‘How incomplete?’ Harry heard footsteps in the corridor.
‘Well, there’s at least a five per cent chance there’s no match.’
‘You’ve been given an interim DNA profile and have a match on the DNA register, haven’t you?’
‘We use incomplete tests only to say who we can eliminate.’
‘Who’s the match for?’
‘I don’t want to say anything until-’
‘Come on.’
‘No. But I can say it’s not Gusto’s own blood.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s not Oleg’s. Alright?’
‘Very alright,’ Harry said, suddenly aware that he had been holding his breath.
A shadow under the door.
‘Harry?’
Harry rang off. Pointed the rifle at the door. Waited. Three short knocks. Waited. Listened. The shadow didn’t move. He tiptoed along the wall towards the door, out of any possible firing line. Put his eye to the peephole in the middle of the door.
He saw a man’s back.
The jacket hung straight and was so short he could see the trouser waistband. A black piece of cloth hung from his back pocket, a cap perhaps. But he wasn’t wearing a belt. His arms hung close to his sides. If the man was carrying a weapon it had to be in a holster, either on his chest or on the inside of his calf. Neither very common.
The man turned to the door and knocked twice, harder this time. Harry held his breath while studying the distorted image of a face. Distorted, and yet there was something unmistakable about it. A pronounced underbite. And he was scratching himself under the chin with a card he had hanging from his neck. The way police officers sometimes carried ID cards when they were going to make an arrest. Shit! The police had been quicker than Dubai.
Harry hesitated. If the guy had orders to arrest him he would also have a blue chit with a search warrant he had already shown the receptionist and he would have been given a master key. Harry’s brain calculated. He tiptoed back, pushed the rifle in behind the wardrobe. Went back and opened the door. Said: ‘What do you want and who are you?’ while glancing up and down the corridor.
The man stared at him. ‘What a state you’re in, Hole. Can I come in?’ He held up his ID card.
‘Truls Berntsen. You used to work for Bellman, didn’t you?’
‘Still do. He sends his regards.’
Harry stepped aside and let Berntsen go first.
‘Cosy,’ Berntsen said, looking around.
‘Take a seat,’ Harry said, indicating the bed and sitting on the chair by the window.
‘Chewing gum?’ Berntsen said, offering a packet.
‘Gives me cavities. What do you want?’
‘As friendly as ever?’ Berntsen grinned, rolled up the chewing gum, placed it in his drawer-like prognathous jaw and sat down.
Harry’s brain was registering intonation, body language, eye movement, smell. The man was relaxed, yet threatening. Open palms, no sudden movements, but his eyes were collecting data, reading the situation, preparing for something. Harry already regretted stowing his rifle. Failure to hold a licence was the least of his problems.
‘Thing is, we found blood on Gusto’s shirt in connection with a grave desecration at Vestre Cemetery last night. And the DNA test shows it to be your blood.’
Harry watched as Berntsen neatly folded the silver paper that had been wrapped round the chewing gum. Harry remembered him better now. They had called him Beavis. Bellman’s errand boy. Stupid and smart. And dangerous. Forrest Gump gone bad.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Harry said.
‘No, I can imagine,’ Berntsen said with a sigh. ‘Mistake on the register perhaps? I’ll have to drive you down to Police HQ to take another blood sample.’
‘I’m searching for a girl,’ Harry said. ‘Irene Hanssen.’
‘She’s in Vestre Cemetery?’
‘She’s been missing since this summer at any rate. She’s the foster-sister of Gusto Hanssen.’
‘News to me. Nevertheless you’ll have to come with me down to-’
‘It’s the girl in the middle,’ Harry said. He had taken the Hanssen family photograph from his jacket pocket and passed it to Berntsen. ‘I need a bit of time. Not much. Afterwards you’ll understand why I’ve had to do things like this. I promise to report within forty-eight hours.’
‘ 48 Hours,’ Berntsen said, studying the picture. ‘Good film. Nolte and that negro. McMurphy?’
‘Murphy.’
‘Right. Stopped being funny, he did. Isn’t that strange? You have something, and then suddenly you’ve lost it. How do you think that feels, Hole?’
Harry looked at Truls Berntsen. He wasn’t so sure about this Forrest Gump thing any more. Berntsen held the photograph up to the light. Squinted with concentration.
‘Do you recognise her?’
‘No,’ said Berntsen, passing the picture back as he twisted round. Obviously it wasn’t comfortable sitting on the item of clothing he had in his back pocket because he quickly moved it to his jacket pocket. ‘We’re going for a ride to Police HQ, where we will review your forty-eight hours.’
His tone was light. Too light. And Harry had already done his thinking. Beate had prioritised her DNA tests at the Pathology Unit and still did not have a final result. So how come Berntsen had a blood test result off Gusto’s shroud? And there was another thing. Berntsen hadn’t moved the item quickly enough. It wasn’t a cap, it was a balaclava. The type used when Gusto was executed.
And the next thought followed hard on its heels. The burner.
Were the police perhaps not the first on the scene? Was it not Dubai’s lackey?
Harry considered the rifle behind the wardrobe. But it was too late to escape now. In the corridor he heard footsteps approaching. Two people. One of them so big the floorboards creaked. The footsteps stopped outside the door. The shadows of two pairs of legs, standing akimbo, fell across the floor under the crack. He could of course have hoped they were police colleagues of Berntsen, that this was a real arrest. But he had heard the floor’s lament. A big man, he guessed the size of the figure running after him through Frogner Park.
‘Come on,’ Berntsen said, getting up and standing in front of Harry. Scratched his chest inside his lapel in an apparently casual way. ‘A little ride, just you and me.’
‘We’re not alone, it seems,’ Harry said. ‘I see you have backup.’
He nodded to the shadow under the door. Another shadow appeared. A straight, oblong shadow. Truls followed his gaze. And Harry saw it. The genuine astonishment on his face. The kind of astonishment types like Truls Berntsen cannot simulate. They weren’t Berntsen’s people.
‘Move away from the door,’ Harry whispered.
Truls stopped masticating the chewing gum and looked down at him.
Truls Berntsen liked to have his Steyr pistol in a shoulder holster, positioned in such a way that the gun lay flat against his chest. It made it harder to see when you stood face to face with someone. And as he knew that Harry Hole was an experienced detective, trained by the FBI in Chicago and so on, he also knew that Hole would automatically notice anything bulky in the usual places. Not that Truls reckoned he would need to use the pistol, but he had taken precautions. If Harry resisted he would escort him outside with the Steyr discreetly pointing at his back, having put on the balaclava so that any potential witnesses couldn’t say whom they had seen with Hole before he disappeared off the face of the earth. The Saab was parked in a backstreet; he had even smashed the only street lamp so that no one would see the number plate. Fifty thousand euros. He had to be patient, build stone by stone. Get a house a bit higher up in Hoyenhall with a view, looking down on them. Down on her.
Harry Hole had seemed smaller than the giant he remembered. And uglier. Pale, ugly, dirty and exhausted. Resigned, unfocused. This was going to be an easier job than he had anticipated. So when Hole whispered he should move away from the door Truls Berntsen’s first reaction was irritation. Was the guy attempting to play
