no absolute proof, which is true by the way. To turn a blind eye. But can a man live with that, Øystein?”
“Certainly bloody can. But you’re a bit of a weirdo in that regard, Harry. Can you live with it?”
“Not normally. But, as I said, I have other considerations now.”
“Can’t other officers arrest him?”
“He’s going to use everything he knows about everyone in the force to negotiate himself a reduced punishment. He’s worked as a burner and a detective and he knows all the tricks in the book. On top of that, he’ll be rescued by the Chief of Police. The two of them know too much about each other.”
Øystein took Harry’s packet of cigarettes. “Do you know what, Harry? Sounds to me like you’ve come here to get my blessing for murder. Does anyone else know what you’re up to?”
Harry shook his head. “Not even my team of detectives.”
Øystein took out a cigarette and lit it with his lighter.
“Harry.”
“Yes.”
“You’re the fucking lonesomest guy I know.”
Harry looked at his watch, midnight soon, peered through the windscreen. “Loneliest, I think the word is.”
“No. Lonesomest. It’s your choice. And you’re weird.”
“Anyway,” Harry said, opening the door, “thanks for your advice.”
“What advice?”
The door slammed.
“What fucking advice?” Øystein shouted to the door and the hunched figure heading into the Oslo murk. “And what about a taxi home, you stingy bastard?”
The house was dark and still.
Harry sat on the sofa staring at the cupboard.
He hadn’t said anything about his suspicions regarding Truls Berntsen.
He had
rung Bjørn and Katrine and said he’d had a brief conversation with Mikael Bellman. And that as the Police Chief had an alibi for the night of the murder, there had to be a mistake or the evidence had been planted, so they would keep quiet about the bullet in the evidence box matching Bellman’s gun. Not a word about what they had discussed.
Not a word about Truls Berntsen.
Not a word about what had to be done.
This was how it had to be; it was the kind of case where you had to be alone.
The key was hidden on the CD shelf.
Harry closed his eyes. Tried to give himself a break, tried not to listen to the dialogue churning round and round in his head. But it was no good; the voices began to scream as soon as he relaxed. Truls Berntsen was crazy, they said. This was not an assumption, it was a fact. No sane person would embark on a killing spree targeting their own colleagues.
It was not without parallels; you just had to look at all the incidents in America, where someone who had been fired or humiliated in some other way returned to their place of work and shot their colleagues. Omar Thornton killed eight of them at a distribution warehouse after being let go for stealing beer; Wesley Neal Higdon killed five after being told off by his boss; Jennifer San Marco fired six fatal shots into the heads of colleagues at the post office after she had been dismissed for—what else?—being insane.
The difference here was the degree of planning involved and the ability to execute the plans. So how crazy was Truls Berntsen? Was he crazy enough for the police to reject his claims that Harry Hole had killed someone in a bar?
No.
Not if he had proof. Proof couldn’t be declared insane.
Truls Berntsen.
Harry let his mind run.
Everything fitted. But did the essential ingredient fit? The motive. What was it Mikael Bellman had said? If a woman fantasises about rape, it doesn’t mean she wants to be raped. If a man fantasises about violence it doesn’t mean …
For Christ’s sake. Stop it!
But it wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t give him any peace until he had solved the problem. And there were only two ways it could be solved. There was the old way. The one that every fibre of his body was screaming for now. A drink. The drink that multiplied, expunged, veiled, numbed. That was the provisional way. The bad way. The other was the final way. The necessary way. The one that eradicated the problem. The devil’s alternative.