Phantom

  This crime scene, however, did not tell Harry much about the murder that had taken place.

  All he saw, heard and smelled was a place with floating tenants who gathered, took drugs, slept, on the rare occasion ate and, after a while, drifted off. To another squat, to a room in a hostel, a park, a container, a cheap down sleeping bag under a bridge or a white wooden resting place beneath a gravestone.

  “Of course we had to do quite a lot of clearing up here,” Beate said in answer to a question he had not needed to ask. “There was garbage everywhere.”

  “Dope?”

  “A plastic bag containing unboiled pieces of cotton gauze.”

  Harry nodded. The most tortured or destitute junkies would save the cotton gauze they used to cleanse the impurities from the dope as they drew it into the syringe. Then, on rainy days, the gauze could be boiled and the brew injected. “Plus a condom filled with semen and heroin.”

  “Oh?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Any good?”

  Harry saw her blush, an echo of the shy policewoman fresh out of college he still remembered.

  “Remains of heroin, to be precise. We assume the condom was used to store it, and then after it was consumed, the condom was used for its primary purpose.”

  “Mm,” Harry said. “Junkies who worry about contraception. Not bad. Did you find out who …?”

  “The DNA from inside and outside the condom match two old acquaintances. A Swedish girl and Ivar Torsteinsen, better known to undercover men as Hivar.”

  “Hivar?”

  “Used to threaten police with infected needles, claimed he had HIV.”

  “Mm, explains the condom. Any violence on his record?”

  “No. Just hundreds of burglaries, possession and dealing. Plus some smuggling.”

  “But attempted murder with a syringe?”

  Beate sighed and stepped into the sitting room, her back to him. “Sorry, Harry, but there are no loose threads in this case.”

  “Oleg has never hurt a fly, Beate. He simply doesn’t have it in him. While this Hivar—”

  “Hivar and the Swedish girl are … well, they have been eliminated from the investigation, you might say.”

  Harry looked at her back. “Dead?”

  “OD’d. A week before the murder. Impure heroin mixed with fentanyl. I suppose they couldn’t afford violin.”

  Harry let his gaze run around the walls. Most serious addicts without a fixed abode had a stash or two, a secret place where they could hide or lock up a reserve supply of drugs. Sometimes money. Possibly other priceless possessions. Carrying these things around with you was out of the question; a homeless junkie had to shoot up in public places and the moment the dope kicked in, he was prey to vultures. For that reason stashes were sacred. An otherwise lifeless addict could invest so much energy and imagination in hiding his gear that even veteran searchers and drug-sniffing dogs failed to find it. Addicts never revealed hiding places to anyone, not even to best friends. Because they knew, knew from experience, that no one could ever be closer than codeine, morphine or heroin.

  “Did you look for a stash here?”

  Beate shook her head.

  “Why not?” Harry asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

  “Because I presume we would have had to rip the flat apart to find anything, and it wouldn’t have been relevant to the investigation anyway,” Beate said patiently. “Because we have to prioritize limited resources. And because we had the evidence we needed.”

  Harry nodded. The answer he deserved.

  “And the evidence?” he asked in a soft voice.

  “We believe the killer fired from where I’m standing now.” It was a custom among forensics officers not to use names. She stretched out her arm in front of her. “At close quarters. Less than a yard. Soot in and around the entry wounds.”

  “Plural?”

  “Two shots.”

  She eyed him with a sympathetic expression that said she knew what he was thinking: There went the defense counsel’s chance to maintain the gun had gone off by accident.

  “Both shots entered his chest.” Beate spread the first and middle fingers of her right hand and placed them against the left side of her blouse, as though using sign language. “Assuming that both victim and killer were standing and the killer fired the weapon on instinct, the first exit wound reveals that he was between one eighty and one eighty-five. The suspect is one eighty-three.”

  Jesus. He thought of the boy he had seen by the visitors’ room door. It seemed like only yesterday when they used to wrestle each other and Oleg had barely reached up to Harry’s chest.

  She walked back into the kitchen. Pointed to the wall beside a greasy stove.

  “The bullets went in here and here, as you can see. Which is consistent with the second shot following the first quite quickly as the victim fell. The initial bullet punctured a lung, the second passed through the top of his chest, nicking a shoulder blade. The victim—”

  “Gusto Hanssen,” Harry said.

  Beate stopped. Looked at him. Nodded. “Gusto Hanssen did not die at once. His fingerprints were in the pool of blood and there was blood on his clothes, showing that he moved after he fell. But it can’t have taken long.”

  “I see. And what …?” Harry ran a hand over his face. He would have to try to get a few hours’ sleep. “What ties Oleg to the murder?”

  “Two people called the police at three minutes to nine saying they had heard what might have been gunshots coming from the building. One lived on Møllergata, across the intersection, the other just opposite here.”

  Harry squinted through the grimy window looking out onto Hausmanns Gate. “Not bad, being able to hear from one building to another in the very center of the city.”

  “Don’t forget it was July. Warm evening. All the windows are open. Summer vacations, barely any traffic. The neighbors had been trying to get the police to close this nest, so the threshold for reporting noise was low, one might say. The officer in the Ops Room told them to stay calm and asked them to keep an eye on the building until patrol cars arrived. The uniforms were alerted at once. Two cars arrived at twenty past nine and took up position while waiting for the cavalry.”

  “Delta?”

  “Always takes the guys some time to don helmets and armor. Then the patrol cars were informed by Ops that the neighbors had seen a boy leaving by the front door and walking around the building, down toward the Akerselva. So two officers went down to the river, and there they found …”

  She paused until she received an almost imperceptible nod from Harry.

  “Oleg. He didn’t resist—he was so doped up he hardly knew what he was doing. We found gunshot residue on his right hand and arm.”

  “Murder weapon?”

  “Since it’s an unusual caliber, a nine-by-eighteen-millimeter Makarov, there are not many alternatives.”

  “Well, the Makarov is the favorite gun for organized crime in former Soviet countries. And the Fort-12, which is used by the police in Ukraine. Plus a couple more.”

  “True. We found the empty cartridges on the floor with powder residue. The Makarov powder has a different mix of saltpeter and sulfur, and they also use a bit of spirit, like in sulfurless powder. The chemical compound of the powder on the empty cartridge and around the entry wound matched the residue on Oleg’s hand.”

  “Mm. And the weapon?”

  “Hasn’t been recovered. We had divers and teams searching in and around the river, with no success. That doesn’t mean the gun isn’t there, with all the mud and sludge … well, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Two of the guys who lived here said that Oleg was flashing a pistol and boasting it was the type the Russian mafia used. Neither of them is gun-savvy, but after being shown pictures of about a hundred guns, both are supposed to have picked out an Odessa. And it uses, as you probably know …”

  Harry nodded. Makarov, nine by eighteen millimeter. It was unmistakable. The first time he ha
d seen an Odessa, he had been reminded of the futuristic-looking pistol on the cover of Foo Fighters, one of many CDs that had ended up with Rakel and Oleg.

  “And I assume they’re rock-solid witnesses with only a tiny little drug problem?”

  Beate didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Harry knew she knew what he was doing, grasping at straws.

  “And Oleg’s blood and urine samples,” Harry said, straightening his jacket sleeves, as if it were important, here and now, that they didn’t ride up. “What did they reveal?”

  “Violin was an active ingredient. Being high might be seen as a mitigating circumstance, of course.”

  “Mm. That presupposes he was high before he shot Gusto Hanssen. But what about the motive, then?”

  Beate sent Harry a vacant stare. “The motive?”

  He knew what she was thinking: Is it possible to imagine one addict killing another for anything other than dope? “If Oleg was already high why would he kill anyone?” he asked. “Drug-related murders like this one are as a rule a spontaneous, desperate act, motivated by a craving for drugs or the start of withdrawal symptoms.”

  “Motive’s your department,” Beate said. “I’m in forensics.”

  Harry breathed in. “OK. Anything else?”

  “I imagine you would like to see the photos,” Beate said, opening a slim leather case.

  Harry took the pile of photographs. The first thing to strike him was Gusto’s beauty. There was no other expression for it. Handsome or attractive didn’t cover it. Even dead, with closed eyes and his shirt soaked in blood, Gusto Hanssen still had the indefinable but evident beauty of a young Elvis Presley, the kind of looks that appeal to both men and women, like the androgynous beautification of idols you find in every religion. He thumbed through. After several full-length shots the photographer had taken close-ups of the face and the bullet wounds.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a picture of Gusto’s right hand.

  “He had blood under his fingernails. We took swabs, but I’m afraid they were destroyed.”

  “Destroyed?”

  “It can happen, Harry.”

  “Not in your department.”

  “The blood was destroyed on the way to DNA testing in the Pathology Unit. In fact, we weren’t that upset. The blood was quite fresh, but still congealed enough for it not to be relevant to the time of the murder. And, inasmuch as the victim was a needle addict, it was highly probable it was his own. But …”

  “But if not, it’s always interesting to know who he had been fighting with that day. Look at his shoes.” He showed Beate one of the full-length shots. “Aren’t they Alberto Fascianis?”

  “Had no idea you knew so much about shoes, Harry.”

  “One of my clients in Hong Kong manufactures them.”

  “Client, eh? And to my knowledge original Fasciani shoes are manufactured only in Italy.”

  Harry shrugged. “Impossible to see the difference. But if they are Fascianis they don’t exactly match the rest of his clothes. Looks like an outfit doled out by the Watchtower.”

  “The shoes could have been stolen,” Beate said. “Gusto Hanssen’s nickname was ‘the Thief.’ He was famous for stealing anything he came across, not least dope. There’s a story going around that he stole a retired drug-sniffing dog in Sweden and used it to sniff out drug stashes.”

  “Perhaps he found Oleg’s,” Harry said. “Has Oleg said anything under questioning?”

  “Still as silent as a clam. The only thing he says is it’s all a black void. He doesn’t even remember being in the flat.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t.”

  “We found his DNA, Harry. Hair, sweat.”

  “He did live and sleep here.”

  “On the body, Harry.”

  Harry fell silent, stared into the distance.

  Beate raised a hand, perhaps to put on his shoulder, but changed her mind and let it drop. “Have you talked to him?”

  Harry shook his head. “He threw me out.”

  “He’s ashamed.”

  “Guess so.”

  “I mean it. You’re his idol. It’s humiliating for him to be seen in this state.”

  “Humiliating? I’ve dried the boy’s tears, I’ve blown on his scrapes. Chased away trolls and left the light on.”

  “That boy no longer exists, Harry. The present Oleg doesn’t want to be helped by you now; he wants to live up to you.”

  Harry stamped on the floorboards while looking at the wall. “I’m not worth it, Beate. He knows that.”

  “Harry …”

  “Shall we go down to the river?”

  SERGEY STOOD IN front of the mirror with both arms hanging down by his sides. Flicked the safety catch and pressed the button. The blade shot out and reflected the light. It was an attractive knife, a Siberian switchblade, or “the iron” as the urkas—the criminal class in Siberia—called it. It was the world’s best weapon to stab with. A long, slim shaft with a long, thin blade. The tradition was that you were given it by an older criminal in the family when you had done something to deserve it. However, traditions were receding; nowadays you bought, stole or pirated the knife. This knife, though, had been a present from his uncle. According to Andrey, the ataman had kept the knife under his mattress before it was given to Sergey. He thought about the myth that if you put the iron under the mattress of a sick person it absorbed the pain and suffering and transferred them to the next person stabbed with it. This was one of the myths the urkas loved so much, like the one that claimed if anyone came into the possession of your knife he would soon meet with an accident and death. Old romanticism and superstition, which were on their way out. Nonetheless, he had received the gift with enormous, perhaps exaggerated, reverence. And why shouldn’t he? He owed his uncle everything. He was the one who had got him out of the trouble he had landed in, organized his papers so that he could come to Norway; his uncle had even arranged for the cleaning job at Gardermoen for him. It was well paid, and easy to find, but apparently it was the type of work Norwegians declined; they preferred to draw social security. And the minor offenses Sergey brought with him from Russia were no problem, either; his uncle had had his criminal record doctored. So Sergey had kissed his benefactor’s blue ring when he was given the present. And Sergey had to admit that the knife in his hand was very beautiful. A dark-brown handle made from deer horn, inlaid with an ivory-colored Orthodox cross.

  Sergey pushed from the hip the way he had been taught, could feel he was properly poised, and thrust upward. In and out. In and out. Fast, but not so fast that the blade did not enter to the hilt each and every time.

  The reason it had to be with the knife was that the man he was going to kill was a policeman. And when policemen were killed the hunt afterward was always more intensive, so it was vital to leave as few clues as possible. A bullet could always be traced back to places, weapons or people. A slash from a smooth, clean knife was anonymous. A stabbing wasn’t quite as anonymous—it could reveal the length and shape of the blade—which was why Andrey had told him not to stab the policeman in the heart, but to cut his carotid artery. Sergey had never cut anyone’s throat before, nor stabbed anyone in the heart, just knifed a Georgian in the thigh for no more than being a Georgian. So he had decided he needed something to train on, something living. His Pakistani neighbor had three cats, and every morning, when he walked into the entrance hall, the smell of cat piss assailed his nostrils.

  Sergey lowered his knife, stood with bowed head, rolled his eyeballs upward so that he could see himself in the mirror. He looked good: fit, menacing, dangerous, ready. Like a film poster. His tattoo would reveal that he had killed a police officer.

  He would stand behind the policeman. Step forward. With his left hand he would grab his hair, pull him backward. Place the knife tip against his neck, to the left, penetrate the skin, arc the blade across the throat in a crescent shape. Like that.

  The heart would pump out a cascade of blood; three heartbeats and t
he flow would diminish. The man would already be brain-dead.

  Fold the knife, slip it into his pocket as he left, fast, but not too fast. Don’t look anyone in the eye. Walk, and feel free.

  He stepped back a pace. Stood up straight, inhaled. Visualized the scene. Released his breath. Stepped forward. Angled the blade so that it had a wonderful glint, like a precious jewel.

  Beate and Harry came out of Hausmanns Gate, turned left, rounded the corner of the block and crossed the site of the burned building, still with blackened glass shards and scorched bricks in the rubble. Behind it, an overgrown slope ran down to the river. Harry noted there were no doors at the back of Oleg’s building and that, in the absence of any other way out, there was a narrow fire escape descending from the top floor.

  “Who lives in the neighboring flat?” Harry asked.

  “No one,” Beate said. “Empty offices. It’s where Anarkisten, a little newspaper that—”

  “I know it. It wasn’t a bad fanzine. The writers of the culture section work on the big papers now. Were the rooms unlocked?”

  “Broken into. Probably were open for a long time.”

  Harry watched Beate, who with a resigned air nodded confirmation of what Harry didn’t need to say: Someone could have been in Oleg’s flat and escaped unseen. Straws.

  They walked down to the path along the Akerselva. Harry established that the river was narrow enough for a boy with a decent throwing arm to lob the gun over to the opposite bank.