which was completely shattered as the projectile bored right on through his skull and blasted out a crater the size of a turnip at the back of his head. Red and grey spurted over the little crocheted antimacassar on the chair, and splattered onto the wall behind it.
The man with the gun adjusted the tight rubber glove on his right hand, walked over to the door, and left.
THURSDAY 1 OCTOBER
The murder of Hans E. Olsen was given wide coverage in the newspapers. He had never reached the front pages while he lived, despite repeated ill-humoured attempts. In death he was the subject of reports on no fewer than the first six pages. He would have been proud of himself. His colleagues had shown their respect, even though most of them considered him to be a little shit, and the papers painted a portrait of a highly esteemed gentleman of the bar. Several found reason to criticise the police, once again utterly devoid of leads in a serious murder case. Though most seemed to agree that the lawyer had been removed by a dissatisfied client. With his fairly limited caseload, the hunt for the killer ought to be short and simple.
Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen didn’t subscribe to that theory. She felt the need to air a few half- formulated thoughts with Hakon Sand.
They’d found themselves a place right at the back of the canteen, in seats by the window, with magnificent views over the poorer districts of Oslo. They both had cups of coffee, which both had spilt in their saucers. Their cups dripped as they drank. Between them was an open pack of chocolate caramels.
Hanne spoke first.
“To be honest, Hakon, I think these two murders are linked in some way.”
She looked at him expectantly, unsure how her hunch would be received. Hakon dipped a chocolate in his coffee, put it in his mouth, and licked his fingers thoroughly. They didn’t look particularly clean. He returned her gaze.
“There’s not a single common element,” he said somewhat morosely. “Different weapon, different method, different location, completely different characters, and a different time. You’ll have problems convincing anyone!”
“But just listen-don’t get too fixated on the differences. Let’s see what similarities there might be.”
She was very excited, and counted off the points eagerly on her fingers.
“First of all, there was a gap of only five days between the murders.”
She ignored Hakon’s sardonic smirk and raised eyebrows.
“Secondly, we have no explanation at the moment for either of them. Admittedly we’ve identified the man by the River Aker: Ludvig Sandersen, drug addict for years and a conviction record as long as your arm. He was released six weeks ago after his last sentence. But do you know who his lawyer was?”
“Since you ask in that triumphant tone, I’ll guess at our deceased friend Olsen.”
“Bingo!
Hakon had eaten most of the chocolate at breakneck speed, and Hanne had only managed to get a couple of pieces. Now she was shaping the gold foil into the form of a little bird while she awaited his response.
Suddenly they both started talking simultaneously, breaking off with a chuckle.
“After you,” said Hakon.
“There’s another thing.” Her voice now was lower still, even though the canteen was almost deserted and their nearest neighbour several tables away. “I’m not going to commit any of this to paper. I’m not going to mention it to anyone at all. Only to you.”
She made a gesture of putting her fingers in her ears, then leant towards him over the table.
“I had a guy in for questioning a short while ago about a rape. We brought him in purely on spec, because he’s got a record that costs him a visit here whenever we have an unsolved sex case. We quickly eliminated him from the enquiry, but he was extremely nervous about something. I didn’t pay much attention to it then-they’re always up to one thing or another. But this bloke was really frightened. Before he’d actually sussed out what we wanted him for, he let out a few thinly veiled hints about a deal. He said he’d heard on the grapevine that there was a lawyer behind some of the large-scale drug dealing, though I can’t remember his exact words anymore. You know what these people are like, they’re ready to tell lies even faster than they commit felonies, and they’ll try anything to get themselves out of a tight spot. So I didn’t attach much importance to it at the time.”
Hanne was really whispering now. Hakon had to lean across the table and put his head on one side to catch what she was saying. To anyone passing by they could have been lovers exchanging intimacies.
“I woke up in the night because I couldn’t get him out of my mind,” she said. “The first thing I did this morning was to dig out the old rape case file and check his name. Guess who his lawyer was.”
“Olsen.”
“Precisely.”
They both sat staring out over the hazy vista of the city. Hakon Sand took some deep breaths and sucked in air reflectively between his front teeth. Though realising it sounded unpleasant, he soon stopped.
“What have we actually got?” he said, and took out a blank sheet of A4 paper. He numbered down the page.
“We have a dead drug addict. The self-confessed murderer under arrest refuses to give motive.”
His pen scratched away on the paper, piercing the surface in his eagerness.
“It was such a thorough job that he wouldn’t have survived even if he’d had nine lives. Then we have a dead lawyer, killed in a rather more sophisticated manner. We know that the two murdered men were acquainted. They had an appointment for a meeting on the very day that one of them bought it. What else do we have?”
He went on without waiting for an answer. “Some vague and highly unreliable rumours about an unknown lawyer’s drug dealing. The rumour-monger’s lawyer was our dear departed Olsen.”
Hanne Wilhelmsen noticed that Hakon’s chin was twitching at the side of his mouth, like a muscle spasm.
“I think you’re onto something, Hanne. I think maybe we’re onto something big. But what’s the next step?”
For the first time in the conversation Hanne leant back in her chair. She drummed her fingers on the table.
“We keep everything under wraps,” she declared. “This is the faintest scent I’ve ever had to base a serious investigation on. I’ll keep you posted. Okay?”
The hit squad were the black sheep and also the great pride of the force. Usually in jeans, and in many cases long-haired or unkempt, these officers never felt bound by any dress code once they joined the squad. Nor did they need to. But at times they flouted other more sacrosanct rules and regulations, and were not infrequently carpeted by the head of personnel or even by the commissioner. They would agree to everything and promise to improve, but held up two fingers as soon as they were out of the door. Over the years some had gone too far and had been transferred to the most excruciatingly boring office duties, if only temporarily. Because actually the police loved their denim-clad brethren. The hit squad were effective, industrious, and were subjected to constant visits by colleagues in Denmark and Sweden, who came to police headquarters with only vague concepts and left prostrate with admiration.
Just the previous week, during a visit by a group from the Stockholm police, a Swedish TV crew came out with them one night. The boys took the TV people to an address they knew they could bank on, a prostitute who always had a few grams of some substance or other lying around. It was easy to break down the door, because there wasn’t much of the frame left after an earlier visit. They stormed into the darkened room with a cameraman in tow. On the floor was a middle-aged man in a bright red low-cut dress with a dog’s collar round his neck. As soon as he saw the uninvited guests he burst into paroxysms of tears. The police tried to console him and assure him that it
