Police

  Hagen automatically took it and looked at what Harry had passed him. An unopened little plastic bag containing three Q-tips.

  “What was he going to do with these?”

  “Kill someone?” Harry suggested laconically.

  “They’re for cleaning your ears,” Bjørn Holm said. “But actually they’re for scratching your ears, right? The skin gets irritated, we scratch even more, there’s more wax and all of a sudden we have to have more Q-tips. Heroin for the ears.”

  “Or for make-up,” Harry said.

  “Oh?” Hagen said, studying the bag. “By which you mean … he wears make-up?”

  “Well, it’s a mask. He’s already had plastic surgery. Ståle, you’ve seen him close up.”

  “I haven’t thought about it, but you may be right.”

  “You don’t need much mascara and eyeliner to achieve a difference,” Katrine said.

  “Great,” Hagen said. “Have we got anything on the name Paul Stavnes?”

  “Very little,” Katrine said. “There’s no Paul Stavnes on the national register with the date of birth he gave Aune. The only two people with the same name have been eliminated by police outside Oslo. And the elderly couple who live at the address he gave have never heard of any Paul Stavnes or Valentin Gjertsen.”

  “We’re not in the habit of checking patients’ contact details,” Aune said. “And he settled up after every session.”

  “Hotel,” Harry said. “Boarding house, hospice. They’ve all got their guests registered on databases now.”

  “I’ll check.” Katrine swivelled round on her chair and began to tap away on her keyboard.

  “Is that kind of thing on the Internet?” Hagen asked in a sceptical tone.

  “No,” Harry said. “But Katrine uses a couple of search engines you’ll wish didn’t exist.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Because they have access to a level of codes that mean the best firewalls in the world are completely useless,” Bjørn Holm said, peering over Katrine’s shoulder, to a clicking landslide of keystrokes, like the feet of fleeing cockroaches on a glass table.

  “How’s that possible?” Hagen asked.

  “Because they’re the same codes the firewalls use,” Bjørn said. “The search engines are the wall.”

  “Not looking good,” Katrine said. “No Paul Stavnes anywhere.”

  “But he must live somewhere,” Hagen said. “Is he renting a flat under the name Paul Stavnes? Can you check that?”

  “Doubt he’s your run-of-the-mill tenant,” Katrine said. “Most landlords vet their tenants these days. Google them, check the tax lists anyway. And Valentin knows they would be suspicious if they couldn’t find him anywhere.”

  “Hotel,” said Harry, who had got up and was standing by the board where they had written what had seemed to Hagen at first sight like a chart of free associations with arrows and cues until he had recognised the names of the murder victims. One of them was referred to only as B.

  “You’ve already said hotel, my love,” Katrine said.

  “Three Q-tips,” Harry went on, leaning down to Hagen and retrieving the sealed plastic bag. “You can’t buy a packet like this in a shop. You find it in a hotel bathroom with miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Try again, Katrine. Judas Johansen this time.”

  The search was finished in less than fifteen seconds.

  “Negative,” Katrine said.

  “Damn,” Hagen said.

  “We’re not done yet,” Harry said, studying the plastic bag. “There’s no manufacturer’s name on this, but usually Q-tips have a plastic stick and these are wooden. It should be possible to track down the suppliers and the Oslo hotels receiving the supplies.”

  “Hotel supplies,” Katrine said, and the insect-like fingers were scampering again.

  “I have to be off,” Ståle said, getting up.

  “I’ll see you out,” Harry said.

  “You won’t find him,” Ståle said, outside Police HQ, looking down over Bots Park, which lay bathed in cold, sharp spring light.

  “We, don’t you mean?”

  “Maybe,” Ståle sighed. “I don’t exactly feel I’m making much of a contribution.”

  “Contribution?” Harry said. “You got us Valentin all on your own.”

  “He escaped.”

  “His alias is out in the open. We’re getting closer. Why don’t you think we’ll catch him?”

  “You saw him yourself. What do you think?”

  Harry nodded. “He said he went to you because you’d done a psychological assessment of him. At the time you concluded he was of sound mind in a legal sense, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but, as you know, people with serious personality disorders can be convicted.”

  “What you were after was extreme schizophrenia, psychosis, at the time of the act and so on, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he could have been a manic-depressive or a psychopath. Correction, bipolar II or a sociopath.”

  “The correct term now is dissocial.” Ståle accepted the cigarette Harry passed him.

  Harry lit them both. “It’s good he goes to you even though he knows you work for the cops. But that he continues even after realising you’re involved in the hunt for him?”

  Ståle inhaled and shrugged. “I must be such a brilliant therapist he was willing to take the risk.”

  “Any other suggestions?”

  “Well, maybe he’s a thrill-seeker. Lots of serial killers have visited detectives under a variety of pretexts to be in close contact with the hunt, to experience the triumph of fooling the police.”

  “Valentin took off his T-shirt even though he must have known you knew about the tattoo. A terrible risk if you’re under investigation for murder.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hm, yes, what do I mean?”

  “You mean he has an unconscious desire to be caught. He wanted me to recognise him. And when I failed he unconsciously helped me by revealing his tattoo.”

  “And when he achieved his objective, he made a desperate attempt to flee?”

  “The conscious took over. This could put the police murders in a new light, Harry. Valentin’s murders are compulsive acts which, unconsciously, he wants to stop, he wants punishment, or exorcism, someone to stop the demon in him. So when we didn’t manage to catch him for the original murders, he does what many serial killers do, he increases the risk factor. In his case, by targeting the police who couldn’t catch him the first time round because he knows that for a crime against the police there is no limit to resources. And in the end he shows his tattoo to someone he knows is part of the investigation. I think you may well be right, Harry.”

  “Mm, don’t know if I can take the credit for it. What about a simpler explanation? Valentin isn’t as careful as we think he should be because he doesn’t have as much to fear as we think he does.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Harry drew on his cigarette. Released the smoke as he inhaled it through his nose. It was a trick he’d been taught by a milky-white German didgeridoo player in Hong Kong: “Exhale and inhale at the same fucking time, mate, and you can smoke your cigarettes twice.”

  “Go home and have a rest,” Harry said. “That was a tough deal.”

  “Thank you, but I’m the psychologist here, Harry.”

  “A murderer holding a knife to your throat? Sorry, Doc, but you’re not going to be able to rationalise that away. The nightmares queue up—believe me, I’ve been there. So take it from a colleague. And that’s an order.”

  “An order?” A twitch in Ståle’s face suggested a smile. “Are you the boss now, Harry?”

  “Were you ever in any doubt?” Harry groped in his pocket. Took out his phone. “Yes?”

  He dropped the half-smoked cigarette on the ground. “Will you sort it for me? They’ve found something.”

  Ståle Aune watched Harry as he went through the door. Then he looked down
at the smouldering cigarette on the tarmac. Gently placed his shoe on it. Increased the pressure. Turned his foot. Felt the cigarette being squashed under the thin leather sole. Felt the fury rising. Twisted it harder. Ground the filter, ash, paper and tobacco into the tarmac. Dropped his own cigarette. Repeated the movements. It felt good and bad at the same time. Felt like screaming, hitting, laughing, crying. He had tasted every nuance in the cigarette. He was alive. He was so bloody alive.

  “Casbah Hotel in Gange-Rolvs gate,” Katrine said before Harry had closed the door behind him. “It’s mostly embassies who use the hotel for employees before getting them longer-term accommodation. Pretty reasonable rates, small rooms.”

  “Mm. Why this hotel in particular?”

  “It’s the only hotel which has these Q-tips delivered and is situated on the right side of town for the number 12 tram,” Bjørn said. “I rang. They haven’t got any Stavnes, Gjertsen or Johansen registered in the guest book, but I faxed Beate’s drawing.”

  “And?”

  “The receptionist said they’ve got someone like him, someone called Savitski who claimed he worked at the Belarusian embassy. He used to go to work wearing a suit, but now he’s started wearing training gear. And riding a bike.”

  Harry already had the receiver in his hand. “Hagen? We need Delta. Right now.”

  33

  “So that’s what you want me to do?” Truls said, twirling the beer glass between his fingers. They were sitting in Kampen Bistro. Mikael had said it was a very good place to eat. East Oslo chic, popular among those who count, the ones with more cultural capital than money, the in-crowd who had salaries low enough to maintain their student lifestyle without it seeming pathetic.

  Truls had lived in East Oslo all his life and had never heard of the place. “And why should I?”

  “The suspension,” Mikael said, pouring the rest of the mineral water into his glass. “I’ll get it revoked.”

  “Oh?” Truls regarded Mikael with mistrust.

  “Yes.”

  Truls took a swig from his glass. Ran the back of his hand across his mouth although the foam had settled long ago. Took his time. “If it’s so easy, why didn’t you do it before?”

  Mikael closed his eyes, inhaled. “It’s not so easy, but I want to do it.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I’m screwed unless you help me.”

  Truls chuckled. “Strange how quickly the tables turn. Eh, Mikael?”

  Mikael Bellman glanced in both directions. The room was full, but he had chosen it because it wasn’t somewhere frequented by police officers, and he shouldn’t be seen with Truls. And he had a feeling Truls knew. But so what?

  “What’s it going to be? I can ask someone else.”

  Truls guffawed. “Can you hell!”

  Mikael scoured the room. He didn’t want to tell Truls to keep his voice down, but … In times gone by Mikael had largely been able to predict how Truls would react, had been able to coax him into doing what he wanted. There had been a change in him; there was something sinister, something evil and unpredictable about his childhood friend now.

  “I need an answer. It’s urgent.”

  “Fine,” Truls said, draining the glass. “The suspension’s fine. But I need one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A pair of Ulla’s panties—unwashed.”

  Mikael stared at Truls. Was he drunk? Or was the ferocity in his moist eyes a permanent feature now?

  Truls laughed even louder and banged his glass down on the table. Some of those who count turned round.

  “I …” Mikael started. “I’ll see what—”

  “I’m kidding, you dick!”

  Mikael gave a short laugh. “Me too. Does that mean you will …?”

  “For Christ’s sake, we’ve been pals since we were kids, haven’t we?”

  “Of course. You have no idea how grateful I am, Truls.” Mikael struggled to smile.

  Truls passed a hand across the table. Placed it heavily on Mikael’s shoulder.

  “Oh yes, I have.”

  Too heavily, Mikael thought.

  There was no reconnaissance, no examining the floor plan for exits or possible escapes, no circle of police cars blocking the roads at the point where the Delta all-terrain vehicles drove in. There was a short briefing as they went, with Sivert Falkeid barking orders and the heavily armed men at the back staying quiet, which meant they understood.

  It was a question of time, and even the world’s best-laid plan would be useless if the bird had already flown.

  Harry, sitting at the back of the nine-seater and listening, knew they didn’t have the world’s second- or even third-best-laid plan.

  The first thing Falkeid had asked Harry was if he thought Valentin would be armed. Harry had answered that a gun had been used to murder René Kalsnes. And he thought Beate had been threatened with a gun.

  He looked at the men in front of him. Police officers who had volunteered for armed operations. He knew what they were paid for the extra work, and it wasn’t too much. And he also knew what taxpayers thought they could demand of Delta troops, and it was much too much. How many times had he heard people with the benefit of hindsight criticising the Delta officers for not exposing themselves to greater danger, for not having a sixth sense to tell them what was going on behind a closed door, in a hijacked plane, on a forest-clad beach and for not rushing in headlong? For a Delta officer with, on average, four missions a year, so approximately a hundred in a career of twenty-five years, such a policy would have meant being killed on active duty. But the main point was still this: being killed in the line of fire was the best way to ensure the failure of an operation and to expose other officers to danger.

  “There’s just one lift,” Falkeid barked. “Two and Three, you take it. Four, Five and Six, you take the main stairs. Seven and Eight the fire escape. Hole, you and I’ll cover the area outside if he exits via a window.”

  “I haven’t got a gun,” Harry said.

  “Here,” Falkeid said, passing him a Glock 17.

  Harry held it, felt the solid weight, the balance.

  He had never understood gun freaks, just as he had never understood car freaks or people who built houses to fit around their sound system. But he had never felt any real objection to holding a gun. Until last year. Harry thought back to the last time he had held a gun. To the Odessa in the cupboard. He dismissed the thought.

  “We’re here,” Falkeid said. They parked in a quiet street by the gate to a luxurious-looking, four-storey brick building, identical to all the other houses in the area. Harry knew that some of them were old money, some of the new ones wanted to look old, while others were embassies, ambassadors’ residences, advertising bureaus, record companies and smaller shipping lines. A discreet brass sign on the gatepost confirmed that they had come to the right address.

  Falkeid held up his watch. “Radio communication,” he said.

  The officers said their numbers—the same as the one painted in white on their helmets—in turn. Pulled down their balaclavas. Tightened the belts on their MP5 machine guns.

  “On the count of one we’ll go in. Five, four …”

  Harry wasn’t sure if it was his own adrenalin or adrenalin from the other men, but there was a distinct smell and taste, bitter, salty, like caps fired from a toy gun.

  The doors opened and Harry saw a wall of black backs running through the gate and then the ten metres to the entrance, where they were swallowed up.

  Harry stepped out after them, adjusting his bulletproof vest. The skin beneath was already soaked with sweat. Falkeid jumped down from the passenger seat after removing the keys from the ignition. Harry vaguely remembered an episode when the targets of a swoop had made their getaway in a police car with the keys left in. Harry passed the Glock to Falkeid.

  “Haven’t got an up-to-date certificate.”

  “Hereby issued on a provisional basis by me,” Falkeid said. “Emergency. Poli
ce regulations paragraph such-and-such. Maybe.”

  Harry loaded the gun and strode up the gravel as a young man with a crooked turkey neck came running out. His Adam’s apple was going up and down as if he’d just eaten. Harry observed that the name on the lapel of his black jacket tallied with the name of the receptionist he had spoken to on the phone.

  The receptionist hadn’t been able to say for certain if the guest was in his room or anywhere else in the hotel, but he had offered to check. Which Harry had ordered him in the strictest terms not to do. He was to continue with his normal duties and act as if nothing had happened, then neither he nor anyone else would be hurt. The sight of seven men dressed in black and armed to the teeth had probably made it difficult to act as if nothing had happened.

  “I gave them the master key,” the receptionist said in a pronounced East European accent. “They told me to get out and—”

  “Stand behind our vehicle,” Falkeid whispered, jerking his thumb behind him. Harry left them, walking with gun in hand around the building to the back, where a shadowy garden of apple trees extended down to the fence of the neighbouring property. An elderly man was sitting on the terrace, reading the Daily Telegraph. He lowered his newspaper and peered over his glasses. Harry pointed to the yellow letters spelling POLITI on his bulletproof vest, put a finger to his lips, acknowledged a brief nod and concentrated on the third-floor windows. The receptionist had told them where the alleged Belarusian’s room was. It was at the end of the corridor and the window looked out onto the back.

  Harry adjusted the earpiece and waited.

  After a few seconds it came. The dull, confined explosion of a shock grenade followed by the tinkle of glass.

  Harry knew that the air pressure itself wouldn’t have much more effect than deafening those in the room. But the explosion combined with the blinding flash and the men’s assault would paralyse even well-trained targets for the first three seconds. And those three seconds were all the Delta troops needed.

  Harry waited. Then a subdued voice came through his earpiece. Just what he expected.

  “Room 406 taken. No one here.”

  It was what came after that made Harry swear out loud.