Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (37 page)

He wasn’t certain, but he thought he had seen Katrine stiffen. But what could you be certain of? Not even a click, which you took to be a gun being cocked but turned out to be a girl cracking a dry twig out of sheer fright. He couldn’t pretend any longer though, couldn’t pretend he didn’t know. Katrine had pointed her service revolver at Filip Becker’s back that evening. And when Harry had stepped into her firing line he had heard the sound, the sound he had thought he heard when Salma cracked a twig in the yard. It was the lubricated click of a revolver hammer being
released. Which meant that it had been raised, that Katrine had squeezed the trigger more than two-thirds of the way and that the gun could have gone off at any time. She had meant to shoot Becker.

No, he couldn’t pretend. Because the light had fallen on her face in the doorway to the barn. And he had recognised her. And, as he had said to her, this was all about family relationships.

POB Knut Müller-Nilsen loved Julie Christie. So much that he had never dared to tell his wife the whole truth. However, as he suspected her of having an extra-marital affair with Omar Sharif, he didn’t feel too guilty as he sat beside her devouring Julie Christie with his eyes. The only fly in the ointment was that his Julie at this moment was in a passionate embrace with said Sharif. And when the telephone on the living-room table rang and he answered, his wife pressed the pause button causing the picture of this wonderful yet unbearable moment of their favourite DVD,
Doctor Zhivago
, to freeze in front of them.

‘Well, good evening, Hole,’ said Müller-Nilsen after the inspector had introduced himself. ‘Yes, I imagine you’ve got enough to keep you busy for the time being.’

‘Have you got a minute?’ asked the hoarse but soft voice at the other end.

Müller-Nilsen gazed at Julie’s quivering red lips and raised misty eyes. ‘We’ll take the time we need, Hole.’

‘You showed me a photo of Gert Rafto when I was in your office. There was something about it I recognised.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘And then you said something about his daughter. She had turned out very well, of course, you said. It was this understood “of course”. As if this was information I already knew.’

‘Yes, but she did turn out well, didn’t she.’ said Müller-Nilsen.

‘Depends on how you look at it,’ Harry said.

T
HERE WAS AN EXPECTANT BUZZ UNDER THE CHANDELIERS
in the Sonja Henie Room at the Plaza Hotel. Arve Støp stood in the doorway where he had received the guests. His jaw was aching from all the smiling, and the glad-handing had given him back the sensation of tennis elbow. A young woman from the events agency who was responsible for the technical side slid alongside him and smiled that the guests were now seated around the table. Her neutral black suit and headset with an almost invisible microphone made him think of a female agent in
Mission Impossible
.

‘We’re going in,’ she said, adjusting his bow tie with a friendly, quasitender movement.

She wore a wedding ring. Her hips swayed in front of him towards the room. Had those hips given birth to a child? Her black trousers were tight against her well-exercised bottom, and Arve Støp visualised the same bottom without trousers, in front of him on the bed in his Aker Brygge apartment. But she seemed too professional. It would be too much hassle. Too much heavy persuasion. He met her eyes in the big mirror beside the door, knew he had been caught and beamed an apology. She laughed at the same time as a slightly unprofessional flush shot up into her cheeks. Mission impossible? Hardly. But not tonight.

At his table of eight everyone rose as he entered. His dinner partner was his own subeditor. A dull but necessary choice. She was married, had children and the ravaged face of a woman who works twelve to fourteen hours every day. Poor kids. And poor him the day she found out that life consisted of more than
Liberal
. The table reacted with a
skål
for him as Støp’s gaze swept across the room. The sequins, jewels and smiling eyes sparkled under the chandeliers. And the dresses. Strapless, shoulderless, backless, shameless.

Then the music erupted. The vast tones of
Also Sprach Zarathustra
boomed out of the loudspeakers. At the meeting with the events agency Arve Støp had pointed out that it wasn’t exactly an original introduction, it was pompous and made him think of the creation of man. And was told that was the idea.

Onto the large stage, wreathed in smoke and light, stepped a TV celebrity who had demanded – and been given – a six-figure sum to be the master of ceremonies.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted into a large, cordless microphone that reminded Støp of a large, erect penis. ‘Welcome!’ The celeb’s famous lips were almost touching the black dick. ‘Welcome to what I promise you is going to be a very special evening!’

Arve Støp was already looking forward to it being over.

Harry stared at the photgraphs on the bookshelf in his office, at the Dead Policemen’s Society. He tried to think, but his mind was spinning, unable find a foothold, an entire image. He had felt the whole time that there was someone on the inside; someone had known what he would do at all times. But not that it would be like this. It was so unimaginably easy. And at the same time so incomprehensibly complicated.

Knut Müller-Nilsen had told him that Katrine had been regarded as one of the most promising Crime Squad detectives at Bergen HQ, a rising star. Never any problem. Yes, there was of course the incident which led to her application for a transfer to the Sexual Offences Unit.
A witness from a shelved case had rung to complain that Katrine Bratt was still doorstepping him with new questions. She wouldn’t stop even though he had made it plain that he had already made a statement to the police. It came to light that Katrine had been independently investigating this case for months without notifying her superiors. As she had been doing it in her own free time, this would not normally have been a problem, but this particular case was not one they wanted her raking up. She had been made aware of this, and her reaction had been to point out several flaws in the original investigation, but she didn’t gain a sympathetic ear and in her frustration she had applied for a transfer.

‘This case must have been an obsession for her,’ was the last Müller-Nilsen had said. ‘As far as I remember, that was the time her husband left her.’

Harry got up, went into the corridor and over to Katrine’s office door. It was, as office regulations stipulated, locked. He continued down the corridor to the photocopy room. On the lowest shelf beside the packs of writing paper he pulled out the guillotine, a large, heavy iron base with a mounted blade. The enormous machine had never been used to his memory, but now he carried it with both hands into the corridor and back to Katrine Bratt’s door.

He raised the paper cutter over his head and took aim. Then he brought his arms down hard.

The guillotine hit the handle, knocking the lock into the frame, which split with a loud crack.

Harry just managed to shift his feet before the machine landed on the floor with a muffled groan. The door spat splinters of wood and swung open at the first kick. He picked up the guillotine and carried it inside.

Katrine Bratt’s office was identical to the one he had shared with Police Officer Jack Halvorsen in times gone by. Tidy, bare, no pictures or any other personal possessions. The desk had a simple lock at the top controlling all the drawers. After two doses of the guillotine the top drawer and the lock were smashed. Harry rifled through, pushing papers
to the side and rummaging through plastic folders, hole punches and other office equipment until he found a knife. He removed the sheath. The top edge was serrated. Definitely not a scout’s knife. Harry pressed the blade into the pile of papers it was lying on and the knife sank without resistance into the wad.

In the drawer beneath there were two unopened boxes of bullets for her service revolver. The only personal belongings Harry found were two rings. One was studded with gems that glinted angrily in the light of the desk lamp. He had seen it before. Harry closed his eyes trying to visualise where. A large, gaudy ring. Covered in all sorts. Las Vegasstyle. Katrine would never have worn such a ring. And then he knew where he had seen it. He felt his pulse throbbing: hard, but steady. He had seen it in a bedroom. In Becker’s bedroom.

In the Sonja Henie Room dinner was over and the tables cleared away. Arve Støp stood leaning against the rear wall while staring at the stage, where the guests had huddled together and were gazing in rapture at the band. It was a big sound. It was an expensive sound. It was the sound of megalomania. Arve Støp had had his doubts, but in the end the events agency had convinced him that investing in an experience was a way to buy his employees’ loyalty, pride and enthusiasm for their workplace. And by buying a bit of international success he was underscoring the magazine’s own success and building the
Liberal
brand, a product with which advertisers would want to be associated.

The vocalist held a finger against his earpiece as he attacked the highest note of their international hit of the eighties.

‘No one hits a bum note as beautifully as Morten Harket,’ said a voice next to Støp.

He turned. And knew at once that he had seen her before, because he never forgot a beautiful woman. What he was beginning to forget more and more was who, where and when. She was slim and wearing
a plain black dress with a slit that reminded him of someone. Of Birte. Birte had a dress like that.

‘It’s scandalous,’ he said.

‘It’s a difficult note to hit,’ she said without taking her eyes off the vocalist.

‘It’s scandalous I can’t remember your name. I only know we’ve met before.’

‘We haven’t met,’ she said. ‘You just gave me the once-over.’ She brushed her black hair off her face. She was attractive in a stern, classical way. Kate Moss-attractive. Birte had been Pamela Anderson-attractive.

‘That I think can definitely be excused,’ he said, with a feeling that he was waking up, that his blood was beginning to surge through his body bringing champagne to parts of his brain that relaxed him rather than making him drowsy.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Katrine Bratt,’ she said.

‘Oh yes. Are you one of our advertisers, Katrine? A bank connection? A lessor? A freelance photographer?’

To every question Katrine shook her head with a smile.

‘I’m a gatecrasher,’ she said. ‘One of your female journalists is a friend of mine. She told me who was playing after dinner, and said I could just put on a dress and slip in. Feel like throwing me out?’

She raised the champagne glass to her lips. They weren’t as full as he usually liked, but nevertheless deep red and moist. She was still looking at the stage so that he could study her profile at his leisure. The whole of her profile. The hollow back, the perfect arch of her breasts. No need for any silicone, maybe just a good bra. But could they have suckled a child?

‘I’m considering the option,’ he said. ‘Any arguments you would like to put forward?’

‘Will a threat do?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I saw the paparazzi outside waiting for your celebrity guests to
emerge with the evening’s catch. What about if I told them about my journalist friend? That she was given to understand her prospects at
Liberal
were poor after she had rejected your advances?’

Arve Støp laughed aloud and from his heart. He saw that they had already been attracting inquisitive looks from other guests. Leaning towards her, he noticed that the aroma of her perfume was not unlike the eau de cologne he used.

‘Firstly, I’m not frightened of a bad reputation, least of all among my colleagues in the gossip rags. Secondly, your friend is a useless journalist, and thirdly she’s lying. I’ve fucked her three times. And you can tell the paparazzi
that.
Are you married?’

‘Yes,’ said the unknown woman, turning to the stage and shifting her weight so that the slit of her dress allowed a glimpse of a lacy hold-up. Arve Støp felt his mouth go dry and took a sip of champagne. Watched the flock of tiptoeing women at the front of the stage. Breathed through his nose. He could smell pussy from where he was standing.

‘Have you got any children, Katrine?’

‘Do you want me to have children?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because through creating life women have learned to subject themselves to nature, and that gives them a more profound insight into life than other women. And men.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘No, it makes you women less desperate to hunt for a potential father. You just want to enjoy the game.’

‘OK,’ she laughed. ‘Then I’ve got children. What games do you like to play?’

‘Whoa,’ Støp said, looking at his watch. ‘We’re moving too fast.’

‘What games do you like to play?’

‘All of them.’

‘Great.’

The singer closed his eyes, grabbed the microphone with both hands and attacked the song’s crescendo.

‘This is a boring party, and I’m going home.’ Støp put his empty glass on a tray whistling past. ‘I live in Aker Brygge. Same entrance as
Liberal
, top floor. Top bell.’

She gave a thin smile. ‘I know where it is. How much of a head start do you want?’

‘Give me twenty minutes. And a promise that you won’t talk to anyone before you leave. Not even your girlfriend. Is that a deal, Katrine Bratt?’

He looked at her, hoping he had said the right name.

‘Trust me,’ she said, and he noticed a strange gleam in her eyes, like the gleam of a forest fire in the sky. ‘I’m just as keen as you that this stays between us.’ She raised her glass. ‘And by the way, you fucked her four times, not three.’

Støp enjoyed a last glance before making his way to the exit. Behind him the vocalist’s falsetto was still quivering almost inaudibly under the chandeliers.

A door slammed and loud, enthusiastic voices reverberated down Seilduksgata. Four youths on their way from a party to one of the bars in Grünerløkka. They passed the car parked at the edge of the pavement without noticing the man inside. Then they rounded the corner, and the street was quiet again. Harry leaned towards the windscreen and looked up at the windows of Katrine Bratt’s flat.