'Where do you live?' she asked.
'Bislett.'
'It's on the way.'
'Hm. What to?'
'Oppsal.'
'Yes? Where in Oppsal?'
'Vetlandsveien. Right by the station. Do you know where
Jornslokkveien is?'
'Yes, there's a big yellow timber house on the corner.' 'Exactly. That's where I live. On the first floor. My mother lives on
the ground floor. I grew up in that house.'
'I grew up in Oppsal, too,' Harry said. 'Perhaps we know the same
people?'
'Perhaps,' Beate said, looking out through the window. 'Have to check that out some time,' Harry said.
Neither of them said another word.
The evening came and the wind picked up. The weather report forecast storms south of Stadt and squalls in the north. Harry coughed. He took out the sweater his mother had knitted for his father and which he had given Harry as a Christmas present some years after her death. A strange thing to do, Harry mused. He heated the pasta and meatballs, and then rang Rakel and told her about the house where he had grown up.
She didn't say much, but he could tell she liked hearing him talk about his bedroom. About his games and the little dressing table. About how he had made up stories from the wallpaper pattern, as if they were fairy tales written in code. And one drawer in the dressing table which his mother and he had agreed was only his, and she would never touch.
'I kept my football cards there,' said Harry. 'Tom Lund's autograph. A letter from Solvi, a girl I met one summer holiday in Andalsnes. Later, my first packet of cigarettes. A packet of condoms. They lay there unopened until they had passed the sell-by date. Then, when my sister and I blew them up, they were so dry they split.'
Rakel laughed. Harry carried on, just to hear her laughing.
After the call he paced up and down restlessly. The news was a reprise of the day before. Squalls building up over Jalalabad.
He went into his bedroom and switched on the computer. As it creaked and hummed he saw that he had received another e-mail. He felt his pulse race when he saw the address. He clicked.
Hi Harry S
The game has begun. The post-mortem established you could have been present when she died. Is that why you're keeping it to yourself? Probably very wise. Even if it looks like suicide. There are a couple of things that don't tally, though, aren't there? Your move. 2MN
A bang made Harry jump and he realised he had smacked his palm down on the table with all his strength. He looked around the dark room. He was angry and frightened, but the frustrating thing was his instinct that the e-mail writer was so . . . close at hand. Harry stretched out his arm and placed his still-smarting hand against the screen. The cold glass cooled his skin, but he could feel heat, a kind of body heat, building up inside the machine.
19
The Shoes on the Wire
Elmer scampered down Gronlandsleiret with a quick greeting and smile to customers and employees in neighbouring shops. He was annoyed with himself. Once again he had run out of change and been obliged to hang up a
BACK SOON sign on the door while he nipped into the bank.
He pulled open the door, strode into the bank, sang out his usual 'Good morning' and hurried over to take a ticket. No one answered, but he was used to that by now - only white Norwegians worked here. There was a man who seemed to be repairing the ATM and the only customers he could see were standing by the window overlooking the street. It was unusually quiet. Was something going on he hadn't quite caught wind of?
'Twenty,' a woman's voice called out. Elmer looked at the number on his ticket. It said 51, but since all the positions were closed, he went to the till where the woman's voice came from.
'Hello, Catherine, my love,' he said, inquisitively peering through the window. 'Five rolls of fives and ones, please.'
'Twenty-one.' He looked at Catherine Schoyen in surprise and only then did he notice the man standing beside her. At first glance, he thought it was a black man, but then he saw it was a man wearing a black balaclava. The barrel of his AG3 swung away from her and stopped at Elmer.
'Twenty-two,' Catherine called out in a tin-can voice.
'Why here?' Halvorsen asked, peering down at Oslo fjord beneath them. The wind tossed his fringe hither and thither. It had taken them less than five minutes to drive up from the exhaust fumes of Gronland to Ekeberg, which protruded like a green watchtower in the south-east corner of Oslo. They had found a bench under the trees with a view of the beautiful old brick building Harry still called the Seamen's School, even though it currently ran courses for business managers.
'First of all, because it's wonderful here,' Harry said. 'Second of all, to teach a foreigner a little about the history of Oslo. The "Os" of Oslo means "ridge", the hillside we're sitting on now. Ekeberg Ridge. And "lo" is the plain you can see down there.' He pointed. 'And third of all, we sit looking up at this ridge every single day and it is important to find out what's behind it, don't you think?'
Halvorsen didn't answer.
When they returned to Police HQ there was a message from Moller on the answerphone.
'I didn't want to do this at the office,' Harry said. 'Or at Elmer's. There is something I have to tell you.' Although they were high above the fjord, Harry thought he could still taste salt water in the wind. 'I knew Anna Bethsen.'
Halvorsen nodded.
'You don't exactly look gobsmacked,' Harry remarked.
'I reckoned it was something like that.'
'But there is more.'
'Oh, yes?'
Harry poked an unlit cigarette between his lips. 'Before I go on, I have to warn you. What I am going to say must remain between you and me, and that could pose a dilemma for you. Do you understand? So, if you don't want to be involved, I don't need to say any more and we'll stop there. Would you like to hear more or not?'
Halvorsen searched Harry's face. If he was reflecting, he didn't need long. He nodded.
'Someone has started sending me e-mails,' Harry said. 'About Anna's death.'
'Someone you know?'
'Haven't a clue. The address means nothing to me.'
'That's why you asked me about tracing e-mail addresses yesterday?'
'I'm not remotely computer-savvy. But you are.' Harry failed in an attempt to light his cigarette in the wind. 'I need help. I think Anna was murdered.'
As the north-west wind stripped the trees of their leaves on Ekeberg, Harry talked about the strange e-mails he had received from someone who seemed to know everything they knew, and probably more. He didn't mention that the e-mails placed Harry at the scene of the crime the night Anna died. But he did mention that the gun was in Anna's right hand even though her palette proved she was left-handed. The photograph in the shoe. And the conversation with Astrid Monsen.
'Astrid Monsen said she had never seen Vigdis Albu and the children in the photo. But when I showed her the newspaper photo of her husband, Arne Albu, she didn't need a second glance. She didn't know his name, but he visited Anna regularly. She had seen him when she went down to pick up her post. He came in the afternoon and left in the evening.'
'That's what's called working late.'
'I asked Monsen if the two of them only met during the week and she said he sometimes collected her in his car at the weekend.'
'Perhaps they liked a little variety and trips into the countryside.'
'Perhaps, apart from the trip stuff. Astrid Monsen is an observant, meticulous woman. She said he never took her out during the summer. That was what made me think.'
'Think about what? A hotel?'
'Possibly. But you can go to a hotel in the summer, too. Think, Halvorsen. Think of something nearby.'
Halvorsen stuck out his lower lip and grimaced to show he had no suggestions to make. Harry smiled and expelled a cloud of smoke: 'You were the one who found the place.'
Halvorsen, nonplussed, raised an eyebrow. 'The chalet! It's obvious!'
>
'Isn't it? A discreet, luxurious love nest when the family is home after the season and inquisitive neighbours have closed their shutters. Just an hour's drive from Oslo.'
'But so what?' Halvorsen said. 'That doesn't take us any further.'
'Don't say that. If we can prove that Anna has been to the chalet, at least Albu will be forced to respond. It won't take much. A little fingerprint. A hair. An observant tradesman who occasionally makes a delivery.'
Halvorsen rubbed the back of his neck. 'But why not go straight to the point and look for Albu's fingerprints in Anna's flat? It must be full of them?'
'I doubt they are still there. According to Astrid Monsen, he suddenly stopped seeing Anna a year ago. Until one Sunday last month. He came to pick her up in his car. Monsen remembers it clearly because Anna rang at her door and asked her to keep an ear open for burglars.'
'And you think they went to the chalet?'
'I think,' Harry said, throwing the smoking cigarette end into a puddle where it hissed and died, 'that's one reason Anna put the photograph in her shoe. Can you remember what you learned about forensics at Police College?'
'The little we had. Don't you?'
'No. There are metal cases with the basic equipment in three of the patrol cars. Powder, brush and plastic film for fingerprints. Measuring tape, torch, pliers, that sort of thing. I want you to book one of the cars for tomorrow.'
'Harry--'
'And call the grocer in advance to get precise directions. Try to sound honest and upright so that he doesn't suspect anything. Say you're building a chalet and the architect you're working with gave Albu's chalet as a reference point. You just want to see it.'
'Harry, we can't just--'
'Bring a crowbar, too.'
'Listen to me!'
Halvorsen's shout caused two gulls to take off for the fjord with hoarse screams. He counted on his fingers: 'We don't have a warrant. We don't have any proof which might justify one. We've got . . . nothing. And most important of all we - or should I say I ? - don't have all the facts. You haven't told me everything, have you, Harry?'
'What makes you think--?'
'Simple. Your motive isn't strong enough. Knowing the woman is not a good enough motive for suddenly disregarding all the rules, breaking into chalets and risking your job. And mine. I know you can be a bit nuts, Harry, but you're no fool.'
'Harry watched the wet dog-end floating in the puddle. 'How long have we known each other, Halvorsen?'
'Soon be two years.'
'Have I ever lied to you in that time?'
'Two years isn't a long time.'
'Have I ever lied? I'm asking you.'
'Definitely.'
'Have I ever lied about anything that counts?'
'Not as far as I know.'
'OK. I'm not lying to you now, either. You're right, I haven't told you everything. And, yes, you're risking your job by helping me. All I can say is you would be in even more trouble if I told you the rest. As it is, you'll have to trust me. Or back out. You can still refuse.'
They sat looking across the fjord. The gulls were two small dots in the distance.
'What would you have done?' Halvorsen said. 'Backed out.'
The dots became bigger. The gulls were coming back.
'Let's go for a walk,' he said when Harry called. 'Anywhere at all,'
Moller added when they were outside.
'Elmer's,' Harry said. 'I need some smokes.'
Moller followed Harry down a muddy track across the grass
between Police HQ and the cobbled drive up to Botsen prison. Harry had observed that planners never seemed to appreciate that people will always find the quickest route between two points irrespective of where the road is. At the end of the track was a sign which had been
kicked over: DON'T WALK ON THE GRASS.
'Have you heard about the bank robbery in Gronlandsleiret early this morning?' Moller asked.
Harry nodded. 'Interesting that he chose to do it a hundred metres from the police station.'
'Coincidentally, the bank alarm was being repaired.'
'I don't believe in coincidences,' Harry said.
'Oh? You think it was an inside job?'
Harry shrugged. 'Or someone knew about the repairs.'
'Only the bank and the repairers knew. And us.'
'It wasn't the bank raid you wanted to talk about, was it, boss?'
'No,' Moller said, skipping around a puddle. 'The Chief Superintendent has been in discussion with the Mayor. All these robberies are bothering him.'
On the path, they stopped for a woman with three children in tow. She was telling them off in an angry, drained voice, and avoided Harry's eyes. It was visiting time at Botsen.
'Ivarsson is efficient. No one doubts that,' Moller said. 'However, this Expeditor seems to be of a different calibre from what we're used to. The Chief Superintendent thinks that conventional methods may not be enough this time.'
'Perhaps not, but then what? One "two" more or less is no scandal.'
'A "two"?'
'Away team wins. Unsolved case. Standard vernacular now, boss.'
'There's more at stake than that, Harry. The media have been on our backs all day, it's been a nightmare. They're calling him the new Martin Pedersen. And on the website of Verdens Gang it says they have found out we call him the Expeditor.'
'Always the same old story,' Harry said, crossing the road on red with a circumspect Moller at his heels. 'The media determine what we prioritise.'
'Well, he did murder someone after all.'
'And murders which are no longer in the public eye are dropped.'
'No!' Moller snapped. 'We're not starting all that again.'
Harry shrugged and stepped over a newspaper stand which had been blown down. In the street a newspaper was flicking through its own pages at a furious tempo.
'So what do you want?'
'The Chief is, naturally enough, preoccupied with the PR side of things. An isolated bank raid is forgotten by the general public long before the case is dropped. No one notices that the man hasn't been caught. On this occasion, however, everyone's eyes are on us. And the more talk there is about raids of this kind, the more the public's curiosity is aroused. Martin Pedersen was a normal person who did what many dream about; he was a modern Jesse James escaping from the law. That sort of case creates myths, heroes, and people identify with it. Hence, further recruitment for the bank-robbing industry. The number of bank raids soared right across the country while the press were writing about Martin Pedersen.'
'You're frightened of this spreading. Fair enough. What's that got to do with me?'
'As I said, no one doubts Ivarsson's efficiency. No one doubts that. He is a correct, traditional policeman who never oversteps the line. The Expeditor, however, is no traditional bank robber. The Chief is not happy with the results so far.' Moller nodded towards the prison. 'The episode with Raskol has reached his ears.'
'Mm.'
'I was in the Chief's office before lunch and your name was mentioned. Several times, in fact.'
'My God, should I feel honoured?'
'You are, at any rate, an investigator who has achieved results using unconventional methods.'
Harry's smile stretched into a sneer. 'A kind definition of a kamikaze pilot . . .'
'In a nutshell, the message is this, Harry. Drop everything else you're doing and tell me if you need more people. Ivarsson will continue with his team, but we're relying on you. And one more thing . . .' Moller had stepped closer to Harry. 'You have a free rein. We're willing to accept that rules can be bent. In return, this must stay within the force, of course.'
'Mm. I think I understand. And if it doesn't?'
'We'll back you up as far as we're able, but there's a limit. That goes without saying.'
Elmer turned when the bells above the door rang and nodded towards the little portable radio he was standing in front of: 'And there was me thinking Kandahar was a skiing club. Twen
ty Camel?'
Harry assented. Elmer turned down the volume of the radio and the news commentator's voice joined the buzz of sounds outside - cars, the wind catching the awning, the leaves being swept along the tarmac.
'Anything for your colleague?' Elmer motioned towards the door where Moller was standing.
'He'd like a kamikaze pilot,' Harry said, opening the packet.
'Really?'
'But he's forgotten to ask the price,' Harry said and could sense Moller's sweetly sardonic smile without needing to turn.
'And what is the going rate for kamikaze pilots nowadays?' the kiosk owner asked, handing over Harry's change.
'If he survives, he's allowed to take on the jobs he wants afterwards,' Harry said. 'That's the only condition he makes. And the only one he insists on.'
'Sounds reasonable,' Elmer says. 'Have a good day, gentlemen.'
On the way back Moller said he would talk to the Chief Superintendent about the possibility of Harry working on the Ellen Gjelten case for three months. Provided the Expeditor was caught, that was. Harry agreed. Moller hesitated in front of the DON'T WALK ON THE GRASS sign.
'It's the shortest route, boss.'
already.'
'Yes,' Moller said. 'But my shoes will get dirty.'
'As you wish,' Harry said, walking up the track. 'Mine are filthy
The traffic eased after the turn-off to Ulvoya. It had stopped raining and the Ljan road was already dry. Soon it widened into four carriageways and it was like a starting grid for cars to accelerate and race off. Harry looked over at Halvorsen and wondered when he, too, would hear the heart-stopping screams. But Halvorsen didn't hear anything as he had taken Travis's exhortation - they were on the radio - literally:
'
Sing, sing, siiing!'
'Halvorsen . . .'
'For the love you bring . . .'
Harry turned down the radio and Halvorsen gave him an
uncomprehending look.
'Windscreen wipers,' Harry said. 'You can switch them off now.' 'Oh, yes, sorry.'
They drove on in silence. Passed the exit for Drobak. 'What did you say to the grocer guy?' Harry asked.
'You won't want to know.'
'But he had delivered food to Albu's chalet one Thursday five