Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (35 page)

‘And they confirmed it was Jonas?’

‘No, it was anonymous. But they had the name of the client who had ordered the test.’

‘And that was?’

‘A medical centre that no longer exists.’ Harry knew the answer before Becker said it. ‘Marienlyst Clinic.’

‘Idar Vetlesen,’ Harry said, angling his head as though studying a picture to see if it was hanging straight.

‘Right,’ Becker said, clapping his hands together and smiling weakly. ‘That was it. All I wanted to say was that … I have no son.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Actually I’ve had that feeling for a long time.’

‘Mm. Why the hurry to come here and tell me?’

‘I don’t know,’ Becker said.

Harry waited.

‘I … I had to do something tonight. Like this. If I hadn’t I don’t know what I would’ve done. I …’ The professor hesitated before going on. ‘I’m alone now. My life no longer has much meaning. If the gun had been real …’

‘Don’t,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t even think it. The thought will only become more tempting the more you caress it. And you’re forgetting one thing. Even if your life has no meaning for you, it has meaning for others. For Jonas, for example.’

‘Jonas?’ Becker snorted with a bitter laugh. ‘The cuckoo? “Don’t caress the thought” – is that what they teach you at Police College?’

‘No,’ Harry said.

They eyed each other.

‘Whatever,’ Becker said. ‘Now you know.’

‘Thank you,’ Harry said.

After Becker had left, Harry was still sitting there, trying to decide if the picture was hanging straight, not noticing that the water had boiled, the kettle had switched itself off and the little red eye under the on button was slowly dying.

T
HE THICK, FLUFFY CLOUDS CONCEALED THE DAWN AS
Harry entered the corridor on the sixth floor of the high-rise in Frogner. Tresko had left his bedsit door ajar, and when Harry entered, Tresko had his feet up on the coffee table, his arse on the sofa and the remote control in his left hand. The images that flicked backwards across the screen dissolved into digital mosaic.

‘Don’t want a beer then?’ Tresko repeated, lifting his half-empty bottle. ‘It’s Saturday.’

Harry thought he could discern bacterial gases in the air. Both ashtrays were full of cigarette ends.

‘No thanks,’ Harry said, taking a seat. ‘Well?’

‘Well, I’ve just had one night on it,’ Tresko said, stopping the DVD player. ‘It usually takes me a couple of days.’

‘This person’s not a pro poker player,’ Harry said.

‘Don’t be too sure,’ Tresko said and took a swig from the bottle. ‘He bluffs a lot better than most card players. This is the place where you ask him the question you reckoned he would answer with a lie, isn’t it.’

Tresko pressed play and Harry saw himself in the TV studio. He was wearing a pinstriped suit jacket, a Swedish brand, slightly too tight.
A black T-shirt that was a present from Rakel. Diesel jeans and Dr Martens boots. He was sitting in a strangely uncomfortable position, as if the chair had nails at the back. The question sounded hollow through the TV speakers. ‘Do you invite her for a bit of extra-curricular in your hotel room?’

‘No, I don’t think I would do that,’ Støp answered, but froze as Tresko pressed the pause button.

‘And there you know he’s lying?’ Tresko asked.

‘Yup,’ Harry answered. ‘He fucked a friend of Rakel’s. Women don’t usually like to boast. What can you see?’

‘If I ran this on the computer I could enlarge the eyes, but I don’t need to. You can see the pupils have dilated.’ Tresko pointed an index finger with a chewed nail at the screen. ‘That’s the classic sign of stress. And look at the nostrils. Can you see they’ve flared a tiny bit? We do that when we’re stressed and the brain needs more oxygen. But that doesn’t mean he’s lying; many people get stressed even when they’re telling the truth. Or don’t get stressed when lying. You can see, for example, that his hands are still.’

Harry noticed that Tresko’s voice had undergone a transformation; the jarring sounds were gone and it had become soft, almost pleasant. Harry looked at the screen, at Støp’s hands which lay still in his lap, the left hand over the right.

‘I’m afraid there are no immutable signs,’ Tresko continued. ‘All poker players are different, so what you have to do is spot the differences. Find out what’s different in a person from when he’s lying and when he’s telling the truth. It’s like triangulation, you need two fixed points.’

‘A lie and an honest answer. Sounds easy.’

‘S
ounds
is right. If we assume he’s telling the truth when he’s talking about the founding of his magazine and why he hates politicians we have the second point.’ Tresko rewound the clip and played it. ‘Look.’

Harry looked. But obviously not where he was supposed to. He shook his head.

‘The hands,’ Tresko said. ‘Look at his hands.’

Harry looked at Støp’s tanned hands resting on the chair arms.

‘They’re not moving,’ Harry said.

‘Yes, but he isn’t hiding them,’ Tresko said. ‘A classic sign of bad poker players with poor cards is all the effort they make to hide them behind their hands. And when they bluff they like to place an apparently pensive hand over their mouth to hide their expression. We call them hiders. Others exaggerate the bluff by sitting upright in the chair or leaning back to appear bigger than they are. They’re the bluffers. Støp is a hider.’

Harry leaned forward. ‘Did you …?’

‘Yes, I did,’ Tresko said. ‘And it runs all the way through. He takes his hands off the arms of the chair and hides the right one – I would guess he’s right-handed – when he’s lying.’

‘What does he do when I ask him if he makes snowmen?’ Harry made no attempt to conceal his eagerness.

‘He’s lying,’ Tresko said.

‘Which bit? The bit about making snowmen or making them on his roof terrace?’

Tresko uttered a short grunt which Harry realised was meant to be laughter.

‘This is not an exact science,’ Tresko said. ‘As I said, he’s not a bad card player. In the first seconds after you asked the question he has his hands on the arms as if he’s considering telling the truth. At the same time his nostrils flare as though he’s becoming stressed. But then he changes his mind, hides his right hand and comes up with a lie.’

‘Exactly,’ Harry said. ‘And that means he has something to hide, doesn’t it?’

Tresko pressed his lips together to show this was a tricky one. ‘It may also mean he’s choosing to tell a lie he knows will be sussed. To hide the fact that he could easily have told the truth.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When pro card players have good hands, sometimes, instead of trying to bump up the pot, they bid high first time and give tiny signals that they’re bluffing. Just enough to hook inexperienced players into believing they’ve spotted a bluff and to get them to join the bidding. That’s basically what this looks like. A bluffed bluff.’

Harry nodded slowly. ‘You mean he wants me to believe that he has something to hide?’

Tresko looked at the empty beer bottle, looked at the fridge, made a half-hearted attempt to lever his huge body off the sofa and sighed.

‘As I said, this is not an exact science,’ he said. ‘Would you mind …?’

Harry got up and went over to the fridge. Cursing inside. When he had rung Oda at
Bosse
he had known they would accept his offer to appear. And he had also known that he would be able to ask Støp direct questions unhindered, that was the format of the programme. And that the camera would film the person answering, with close-ups or so-called medium shots, that is, the upper half of the body. All of this had been perfect for Tresko’s analysis. And yet they had failed. This had been the last ray of hope, the last place to look where there was some light. The rest was darkness. And perhaps ten years of fumbling and praying for luck, serendipity, a slip-up.

Harry stared at the neatly stacked rows of Ringnes beer bottles in the fridge, a comical contrast to the chaos reigning in the bedsit. He hesitated. Then he took two bottles. They were so cold that they burned his palms. The fridge door was swinging shut.

‘The only place where I can say with certainty that Støp is lying’, Tresko said from the sofa, ‘is when he answers that there isn’t any madness or hereditary illness in his family.’

Harry managed to catch the fridge door with his foot. The light from the crack was reflected in the black, curtainless window.

‘Repeat,’ he said.

Tresko repeated.

Twenty-five seconds later Harry was halfway down the stairs and Tresko halfway down the beer Harry had chucked him.

‘Yes, there was one more thing, Harry,’ Tresko mumbled to himself. ‘Bosse asked you if there was someone special you were kicking your heels waiting for, and you answered no.’ He belched. ‘Don’t take up poker, Harry.’

*   *   *

Harry rang from his car.

There was an answer before he could introduce himself. ‘Hi, Harry.’

The thought that Mathias Lund-Helgesen either recognised his number or had his number listed made Harry shudder. He could hear Rakel and Oleg’s voices in the background. Weekend. Family.

‘I have a question about Marienlyst Clinic. Are there still any patient records from there?’

‘I doubt it,’ Mathias said. ‘I think the rules say that sort of thing has to be destroyed if no one takes over the practice. But if it’s important I’ll check of course.’

‘Thank you.’

Harry drove past the Vinderen tram stop. A glimpse of a ghost fluttered by. A car chase, a collision, a dead colleague, a rumour that it had been Harry driving and he should have been breathalysed. That was a long time ago. Water under the bridge. Scars under the skin. Versicolor on the soul.

Mathias called back after a quarter of an hour.

‘I spoke to Gregersen – he was the boss of Marienlyst. Everything was deleted or destroyed, I’m afraid. But I think some people, including Idar, took their patient data with them.’

‘And you?’

‘I knew I wouldn’t go into private practice, so I didn’t take anything.’

‘Can you remember any of the names of Idar’s patients, do you think?’

‘Some maybe. Not many. It’s a while ago, Harry.’

‘I know. Thank you anyway.’

Harry rang off and followed the sign to Rikshospitalet. The collection of buildings ahead of him covered the low ridge.

Gerda Nelvik was a gentle, buxom lady in her mid-forties and the only person in the paternity department at the Institute of Forensic Medicine at Rikshospitalet this Saturday. She met Harry in reception and took
him through. There was not much to suggest that this was where society’s worst criminals were hunted. The bright rooms, decorated in homely fashion, were rather testimony to the fact that the staff consisted almost entirely of women.

Harry had been here before and knew the routines for DNA testing. On a weekday, behind the laboratory windows, he would have seen women dressed in white lab coats, caps and disposable gloves, bent over solutions and machines, busy with mysterious processes they called hair-prep, blood-prep and amplification, which would ultimately become a short report with a conclusion in the form of numerical values for fifteen different markers.

They passed a room fitted with shelves, on which lay brown padded envelopes marked with names of police stations around the country. Harry knew they contained articles of clothing, strands of hair, furniture covers, blood and other organic material that had been submitted for analysis. All to extract the numeric code that represented selected points on the mysterious garland that is DNA and identified its owner with a certainty of ninety-nine point many nines per cent.

Gerda Nelvik’s office was no larger than it needed to be to accommodate shelves of ring files and a desk with a computer, piles of paper and a large photograph of two smiling boys, each with a snowboard. ‘Your sons?’ Harry asked, sitting down.

‘I think so,’ she smiled.

‘What?’

‘Insiders’ joke. You said something about someone submitting tests?’

‘Yes. I’m keen to know about all the DNA tests submitted by a particular institution. Starting from twelve years back. And who they were for.’

‘I see. Which institution?’

‘Marienlyst Clinic.’

‘Marienlyst Clinic? Are you sure?’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘In paternity cases it’s usually a court or a solicitor who submits the request. Or individuals directly.’

‘These aren’t paternity suits but tests to establish possible family links because of the danger of hereditary medical conditions.’

‘Aha,’ Gerda said. ‘Then we’ve got them on the database.’

‘Is that something you can check on the spot?’

‘Depends on whether you’ve got the time to wait …’ Gerda looked at her watch, ‘for thirty seconds.’

Harry nodded.

Gerda tapped away on the keyboard as she dictated to herself. ‘M-a-r-i-e-n-l-y-s-t C-l-i-n-i-c.’

She leaned back in her chair and let the machine work.

‘Terrible autumn weather we’re having, isn’t it.’ she said.

‘Yes, it is,’ Harry answered, miles away, listening to the whirring of the hard disk as if that could reveal whether the answer was the one he was hoping for.

‘The darkness can get to you,’ she said. ‘Hope snow is on its way soon. Then it’ll brighten up at least.’

‘Mm,’ Harry said.

The whirring stopped.

‘There you go,’ she said, looking at the screen.

Harry took a deep breath.

‘Yes, Marienlyst Clinic has been a client here. But not for quite some time.’

Harry tried to think back. When was it Idar Vetlesen had finished there?

Gerda furrowed her brow. ‘But before that there were a lot, I can see.’

She hesitated. Harry waited for her to say it. And then she said: ‘An unusually high number for a medical centre, I would say.’

Harry had a feeling. This was the path they should take, this one led out of the labyrinth. Or to be more precise: into the labyrinth. Into the heart of darkness.

‘Have you got any names or personal details of those tested?’

Gerda shook her head. ‘Usually we do, but in this case the centre wanted them to be anonymous, evidently.’