Gusto Hanssen still had the indefinable but evident beauty of a young Elvis Presley, the kind of looks that appeal to both men and women, like the androgynous beautification of idols you find in every religion. He thumbed through. After several full-length shots the photographer had taken close-ups of the face and the bullet wounds.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to a picture of Gusto’s right hand.
‘He had blood under his fingernails. We took swabs, but I’m afraid they were destroyed.’
‘Destroyed?’
‘It can happen, Harry.’
‘Not in your department.’
‘The blood was destroyed on the way to DNA testing in the Pathology Unit. In fact, we weren’t that upset. The blood was quite fresh, but still congealed enough for it not to be relevant to the time of the murder. And, inasmuch as the victim was a needle addict, it was highly probable it was his own. But…’
‘… But if not, it’s always interesting to know who he had been fighting with that day. Look at his shoes…’ He showed Beate one of the full-length shots. ‘Aren’t they Alberto Fascianis?’
‘Had no idea you knew so much about shoes, Harry.’
‘One of my clients in Hong Kong manufactures them.’
‘Client, eh? And to my knowledge original Fasciani shoes are manufactured only in Italy.’
Harry shrugged. ‘Impossible to see the difference. But if they are Fascianis they don’t exactly match the rest of his clothes. Looks like an outfit doled out by the Watchtower.’
‘The shoes could be stolen,’ Beate said. ‘Gusto Hanssen’s nickname was the Thief. He was famous for stealing anything he came across, not least dope. There’s a story going round that he stole a retired sniffer dog in Sweden and used it to sniff out drug stashes.’
‘Perhaps he found Oleg’s,’ Harry said. ‘Has he said anything under questioning?’
‘Still as silent as a clam. The only thing he says is it’s all a black void. He doesn’t even remember being in the flat.’
‘Perhaps he wasn’t.’
‘We found his DNA, Harry. Hair, sweat.’
‘He did live and sleep here.’
‘On the body, Harry.’
Harry fell silent, stared into the distance.
Beate raised a hand, perhaps to put on his shoulder, but changed her mind and let it drop. ‘Have you had a chat with him?’
Harry shook his head. ‘He threw me out.’
‘He’s ashamed.’
‘Guess so.’
‘I mean it. You’re his idol. It’s humiliating for him to be seen in this state.’
‘Humiliating? I’ve dried the boy’s tears, I’ve blown on his grazes. Chased away trolls and left the light on.’
‘That boy no longer exists, Harry. The present Oleg doesn’t want to be helped by you now; he wants to live up to you.’
Harry stamped on the floorboards while looking at the wall. ‘I’m not worth it, Beate. He knows that.’
‘Harry…’
‘Shall we go down to the river?’
Sergey stood in front of the mirror with both arms hanging down by his sides. Flicked the safety catch and pressed the button. The blade shot out and reflected the light. It was an attractive knife, a Siberian switchblade, or ‘the iron’ as the urkas — the criminal class in Siberia — called it. It was the world’s best weapon to stab with. A long, slim shaft with a long, thin blade. The tradition was that you were given it from an older criminal in the family when you had done something to deserve it. However, traditions were receding; nowadays you bought, stole or pirated the knife. This knife, though, had been a present from his uncle. According to Andrey, ataman had kept the knife under his mattress before it was given to Sergey. He thought about the myth that if you put the iron under the mattress of a sick person it absorbed the pain and suffering and transferred them to the next person stabbed with it. This was one of the myths the urkas loved so much, like the one that claimed if anyone came into the possession of your knife he would soon meet with an accident and death. Old romanticism and superstition, which were on their way out. Nonetheless, he had received the gift with enormous, perhaps exaggerated, reverence. And why shouldn’t he? He owed his uncle everything. He was the one who had got him out of the trouble he had landed in, organised his papers so that he could come to Norway; his uncle had even sorted out the cleaning job at Gardermoen for him. It was well paid, and easy to find, but apparently it was the type of work Norwegians declined; they preferred to draw social security. And the minor offences Sergey brought with him from Russia were no problem either; his uncle had had his criminal record doctored. So Sergey had kissed his benefactor’s blue ring when he was given the present. And Sergey had to admit that the knife in his hand was very beautiful. A dark brown handle made from deer horn inlaid with an ivory-coloured Orthodox cross.
Sergey pushed from the hip the way he had been taught, could feel he was properly poised, and thrust upwards. In and out. In and out. Fast, but not so fast that the blade did not enter to the hilt, each and every time.
The reason it had to be with the knife was that the man he was going to kill was a policeman. And when policemen are killed the hunt afterwards was always more intensive, so it was vital to leave as few clues as possible. A bullet could always be traced back to places, weapons or people. A slash from a smooth, clean knife was anonymous. A stabbing wasn’t quite as anonymous, it could reveal the length and shape of the blade, that was why Andrey had told him not to stab the policeman in the heart, but to cut his carotid artery. Sergey had never cut anyone’s throat before, nor stabbed anyone in the heart, just knifed a Georgian in the thigh for no more than being a Georgian. So he had decided he needed something to train on, something living. His Pakistani neighbour had three cats, and every morning he walked into the entrance hall the smell of cat piss assailed his nostrils.
Sergey lowered his knife, stood with bowed head, rolled his eyeballs upwards so that he could see himself in the mirror. He looked good: fit, menacing, dangerous, ready. Like a film poster. His tattoo would reveal that he had killed a police officer.
He would stand behind the policeman. Step forward. With his left hand he would grab his hair, pull him backwards. Place the knife tip against his neck, to the left, penetrate the skin, arc the blade across the throat in a crescent shape. Like that.
The heart would pump out a cascade of blood; three heartbeats and the flow would diminish. The man would already be brain-dead.
Fold the knife, slip it into his pocket as he left, fast, but not too fast. Don’t look anyone in the eye. Walk, and feel free.
He stepped back a pace. Stood up straight, inhaled. Visualised the scene. Released his breath. Stepped forward. Angled the blade so that it had a wonderful glint, like a precious jewel.
6
Beate and Harry came out of Hausmanns gate, turned left, rounded the corner of the block and crossed the site of the burnt building, still with blackened glass shards and scorched bricks in the rubble. Behind it, an overgrown slope ran down to the river. Harry noted there were no doors at the back of Oleg’s block and that, in the absence of any other way out, there was a narrow fire escape descending from the top floor.
‘Who lives in the neighbouring flat?’ Harry asked.
‘No one,’ Beate said. ‘Empty offices. It’s where Anarkisten, a little newspaper that-’
‘I know it. It wasn’t a bad fanzine. The writers of the culture section work on the big papers now. Were the rooms unlocked?’
‘Broken into. Probably been open for a long time.’
Harry watched Beate, who with a resigned air nodded confirmation of what Harry didn’t need to say: someone could have been in Oleg’s flat and escaped unseen. Straws.
