‘Thank you.’
‘Have we got a deal then? We’ll never speak again?’
‘Yes. Apart from one final thing. I want you to check Mikael Bellman. Who he’s spoken to over recent months, and where he was at the time of the killing.’
Loud laughter. ‘The head of Orgkrim? Forget it! I can hide or explain away a search for a lowly officer, but what you’re asking me to do would get me sacked on the spot.’ More laughter, as if the idea were really a joke. ‘I expect you to keep your end of the bargain, Hole.’
The line went dead.
When the taxi arrived at the address on the serviette a man was waiting outside.
Harry stepped out and went over to him. ‘Ola Kvernberg, the caretaker?’
The man nodded.
‘Inspector Hole. I rang you.’ He saw the caretaker steal a glance at the taxi which was waiting. ‘We use taxis when there are no patrol cars.’
Kvernberg examined the ID card the man held up in front of him. ‘I haven’t seen any signs of a break-in,’ he said.
‘But someone’s rung in, so let’s check. You’ve got a master key, haven’t you?’
Kvernberg nodded and unlocked the main door while the policeman studied the names on the bells. ‘The witness maintained he’d seen someone climbing up the balconies and breaking into the second floor.’
‘Who rang in?’ asked the caretaker on his way up.
‘Confidential matter, Kvernberg.’
‘You’ve got something on your trousers.’
‘Kebab sauce. I keep thinking about getting them cleaned. Can you unlock the door?’
‘The pharmacist’s?’
‘Oh, is that what he is?’
‘Works at the Radium Hospital. Shouldn’t we ring him at work before we enter?’
‘I’d rather see if the burglar’s here so we can arrest him, if you don’t mind.’
The caretaker mumbled an apology and hastened to unlock the door.
Hole went into the flat.
It was obvious that a bachelor was living here. But a tidy one. Classical CDs on their own CD shelf, in alphabetical order. Scientific journals about chemistry and pharmacy stacked in high but neat piles. On one bookshelf there was a framed photograph of two adults and a boy. Harry recognised the boy. He was stooping a little to one side with a sullen expression. He can’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. The caretaker stood by the front door watching carefully, so for appearances’ sake Harry checked the balcony door before going from room to room. Opening drawers and cupboards. But there was nothing compromising on view.
Suspiciously little, some colleagues would say.
But Harry had seen it before; some people don’t have secrets. Not often, it’s fair to say, but it happened. He heard the caretaker shifting weight from foot to foot in the bedroom door behind him.
‘No signs of a break-in or anything taken,’ Harry said, walking past him towards the exit. ‘Maybe a false alarm.’
‘I see,’ said the caretaker, locking up after them. ‘What would you have done if there had been a thief there? Taken him in the taxi?’
‘We’d have probably called for a patrol car,’ Harry smiled, pulling up and examining the boots on the stand by the door. ‘Tell me, aren’t these two boots very different sizes?’
Kvernberg rubbed his chin while scrutinising Harry.
‘Yes, maybe. He’s got a club foot. May I have another look at your ID?’
Harry passed his card to him.
‘The expiry date-’
‘The taxi’s waiting,’ Harry said, snatching the card back and setting off down the stairs at a jog. ‘Thanks for your help, Kvernberg!’
I went to Hausmanns gate, and, course, no one had fixed the locks, so I went straight up to the flat. Oleg wasn’t there. Nor anyone else. They were out getting stressed. Gotta getta fix, gotta getta fix. Several junkies living together, and the place looked like it. But there was nothing there, of course, just empty bottles, used syringes, bloodstained wads of cotton wool and empty fag packets. Fricking burnt earth. And it was while I was sitting on a filthy mattress and cursing that I saw the rat. When people describe rats they always say a huge rat. But rats are not huge. They’re quite small. It’s just that their tails can be quite long. OK, if they feel threatened and stand up on two legs they can seem bigger than they are. Apart from that, they’re poor creatures who get stressed the same as us. Gotta getta fix.
I heard a church bell ring. And I told myself that Ibsen would be coming.
Had to come. Shit, I felt so bad. I had seen them standing and waiting when we went to work, so happy to see us it was moving. Trembling, their banknotes at the ready, reduced to being amateur beggars. And now I was there myself. Sick with longing to hear Ibsen’s lame shuffle on the stairs, to see his idiotic mush.
I had played my cards like a fool. I wanted a shot, nothing else, and all I had achieved was to bring the whole pack of them down on me. The old boy and his Cossacks. Truls Berntsen with his drill and crazed eyes. Queen Isabelle and her fuck-buddy-in-chief.
The rat scampered along the skirting board. Out of sheer desperation I checked under the carpets and mattresses. Under one mattress I found a picture and a piece of steel wire. The picture was a crumpled and faded passport photo of Irene, so I guessed this had to be Oleg’s mattress. But I couldn’t understand what the wire was for. Until it slowly dawned on me. And I felt my palms go sweaty and my heart beat faster. After all, I had taught Oleg to make a stash.
36
Hans Christian Simonsen way between tourists up the slope of the Italian white marble that made the Opera House look like a floating iceberg at the end of the fjord. When he was atop the roof he looked around and caught sight of Harry Hole sitting on a wall. He was on his own, as the tourists by and large went to the other side to enjoy the view of the fjord. But Harry was sitting and staring inwards at the old, ugly parts of town.
Hans Christian sat down beside him.
‘HC,’ Harry said without looking up from the brochure he was reading. ‘Did you know that this marble is called Carrara marble and that the Opera House cost every Norwegian more than two thousand kroner?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know anything about Don Giovanni?’
‘Mozart. Two acts. An arrogant young rake, who believes he is God’s gift to women and men, cheats everyone and makes everyone hate themselves. He thinks he is immortal, but in the end a mysterious statue comes and takes his life as they are both swallowed up by the earth.’
‘Mm. There’s the premiere of a new production in a couple of days. It says here that in the final scene the chorus sings, “ Such is the end of the evil-doer: the death of a sinner always reflects his life.” Do you think that’s true, HC?’
‘I know it isn’t. Death, sad to say, is no more just than life is.’
‘Mm. Did you know a policeman was washed ashore here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything you don’t know?’
‘Who shot Gusto Hanssen?’
‘Oh, the mysterious statue,’ Harry said, putting down the brochure. ‘Do you want to know who it is?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Not necessarily. The important thing to prove is who it isn’t, that it isn’t Oleg.’
‘Agreed,’ said Hans Christian, studying Harry. ‘But hearing you say that doesn’t tally with what I’ve heard about the zealous Harry Hole.’
