Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (155 page)

Harry inhaled. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

The door opened behind Harry. But he didn’t hear any footsteps walking away.

‘I’ll ring you from the hotel. OK?’

Harry rang off and strode down the street without a backward glance.

Sergey watched the man jog across the street.

Watched him go into Hotel Leon.

He had been so close. So close. First of all in the bar and now here on the street.

Sergey’s hand was still pressed against the deer-horn handle of the knife in his pocket. The blade was out and cutting the lining. Twice he had been on the point of stepping forward, grabbing his hair with his left hand, knife in, carving a crescent. True, the policeman was taller than he had imagined, but it wouldn’t be a problem.

Nothing would be a problem. And as his pulse slowed he could feel his calm return. The calm he had lost, the calm his terror had repressed. And
again he could feel himself looking forward, looking forward to the completion of his task, to becoming at one with the story that was already told.

For this was the place, the place for the ambush. Sergey had seen the eyes of the policeman when he was staring at the bottles. It was the same look his father had when he returned home from prison. Sergey was the crocodile in the billabong, the crocodile that knew the man would take the same path to get something to drink, that knew it was only a question of waiting.

Harry lay on the bed in room 301, he blew smoke at the ceiling and listened to her voice on the phone.

‘I know you’ve done worse things than planting evidence,’ she said. ‘So, why not? Why not for a person you love?’

‘You’re drinking white wine,’ he said.

‘How do you know it’s not red wine?’

‘I can hear.’

‘So, explain why you won’t help me.’

‘May I?’

‘Yes, Harry.’

Harry stubbed out the cigarette in the empty coffee cup on the bedside table. ‘I, lawbreaker and discharged police officer, consider that the law means something. Does that sound weird?’

‘Carry on.’

‘Law is the fence we’ve erected at the edge of the precipice. Whenever someone breaks the law they break the fence. So we have to repair it. The guilty party has to atone.’

‘No,
someone
has to atone. Someone has to take the punishment to show society that murder is unacceptable. Any scapegoat can rebuild the fence.’

‘You’re gouging out chunks of the law to suit you. You’re a lawyer. You know better.’

‘I’m a mother, I work as a lawyer. What about you, Harry? Are you a
policeman? Is that what you’ve become? A robot, a slave of the anthill and ideas other people have had? Is that where you are?’

‘Mm.’

‘Have you got an answer?’

‘Well, why do you think I came to Oslo?’

Pause.

‘Harry?’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t cry.’

‘I know. Sorry.’

‘Don’t say sorry.’

‘Goodnight, Harry. I …’

‘Goodnight.’

Harry woke. He had heard something. Something that drowned the sound of his running footsteps in the corridor and the avalanche. He looked at his watch. 01.34. The broken curtain pole leaned against the window frame and formed the silhouette of a tulip. He got up and went to the window and peered down into the backyard. A bin lay on its side, still rattling around. He rested his forehead against the glass.

IT WAS EARLY, AND THE
morning rush-hour traffic was creeping along at a whisper towards Grønlandsleiret as Truls walked up to Police HQ. He caught sight of the red poster on the linden tree just before he arrived at the doors with the curious portholes. Then he turned, walked calmly back. Past the slow-moving queues in Oslo gate to the cemetery.

The cemetery was as deserted as usual at this time. At least with respect to the living. He stopped in front of the headstone to A. C. Rud. There were no messages written on it, ergo it had to be pay day.

He crouched down and dug the earth beside the stone. Caught hold of the brown envelope and pulled it out. Resisted the temptation to open it and count the money there and then, stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He was about to get up, but a sudden sense that he was being watched made him stay in the crouch for a couple of seconds, as if meditating about A. C. Rud and the transient nature of life or some such bullshit.

‘Stay where you are, Berntsen.’

A shadow had fallen over him. And with it a chill, as if the sun was hidden behind a cloud. Truls Berntsen felt as though he were in free fall, and his stomach lurched into his chest. So this was what it would be like. Being exposed.

‘We have a different type of job for you this time.’

Truls felt terra firma beneath his feet again. The voice. The slight accent. It was him. Truls glanced to his side. Saw the figure standing with bowed head two gravestones away, apparently praying.

‘You have to find out where they’ve hidden Oleg Fauke. Look straight ahead!’

Truls stared at the stone in front of him.

‘I’ve tried,’ he said. ‘But the move hasn’t been recorded anywhere. Nowhere I can access at any rate. And no one I’ve spoken to has heard anything about the guy, so my guess is they’ve given him another name.’

‘Talk to those in the know. Talk to the defence counsel. Simonsen.’

‘Why not the mother? She must—’

‘No women!’ The words came like a whiplash. Had there been other people in the cemetery they would surely have heard them. Then, calmer: ‘Try the defence counsel. And if that doesn’t work …’

In the ensuing pause Berntsen heard the whoosh through the cemetery treetops. It must have been the wind; that was what had suddenly made everything so cold.

‘… then there’s a man called Chris Reddy,’ the voice continued. ‘On the street he’s known as Adidas. He deals in—’

‘Speed. Adidas means amphet—’

‘Shut up, Berntsen. Just listen.’

Truls shut up. And listened. The way he had shut up whenever anyone with a similar voice had told him to shut up. Listened when they told him to dig muck. Told him …

The voice gave an address.

‘You’ve heard a rumour that Adidas has been going round boasting he shot Gusto Hanssen. So you take him in for questioning. And he makes a no-holds-barred confession. I’ll leave it to you to agree on the details so that it’s a hundred per cent credible. First, though, try to make Simonsen talk. Have you understood?’

‘Yes, but why would Adidas—’

‘Why is not your problem, Berntsen. Your sole question should be “how much”.’

Truls Berntsen swallowed. And kept swallowing. Dug shit. Swallowed shit. ‘How much?’

‘That’s right, yes. Sixty thousand.’

‘Hundred thousand.’

No answer.

‘Hello?’

But all that could be heard was the whisper of the morning congestion. Bernsten sat still. Glanced to the side. No one there. Felt the sun beginning to warm him again. And sixty thousand was good. It was.

There was still mist on the ground as Harry swung up in front of the main building on Skøyen farm at ten in the morning. Isabelle Skøyen stood on the steps, smiling and slapping a little riding whip against the thigh of her black jodhpurs. While Harry was getting out of the car he heard the gravel crunch under her boots.

‘Morning, Harry. What do you know about horses?’

Harry slammed the car door. ‘I’ve lost a lot of money on them. Does that help?’

‘So you’re a gambler as well?’

‘As well?’

‘I’ve done a bit of detective work too. Your achievements are offset by your vices. That, at least, is what your colleagues claim. Did you lose the money in Hong Kong?’

‘Happy Valley racecourse. It only happened once.’

She began to walk towards a low, red building, and he had to quicken his pace to keep up with her. ‘Have you ever done any riding, Harry?’

‘My grandfather had a sturdy old horse in Åndalsnes.’

‘Experienced rider then.’

‘Another one-off. My grandfather said horses weren’t toys. He said riding for pleasure showed a lack of respect for working animals.’

She stopped in front of a wooden stand holding two narrow leather saddles. ‘Not a single one of my horses has ever seen or will ever see a cart or plough. While I saddle up I suggest you head over there …’ She pointed
to the farmhouse. ‘You’ll find some suitable clothes belonging to my ex-husband in the hall wardrobe. We don’t want to ruin your elegant suit, do we?’

In the wardrobe Harry found a sweater and a pair of jeans that were in fact big enough. The ex-husband must have had smaller feet, though, because he couldn’t get any of the shoes on, until he found a pair of used blue Norwegian Army trainers at the back.

When he re-emerged in the yard Isabelle was ready and waiting with two saddled horses. Harry opened the passenger door of the hired car, sat inside with his legs out, changed shoes, removed the insoles, left them on the car floor and reached for his sunglasses from the glove compartment. ‘Ready.’

‘This is Medusa,’ Isabelle said, patting a large sorrel on the muzzle. ‘She’s an Oldenburger from Denmark, perfect breed for dressage. Ten years old and the boss of the herd. And this is Balder, he’s five years old, a gelding, so he’ll follow Medusa.’

She passed him the reins to Balder and swung herself up on Medusa.

Harry put his left foot in the left stirrup and rose into the saddle. Without waiting for a command the horse began to walk briskly after Medusa.

Harry had understated the case when he said he had ridden only once, but this was quite different from his grandfather’s steadfast battleship of a jade. He had to balance in the saddle, and when he squeezed his knees against the slim horse’s sides he could feel its ribs and the movement of its muscles. And when Medusa accelerated on the path across the field and Balder responded, even this minor increase in pace made Harry feel he had a Formula One animal between his legs. At the end of the field they joined a path that disappeared into the forest and onto the ridge. Where the path forked round a tree Harry tried to steer Balder to the left, but the horse ignored him and followed in Medusa’s hoof prints to the right.

‘I thought stallions were the leaders of a herd,’ Harry said.

‘As a rule they are,’ Isabelle said over her shoulder. ‘But it’s all about character. A strong, ambitious and smart mare can outcompete all of them if she wants.’

‘And you want.’

Isabelle Skøyen laughed. ‘Of course. If you want something you have to be willing to compete. Politics is all about acquiring power.’

‘And you like competing?’

He saw her shrug her shoulders in front of him. ‘Competition is healthy. It means the strongest and the best make the decisions, and that’s to the benefit of the whole herd.’

‘And she can also mate with whoever she likes?’

Isabelle didn’t answer. Harry watched her. Her back was willowy and her firm buttocks appeared to be massaging the horse, moving from side to side with gentle hip movements. They came into a clearing. The sun was shining, and beneath them lay scattered puffs of mist across the countryside.

‘We’ll let them have a rest,’ Isabelle Skøyen said, dismounting. After they had tethered the horses to a tree, Isabelle lay down on the grass and waved for Harry to follow. He sat beside her and adjusted his sunglasses.

‘Are those glasses for men?’ she teased.

‘They protect against the sun,’ Harry said, taking out a pack of cigarettes.

‘I like that.’

‘What do you like?’

‘I like men who are secure with their masculinity.’

Harry looked at her. She was leaning on her elbows and had undone a button on her blouse. He hoped his sunglasses were dark enough. She smiled.

‘So, what can you tell me about Gusto?’ Harry said.

‘I like men who are genuine,’ she said. The smile broadened.

A brown dragonfly whizzed past on the last flight of the autumn. Harry didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. What he had seen ever since he arrived. Expectant relish. And none of the tormented unease there ought to be in someone facing a career-threatening scandal.

‘I don’t like falseness,’ she said. ‘Such as bluffing, for example.’

Triumph shone from her blue mascara-wreathed eyes.

‘I rang a police contact, you see. And apart from telling me a little about the legendary detective Harry Hole, he was able to tell me that no blood
had been analysed in the Gusto Hanssen case. The sample had apparently been destroyed. There are no nails with my blood type under them. You were bluffing, Harry.’

Harry lit a cigarette. No blood in his cheeks or ears. He wondered if he had become too old to blush.

‘Mm. If all the contact you had with Gusto was some innocent interviews why were you so frightened I would send the blood to be tested?’

She chuckled. ‘Who says I was frightened? Perhaps I just wanted you to come out here. Enjoy the nature and so on.’

Confirming that he was not too old to blush, Harry lay down and blew smoke up into the ludicrously blue sky. Closed his eyes and tried to find some good reasons not to fuck Isabelle Skøyen. There were many.

‘Was that wrong?’ she asked. ‘All I’m saying is that I’m a single adult woman with natural needs. That doesn’t mean I’m not serious. I would never get involved with anyone I didn’t consider my equal, such as Gusto.’ He heard her voice coming closer. ‘With a tall adult man, on the other hand …’ She laid a hot hand on his stomach.

‘Did you and Gusto lie where we’re lying now?’ Harry asked softly.

‘What?’

He wriggled up onto his elbows and nodded towards the blue trainers. ‘Your wardrobe was full of exclusive men’s shoes, size 42. These barges were the only 45s.’

‘So what? I can’t guarantee that I haven’t had a male visitor who takes size 45 at some point.’ Her hand stroked backwards and forwards.

‘This trainer was made a while ago for the Armed Services, and when they changed model, the surplus stock was taken over by charitable organisations who distributed them to the needy. In the police we call them junkie shoes as they were doled out by the Salvation Army at the Watchtower. The question is of course how a casual visitor, a size 45, would leave behind a pair of shoes. The obvious explanation is that he probably acquired a new pair.’