Phantom

  I chucked the car keys into a yard and walked up to the apartment building.

  Found the name on the doorbell and rang.

  “It’s me,” I said when he eventually answered.

  “I’m a little busy,” said the voice on the intercom.

  “And I’m a drug addict,” I said. It was supposed to be a joke, but I felt the impact of the words. Oleg thought it was funny when, for a laugh, I occasionally asked customers whether maybe they were suffering from drug addiction and wanted some violin.

  “What do you want?” the voice asked.

  “I want some violin.”

  The customers’ line had become mine.

  Pause.

  “Don’t have any. Ran out. No base to make any more.”

  “Base?”

  “Levorphanol base. Do you want the formula as well?”

  I knew it was the truth, but he had to have some. Had to. I thought about it. I couldn’t go to the rehearsal room; they would be waiting for me. Oleg. Good old Oleg would let me in.

  “You’ve got two hours, Ibsen. If you don’t show up at Hausmanns Gate with four quarters I’ll go straight to the cops and tell them everything. There’s nothing for me to lose anymore. You got it? Ninety-two Hausmanns Gate. You go straight in and it’s on the third floor.”

  I tried to imagine his face. Terrified, sweating. The old perv.

  “Fine,” he said.

  That’s how you do it. You just have to make them understand the gravity of the situation.

  HARRY WAS SWALLOWING the rest of his coffee and staring into the street. Time to move on.

  On his way across Youngstorget to the kebab shops on Torggata he received a call.

  It was Klaus Torkildsen.

  “Good news,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “At the time in question Truls Berntsen’s phone was registered at four of the base stations in downtown Oslo, and that locates his position in the same area as Ninety-two Hausmanns Gate.”

  “How big is the area we’re talking about?”

  “Erm, a kind of hexagonal area with a diameter of half a mile.”

  “OK,” Harry said, absorbing the information. “What about the other guy?”

  “I couldn’t find anything in his name exactly, but he had a company phone registered at the Radiumhospitalet.”

  “And?”

  “And, as I said, it’s good news. That phone was in the same area at the same time.”

  “Mm.” Harry entered a door, walked past three occupied tables and stopped in front of a counter on which was displayed a selection of unnaturally bright kebabs. “Do you have his address?”

  Klaus Torkildsen read it out, and Harry jotted it down on a napkin.

  “Do you have another number for that address?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I was wondering if he had a wife or a partner.”

  Harry heard Torkildsen typing on a keyboard. Then came the answer: “No. No one else with that address.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So we have a deal? We’ll never speak again?”

  “Yes. Apart from one final thing: I want you to check Mikael Bellman. Who he’s spoken to over recent months, and where he was on the evening of July twelfth.”

  Loud laughter. “The head of Orgkrim? Forget it! I can hide or explain away a search for a lowly officer, but what you’re asking me to do would get me sacked on the spot.” More laughter, as if the idea were really a joke. “I expect you to keep your end of the bargain, Hole.”

  The line went dead.

  WHEN THE TAXI arrived at the address on the napkin a man was waiting outside.

  Harry stepped out and went over to him. “Ola Kvernberg, the caretaker?”

  The man nodded.

  “Inspector Hole. I called you.” He saw the caretaker steal a glance at the taxi, which was waiting. “We use taxis when there are no patrol cars.”

  Kvernberg examined the ID card the man held up in front of him. “I haven’t seen any signs of a break-in,” he said.

  “But someone called it in, so let’s check. You’ve got a master key, don’t you?”

  Kvernberg nodded and unlocked the main door while the policeman studied the names on the bells. “The witness maintained he’d seen someone climbing up the balconies and breaking into the third floor.”

  “Who called it in?” asked the caretaker on his way up.

  “Confidential matter, Kvernberg.”

  “You’ve got something on your trousers.”

  “Kebab sauce. I keep thinking about getting them cleaned. Can you unlock the door?”

  “The pharmacist’s?”

  “Oh, is that what he is?”

  “Works at the Radiumhospitalet. Shouldn’t we call him at work before we enter?”

  “I’d rather see if the burglar’s here so we can arrest him, if you don’t mind.”

  The caretaker mumbled an apology and hastened to unlock the door.

  Hole went into the flat.

  It was obvious that a bachelor was living here. But a tidy one. Classical CDs on their own CD shelf, in alphabetical order. Scientific journals about chemistry and pharmacy stacked in high but neat piles. On one bookshelf there was a framed photograph of two adults and a boy. Harry recognized the boy. He was stooping a little to one side with a sullen expression. He couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. The caretaker stood by the front door watching carefully, so for appearances’ sake Harry checked the balcony door before going from room to room. Opening drawers and cupboards. But there was nothing compromising on view.

  Suspiciously little, some colleagues would say.

  But Harry had seen it before; some people don’t have secrets. Not often, it’s fair to say, but it happened. He heard the caretaker shifting weight from foot to foot in the bedroom behind him.

  “No signs of a break-in or anything taken,” Harry said, walking past him toward the exit. “Maybe a false alarm.”

  “I see,” said the caretaker, locking up after them. “What would you have done if there had been a thief there? Taken him in the taxi?”

  “We’d have probably called for a patrol car.” Harry smiled, pulling up and examining the boots on the stand by the door. “Tell me, aren’t these two boots very different sizes?”

  Kvernberg rubbed his chin while scrutinizing Harry.

  “Yes, maybe. He’s got a clubfoot. May I have another look at your ID?”

  Harry passed his card to him.

  “The expiration date—”

  “The taxi’s waiting,” Harry said, snatching the card back and setting off down the stairs at a jog. “Thanks for your help, Kvernberg!”

  I went to Hausmanns Gate, and, of course, no one had fixed the locks, so I went straight up to the flat. Oleg wasn’t there. It was deserted. They were all out getting stressed. Gotta getta fix, gotta getta fix. A bunch of junkies living together, and the place looked like it. But there was nothing there, of course, just empty bottles, used syringes, bloodstained wads of cotton gauze and empty cigarette packs. Fricking burned earth. And it was while I was sitting on a filthy mattress and cursing that I saw the rat. When people describe rats they always say a huge rat. But rats aren’t huge. They’re pretty small. It’s just that their tails can be long. OK, if they feel threatened and stand up on two legs they look bigger than they are. But really, they’re poor bastards who get stressed just like us. Gotta getta fix.

  I heard a church bell ring. And I told myself that Ibsen would be showing up.

  He had to come. Shit, I felt so bad. I remembered how the junkies stood and waited when we went to work, so happy to see us it was moving. Trembling, their cash at the ready, reduced to begging. And now I was there myself. Sick with longing to hear Ibsen’s lame shuffle on the stairs, to see his idiotic mug.

  I had played my cards like an idiot. I wanted a shot, nothing else, and all I’d done was bring the whole pack of them down on me. The old man and his Cossacks. Truls Berntsen
with his drill and crazed eyes. Queen Isabelle and her fuck-buddy-in-chief.

  The rat scampered along the baseboard. Out of sheer desperation I checked under the carpets and mattresses. Under one mattress I found a picture and a piece of steel wire. The picture was a crumpled and faded passport photo of Irene, so I guessed this had to be Oleg’s mattress. But I couldn’t understand what the wire was for. Until it slowly dawned on me. And I felt my palms go sweaty and my heart beat faster. After all, I had taught Oleg how to make a stash.

  Hans Christian Simonsen, wriggling between tourists, made his way up the slope of the Italian white marble that made the Opera House look like a floating iceberg at the end of the fjord. When he was atop the roof he looked around and caught sight of Harry Hole sitting on a wall. He was on his own, as the tourists by and large went to the other side to enjoy the view of the fjord. But Harry was sitting and staring inward at the old, ugly parts of town.

  Hans Christian sat down beside him.

  “H.C.,” Harry said, without looking up from the brochure he was reading. “Did you know that this marble is called Carrara marble and that the Opera House cost every Norwegian more than two thousand kroner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know anything about Don Giovanni?”

  “Mozart. Two acts. An arrogant young rake who believes he is God’s gift to women and men cheats everyone and makes everyone hate himself. He thinks he is immortal, but in the end a mysterious statue comes and takes his life as they are both swallowed up by the earth.”

  “Mm. There’s the premiere of a new production in a couple of days. It says here that in the final scene the chorus sings, “Such is the end of the evil-doer: the death of a sinner always reflects his life.” Do you think that’s true, H.C.?”

  “I know it isn’t. Death, sad to say, is no more just than life is.”

  “Mm. Did you know a policeman was washed ashore here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything you don’t know?”

  “Who shot Gusto Hanssen?”

  “Oh, the mysterious statue,” Harry said, putting down the brochure. “Do you want to know who it is?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Not necessarily. The important thing to prove is who it isn’t, that it isn’t Oleg.”

  “Agreed,” said Hans Christian, studying Harry. “But hearing you say that doesn’t tally with what I’ve heard about the zealous Harry Hole.”

  “So perhaps people change after all.” Harry smiled quickly. “Did you check the progress of the investigation with your prosecutor pal?”

  “They haven’t gone public with your name yet, but it has been sent to all airports and border controls. Put it this way: Your passport’s not worth a lot.”

  “That’s the Mallorca trip up in smoke.”

  “You know you’re wanted, yet you meet at Oslo’s number-one tourist attraction?”

  “Tried-and-tested small-fry logic, Hans Christian. It’s safer in the shallow end.”

  “I thought you considered loneliness safer.”

  Harry took out his pack of cigarettes, shook and held it out. “Did Rakel tell you that?”

  Hans Christian nodded and took a cigarette.

  “How long have you two been together?” Harry asked with a grimace.

  “Awhile. Does it hurt?”

  “My throat? A little infection, maybe.” Harry lit Hans Christian’s cigarette. “You love her, don’t you?”

  The lawyer inhaled in a way that suggested to Harry that he had not smoked much since his student days.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Harry nodded.

  “But you were always there,” Hans Christian said, sucking on the cigarette. “In the shadows, in the closet, under the bed.”

  “Sounds like a monster,” Harry said.

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” Hans Christian said. “I tried to exorcise you, but I failed.”

  “You don’t need to smoke the whole cigarette, Hans Christian.”

  “Thank you.” The lawyer threw it away. “What do you want me to do this time?”

  “Burglary,” Harry said.

  THEY HEADED OUT right after the onset of darkness.

  Hans Christian picked up Harry from Bar Boca in Grünerløkka.

  “Nice car,” Harry said. “Family car.”

  “I had an elkhound,” Hans Christian said. “Hunting. Cabin. You know.”

  Harry nodded. “The good life.”

  “It was trampled to death by an elk. I consoled myself with the thought that it must be a good way for an elkhound to die. On the job, so to speak.”

  Harry nodded. They drove up to Ryen and snaked around the bends to east Oslo’s best scenic overlooks.

  “It’s right here,” Harry said, pointing to an unlit house. “Park at an angle so that the headlights are shining at the windows.”

  “Shall I …?”

  “No,” Harry said. “You wait here. Keep your phone on and call if anyone comes.”

  Harry took the crowbar with him and walked up the gravel path to the house. Autumn, sharp night air, the aroma of apples. He had a moment of déjà vu. He and Øystein creeping into a garden and Tresko on the lookout by the fence. And then suddenly out of the dark a figure came hobbling toward them wearing an Indian headdress and squealing like a pig.

  He rang.

  Waited.

  No one came.

  Nonetheless Harry had the feeling someone was at home.

  He slotted the crowbar inside the crack by the lock and carefully applied his weight. The door was old, with soft, damp wood and an old-fashioned lock. Then he used his other hand to insert his ID card on the inside of the crooked snap latch. Pressed harder. The lock burst open. Harry slid inside and closed the door behind him. Stood in the darkness holding his breath. Felt a thin thread on his hand, probably the remains of a spider’s web. There was a damp, abandoned smell. But also something else, something acrid. Illness, hospital. Diapers and medicine.

  Harry switched on his flashlight. Saw a bare coat rack. He continued into the house.

  The sitting room looked as if it had been dusted with powder; the colors seemed to have been sucked out of the walls and the furniture. The cone of light moved across the room. Harry’s heart stopped when it was reflected back from a pair of eyes. Then went on beating. A stuffed owl. As gray as the rest of the room.

  Harry ventured farther into the house and was able to confirm afterward that it was the same as the flat. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Until, that is, he reached the kitchen and discovered the two passports and the plane tickets on the table.

  Although the passport photo had to be almost ten years old Harry recognized the man from his visit to the Radiumhospitalet. Her passport was brand-new. In the photo she was almost unrecognizable, pale, hair hanging in lank strands. The tickets were to Bangkok, departure in ten days.

  Harry headed for the only door he had not looked behind. There was a key in the lock, and he opened it. He was met by the same smell he had noticed when he was in the hall. He flicked the switch inside the door, and a naked bulb lit the steps leading to the cellar. The feeling that someone was at home. Or, “Oh, yes, the gut instinct,” which Bellman had said with light irony when Harry had asked whether he had checked Martin Pran’s record. A feeling, Harry now knew, that had misled him.

  Harry wanted to go down, but something was holding him back. The cellar. Similar to the one he had grown up with. When his mother had asked him to fetch potatoes, which they kept in the dark in two big bags, Harry had raced down, trying not to think. Trying to imagine that he was running because it was so cold. Because they were in a hurry to prepare the meal. Because he liked running. It had nothing to do with the yellow man waiting down there; a naked, smiling man with a long tongue you could hear slithering in and out of his mouth. But that wasn’t what stopped him now. It was something else. The dream. The avalanche through the cellar corridor.

  Harry repressed the thoughts and set his f
oot on the first step. There was an admonitory creak. He forced himself to tread slowly. Still with the crowbar in his hand. At the bottom, he began to walk along between the storerooms. A bulb in the ceiling cast meager light. And created more shadows. Harry noticed that all the rooms were shut with padlocks. Who would lock a storeroom in his own cellar?

  Harry inserted the pointed end of the crowbar under one hinge. Breathed in, dreading the noise. Pressed the crowbar back quickly, and there was a short crack. He held his breath, listened. The house seemed to be holding its breath as well. Not a sound.

  Then he gently opened the door. The smell assailed his nostrils. His fingers found a switch on the inside, and the next moment Harry was bathed in fluorescent light.

  The storeroom was much larger than it had appeared from the outside. He recognized it. It was a copy of a room he had seen before, the lab at the Radiumhospitalet. Benches with glass flasks and test-tube stands. Harry lifted the lid off a big plastic box. The white powder was speckled with brown. Harry licked the tip of his index finger, poked it into the powder and rubbed it against his gums. Bitter. Violin.

  Harry gave a start. A sound. He held his breath again. And there it was again. Someone sniffling.

  Harry rushed back to turn off the light and hunched up in the dark, holding the crowbar ready.

  Another sniffle.

  Harry waited a few seconds. Then with quick, quiet steps, he walked out of the storeroom and headed to where the sounds had come from. A storeroom on the left. He moved the crowbar to his right hand. Tiptoed up to the door, which had a small peephole covered with wire netting, exactly like he remembered from home. With one difference: This door was reinforced with metal.

  Harry held the flashlight ready, stood against the wall beside the door, counted down from three, switched on the beam and pointed it through the hole.

  Waited.

  After three seconds had passed and no one had either shot or launched themselves at the light, he put his head against the wire and peered inside. The beam roved over brick walls, illuminated a chain, flitted across a mattress and then found what it was looking for. A face.