Sivertsen smiled and said, ‘You’d better convince me first that you’ve got enough to get me off the hook already. Then I’ll agree to our giving ourselves up and you can have the use of my evidence to incriminate Waaler.’
Harry shrugged.
‘I can ring the head of my section, Bjarne Moller, and ask him to come in a patrol car and get us out of here safely.’
Sivertsen shook his head firmly.
‘There have got to be others involved in this, in higher positions in the police force than Waaler. I don’t trust anyone. You’ll have to find the proof first.’
Harry opened and closed his fist. ‘We have an alternative. One that would protect both of us.’
‘And that is?’
‘Go to the papers and tell them what we know. About the Courier Killer and Waaler. Then it would be too late for anyone to do anything.’
Sivertsen wore a sceptical expression.
‘Time’s running out for us,’ Harry said. ‘He’s getting closer. Can’t you feel it?’
Sivertsen rubbed his wrist.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Do it.’
Harry shoved his hand in his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled business card. He hesitated for a second. Possibly because he anticipated the consequences of what he was about to do. Or perhaps because he didn’t anticipate them. He tapped in the work number. The reply came surprisingly quickly.
‘Roger Gjendem.’
Harry could hear the hum of voices, the clatter of computer keyboards and telephones ringing in the background.
‘This is Harry Hole. I want you to listen very carefully, Gjendem. I have some information about the Courier Killer. And arms smuggling. One of my colleagues in the police is involved. Do you understand?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Good. The story’s yours exclusively so long as you publish it on Aftenposten ’s web pages as quickly as possible.’
‘Of course. Where are you ringing from, Inspector Hole?’
Gjendem sounded less surprised than Harry had expected.
‘It’s not important where I am. I have information which proves Sven Sivertsen cannot be the Courier Killer and that a leading policeman is involved in a network of arms smuggling that has been operating in Norway for several years.’
‘That’s fantastic. But I’m sure you’re aware that I cannot write that on the basis of one telephone conversation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No serious newspaper would print an allegation about a named police inspector smuggling arms without checking that the sources are reliable. I don’t doubt for a minute that you’re the person you say you are, but how do I know that you aren’t drunk or crazy or both? If I don’t check this out properly, the paper can be sued. Let’s meet, shall we, Inspector Hole. Then I’ll write everything you tell me. I promise.’
In the pause that followed Harry could hear someone laughing in the background. A carefree ripple of laughter.
‘Don’t even think about ringing other papers – they’ll give you the same answer. Trust me, Inspector.’
Harry took a deep breath.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘At Underwater in Dalsbergstien. At five o’clock. Come on your own or I won’t turn up. And not a single word about this to a living soul, understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘See you.’
Harry pressed the ‘off’ button and chewed his bottom lip.
‘I hope that was wise,’ said Sven.
Bjorn Holm and Beate turned off busy Bygdoy alle and one moment later they found themselves in a silent road with misshapen detached timber houses on one side and fashionable brick apartment buildings on the other. The kerbsides came complete with rows of German makes of car.
‘Nobsville,’ Bjorn said.
They pulled up outside a doll’s-house-yellow building.
A voice answered the intercom after the second buzz.
‘Yes?’
‘Andre Clausen?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘Beate Lonn, police. May we come in?’
Andre Clausen was waiting for them in the doorway, dressed in a thigh-length dressing gown. He was scratching at the scab of a cut on his cheek as he made a half-hearted attempt at suppressing a yawn.
‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘I got home late last night.’
‘From Switzerland perhaps?’
‘No, I’ve just been up in the mountains. Come in.’
Clausen’s sitting room was a little on the small side for the collection of objets d’art he had, and Bjorn Holm was quick to establish that Clausen’s taste tended more towards Liberace than minimalism. Water trickled through a fountain in the corner where a naked goddess stretched up towards the Sistine paintings on the vaulted ceiling.
‘I’d like you to concentrate first and think about the time you saw the Courier Killer in the reception area at the solicitors’ office,’ Beate said. ‘And then look at this.’
Clausen took hold of the picture and studied it while running a finger across the cut on his cheek. Bjorn Holm examined the sitting-room area. He heard a shuffling noise behind a door and the sound of paws scratching against the other side.
‘Maybe,’ Clausen said.
‘Maybe?’ Beate was perched on the edge of the chair.
‘Very possible. The clothes are the same. The cycling helmet and the sunglasses too.’
‘Good. And the plaster on his knee. Did he have that?’
Clausen laughed softly.
‘As I told you, it is not my habit to study men’s bodies in such detail. But if it makes you happier, I can say that my immediate reaction is that this is the man I saw. Beyond that…’
He made a gesture with outstretched arms.
‘Thank you,’ Beate said getting up.
‘My pleasure,’ Clausen said, following them to the door where he proffered his hand. That was a strange thing to do, Holm thought, but he took it. But when Clausen proffered his hand to Beate, she shook her head with a little smile:
‘Sorry, but… you have blood on your fingers. And your chin’s bleeding.’
Clausen put a hand up to his face.
‘Indeed,’ he said smiling. ‘That’s Truls. My dog. Our games at the weekend got a little out of hand.’
He looked Beate in the eyes and his smile became broader and broader.
‘Goodbye,’ Beate said.
Bjorn Holm was not quite sure why he shuddered when he emerged into the heat again.
Klaus Torkildsen had pointed both fans in the room towards his face, but it felt as if they were only blowing the hot air from the machine back at him. He tapped his finger against the thick glass of the screen. Under the internal number in Kjolberggata. The subscriber had just rung off. That was the fourth time today that the person in question had spoken to precisely that mobile phone number. Brief conversations.
He double-clicked on the mobile phone number to find the subscriber’s name. A name appeared on the screen. He double-clicked to find an address and a profession. When it came up, Klaus sat looking at the information for a moment. Then he dialled the number he had been told to call when he had something to report.
