She sat up in bed.
‘Yes, the phone’s been going non-stop tonight. What’s up?’
‘I need some help. And you’re the only person I dare trust.’
‘Right. Knowing you, I suppose that means hassle for me.’
‘Loads of hassle. Are you with me?’
‘What if I say “no”?’
‘Listen to what I have to say first, and then you can say “no” afterwards.’
36
Monday. The Photograph.
At 5.45 on Monday morning the sun was shining down from Ekeberg Ridge. The Securitas guard on duty in reception at Police HQ yawned loudly and raised his eyes from his Aftenposten as the first arrival signed in with his ID card.
‘Rain on the way according to the paper,’ he said, happy to see another human being.
The tall, somber-looking man cast a brief glance at him, but he didn’t respond.
During the next two minutes three other men followed him in, all equally uncommunicative and sombre.
At 6.00 the four men were sitting in the Divisional Commander’s office on the sixth floor.
‘Well,’ the Divisional Commander said, ‘one of our police inspectors has taken a possible killer from the custody block and nobody knows where they are.’
One of the things that made the Divisional Commander relatively well suited to his position was his ability to sum up a problem. Another was his ability to formulate what had to be done concisely:
‘So I propose we find them quick as fuck. What’s happened so far?’
The head of Kripos stole a furtive glance at Møller and Waaler before clearing his throat and answering:
‘We’ve put a small but experienced group of detectives on the case. Handpicked by Inspector Waaler, who is leading the search. Three from POT. Two from Crime Squad. They began last night only an hour after the officers in the custody block reported that Sivertsen had not been returned.’
‘Snappy work. But why haven’t the uniformed police been informed? And the patrol cars?’
‘We wanted to await developments and make a decision at this meeting, Lars. Hear what you thought.’
‘What I thought?’
The head of Kripos ran his finger along his top lip.
‘Inspector Waaler has promised that he’ll catch Hole and Sivertsen before the day is out. We’ve managed to confine the spread of information so far. We four and Groth in the custody block are the only ones who know that Sivertsen is out. In addition, we’ve phoned Ullersmo and cancelled Sivertsen’s cell and transport. We told them that we’d received information which gave us reason to believe that Sivertsen might not be safe there and therefore he would be transferred to a, for the moment, secret destination. To cut a long story short, we’re in a position to keep the lid on this until Waaler and his group have resolved the situation for us. Naturally, it is your decision, though, Lars.’
The Divisional Commander placed the tips of his fingers together and nodded thoughtfully. Then he got up and went to the window, where he remained with his back to them.
‘Last week I took a taxi. The driver had a paper lying open on the seat next to me. I asked him what he thought about the Courier Killer. It’s always interesting to hear what people at grass-roots level think. He said it was the same problem with the Courier Killer as with the World Trade Center: questions were being asked in the wrong order. Everyone was asking “who” and “how”. But to solve a riddle you first have to ask another question. And do you know what that question is? Torleif?’
The head of Kripos didn’t answer.
‘It’s “why”, Torlief. This taxi driver was no dummy. Has anyone here asked themselves that question, gentlemen?’
The Divisional Commander rocked on his heels and waited.
‘With all respect to the taxi driver,’ the head of Kripos said finally, ‘I’m not so sure there is a “why” in this case. At least, not a rational “why”. All of us here know that Hole is psychologically unstable and an alcoholic. That’s why he’s being dismissed.’
‘Even crazy people have motives, Torleif.’
There was the sound of someone discreetly clearing their throat.
‘Yes, Waaler.’
‘Batouti.’
‘Batouti?’
‘The Egyptian pilot who deliberately crashed a full passenger plane to avenge himself on the airline who had demoted him.’
‘What are you getting at, Waaler?’
‘I ran after Harry and talked to him in the car park after we’d arrested Sivertsen on Saturday evening. It was obvious that he was bitter, both for being dismissed and because he thought we’d cheated him out of the credit he was due for arresting the Courier Killer.’
‘Batouti . . .’
The Divisional Commander shaded his eyes from the first rays of sun to hit his window.
‘You haven’t said anything yet, Bjarne. What do you think?’
Bjarne Møller stared up at the silhouette in front of the window. He had such pains in his stomach that he not only felt that he was going to explode, he hoped he would. From the moment he was woken up in the night and informed about the kidnapping he had waited for someone to give him a good shake and tell him he was having a nightmare.
‘I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t understand what’s going on.’
The Divisional Commander nodded slowly.
‘If it leaks out that we’ve kept this under wraps we’ll be crucified,’ he said.
‘A concise summary, Lars,’ the head of Kripos said. ‘But if it leaks out that we’ve let a serial killer go, we’ll also be crucified. Even if we find him again. There’s still one way of resolving this problem on the quiet. Waaler has, I’m led to understand, a plan.’
‘And what is it, Waaler?’
Tom Waaler put his left hand round his clenched fist.
‘Let’s put it this way,’ he said. ‘It’s absolutely clear to me that we cannot afford to fail, so I may have to use some unconventional methods. Bearing possible repercussions in mind, I’m going to suggest that you know nothing about the plan.’
The Divisional Commander swivelled round with a mildly astonished expression on his face.
‘That’s very generous of you, Waaler, but I’m afraid we cannot agree to –’
‘I insist.’
The Divisional Commander frowned.
‘You insist? Are you aware of the risks, Waaler?’
Waaler opened the palms of his hands and examined them.
‘Yes, but it’s my responsibility. I ran the investigation and worked closely with Hole. As the person in charge I ought to have seen the signs before and done something. At any rate, after the conversation in the car park.’
The Divisional Commander gave Waaler a searching look. He turned back to the window and stayed there as a rectangle of light crept across the floor. Then he raised his shoulders and shook himself as if he were freezing cold.
‘You’ve got until midnight,’ he said to the window pane. ‘Then the news of the disappearance will be announced to the press. And this meeting never took place.’
On the way out Møller noticed the head of Kripos squeeze Waaler’s hand and flash him a warm smile of gratitude. The way you thank a colleague for loyalty, Møller mused. The way you tacitly appoint a Crown Prince.
Police Officer Bjørn Holm from Forensics felt a complete fool standing there with a microphone in his hand looking at the Japanese faces staring expectantly back at him. His palms were sweaty, and not just from the heat. Quite the contrary, the temperature in the air-conditioned luxury bus standing outside Hotel Bristol was several degrees lower than the temperature in the morning sun outside. It was from having to speak into a microphone. In English.
He had been introduced by the guide as a Norwegian police officer and an old man with a smile on his face had pulled out his camera as if Bjørn Holm was an integral part of the sightseeing tour. He looked at his watch: 7.00. He had more groups to see, so it
was simply a question of pressing on. He took a deep breath and started the sentence he had rehearsed on the way:
‘We have checked the schedules with all the tour operators here in Oslo,’ Holm said. ‘And this is one of the groups that visited Frogner Park around five o’clock on Saturday. What I want to know is: how many of you took pictures there?’
No reaction.
Holm was disconcerted and glanced over to the guide.
He bowed with a smile, relieved him of the microphone and gave the passengers what Holm could only assume was roughly the same message he had given, in Japanese. He concluded with a small bow. Holm surveyed all the outstretched arms. They were going to have a busy day at the photo lab.
Roger Gjendem was humming a song about ‘turning Japanese’ as he locked his car. The distance from the car park to Aftenposten’s new offices in the Post House was short, but still he knew he would jog in, not because he was late, quite the opposite. The reason was that Roger Gjendem was one of the lucky few who looked forward to going to work every day, who could not wait until he had all the familiar things around him that reminded him of work: the office with the telephone and the computer, a pile of the day’s newspapers, the hum of colleagues’ voices, the gurgling coffee machine, the gossip in the smokers’ room, the alert atmosphere at the morning meeting. He had spent the previous day outside Olaug Sivertsen’s house with nothing more than a picture of her in the window to show for it. But it was good. He liked difficult tasks. And there were more than enough of those in the crime section. A crime junkie. That was what Devi had called him. He didn’t like her using those words. Thomas, his little brother, was a junkie. Roger was a hard worker who had studied political science and happened to like working as a crime reporter. That apart, she had a point of course, in that there were aspects of the job that were reminiscent of an addiction. After working with politics he had subbed in the crime section of the paper and it was not long before he felt the rush that only the daily adrenalin kick of stories about life and death can give. The same day he talked to the chief editor and was immediately transferred on a permanent basis. The editor had obviously seen it happen to others before him. And from that day on Roger jogged from his car to work.
On this day, however, he was pulled up before he got into his stride.
‘Good morning,’ said the man who had appeared from nowhere and who now stood in front of him. He was wearing a short, black leather jacket and aviator sunglasses even though it was fairly dark in the multi-storey car park. Roger knew a policeman when he saw one.
‘Good morning,’ Roger said.
‘I’ve got a message for you, Gjendem.’
The man’s arms hung straight down. His hands were covered in black hair. Roger thought that he would have appeared more natural if he had kept them in the pockets of his leather jacket. Or behind his back. Or folded in front of him. As it was, you had the impression he was about to use his hands for something, but it was impossible to guess what.
‘Yeah?’ Roger asked. He heard the echo of his own ‘e’ vibrate briefly between the walls, the sound of a question mark.
The man leaned forward.
‘Your brother’s doing time in Ullersmo,’ the man said.
‘So what?’
Roger knew that the morning sun was shining outside in Oslo, but down in the car catacombs it had suddenly turned ice cold.
‘If you care about what happens to him, you need to do us a favour. Are you listening, Gjendem?’
Roger nodded in amazement.
‘If Inspector Harry Hole rings you, we want you to do the following. Ask where he is. If he won’t tell you, arrange to meet him. Say that you won’t risk printing his story until you’ve met him face to face. The meeting must be arranged before midnight tonight.’
‘What story?’
‘He might make unfounded allegations against a police inspector whose name I cannot reveal, but you needn’t bother about that. It’ll never get into print anyway.’
‘But –’
‘Are you listening? After he rings, I want you to phone this number and tell us where Hole is or where and when you’ve arranged to meet him. Is that clear?’
He put his left hand in his pocket and passed Roger a slip of paper.
Roger read the number and shook his head. As frightened as he was, he could feel laughter bubbling up inside him. Or maybe his fear was precisely the reason.
‘I know you’re a policeman,’ Roger said, repressing his smile. ‘You must know that this won’t wash. I’m a journalist, I can’t –’
‘Gjendem.’
The man took off his sunglasses. Even though it was dark, the pupils were just small dots in the grey irises.
‘Your little brother’s in cell A107. Every Tuesday – like most of the other old lags – he has his junk smuggled in. He injects it straightaway, never checks it. That’s been fine so far. Do you see what I mean?’
Roger wondered if his ears had deceived him. He knew they had not.
‘Good,’ the man said. ‘Any questions?’
Roger had to moisten his lips before he could answer.
‘Why do you think that Harry Hole will call me?’
‘Because he’s desperate,’ said the man, putting his sunglasses back on. ‘And because you gave him a business card in front of the National Theatre yesterday. Have a good day, Gjendem.’
Roger did not move until the man had gone. He breathed in the clammy, dusty underground air of the car park. And he walked the short distance to the Post House with slow, reluctant steps.
The telephone numbers hopped and danced on the screen in front of Klaus Torkildsen in the control room at Telenor Operations Centre, Oslo region. He had told his colleagues that he was not to be disturbed and had locked the door.
His shirt was drenched with sweat. Not because he had been jogging to work. He had walked – neither particularly quickly nor slowly – and he had been heading for his office when the receptionist had called his name and stopped him. His surname. He preferred that.
‘Visitor,’ she had said, pointing to a man sitting on the sofa in reception.
Klaus Torkildsen was stunned. Stunned because he had a job that did not include receiving visitors. This was not by chance; his choice of profession and private life were controlled by a desire to avoid all direct contact with human beings other than was absolutely necessary.
The man on the sofa had got up, told him he was from the police and then asked him to sit down. Klaus had sunk into a chair, sunk further and further down as he felt the sweat breaking out over his whole body. The police. He had not had anything to do with them for 15 years and, even though he had only received a fine, he still reacted with immediate paranoia whenever he saw a uniform in the street. From the moment the man had opened his mouth, his pores had flowed.
The man went straight to the heart of the matter and told him they needed him to trace a mobile phone for them. Klaus had done a similar job for them before. It was relatively simple. A mobile phone, when it is switched on, transmits a signal every half-hour, and this is registered by the phone masts scattered around town. In addition, the phone masts pick up and register all the conversations of subscribers, calls both in and out. From the coverage of individual phone masts they could take cross-bearings to pinpoint the location of a mobile phone to within a square kilometre. That was what had caused such a stink the one time he had been involved, in the nature reserve near Kristiansand.
Klaus had said that wire tapping had to be ratified by the boss, but the man had said it was urgent, that they didn’t have time to go through official channels. In addition to monitoring a particular mobile phone number (which Klaus had discovered belonged to a certain Harry Hole) the man also wanted him to monitor the lines belonging to a number of people whom the wanted man might conceivably contact. He had also given Klaus a list of telephone numbers and e-mail addresses.
Klaus asked him why they had specifically come to him. After all, there were other pe
ople who had more experience of this than he. The sweat froze on his back and he began to shiver a little in the air-conditioned reception area.
‘Because we know that you’ll keep your mouth shut about this, Torkildsen. Just as we will keep our mouths shut to your superiors and colleagues about the time you were literally caught with your trousers down in Stens Park in January 1987. The undercover policewoman said you were stark naked under the coat. Must have been damned cold . . .’
Torkildsen swallowed hard. They had said that it would be taken off public records after a few years.
He swallowed again.
It seemed absolutely impossible to trace the mobile phone. It was switched on; he knew that as he received a signal every half-hour, but it came from a different place every time, as if it were trying to tease him.
He concentrated on the addresses on the list. One was an internal number at Kjølberggata 21. He checked the number. It was Krimteknisk, the Forensics department.
Beate picked up the phone as soon as it rang.
‘Well?’ said a voice at the other end.
‘Not looking good so far,’ she said.
‘Mm.’
‘I have two men developing the photographs and they’ll land on my desk the second they’re finished.’
‘And no Sven Sivertsen.’
‘If he was by the Fountain in Frogner Park when Barbara Svendsen was killed, he was unlucky. He’s definitely not in any of the photographs I’ve seen and we’re talking close on a hundred so far.’
‘White, short-sleeved shirt and blue –’
‘You’ve said all that before, Harry.’
‘No faces even similar?’
‘I’ve got a good eye for faces, Harry. He isn’t in any of the photos.’
‘Mm.’
She waved in Bjørn Holm with a new stack of photographs stinking of developer reagent. He dumped them down on her desk, pointed to one, gave a thumbs-up and disappeared.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got some new ones in. They’re from the group who were there on Saturday at five o’clock. Now let me see . . .’
‘Come on.’