Phantom

  Harry groaned and struggled to his feet as he recalled what exactly had happened. Balder had sailed across the chasm and landed on the ground with his front legs, Harry had been thrown forward, banging into Balder’s neck, losing the stirrups and sliding down one side while holding on tightly to the reins. He vaguely remembered dragging Balder with him, but kicked out at him so as not to have half a ton of horse on top of him.

  His back felt as if it was out, but otherwise he seemed to be in one piece.

  “Grandfather’s nag didn’t jump over canyons,” Harry said.

  “Canyons?” Isabelle Skøyen laughed, passing him Balder’s reins. “That’s no more than a little fifteen-foot crevice. I can jump farther without a horse. Didn’t know you were the jittery type, Harry. First back to the farm?”

  “Balder,” Harry said, patting the horse’s muzzle as they watched Isabelle Skøyen and Medusa racing down toward the open field, “are you familiar with the equine gait ‘an amble’?”

  HARRY STOPPED AT a gas station on the E6 and bought a coffee. He got back into the car and looked in the mirror. Isabelle had given him a bandage for the cut on his forehead, the opportunity to join her at the premiere of Don Giovanni at the Opera House (“Impossible to find a date taller than my chin when I wear heels … looks bad in the newspapers …”) and a firm departing hug. Harry took out his cell and picked up the message.

  “Where have you been?” Beate asked.

  “Doing a little fieldwork,” Harry said.

  “There wasn’t much to help us at the crime scene in Gardermoen. My people have scoured the place. Nada. The only thing we found out is that the nails are a standard steel variety, with extra-large sixteen-millimeter aluminum heads, and that the brick probably comes from a property in Oslo built at the end of the 1800s.”

  “Oh?”

  “We found pigs’ blood and horsehair in the mortar. There was a well-known Oslo bricklayer who used to mix it in—there’s loads of it in the downtown apartment buildings. You can make mortar with anything.”

  “Mm.”

  “So, no lead there, either.”

  “Either?”

  “Yes, that visit you were talking about. It must have been to somewhere else, not Police HQ, because no Tord Schultz has been registered.”

  “OK. Thank you.”

  Harry searched his pockets until he found what he was after. Tord Schultz’s visitor’s pass. And his, the one he’d been given when he visited Hagen at Crime Squad on the first day in Oslo. He placed them beside each other on the dashboard. Studied them. Drew his conclusions and stuffed them back in his pocket. Turned the ignition key, breathed in through his nostrils, confirmed he could still smell horse and decided to visit an old rival at Høyenhall.

  It had started to rain at about five, and, an hour later, when Harry rang the bell of the large house in Høyenhall, it was as dark as a Christmas night. The house bore all the signs of being newly built; there were still the remains of building materials stacked beside the garage, and under the steps he saw paint pots and insulation packaging.

  Harry saw a figure move behind the decorative beveled glass and felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck.

  Then the door opened, quick, fierce, the movements of a man who has nothing to fear from anyone. Nevertheless, he stiffened when he saw Harry.

  “Evening, Bellman,” Harry said.

  “Harry Hole. Well, I must say.”

  “Say what?”

  Bellman chuckled. “It’s a surprise to see you here at my door. How did you find out where I live?”

  “Everyone knows the monkey, but the monkey knows no one. In most other countries the head of organized crime would have a bodyguard—did you know that? Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Not at all,” Bellman said, scratching his chin. “I’m wondering whether to invite you in or not.”

  “Well,” Harry said, “it’s wet out here. And I come in peace.”

  “You don’t know what the word means,” Bellman said, pulling back the door. “Wipe your feet.”

  Mikael Bellman led Harry through the hall, past the tower of cardboard boxes, a kitchen in which there were as yet no appliances, and into a living room. Not luxurious in the way he had seen some houses in west Oslo, but solid and spacious enough for a family. The view of Kværnerdalen, Oslo Central Station and downtown was fantastic. Harry noticed that.

  “The land cost nearly as much as the house,” Bellman said. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. We’ve just moved in. We’re having a housewarming party next Saturday.”

  “And you forgot to ask me?” Harry said, taking off his wet jacket.

  Bellman smiled. “I can offer you a drink now. What about—”

  “I don’t drink.” Harry smiled back.

  “Oh, damn,” Bellman said without any sign of remorse, “one forgets so quickly. See if you can find a chair somewhere, and I’ll see if I can find a coffeepot and two cups.”

  Ten minutes later they were sitting by the windows overlooking the terrace and the view. Harry got straight down to business. Mikael Bellman listened without interrupting, even when Harry could see disbelief in his eyes. When Harry had finished Bellman summed up.

  “So you think that the pilot, Tord Schultz, was trying to smuggle violin out of the country. He was arrested, but released after a burner carrying police ID had exchanged the violin for potato flour. And that Schultz was executed in his home after release, probably because his employer had discovered that he’d visited the police and was scared he would tell what he knew.”

  “Mm.”

  “And you support your claim that he had been to Police HQ with the fact that he had a visitor’s pass with ‘Oslo Police District’ written on it?”

  “I compared it with the pass I got when I visited Hagen. The print on the bar of the H is faint on both. Definitely the same printer.”

  “I won’t ask you how you got hold of Schultz’s visitor’s pass, but how can you be so certain that this was not a normal visit? Maybe he wanted to explain the potato flour, make sure we believed him.”

  “Because his name has been deleted from the visitors’ book. It was important that this visit was kept secret.”

  Mikael Bellman sighed. “It’s what I’ve always thought, Harry. We should have worked with each other, not against each other. You would have liked Kripos.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Before I say anything else, I have a favor to ask you. Please keep quiet about what I’m going to tell you.”

  “OK.”

  “This case has already put me in an embarrassing situation. It was me Schultz visited. And—you’re right—he did want to tell me what he knew. Among other things, he told me what I had long suspected: that we have a burner among us. Someone, I believe, who works at HQ, close to Orgkrim cases. I told him to wait at home while I spoke to my superior. I had to tread warily so as not to alarm the burner. But caution often means things move slowly. I spoke to the retiring Chief of Police, but he left it to me to find a way to tackle this.”

  “Why?”

  “As I said, he is retiring. He has no wish to have a case involving a corrupt police officer as a parting gift.”

  “So he wanted to keep it under wraps until he was gone?”

  Bellman stared into his coffee cup. “It’s very likely that I will be the new Chief of Police, Harry.”

  “You?”

  “And I might as well kick off with a shit case, he probably thought. The problem is I was too slow on the trigger. I racked my brains. We could have got Schultz to reveal the burner’s identity right away. But then all the others would have gone into hiding. I thought, What if we put a wire on Schultz, make him lead us to the others we’re after first? Who knows—perhaps all the way to the present Mr. Big in Oslo.”

  “Dubai.”

  Bellman nodded. “The problem was: Who could I trust at HQ and who couldn’t I? I had just hand-picked a small group of officers, checked them out thorough
ly, then news came in of an anonymous tip—”

  “Tord Schultz had been found dead,” Harry said.

  Bellman eyed him sharply.

  “And now,” Harry said, “your problem is that if it gets out you’ve slipped up that could put a spoke in your appointment as Chief of Police.”

  “Well, there is that,” Bellman said. “But that’s not what worries me most. The problem is that nothing of what Schultz told me can be used. We’re no further than before. This alleged policeman who visited Schultz in his cell and may have exchanged the dope—”

  “Yes?”

  “He identified himself as a policeman. The inspector at Gardermoen appears to remember his name was Thomas something or other. We have five Thomases at Police HQ. None of them at Orgkrim, by the way. I sent over the photos of our Thomases, but he didn’t recognize any of them. So, for all we know, the burner may not even be in the police.”

  “Mm. So a person with false police ID. Or, more likely, someone like me, an ex-policeman.”

  “Why?”

  Harry shrugged. “It takes a policeman to trick a policeman.”

  The front door clicked.

  “Darling!” Bellman called. “We’re in here.”

  The lounge door opened, and the sweet, suntanned face of a woman in her thirties appeared. Her blond hair was tied up in a ponytail, and Harry was reminded of Tiger Woods’s ex-wife.

  “I’ve dropped the kids off at Mom’s. Are you coming, honeybunch?”

  Bellman coughed. “We have a visitor.”

  She tilted her head. “I can see that, honey.”

  Bellman looked at Harry with a resigned what-can-you-do? expression.

  “Hi,” she said, and sent Harry a teasing look. “Dad and I have another load on the trailer. Feel like …?”

  “Bad back and a sudden longing for home,” Harry mumbled, draining his coffee cup and jumping to his feet.

  “One more thing,” Harry said as he and Bellman stood outside on the porch. “The visit I told you about, to the Radiumhospitalet?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a man there, a scientist. Martin Pran. Just a gut instinct, but I wonder if you could check him out for me.”

  “For you?”

  “Sorry—old habit. For the police. For the country. For humanity.”

  “Gut instinct?”

  “By and large that’s all I have to offer as far as this case is concerned. If you could let me know what you find …”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Thank you, Mikael.” Harry could feel how strange the man’s Christian name felt on his tongue. Wondered if he’d ever said it before. Mikael opened the door to the rainy weather, and cold air gusted in.

  “Sorry to hear about the boy,” Bellman said.

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  “Mm.”

  “Know what? I met Gusto Hanssen once. He came here.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. A stunningly attractive boy. The kind …” Bellman searched for the words. Gave up. “Were you in love with Elvis when you were a boy? Man crush, as the Americans say.”

  “Well,” Harry said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “No.”

  He could have sworn he saw a flicker of red in Mikael Bellman’s white pigment stains.

  “The boy had that kind of face. And charisma.”

  “What did he want here?”

  “To talk to a policeman. I had a gang of colleagues helping out. When you only have a police salary you have to do most things yourself, you know.”

  “Who did he talk to?”

  “Who?” Bellman looked at Harry, although his eyes were fixed elsewhere, on something he had seen. “I don’t remember. These dopeheads are always ready to snitch on somebody if it’ll give them a thousand kroner for a shot. Good night, Harry.”

  HARRY WAS WALKING through Kvadraturen. A camper van stopped up the street by a black prostitute. The door opened and three boys—they couldn’t have been older than twenty—jumped out. One filmed while a second turned to the woman. She shook her head. Probably didn’t want to do a gang-bang film that would go on YouPorn. They had Internet where she came from as well. Family, relatives. Maybe they thought the money she sent home was from her waitressing job. Or maybe they didn’t, and preferred not to ask. As Harry went closer one of the boys spat on the pavement in front of her and said in a shrill, drunken voice: “Cheap nigger ass.”

  Harry met the black woman’s tired gaze. They nodded as if they both saw something they recognized. The two other boys noticed Harry and straightened up. Big, well-fed boys. Apple cheeks, biceps from a gym, maybe had done a year’s kickboxing or karate.

  “Good evening, kind folk.” Harry smiled without slowing his pace.

  Then he was past and heard the camper door slam and the engine rev up.

  It was the same tune that always rang out. “Come as You Are.” The invitation.

  Harry slowed his pace. For a moment.

  Then he increased it again, walked on without a backward glance.

  HARRY WAS WOKEN the next morning by the ringing of his cell phone. He sat up, squinted into the light from the curtainless window, stretched out his arm for the jacket hanging over the chair, rummaged through the pockets until he found the phone.

  “Speak.”

  “It’s Rakel.” She was breathless with excitement. “They’ve released Oleg. He’s free, Harry!”

  Harry stood in the middle of the hotel room, bathed in the morning light. Apart from the phone covering his right ear he was naked. In the room across the yard the woman sat watching him with sleepy eyes, her head angled as she slowly chewed a slice of bread.

  “Hans Christian wasn’t told until he turned up at work fifteen minutes ago,” Rakel said. “They released Oleg late yesterday afternoon. Someone else has confessed to the murder of Gusto Hanssen. Isn’t that fantastic, Harry?”

  Yes, indeed, thought Harry. It was fantastic. As in unbelievable.

  “Who confessed?”

  “Someone named Chris Reddy, alias Adidas. He’s a junkie. He shot Gusto because he owed him money for amphetamines.”

  “Where’s Oleg now?”

  “We don’t know. We’ve only just been told.”

  “Think, Rakel! Where could he be?” Harry’s voice sounded sterner than he had meant.

  “What … what’s the matter?”

  “The confession. The confession’s the matter, Rakel.”

  “What about it?”

  “Don’t you understand? The confession’s a fabrication!”

  “No, no, no. Hans Christian says it’s detailed and extremely credible. That’s why they’ve already released Oleg.”

  “This Adidas says he shot Gusto because he was owed money. So he’s an ice-cold, cynical murderer. Who suffers pangs of conscience and simply has to confess?”

  “But when he saw the wrong person was about to be convicted for—”

  “Forget it! A desperate drug addict has one thing in his head: getting high. There isn’t any room for a conscience, believe me. This Adidas is so desperate that, for suitable compensation, he’s more than willing to confess to a murder and then withdraw his confession later, after the main suspect has been released. Don’t you see the plot here? If the cat knows it can’t get close to the caged bird …”

  “Stop!” Rakel screamed, in tears now.

  But Harry didn’t stop. “… the bird has to come out of the cage.”

  He heard her crying. Knew that he had probably put into words what she had half-considered herself.

  “Can’t you say something to reassure me, Harry?” He didn’t answer.

  “I don’t want to be frightened anymore,” she whispered.

  Harry took a deep breath. “We’ve managed before, and we’ll manage again, Rakel.”

  He hung up. And it struck him again. He had become a brilliant liar.

  The woman in the window on the other side waved lazily to him with three fingers.
>
  Harry ran a hand over his face.

  Now it was just a question of who found Oleg first, Harry or them.

  Think.

  Oleg had been released yesterday afternoon, somewhere in Østland. A drug addict with a craving for violin. He would have made a beeline for Oslo, Plata, if he didn’t have reserves stashed away. He wouldn’t be able to get into Hausmanns Gate; the crime scene was still sealed off. So where would he sleep, with no money, no friends? Urtegata? No, Oleg knew he would be seen there, and rumors would fly.

  There was only one place Oleg could be.

  Harry glanced at his watch. It was vital he got there before the bird had flown.

  THE STADIUM WAS as deserted as the last time he was at Valle Hovin. The first thing Harry saw as he rounded the corner to the dressing-room area was that one of the panes at street level had been smashed. He peered in. Glass was scattered across the floor. So he strode to the door, unlocked it with the key he still had and entered.

  And was struck by a freight train.

  Harry gasped for air as he lay floundering on the floor with something on top of him. Something stinking, wet and desperate. Harry twisted away, tried to get out of the grip. He resisted his reflex action to hit out; instead he grabbed an arm, a hand, bent it backward. Struggled to his knees while using this grip to force the assailant’s face to the ground.

  “Ow. Shit! Let go!”

  “It’s me. It’s Harry, Oleg.”

  He let go and helped Oleg up, dropped him onto the dressing-room bench.

  The boy looked dreadful. Pale. Thin. Bulging eyes. And he stank of an indefinable mixture of dental surgery and excrement. But he wasn’t high.

  “I thought …” Oleg said.

  “You thought I was them.”

  Oleg covered his face with his hands.

  “Come on,” Harry said. “Let’s go outside.”

  They sat in the stands. Sat with the pale light shining on the cracked concrete deck. Harry thought of all the times he had sat there watching Oleg skate, hearing the steel blades singing before they bit into the ice again, the floodlights’ reflections on the sea-green and eventually milky-white surface.

  They sat close, as if there were a crush in the stands.