Wilhelm got up from the bed, which rippled and gurgled behind him.
‘But the essence of farce is speed, speed, so I was forced to arrange a hasty departure.’
He stood up naked in front of Harry and raised the gun.
‘I placed the mouth of the gun against her forehead. She frowned in surprise as she always did when she thought the world was unjust or simply confusing. Like the evening I told her about Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion on which My Fair Lady is based. In it, Eliza Doolittle does not marry Professor Higgins, the man who trained her and transformed her from a market girl into a well-mannered young woman. Instead she runs off with young Freddy. Lisbeth was furious and said that Eliza owed that much to the professor, and that Freddy was a dull person of no consequence. Do you know what, Harry? I started crying.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Harry whispered.
‘Apparently,’ Wilhelm said gravely. ‘What I’ve done is monstrous. There’s none of the control you find in people motivated by hatred. I’m just a simple man who has followed the dictates of his heart. And it dictates love, the love that is given to us by God and makes us God’s instrument. Weren’t the prophets and Jesus thought to be crazy, too, perhaps? Of course we’re crazy, Harry. Crazy, and yet the sanest on this earth. When people say that what I’ve done is insane, that my heart must be crippled inside, then I say: Whose heart is more crippled, the heart that cannot stop loving or the one that is loved but cannot return that love?’
A long silence ensued. Harry cleared his throat.
‘And so you shot her?’
Wilhelm nodded slowly.
‘There was a little lump in her forehead,’ he said with surprise in his voice. ‘And a little black hole. Just as when you hammer a nail into sheet metal.’
‘And then you concealed her. In the only place even a police dog would not find her.’
‘It was hot in the flat.’ Wilhelm had fixed his gaze somewhere above Harry’s head. ‘A fly was buzzing by the window, and I took all my clothes off so that I wouldn’t get any blood on them. Everything was carefully laid out in the toolbox. I used the pincers to cut off the middle finger of her left hand. Then I undressed her, took out the silicon foam spray and quickly sealed the bullet hole, the wound on her finger and all the other orifices of her body. I had let some water out of the bed earlier in the day so that it was only half full. I hardly spilled a drop as I stuffed her in through the hole I’d cut in the mattress. Then I sealed it again with glue, rubber and a heat gun. It went a lot better than the first time.’
‘And she’s been there ever since? Buried in her own waterbed?’
‘No, no,’ Wilhelm said, staring thoughtfully at the point above Harry’s head. ‘I didn’t bury her. On the contrary, I put her back in a womb. That was the start of her rebirth.’
Harry knew that he ought to be frightened. That it would be dangerous not to be frightened now, that his mouth should be dry and he should feel his heart thumping. He ought not to be feeling this exhaustion creeping up on him.
‘And you shoved the severed finger up your anus,’ Harry said.
‘Hm,’ Wilhelm said. ‘The perfect hiding place. As I said, I thought you would use dogs.’
‘There are other places that don’t give off a smell, but perhaps that gave you a perverse thrill? What did you do with Camilla Loen’s finger, by the way? The one you cut off before you killed her.’
‘Camilla, yes . . .’ Wilhelm nodded with a smile as if it were a happy memory Harry had revived. ‘That will have to remain a secret between her and me, Harry.’
Wilhelm released the safety catch. Harry swallowed.
‘Give me the gun, Wilhelm. It’s all over. There’s no point.’
‘Of course there’s a point.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘The same as always, Harry. The performance has to have a decent ending. You don’t think that the audience will be fobbed off with me going quietly, do you? We need a grand finale, Harry. A happy ending. If there isn’t a happy ending, I make one. That’s my . . .’
‘Motto in life,’ Harry whispered.
Wilhelm smiled and put the gun to Harry’s temple. ‘I was going to say, my motto in death.’
Harry closed his eyes. All he wanted was to sleep. To be carried down to a gently flowing river. And over to the other side.
Rakel twitched and thrust open her eyes.
She had been dreaming about Harry. They had been aboard a boat.
The bedroom was in the dark. Had she heard something? Had something happened?
She listened to the rain drumming reassuringly onto the roof. For safety’s sake she checked that her mobile phone, which lay on the bedside table, was switched on. In case he phoned.
She closed her eyes. Flowed gently onwards.
Harry had lost track of time. When he opened his eyes he had the impression the light was different in the empty room, and he had no idea whether a second or a minute had passed.
The bed was empty. Wilhelm was gone.
The sounds of water returned. The rain. The shower.
Harry struggled to his feet and stared at the blue mattress. He felt as if something was crawling inside his clothes. In the light from the bedside table he could see the contours of a human body inside the waterbed. The face had floated up and formed a mould like a plaster cast.
He left the bedroom. The door to the terrace was wide open. He glanced over the railing and down into the yard. He trod wet footprints on the white staircase as he walked down to the lower floor. He opened the bathroom door. The silhouette of a woman’s body was outlined against the window behind the grey shower curtain. Harry drew it to the side. Toya Harang’s neck was bent towards the stream of water, her chin almost touching her chest. A black stocking was tied round her neck and the top of the shower tap. Her eyes were closed and drops of water hung from the long, black lashes. Her mouth was half open and filled with a yellow mass, like hardened foam. The same material filled her nostrils, ears and the small hole in her temple.
He turned off the shower before he left.
There was no-one around on the stairs.
Harry put one foot carefully in front of the other. He felt numb, as if his body were turning to stone.
Bjarne Møller.
He had to ring Bjarne Møller.
Harry went through the entrance hall and into the yard. The rain settled on his head, but he didn’t feel it. Soon he would be totally paralysed. The rotary dryer was not screeching any longer. He avoided looking at it. He caught sight of a yellow packet on the tarmac and went over to it. He opened it, pulled out a cigarette and shoved it into his mouth. He tried to light it with his lighter but discovered that the end of the cigarette was wet. Water must have got into the packet.
Ring Bjarne Møller. Get them to come here. Go with Møller over to the students’ house. Question Sven Sivertsen there. Record his testimony against Tom Waaler immediately. Listen to Møller giving the order for Inspector Waaler’s arrest. Then go home. Home to Rakel.
He could see the rotary dryer in his peripheral vision.
He swore, tore the cigarette in half, put the filter between his lips and lit it at the second attempt. Why was he so stressed? There was nothing left to do. It was finished, over.
He turned towards the rotary dryer.
It stooped a little to one side, but the post set in the tarmac had obviously taken the brunt of it. Only one of the strings that Wilhelm Barli was hanging on had broken. His arms hung to both sides, his wet hair clung to his face and his eyes were wrenched upwards, as if in prayer. It struck Harry that it was a strangely beautiful sight. With his naked body partly shrouded by the wet sheet he resembled a figurehead set up on the bows of a galleon. Wilhelm had got what he wanted. A grand finale.
Harry picked up his mobile phone and pressed in his PIN code. His fingers would hardly obey him. They would soon be stone. He keyed in Bjarne Møller’s number. He was about to press the call button when the telephone gave
a warning shriek. The display showed that there was a message on his answerphone. So what? It wasn’t Harry’s phone. He hesitated. Instinct told him that he should phone Møller first. He closed his eyes. And pressed.
A woman announced that he had one message. There was a bleep followed by a few seconds’ silence. Then a voice whispered:
‘Hi, Harry. It’s me.’
It was Tom Waaler.
‘You turned your phone off, Harry. That wasn’t wise. Because I have to talk to you, you know.’
Tom’s mouth was so close to the receiver that Harry felt he was standing right next to him.
‘Apologies for having to whisper, but we don’t want to wake him, do we. Can you guess where I am? I think perhaps you can. Perhaps you ought to have anticipated it even.’
Harry sucked on his cigarette without realising that it had gone out.
‘It’s a bit dark in here, but there’s a picture of a football team over the bed. Let’s see. Tottenham Hotspur? There’s a little machine on his bedside table. GameBoy. Listen now. I’m holding the phone over his bed.’
He heard the calm, regular breathing of a little boy sleeping soundly in a black timber-clad house in Holmenkollveien.
‘We have our eyes and ears everywhere, Harry, so don’t try to phone or talk to anyone. Just do exactly as I say. Ring this number and talk to me. Do anything else and the boy is dead. Do you understand?’
Harry’s heart began pumping blood round his paralysed body and slowly the numbness was replaced by almost unbearable pain.
42
Monday. The Devil’s Star.
The windscreen wipers whispered and the tyres hissed.
The Escort aquaplaned through the crossing. Harry drove as fast as he dared, but the rain was coming down like stair-rods onto the tarmac in front of him and he knew that the remaining tread on the tyres was only really of a cosmetic nature.
He accelerated and took the next crossing on amber. Fortunately there were no cars on the streets. He snatched a glance at his watch.
Twelve minutes left. It was eight minutes since he had been standing in the central yard in Sannergata, mobile in hand, and dialling the number he was forced to dial. Eight minutes since the voice had whispered in his ear:
‘At last.’
Harry said all he wanted to, but couldn’t stop himself adding: ‘If you lay a hand on him, I’ll kill you.’
‘Well, well. Where are you and Sivertsen?’
‘No idea,’ Harry had said staring at the rotary dryer. ‘What do you want?’
‘I just want to meet you. Find out why you want to break the deal we made. Find out if you’re unhappy about something that we can put right. It’s not too late, Harry. I’m willing to stick my neck right out to get you in the team.’
‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Let’s meet. I’ll come to you.’
Tom Waaler gave a low laugh.
‘I want to meet Sven Sivertsen as well. And I think it’s a better idea if I come to you. So give me the address. Now.’
Harry hesitated.
‘Have you heard what it sounds like when you cut someone’s throat, Harry? First of all there’s the squeak as the steel cuts into the skin and cartilage, then a wheezing sound like the saliva sucker at the dentist’s. It comes from the severed trachea. Or is it the oesophagus? I can never tell the difference.’
‘Student block. Room 406.’
‘Christ. The crime scene? I should’ve thought of that.’
‘You should’ve.’
‘OK, but if you’re thinking of calling anyone or setting up a trap, forget it, Harry. I’m bringing the boy with me.’
‘No! Don’t . . . Tom . . . please.’
‘Please? Did you say “please”?’
Harry didn’t answer.
‘I picked you up from the gutter and gave you a chance. And you stabbed me in the back, please. It’s not my fault I have to do what I’m doing. It’s yours. Remember that, Harry.’
‘Listen –’
‘In twenty minutes. Leave the door open and sit on the floor where I can see you with your hands over your heads.’
‘Tom!’
Waaler had rung off.
Harry tore at the wheel and felt the tyres lose their grip. They floated on the water, sideways on. For a moment it was as if he and the car were hovering in a dream where all the laws of physics were suspended. It only lasted for the one second, but it was enough for Harry to have the liberating sensation that everything was over, that it was too late to do anything. Then the tyres regained their grip and he was back.
The car swerved outside the student building and pulled up in front of the exit door. Harry switched off the ignition. Nine minutes left. He got out and walked round the car. He opened the boot and threw away half-empty bottles of windscreen wash and filthy rags. Grabbed a roll of black insulation tape. As he went up the stairs he pulled the gun out from the waistband of his trousers and unscrewed the silencer. He hadn’t checked the weapon, but assumed that a Czech gun would stand the occasional 15-metre fall from a roof terrace. He stopped outside the lift door on the fourth floor. The handle was as he remembered: metal with a round solid wooden cap over the end. Just large enough to hide a gun minus silencer, if one was taped to the inside. He loaded the weapon and secured it with two strips of tape. If things went as planned from the beginning, he would need it. The hinges creaked as he opened the lid to the disposal chute beside the lift, but the silencer fell into the dark without a sound. Four minutes left.
He unlocked the door to room 406.
There was a clank of iron against the radiator.
‘Good news?’
Sven had an almost imploring tone. His breath smelled bad as Harry unlocked the handcuffs.
‘No,’ Harry answered.
‘No?’
‘He’s coming with Oleg.’
Harry and Sven sat on the floor in the corridor, waiting.
‘He’s late,’ Sven said.
‘Yes.’
Silence.
‘Iggy Pop songs beginning with C,’ Sven said. ‘You start.’
‘Pack it in.’
‘“China Girl”.’
‘Not now.’
‘It helps. “Candy”.’
‘“Cry For Love”.’
‘“China Girl”.’
‘You’ve already said that one, Sivertsen.’
‘There are two versions.’
‘“Cold Metal”.’
‘Are you scared, Harry?’
‘Scared to death.’
‘Me too.’
‘Good. That increases our chances of survival.’
‘By how much? Ten per cent? Twenty . . .’
‘Shh.’
‘Is that the lift . . . ?’ Sivertsen whispered.
‘It’s on its way up. Take slow, deep breaths.’
They heard the lift come to a halt with a low groan. Two seconds passed. Then the rattle of the grille door. A long drawn-out creak told Harry that Waaler was opening the lift door with caution. Low mumbling. The sound of the disposal chute lid being opened. Sven cast Harry a questioning glance.
‘Raise your hands so that he can see them,’ Harry whispered.
The handcuffs rattled as they raised their hands in one synchronised movement. Then the glass front door leading into the corridor opened.
Oleg was wearing slippers and a tracksuit jacket over his pyjamas, and images flashed through Harry’s brain. The corridor. Night clothes. The sound of shuffling slippers. Mummy. The hospital.
Tom Waaler was walking right behind Oleg. He had his hands in the pockets of his short jacket, but Harry could see the barrel of the gun pressing against the black leather.
‘Stop,’ Waaler said when there were five metres between them and Harry and Sven.
Oleg stared at Harry with black-rimmed, red eyes. Harry gave him what he hoped was a firm, reassuring look.
‘Why are you cuffed together, boys? Grown inseparable already?’
Waaler??
?s voice resounded sharply in the corridor and Harry realised that he had gone through the list they had put together before the whole operation started and found out what Harry already knew. There was no-one at home on the fourth floor.
‘We’ve come to the conclusion that we’re both sitting in the same boat,’ Harry said.
‘And why aren’t you sitting inside the room as I told you?’
Waaler made sure that Oleg was standing between them.
‘Why do you want us to sit inside?’ Harry asked.
‘You’re not asking the questions now, Hole. Get into the room. Now.’
‘Sorry, Tom.’
Harry turned over the hand that was not joined to Sven’s. Two keys lay on his fingers. A Yale key and another one, smaller.
‘To the room and to the handcuffs,’ he said.
Then Harry opened his mouth wide, put the two keys on his tongue and closed his mouth. He winked at Oleg and swallowed.
Tom Waaler gaped in disbelief at Harry’s Adam’s apple rising and falling.
‘You’ll have to change the plan, Tom,’ Harry panted.
‘And what plan is that?’
Harry tucked his legs beneath him and, with his back against the wall, pushed himself up into an almost standing position. Waaler took his hand out of his jacket pocket. The gun was pointing at Harry. Harry grimaced and patted his chest twice before speaking.
‘Remember, I’ve followed you for some years now, Tom. Bit by bit I’ve learned a little about how you operate. How you killed Sverre Olsen in a room in his house and made it look like self-defence. And how you did the same that time by the harbour warehouses. So my guess is that your plan was to shoot both me and Sivertsen in the room, then you would make it look as if I had shot him and then myself. You would disappear from the scene of the crime and leave it to colleagues to find me. An anonymous tip-off that someone had heard shots coming from the student block perhaps?’
Tom Waaler shot an impatient glance up and down the corridor.
Harry went on: ‘And the explanation would be obvious, wouldn’t it? In the end it became too much for Harry Hole, the psychotic alcoholic policeman. Abandoned by his girlfriend, kicked out of the force, he kidnaps a prisoner. Self-destructive fury ending in disaster. A personal tragedy. Almost – but only almost – incomprehensible. Wasn’t that what you were thinking?’