Nemesis

  weeks ago?'

  'That was what he said, yes.'

  'Before Albu arrived?'

  'He only said he used to let himself in.'

  'So he has a key?'

  'Harry, there were limits to what I could ask for with my paperthin pretext.'

  'What pretext did you give?'

  Halvorsen sighed. 'County council surveyor.'

  'County council sur--?'

  '--veyor.'

  'What's that?'

  'Don't know.'

  Larkollen was just off the motorway, thirteen slow kilometres and

  fourteen tight bends away.

  'To the right by the red house after the petrol station,' Halvorsen

  recited from memory and turned up into a gravel driveway. 'A lot of shower mats,' Harry mumbled five minutes later when

  Halvorsen had pulled up and pointed to the enormous log construction between the trees. It looked like an overgrown mountain

  chalet which following a minor misunderstanding had ended up by

  the sea.

  'Bit deserted here, isn't it,' Halvorsen said, looking at the

  neighbouring chalets. 'Just seagulls. Loads of seagulls. Perhaps there's

  a rubbish dump nearby.'

  'Mm.' Harry checked his watch. 'Let's just park a little further up

  the road anyway.'

  The road ended in a turning area. Halvorsen switched off the

  ignition and Harry opened the car door and got out. Stretched his

  back and listened to the screams of the gulls and the distant roar of

  waves beating against the rocks by the beach.

  'Ah,' Halvorsen said, filling his lungs. 'This is a bit different from

  Oslo air, eh?'

  'No doubt about that,' Harry said, searching for his packet of

  cigarettes. 'Will you take the metal case?'

  On the path up to the chalet Harry noticed a large yellow-andwhite gull on a fencepost. The head turned slowly round on its body

  as they passed. Harry felt he could sense the shiny bird's eyes on his

  back the whole way up.

  'This won't be easy,' Halvorsen declared once they had taken a

  closer look at the solid lock on the outside door. He had hung his cap

  on a wrought-iron light above the heavy oak door.

  'Mm. You'll just have to get stuck in.' Harry lit a cigarette. 'I'll go

  and have a quick recce in the meantime.'

  'Why is it you're suddenly smoking so much more than before?'

  Halvorsen asked, opening the case.

  Harry stood still for a moment and let his eyes drift towards the

  forest. 'To give you a chance to beat me at cycling one day.'

  Pitch-black logs, solid windows. Everything about the chalet seemed sturdy and impenetrable. Harry wondered if it would be possible to get in through the impressive stone chimney, but rejected the idea. He walked down the path. The rain of recent days had churned it up, but he could easily imagine the small feet and bare legs of children running down a sun-baked path in the summer, on their way to the beach behind the sea-smoothed rocks. He stopped and closed his eyes. Until the sounds came. The buzz of insects, the swish of the tall grass rippling in the breeze, a distant radio and a song floating to and fro on the wind and children's gleeful shouts from the beach. He had been ten years old and gingerly making his way to the shop to buy milk and bread. The small stones had buried themselves in the soles of his feet, but he had clenched his teeth because he had made up his mind to harden his feet that summer so as to run barefoot with Oystein when he returned home. As he walked back, the heavy shopping bag had seemed to press him deeper into the gravel path; it felt as if he had been walking on glowing coals. He had focused his attention on something a little way ahead - a large stone or a leaf - and told himself he only had to get there, it wasn't that far. When he finally did arrive home, one and a half hours later, the milk was off and his mother angry. Harry opened his eyes. Grey clouds were scurrying across the sky.

  He found car tracks in the brown grass beside the path. The deep, rough prints suggested it had been a heavy vehicle with off-road tyres, a Land Rover or something similar. With all the rain that had fallen in recent weeks, the tracks couldn't have been that old. A couple of days at most.

  He scouted around, thinking there was nothing quite as desolate as summer resorts in autumn. On his way up to the chalet again, Harry nodded to the gull.

  Halvorsen was bent over the front door with an electric picklock, groaning.

  It was raining when they drove out onto the E6. The lights from oncoming traffic reflected on the wet tarmac.

  'How's it going?'

  'Badly.' Halvorsen straightened up and wiped away his sweat. 'This is no amateur lock. It's the crowbar or give up.'

  'No crowbar.' Harry scratched his chin. 'Have you checked under the doormat?'

  Halvorsen sighed. 'No, and I'm not going to, either.'

  'Why's that?'

  'Because this is a new millennium and you don't put chalet keys under the doormat any longer. Especially not if it's a luxury chalet. So, unless you're willing to bet a hundred, I simply can't be bothered. Alright?'

  Harry nodded.

  'Fine,' Halvorsen said, crouching down to pack the case.

  'I meant, you're on,' Harry said.

  Halvorsen looked up. 'You're kidding?'

  Harry shook his head.

  Halvorsen grabbed the edge of the synthetic fibre mat.

  'Come seven,' he mumbled and whipped the mat away. Three ants, two woodlice and an earwig came to life and wandered around the grey concrete. But no key.

  'Now and then you're incredibly naive, Harry,' Halvorsen said, holding out his palm. 'Why would he leave a key?'

  'Because,' said Harry, whose attention had been caught by the wrought-iron lamp beside the door and hadn't seen the extended hand. 'Milk goes off if it's left in the sun.' He went over to the lamp and unscrewed the top.

  'What do you mean?'

  'The groceries were delivered the day before Albu arrived, weren't they. They obviously had to be put in the house.'

  'So? Perhaps the grocery man has a spare key?'

  'I don't think so. I think Albu wanted to be absolutely sure no one came bursting in while he and Anna were here.' He whipped off the top and scoured the glass interior. 'And now I know so.'

  Halvorsen withdrew his hand, muttering.

  'Notice the smell,' Harry said when they entered the living room.

  'Green soap,' Halvorsen said. 'Someone has thought fit to wash the floor.'

  The heavy furniture, the rustic antiques and the large stone fireplace reinforced the Easter holidays impression. Harry went to a pine shelving system at the other end of the room. Old books on shelves. Harry's eyes ran across the titles on the worn spines, but still had the feeling they had never been read. Not here. They might have been bought as a job lot from one of the antiquarian bookshops in Majorstuen. Old photo albums. Drawers. In the drawers there were Cohiba and Bolivar cigar boxes. One of the drawers was locked.

  'So much for the clean-up then,' Halvorsen said. Harry turned and saw his colleague pointing to wet, brown footprints running diagonally across the floor.

  They took off their shoes in the hallway, found a floor cloth in the kitchen and after wiping the floor, agreed Halvorsen should take the living room while Harry took the bedrooms and the bathroom.

  What Harry knew about house searches he had learned in a hot classroom at Police College one Friday after lunch when everyone was dying to go home, have a shower and hit the town. There was no manual, only a certain Inspector Rokke. And on this Friday he had given Harry the one tip he had later used as his sole guide: 'Don't think about what you are searching for. Think about what you find. Why is that there? Should it be there? What does it mean? It's like reading - if you think about an "l" while looking at a "k", you won't see the words.'

  The first thing Harry saw when he came in
to the first bedroom was the large double bed and the photograph of herr and fru Albu on the bedside table. It wasn't large, but it was conspicuous because it was the only photograph and faced the door.

  Harry opened a wardrobe. The smell of another person's clothes hit him. There was no casual clothing, only evening dresses, blouses and a couple of suits. Plus a pair of studded golf shoes.

  Harry went through all three wardrobes systematically. He had been a detective for too long to feel embarrassment at going through other people's personal effects.

  He sat down on the bed and studied the photograph. The background was only sea and sky, but the way the light fell made Harry think it must have been taken in southern climes. Arne Albu was brown and there was the same boyish mischievousness in his expression Harry had seen in the restaurant in Aker Brygge. He had a firm grip around his wife's waist. So firm that Vigdis's upper body seemed to be leaning towards him.

  Harry rolled the bedspread and duvet to the side. If Anna had been in this bed they would definitely find hair, fragments of skin, saliva or sexual secretions. All of them, probably. But it was as he thought. He ran a hand over the starched sheet and put his face to the pillow and breathed in. Just washed. Fuck.

  He opened the drawer of the bedside table. A packet of Extra chewing gum, an unopened packet of Paralgin, a keyring with a key and a brass plate with the initials A.A. on, a photograph of a naked baby curled up like a larva on a changing table, and a Swiss army knife.

  He was about to pick up the knife when he heard the single, chilling scream of a gull. Involuntarily he shivered and glanced through the window. The gull was gone. He went back to his search when he heard the sharp barking of a dog.

  At that moment Halvorsen appeared in the doorway: 'Someone coming up the pathway.'

  His heart pounded as if turbo-charged.

  'I'll get the shoes,' Harry said. 'You bring the case with all the equipment in here.'

  'But--'

  'We'll jump out of the window when they're in. Quick!'

  The barking outside increased in volume and intensity. Harry sprinted across the living room to the hall while Halvorsen knelt in front of the shelves and threw powder, brush and sticky paper into the case. The barking was now so close that Harry could hear the deep-throated growls between the barks. Footsteps outside. The door was not locked, it was too late to do anything, he would be caught red-handed! He breathed in and stood where he was. He might just as well face the music there and then. Perhaps Halvorsen would be able to escape. That way, he wouldn't have Halvorsen's dismissal on his conscience.

  'Gregor!' came a man's shout from the other side of the door. 'Come back!'

  The barking became more distant and he heard the man outside move off the doorstep.

  'Gregor! Leave the deer alone!'

  Harry took two steps forward and discreetly turned the lock. Then he picked up the two pairs of shoes and crept through the living room as keys were being jangled outside. He closed the bedroom door behind him as he heard the front door opening.

  Halvorsen was sitting on the floor under the window and staring at Harry with dilated eyes.

  'What is it?' Harry whispered.

  'I was on my way out of the window when the mad dog came,' Halvorsen whispered. 'It's a large Rottweiler.'

  Harry peered out of the window and down at snapping jaws. The dog had both front paws against the outside wall. The sight of Harry made it jump up the wall and bark as though possessed. Saliva dripped from its fangs. The sound of heavy footsteps in the living room. Harry slumped down on the floor next to Halvorsen.

  'Seventy kilos max,' he whispered. 'No big deal.'

  'Please. I've seen a Rottweiler attacking Victor, the dog handler.'

  'Mm.'

  'They lost control of the dog in training. The officer playing the villain had to have his hand sewn back on at Rikshospital.'

  'I thought they wore thick padding.'

  'They do.'

  They sat listening to the barking outside. The footsteps in the living room had stopped.

  'Shall we go in and say hello?' Halvorsen whispered. 'It's just a question of time before--'

  'Shh.'

  They heard more steps. Approaching the bedroom door. Halvorsen squeezed his eyes shut. As if to steel himself against the humiliation. On reopening them, he saw Harry holding an authoritative finger over his lips.

  Then they heard a voice outside the bedroom window. 'Gregor! Come on! Let's go home!'

  After a couple more barks, it was suddenly quiet. All Harry could hear was short, rapid breaths, but he didn't know if they were his or Halvorsen's.

  'Really obedient, those Rottweilers,' Halvorsen whispered.

  They waited until they heard the car start down on the road. Then they rushed into the living room and Harry just caught sight of the back of a navy blue Jeep Cherokee disappearing. Halvorsen fell onto the sofa and leaned back.

  'My God,' he groaned. 'For a while there I imagined myself returning to Steinkjer with a dishonourable discharge. What the hell was he doing? He was barely here for two minutes.' He jumped up from the sofa again. 'Do you think he'll be back? Perhaps they were just going to the shop?'

  Harry shook his head. 'They went home. People like that don't tell lies to their dogs.'

  'Sure?'

  'Yes, of course. One day he'll shout: "Come here, Gregor. We're going to the vet to have you put down." ' Harry scanned the room. Then he went over to the shelving and ran a finger down the spines of the books in front of him, from top to bottom shelf.

  Halvorsen nodded grimly and stared into space: 'And Gregor will come wagging his tail. Really strange creatures, dogs.'

  Harry stopped what he was doing and grinned. 'No regrets, Halvorsen?'

  'Well, I don't regret this any more than anything else.'

  'You're beginning to sound like me.'

  'It is you. I'm quoting you. The time we bought the espresso machine. What are you after?'

  'Don't know,' Harry said, pulling out a big, thick book and opening it. 'Look at this. A photo album. Interesting.'

  'Oh, yes? Now you've lost me again.'

  Harry pointed behind him and continued flicking through. Halvorsen stood up and saw. And understood. Wet bootprints leading from the front door via the hallway to the shelf where Harry was standing.

  Harry slotted the album back in, pulled out another and began to flip through.

  'Right,' he said after a while. He pressed the album to his face. 'Here we are.'

  'What's that?'

  Harry set the album on the table in front of Halvorsen and pointed to one of six photographs attached to the black page. A woman and three children smiled up at them from a beach.

  'That's the same photo I found in Anna's shoe,' Harry said. 'Smell it.'

  'I don't need to. I can smell the glue from here.'

  'Right. He's just stuck the picture in. If you move the photo a little, you can feel the glue is still soft. Smell the photo.'

  'OK.' Halvorsen put his nose against the smiles. 'It smells . . . of chemicals.'

  'What sort of chemicals?'

  'Photos always smell when they've just been developed.'

  'Right again. And what can we conclude from that?'

  'That, erm . . . he likes sticking in photos.'

  Harry looked at his watch. If Albu drove straight home, he would be there in an hour.

  'I'll explain in the car,' he said. 'We've got the evidence we need.'

  'Now we know where the photo Anna had in her shoe came from,' Harry said. 'At a guess, I'd say Anna saw her chance to take it out of the album when she was last at the chalet.'

  'But what was she going to do with it?'

  -

  'God only knows. So that she could see what stood between her and Albu perhaps. To understand better. To have something to stick pins in.'

  'And when you showed him the photo, did he know where it was from?'

  'Naturally. The wheel marks of the Cherokee by the c
halet are the same as those before. They show he was here a couple of days ago, possibly yesterday.'

  'To wash the floor and wipe all the fingerprints?'

  'And to check what he already suspected - that one photo was missing from the album. So when he got home, he found the negative and took it to a chemist.'

  'Probably a shop where they develop photos in an hour. Then he went back to the chalet today to stick it where the old one had been.' 'Mm.'

  The rear wheels of the lorry in front of them were sending a sheet of dirty, oily water over their windscreen, and the wipers were working overtime.

  'Albu has gone to great lengths to cover the traces of his escapades,' Halvorsen said. 'But do you think he took Anna Bethsen's life?'

  Harry stared at the logo on the rear doors of the lorry: AMOROMA ETERNALLY YOURS. 'Why not?'

  'He doesn't exactly strike me as a murderer. A well-educated, straight-down-the-line type of guy. Reliable father with spotless record and a business he built up himself.'

  'He's been unfaithful.'

  sudden irritation: 'Are we going to stay behind this lorry and take its crap with us all the way to Oslo, or what?'

  'Who hasn't?'

  'Yes, who hasn't,' Harry repeated slowly. And exploded in a fit of

  Halvorsen checked the mirror and moved into the left-hand lane. 'And what would his motive be?'

  The air was stiff with sweat, cigarette smoke, rain-drenched clothing and orders for beer shouted from the tables.

  'Let's ask, shall we?' Harry said.

  'What do you mean? Drive to his place and ask? Reveal that we've acquired evidence by illegal means and get fired at the same time?'

  'You don't have to go. I'll do it on my own.'

  'And what do you think you'll achieve by doing that? If it gets out that we entered his chalet without a warrant, there is not a judge in this land who wouldn't boot the case out of court.'

  'That's precisely why.'

  'Precisely . . . Sorry, these puzzles are beginning to take their toll, Harry.'

  'Because we don't have anything we can use in a court of law, we have to turn up the heat to find something we can use.'

  'Shouldn't we take him in for questioning, give him the good chair, serve espresso and run the tape?'