'And the money?'
'Josef insists on paying me back. Not because he wants redress. What happened happened, and he will never earn enough money to pay me back living where he is. But I think he feels the penance does him good. And why should I deny him that?'
Harry nodded slowly. 'Did Robert and Jon know about this?'
'I don't know,' Eckhoff said. 'I've never mentioned it. The one thing I've been at pains to ensure is that whatever their father did does not stand in the way of his sons' careers in the Army. Above all Jon's. He has become one of our most important professional resources. Take this property sale, for instance. First of all, in Jacob Aalls gate, but others, too, in time. Gilstrup may even buy back Østgård. If this sale had taken place ten years ago, we would have had to employ all sorts of advisers to accomplish it. But with people like Jon we have the skills in our own ranks.'
'Do you mean Jon has steered the sale through?'
'No, not at all, the sale was approved at board level. But without his spadework and persuasive conclusions I really don't believe we would have dared to do it. Jon is a man of the future for us. Not to say a man of the present. And the best proof that his father has not stood in his way is that he and Thea Nilsen will be sitting on the other side of the Prime Minister in the VIP box tonight.' Eckhoff frowned. 'By the way, I tried to get hold of Jon today, but he's not answering his phone. You haven't spoken to him by any chance?'
'I'm afraid not. Suppose Jon weren't there . . .'
'Pardon?'
'Suppose Jon had been killed – as the gunman had intended – who would take his place?'
David Eckhoff raised not one but both eyebrows. 'Tonight?'
'I was thinking more of the post.'
'Oh, I see. Well, I won't be giving away any secrets if I say it would be Rikard Nilsen.' He chuckled. 'People have been muttering about parallels between Jon and Rikard and Josef and me all those years ago.'
'The same competition?'
'Wherever you find people you will find competition. Also in the Salvation Army. We have to hope that on the whole trials of strength place people where they do the best for themselves and serve the common cause. Well, well.' The commander pulled up the fishing line. 'I hope that's answered your question, Harry. Frank Nilsen can confirm the story about Josef for you, if you wish, but I hope you understand why I would not like it to get out.'
'I have one last question while we're into Salvation Army secrets.'
'Come on then,' the commander said, impatient now and packing his fishing tackle into a bag.
'Do you know anything about a rape which took place at Østgård twelve years ago?'
Harry went on the assumption that a face like Eckhoff 's was limited in its ability to express surprise. And since this limit appeared to have been exceeded, he considered it fairly certain that his question was news to the commander.
'That must be erroneous, Inspector. If not, it would be terrible. Who was involved?'
Harry hoped his face would not give anything away. 'Professional vow of silence prevents me from saying.'
Eckhoff scratched his chin with the mitten. 'Of course. But . . . hasn't this crime passed its sell-by date?'
'Depends on how you look at it,' Harry said, scanning the shore. 'Shall we go?'
'Perhaps it's best if we return separately. The weight . . .'
Harry swallowed and nodded.
On reaching the beach without a soaking, Harry turned round. The wind had risen and snow was drifting across the ice making it look like a flying smokescreen. Eckhoff seemed to be walking on clouds.
In the car park, the windows of Harry's car were already covered with a fine layer of white frost. He got in, started the engine and put the heating on full blast. The hot air streamed up against the cold glass. While waiting for the windscreen to clear he was reminded of something Skarre had said. Mads Gilstrup had called Halvorsen. He took out the business card he still had in his pocket and dialled the number. No answer. As he was putting the phone back in his pocket it rang. He saw from the number that it was Hotel International.
'How are you?' the woman said in her clipped English.
'So-so,' Harry said. 'Did you get . . . ?'
'Yes, I did.'
Harry took a deep breath. 'Was it him?'
'Yes,' she sighed. 'It was him.'
'Are you absolutely sure? I mean, it's not so easy to identify someone from just—'
'Harry?'
'Yes?'
'I'm quite sure.'
Harry had an inkling that this English teacher had mastered stress and intonation to such an extent that she meant what she said. She was absolutely sure.
'Thank you,' he said and hung up. Hoping with all his heart that she was right. For it would all start now.
And it did.
As Harry activated the windscreen wipers and they pushed the melting frost crystals to both sides, his mobile rang for the second time.
'Harry Hole.'
'This is fru Miholjec. Sofia's mother. You said I could call this number if . . .'
'Yes?'
'Something has happened. To Sofia.'
30
Monday, 22 December. The Silence.
THE SHORTEST DAY OF THE YEAR.
It was on the front page of the Aftenposten lying on the table in front of Harry in the doctor's waiting room in Storgata. He checked the clock on the wall. Then realised he had a watch of his own.
'He'll see you now, herr Hole,' called a woman's voice from the hatchway where he had explained that he wanted to speak to the doctor who had seen Sofia Miholjec and her father a few hours ago.
'Third door on the right down the corridor,' the woman called out.
Harry jumped up and left behind him the silent, drooping band of people in the waiting room.
Third door on the right. Of course, chance might have sent Sofia to the second door on the left. Or the third door on the left. But no, third door on the right.
'Hi, I heard it was you,' smiled Mathias Lund-Helgesen, standing up to proffer his hand. 'What can I help you with this time?'
'It's about a patient you saw this morning. Sofia Miholjec.'
'Really? Take a seat, Harry.'
Harry did not allow himself to be irritated by the other man's friendly tone, but this was an invitation he was reluctant to accept. Not because he was too proud but because it was going to be embarrassing for them both.
'Sofia's mother called me to say she had been woken up this morning by Sofia crying in her room,' Harry said. 'She went in and found her daughter bruised and bleeding. Sofia said she had been out with friends and had slipped on the ice on the way home. The mother woke the father and he brought her here.'
'It may be true,' Mathias said. He had leaned forward on his elbows as if to show how much this interested him.
'However, the mother maintains she's lying,' Harry went on. 'She checked the bed after Sofia and her father had gone. And there was blood not only on the pillow, but also on the sheet. "Down there" as she put it.'
'Mm-hm.' The sound Mathias made was neither support nor denial, but a sound which Harry knew for a fact they rehearsed in the therapy unit of the psychology department. Rising intonation on the final syllable was meant to encourage patients to continue. Mathias's intonation had gone up.
'Sofia has locked herself in her room now,' Harry said. 'She's crying and refuses to say a word. And according to her mother she won't, either. The mother has called Sofia's girlfriends. Not one of them saw her yesterday.'
'I see.' Mathias pinched the bridge of his nose. 'And now you're asking me to ignore patient confidentiality for you?'
'No,' said Harry.
'No?'
'Not for me. For them. For Sofia and her parents. And for others he may have raped and will rape.'
'Those are strong words.' Mathias smiled, but the smile faded with the silence. He coughed. 'You understand, I'm sure, that I have to mull this over first, Harry.'
'Was she raped last n
ight or not?'
Mathias sighed. 'Harry, patient confidentiality is—'
'I know what confidentiality is,' Harry interrupted. 'I'm subject to it as well. When I ask you to make an exception in this case it's not because I take patient confidentiality lightly, but because I have made an assessment of the brutal nature of this crime and the potential danger of its recurrence. If you would trust me and rely on my assessment I would be grateful. If you don't you will have to try and live with it as best you can.'
Harry wondered how many times he had given this spiel in similar situations.
Mathias blinked and his face fell.
'It's good enough if you nod or shake your head,' Harry said.
Mathias Lund-Helgesen nodded.
It had done the trick again.
'Thank you,' Harry said, getting up. 'Things going well with Rakel and you and Oleg?'
Lund-Helgesen nodded again with a wan smile. Harry leaned forward and placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. 'Happy Christmas, Mathias.'
The last thing Harry saw as he went out of the door was Mathias Lund-Helgesen sitting in the chair with slumped shoulders, looking as though someone had given him a slap.
The last daylight leaked out between orange clouds over the spruce trees and housetops to the west of Norway's largest cemetery. Harry walked past the stone monument for Yugoslavia's war dead, the Norwegian Labour Party's plot, the gravestones for Prime Ministers Einar Gerhardsen and Trygve Bratteli to the Salvation Army's own plot. As expected, he found Sofia by the freshest grave. She was sitting erect in the snow wrapped up in a large Puffa jacket.
'Hi,' said Harry, settling down beside her.
He lit a cigarette and exhaled into the icy breeze, which carried the blue smoke away.
'Your mother said you'd just left,' Harry said. 'And you took the flowers your father had bought you. It wasn't hard to guess.'
Sofia didn't answer.
'Robert was a good friend, wasn't he? Someone you could rely on. And talk to. Not a rapist.'
'Robert was the one who did it,' she whispered lethargically.
'Your flowers are on Robert's grave, Sofia. I believe someone else raped you. And he did it again last night. And he may have done it several times.'
'Leave me in peace!' she screamed and struggled to her feet in the snow. 'Don't you lot listen?'
Harry held his cigarette in one hand, grabbed her arm with the other and pulled her down hard into the snow.
'This one's dead, Sofia. You're alive. Do you hear me? You're alive. And if you intend to continue living we'd better catch him now. If not, he'll carry on. You weren't the first and you won't be the last. Look at me. Look at me, I'm telling you!'
His sudden shout startled Sofia and she obeyed.
'I know you're scared, Sofia. But I promise you I'll get him. Whatever happens. I swear.'
Harry saw something stir in her eyes. And if he was right, it was hope. He waited. And then she breathed something inaudible.
'What did you say?' Harry asked, leaning forwards.
'Who will believe me?' she whispered. 'Who will believe me now . . . that Robert is dead?'
Harry placed a careful hand on her shoulders. 'Try. Then we'll see.'
The orange clouds had begun to turn red.
'He threatened to destroy everything for us if I didn't do as he ordered,' she said. 'He would make sure we were thrown out of the flat and would have to go back. But we have nothing to go back to. And if I had told them, who would have believed me? Who . . . ?'
She paused.
'Except for Robert,' Harry said. Waiting.
Harry found the address on Mads Gilstrup's business card. He wanted to pay him a call. And, first of all, ask him why he had rung Halvorsen. From the address he saw he would have to drive past Rakel and Oleg who also lived on the Holmenkollen ridge.
As he passed he didn't slow down, but he did glance up the drive. The last time he drove past he had seen a Jeep Cherokee outside the garage and had assumed it was the doctor's. Now there was only Rakel's car. The window in Oleg's room was lit.
Harry drove up through the hairpin bends between the most expensive houses in Oslo until the road straightened and climbed further to a brow and past the capital's white obelisk, Holmenkollen ski jump. Beneath him lay the town and the fjord with a thin layer of icy mist floating between snow-covered islands. The short day that really consisted of just a sunrise and a sunset blinked, and down there lights were already being switched on, like Advent candles in the countdown to Christmas.
He had almost all the pieces of the jigsaw now.
After ringing Gilstrup's door bell four times without any success Harry gave up. On his way back to the car a man jogged over from a neighbouring house and asked Harry if he was a friend of Gilstrup's. Well, he didn't want to intrude into their private lives, but they had heard a loud bang inside the house this morning and Mads Gilstrup had lost his wife, hadn't he? Perhaps they ought to ring the police? Harry went back to the house, smashed the window beside the front door and an alarm went off.
While the alarm howled its two hoarse tones again and again Harry made his way to the lounge. For the benefit of the report he checked his watch and subtracted the two minutes Møller had wound it forward. 15.37.
Mads Gilstrup was naked and the back of his head was missing.
He lay on his side on the parquet floor in front of a lit screen and the rifle with the burgundy stock seemed to be growing out of his mouth. It had a long barrel and from what Harry could see Mads Gilstrup must have used his big toe to press the trigger. That not only required certain motor coordination skills but also a strong will to die.
Then the alarm stopped and Harry could hear the buzz of the projector which showed a quivering still of a bride and bridegroom in close-up on their way down the aisle. The faces, the white smile and the white dress were spattered with blood which had dried on the canvas in a grille pattern.
Stuffed under an empty bottle of cognac lay the suicide note. It was brief.
Forgive me, Father. Mads.
31
Monday, 22 December. The Resurrection.
HE REGARDED HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR. WHEN ONE DAY, maybe next year, they walked out of the little house in Vukovar in the morning, might this face be one the neighbours would greet with a smile and a zdravo? The way you greet familiar, safe faces. And good faces.
'Perfect,' said the woman behind him.
He assumed she meant the dinner suit he was parading in the mirror of the combined suit hire and dry cleaner's.
'How much?' he asked.
He paid her and promised the suit would be returned before twelve o'clock the next day.
Then he walked out into the grey gloom. He had found a café where he could have a coffee and the food wasn't too expensive. Now it was just a question of waiting. He looked at his watch.
The longest night had begun. Dusk was turning houses and fields grey as Harry drove from Holmenkollen, but well before he reached Grønland the gloom had invaded the parks.