in this Congo project of his. A very considerable sum.’
‘So a lad in rags knocks on the door and gets a princess plus half a kingdom, like in a fairy tale, does he?’
Within two seconds flat the living room was quiet, as Galtung eyed Harry.
‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘And maybe your daughter is exerting some pressure on you to invest. The venture is pretty dependent on finance, isn’t it?’
Galtung opened his arms. ‘I’m a shipowner. Risk is what I live off.’
‘And could die of.’
‘Two sides of the same coin. In risk markets one man’s loss is another man’s gain. So far the others have lost, and I hope this trend will continue.’
‘Other people losing?’
‘Shipowning is a family business, and if Leike is going to be family we have to ensure…’ He paused as the door opened. She was a tall, blonde girl with her father’s coarse features and her mother’s turquoise eyes, but without her father’s bluff farmer-made-good air or her mother’s dignified superiority. She walked with a hunched bearing, as if to reduce her height, so as not to stand out, and she observed her shoes rather than Harry when she shook hands and introduced herself as Lene Gabrielle Galtung.
She didn’t have a lot to say. And even less to ask. She seemed to cower under her father’s gaze every time she answered Harry’s questions, and Harry wondered whether his assumption that she had forced her father to invest might be wrong.
Twenty minutes later Harry expressed his gratitude, stood up and, right on invisible cue, there she was again, the woman with the turquoise eyes.
When she opened the front door for him, the cold surged in and Harry stopped to button up his coat. He looked at her.
‘Where do you believe Tony Leike is, fru Galtung?’
‘I don’t believe anything,’ she said.
Perhaps she answered too quickly, perhaps there was a twitch at the corner of her eye, perhaps it was just Harry’s intense desire to find something, anything, but he was convinced she was telling the truth. The second thing she said did not allow any room for doubt.
‘And I am not fru Galtung. She is upstairs.’
Mikael Bellman adjusted the microphone in front of him and surveyed the audience. There was a hushed whisper, but all eyes were directed towards the podium, fearful of missing anything. In the packed room he recognised the journalist from Stavanger Aftenblad and Roger Gjendem from Aftenposten. He could hear Ninni, who was wearing a freshly ironed uniform, as usual. Someone counted down the seconds to the start, which was normal for live broadcasts of press conferences.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. We have called this press conference to give you an update on what we are doing. Any questions. ..’
Chuckles all round.
‘… will be answered at the end. I will pass over now to the officer leading the investigation, POB Mikael Bellman.’
Bellman cleared his throat. Full turnout. The TV channels had been given permission to place their microphones on the podium table.
‘Thank you. Let me start by being a party-pooper. I can see from the attendance and your faces that we may have ratcheted up your expectations a little too high in calling you here. There will be no announcement of a final breakthrough in the investigation.’ Bellman saw the disappointment on their faces and heard scattered groans. ‘We are here in order to fulfil the desire you expressed to be kept informed. I apologise if you had more important things planned for today.’
Bellman gave a wry smile, heard a few journalists laugh and knew that he had already been forgiven.
Mikael Bellman gave them the gist of where the investigation stood. That is, he repeated their success stories, such as the rope being traced to a building by Lake Lyseren, finding another victim, Adele Vetlesen, and identifying the murder weapon used in two of the murders: a socalled Leopold’s apple. Old news. He saw one of the journalists stifle a yawn. Mikael Bellman looked down at the papers in front of him. At the script. Because that was what it was, a script for a bit of theatre, each and every word written down, weighed carefully, gone over. Not too much, not too little; the bait should smell, but it shouldn’t stink.
‘Finally, something about the witnesses,’ he began and the press corps sat up in their chairs. ‘As you know, we have asked anyone who was at the Havass cabin on the same night as the murder victims to come forward. And one person by the name of Iska Peller has come forward. She is arriving by plane from Sydney tonight, and she will proceed to the cabin with one of our detectives tomorrow. We will try to reconstruct the crime scene as faithfully as possible.’
Normally, they would never have mentioned the name of the witness, but it was important here that the man they were addressing – the murderer – would understand that they had indeed found someone from the guest book. Bellman had not laid special emphasis on the word ‘one’ when he mentioned the detective, but that was the message. There would be just two people, the witness and an ordinary detective. In a cabin. Far from habitation.
‘We hope of course that Miss Peller will be able to give us a description of the other guests present that night.’
They had had a long discussion about the wording. They wanted to sow the seed that the witness could bring down the murderer. At the same time Harry thought it important that they didn’t arouse too much suspicion with the witness being accompanied by only one detective, and that the pithy introduction ‘Finally, something about the witnesses’ and the downplayed ‘we hope of course’ signalled that the police did not consider this an important witness who would therefore require highlevel protection. They hoped the killer would be of a different opinion.
‘What do you think she may have seen? And can you spell the witness’s name?’
This was the Rogaland journalist. Ninni leaned forward to remind them that questions would be at the end, but Mikael shook his head.
‘We’ll have to see what she remembers when she gets to the cabin,’ Bellman said, stretching towards the microphone labelled NRK. The state channel. Nationwide. ‘She will be going up there with one of our most experienced detectives and will be there for twenty-four hours.’
He looked at Harry Hole standing at the back, saw him give a slow nod. He had driven the point home. Twenty-four hours. The bait was prepared and the trap set. Bellman let his gaze wander further. It found the Pelican. She had been the only one to protest, to consider it scandalous that they were deliberately setting out to mislead the press. He had asked the group to take five and had talked to her privately. Afterwards she had concurred with the majority view. Ninni opened the floor for questions. The assembly came to life, but Mikael Bellman relaxed and made ready to give vague answers, glib formulations and the ever-useful ‘I’m afraid we can’t go into that at this phase of the investigation’.
His legs were freezing, so frozen that they were completely numb. How could that be? When the rest of his body was burning? He had screamed so loud he had no voice left; his throat was dry, dried out, riven asunder, an open wound with blood singed to red dust. There was a smell of burnt hair and flesh. The stove had seared through his flannel shirt into his back and as he screamed and screamed they fused. He melted as if he were a tin soldier. Feeling that the pain and the heat had begun to eat into his consciousness and that he was finally slipping into oblivion, he awoke with a start. The man had poured a bucket of cold water over him. The sudden relief had caused him to cry again. Then he heard the hiss of boiling water between his back and the stove and the pain returned with renewed vigour.
‘More water?’
He looked up. The man stood over him with another bucket. The mist before his eyes cleared, and for a couple of seconds he saw him with total clarity. The light from the flames through the holes in the stove flickered on his face, making the beads of sweat on his forehead glisten.
