Page 19 of Nemesis

  'Thank you for your help anyway,' she said and put down the receiver.

  'Am I disturbing?' Harry asked, putting a cup of coffee in front of her.

  'No, I shook my head to say there was no luck with Focus. He was the last name on the list. Of all the men we know were at Focus at the time in question, only one vaguely remembers seeing a man in a boiler suit. And he wasn't even sure whether he had seen him in the changing room or not.'

  'Mm.' Harry took a seat and looked around. Her office was just as tidy as he had expected. Apart from a familiar potted plant he couldn't name on the windowsill, her room was as free of ornaments as his own. On her desk he noticed the back of a framed photograph. He had an idea who it might be.

  'Have you only talked to men?' he asked.

  'The theory is that he went into the men's changing room to change, isn't it?'

  'Then he walked the streets of Morristown like any normal person, yes. Anything new on yesterday's hold-up in Gronlandsleiret?'

  'Depends on what you mean by new. It's more a carbon copy, I would say. Same clothes and AG3. Used a hostage to speak. Took money from the ATM, all over in one minute and fifty seconds. No clues. In short . . .'

  'The Expeditor,' Harry said.

  'What's this?' Beate raised the cup and peered into it.

  'Cappuccino. Regards from Halvorsen.'

  'Coffee with milk?' She wrinkled her nose.

  'Let me guess. Your dad said he never trusted anyone who didn't drink black coffee?'

  He regretted it immediately he saw Beate's expression of surprise. 'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'I didn't mean to . . . that was stupid of me.'

  'So what do we do now?' Beate hastened to ask while fidgeting with the coffee-cup handle. 'We're back to square one.'

  Harry collapsed in the chair and contemplated the toes of his boots. 'Go to prison.'

  'What?'

  'Go straight to prison.' He sat up. 'Do not pass GO. Do not collect two thousand kroner.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Monopoly cards. That's what we have left. Trying our luck. In prison. Have you got the number of Botsen prison?'

  Her voice echoed between the walls of the Culvert as she jogged along beside Harry.

  'Maybe,' he said. 'Like ninety per cent of all investigation work.'

  'I've read all the reports and the interview tapescripts that have ever been done. He never says anything. Except for a load of irrelevant philosophical rubbish.'

  Harry pressed the intercom button beside the grey iron door at the end of the tunnel.

  'Have you heard the old adage about looking for what you've lost in the light? I suppose it is meant to illustrate human foolishness. To me it makes good sense.'

  'Hold your IDs up to the camera,' said the loudspeaker.

  'What's the point of me coming if you're going to talk to him on your own?' Beate asked, nipping in behind Harry.

  'It's a method Ellen and I used when we questioned suspects. One of us always ran the interview while the other just sat listening. If the interview was getting into a rut, we had a break. If I had done the talking, I would go out and Ellen would start up about other mundane things. Like giving up smoking or everything on TV was crap nowadays. Or she noticed how much she paid in rent since she had split up with her bloke. After they had chatted for a while, I would poke my head in and say something had cropped up and she would have to take over.'

  'Did it work?'

  'Every time.'

  They went up the stairs to the barrier in front of the prison concourse. The prison officer behind the thick bulletproof glass nodded to them and pressed a button. 'Warder will be along in a minute,' came the nasal voice.

  The prison warder was squat with bulging muscles and a dwarf's waddle. He led them to the cell block. A three-storey-high gallery with rows of light blue cell doors encircling a rectangular hall. Wire netting towered up between the floors. There was no one to be seen and the silence was only broken by a door being slammed shut somewhere.

  Harry had been here many times before, but it always seemed absurd to him to think that behind all these doors were the people whom society thought fit to keep locked up against their will. He didn't quite know why he found the thought so monstrous, but it was something to do with seeing the physical manifestation of publicly institutionalised retribution for crime. The scales and the sword.

  The warder's bunch of keys jangled as he unlocked a door inscribed with VISITORS in black letters. 'Here you are. Just knock when you're ready to leave.'

  They stepped in and the door banged to behind them. In the ensuing silence Harry's attention was caught by the low intermittent hum of a neon tube and the plastic flowers on the wall, which cast pale shadows across the washed-out watercolours. A man was sitting erectly on a chair, placed exactly in the middle of the yellow wall behind a table. His forearms rested on the table on either side of a chessboard; his hair was drawn back tightly behind his ears. He was wearing a smooth overall-like uniform. The well-defined eyebrows and the shadow which fell on the straight nose formed a clear T every time the neon tube blinked. It was predominantly his expression, however, that Harry remembered from the funeral, the conflicting combination of suffering and a poker face which reminded Harry of someone.

  Harry motioned to Beate to sit by the door. He took a chair to the table and sat down opposite Raskol. 'Thank you for taking the time to meet us.'

  'Time is cheap here,' Raskol said in a surprisingly bright and gentle voice. He talked like an Eastern European with strong 'r's and clear diction.

  'I understand. I'm Harry Hole and my colleague is--'

  'Beate Lonn. You're like your father, Beate.'

  Harry heard Beate's gasp and half-turned. Her face had not reddened; on the contrary, her pale skin was even whiter and her mouth had frozen into a grimace, as if she had been slapped.

  Looking down at the table, Harry coughed, and noticed for the first time that the almost eerie symmetry either side of the axis dividing him from Raskol was broken by one minor detail: the king and the queen on the chessboard.

  'Where have I seen you before, Hole?'

  'I'm mostly to be seen in the vicinity of dead people,' Harry said.

  'Aha. The funeral. You were one of Ivarsson's guard dogs.'

  'No.'

  'So you didn't like that, eh? Being called his guard dog. Is there bad blood between you?'

  'No,' Harry reflected. 'We just don't like each other. You didn't either, I understand.'

  Raskol smiled gently and the neon tube flickered into life. 'I hope he didn't take it personally. It looked like a very expensive suit.'

  'I think his suit suffered most.'

  'He wanted me to tell him something. So I told him something.'

  'That snitches are marked for life?'

  'Not bad, Inspector. But the ink will fade with time. Do you play chess?'

  Harry tried not to show that Raskol had used the correct rank. He might have guessed.

  'How did you manage to hide the transmitter afterwards?' Harry asked. 'I heard they turned the whole block upside down.'

  'Who said I hid anything? Black or white?'

  'They say you're still the brains behind most of the big bank robberies in Norway, that this is your base and your part of the proceeds is paid into a foreign account. Is that why you made sure you were put in A-Wing in Botsen? Because you can meet the shorttermers who are soon out and can execute the plans you hatch here? And how do you communicate with them on the outside? Have you got mobile phones here, too? Computers?'

  Raskol sighed. 'A promising start, Inspector, but you're beginning to bore me already. Shall we play or not?'

  'A boring game,' Harry said. 'Unless there's something in the pot.'

  'Fine by me. What shall we play for?'

  'This.' Harry held up a keyring with one single key and a brass nameplate.

  'And what's that?' Raskol asked.

  'No one knows. Occasionally you have to take a risk that what's
in the pot has some value.'

  'Why should I?'

  Harry leaned forward. 'Because you trust me.'

  Raskol laughed out loud. 'Give me one reason why I should trust you, Spiuni.'

  'Beate,' Harry said without taking his eyes off Raskol. 'Would you mind leaving us on our own?'

  He heard the banging on the door and the rattle of keys behind him. The door was opened and there was a smooth click as the lock fell into place.

  'Have a look.' Harry put the key on the table.

  Without removing his eyes from Harry's, Raskol asked: 'AA?'

  Harry picked up the white king from the board. It was handcarved and a handsome piece. 'Those are the initials of a man with a delicate problem. He was rich. He had a wife and children. House and chalet. Dog and lover. Everything in the garden seemed rosy.' Harry turned the piece on its head. 'But as time passed, the rich man changed. Events made him realise that the family was the most important thing in his life. So he sold his company, got rid of the lover and promised himself and his family that now they would live for each other. The problem was that the lover began to threaten the man with exposing their relationship. She may have blackmailed him, too. Not because she was greedy, but because she was poor. And because she was finishing off a piece of art which she thought would crown her life's work, and she needed money to launch it. She pressed him harder and harder, and one night he decided to pay her a visit. Not just any evening, but this special evening, because she had told him an old flame was coming round. Why did she tell him? Perhaps to make him jealous? Or to show there were other men who wanted her? He wasn't jealous. He was excited. This was a wonderful opportunity.' Harry looked at Raskol. He had crossed his arms and was watching Harry. 'He waited outside. Waited and waited, watching the lights in her flat. Just before midnight the visitor left. An arbitrary man who - should it ever come to that - would not have an alibi, who others presumably would confirm had spent the whole evening with Anna. Her watchful neighbour, if no one else, would have heard this man ring earlier in the evening. Our man didn't ring, though. Our man let himself in with a key. Crept up the stairs and unlocked the door to her flat.'

  Harry picked up the black king and compared it with the white. If you didn't look too closely, you could be deceived into thinking they were identical.

  'The weapon is not registered. It may have been Anna's; it may have been his. I don't know exactly what happened in the flat, and the world will probably never know, as she is dead. From the police point of view, it is an open and shut case: suicide.'

  'I? Police point of view?' Raskol stroked his goatee. 'Why not we and our point of view? Are you trying to tell me you're flying solo here, Inspector?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You know very well what I mean. The trick of sending your colleague out to give me the impression this was between you and me, I understand that, but . . .' He pressed his palms together. 'Although that might be possible. Does anyone else know what you know?'

  Harry shook his head.

  'So, what are you after? Money?'

  'No.'

  'I wouldn't be so quick, if I were you, Inspector. I haven't had a chance to say what this information is worth to me yet. We may be talking big bucks. If you can prove what you've said. And punishment of the guilty party may be done under - shall we say - private auspices without any interference from the state.'

  'That's not the issue,' Harry said, hoping the perspiration on his forehead wasn't visible. 'The question is what is your information worth to me.'

  'What are you suggesting, Spiuni?'

  'What I'm suggesting,' Harry said, holding the two kings in the same hand, 'is a trade-off. You tell me who the Expeditor is and I'll obtain evidence against the man who took Anna's life.'

  Raskol chuckled. 'There we have it. You can go now, Spiuni.'

  'Think about it, Raskol.'

  'Quite unnecessary. I trust people who chase money; I don't trust crusaders.'

  They sized each other up. The neon tube crackled. Harry nodded, replaced the chess pieces, rose to his feet, went to the door and banged on it. 'You must have been fond of her,' he said with his back to Raskol. 'The flat in Sorgenfrigata was registered in your name, and I know exactly how broke Anna was.'

  'Oh?'

  'Since it's your flat, I've asked the housing committee to send you the key. A courier will be bringing it today. I suggest you compare it with the one you got from me.'

  'Why's that?'

  'There are three keys to Anna's flat. Anna had one, the electrician had the second. I found this one in the chalet of the man I've been talking about. In the drawer of the bedside table. It's the third and last key. The only one which can have been used, if Anna was murdered.'

  They heard footsteps outside the door.

  'And if it enhances my credibility,' Harry said, 'I'm only trying to save my own skin.'

  22

  America

  People with a thirst drink anywhere. Take Malik's in Thereses gate, for example. It was a hamburger bar and had nothing of what gave Schroder's, for all its failings, a certain dignity as a licensed taproom. It was true they had the hamburgers they pushed, rumoured to be a cut above the competition; with a degree of charity one might say that the slightly Indian-inspired interior with the picture of the Norwegian Royal Family did have a kind of naff charm; however, it was and always would be a fast-food outlet where those willing to pay for alcoholic credibility would never dream of imbibing their beer.

  Harry had never been one of them.

  He hadn't been to Malik's for a long time, but as he gave it the once-over, he was able to confirm that nothing had changed. Oystein was sitting with his male (and one female) drinking pals at the smokers' table. With a backdrop of outdated pop hits, Eurosport and sizzling fat they were enjoying a convivial conversation about lottery wins, a recent triple murder and an absent friend's moral shortcomings.

  'Well, hi, Harry!' Oystein's gruff voice cut through the sound pollution. He flicked back his long, greasy hair, wiped his hand on the thigh of his trousers and held it out to Harry.

  'This is the cop I was telling you about, folks. Who shot the guy in Australia. Hit him in the head, didn't you.'

  'Good work,' said one of the other customers. Harry couldn't see his face because he was bent forward with his long hair hanging over his beer like a curtain. 'Exterminate the vermin.'

  Harry pointed to a free table and Oystein nodded, stubbed out his cigarette, put the packet of Petteroes in the pocket of his denim shirt and concentrated on carrying the freshly drawn draught beer to the table without spilling it.

  'Long time, no see,' Oystein said, rolling a new cigarette. 'Same as the rest of the boys, by the way. Never see 'em. They've all moved, got married and had kids.' Oystein laughed. A gravelly, bitter laugh. 'They've all settled down, anyroad. Who would've believed it?'

  'Mm.'

  'Ever been back to Oppsal? Your dad still lives in his house, doesn't he?'

  'Yes, but I'm not there very often. We talk on the phone now and then.'

  'And your sis? Is she any better?'

  Harry smiled. 'You don't get better with Down's Syndrome, Oystein. She's doing fine, though. Has her own flat in Sogn. Got a partner.'

  'Christ, more than I've got then.'

  'How's the driving going?'

  'Alright. Just changed taxi company. Last one thought I smelt. Tosser.'

  'Still not interested in going back to computers?'

  'Are you crazy!' Oystein shook off internal laughter as he ran the tip of his tongue along the paper. 'Annual salary of a million and a quiet office - of course, I could do with that, but I've missed the boat, Harry. The time for rock'n'roll guys like me in IT is over.'

  'I was talking to someone in the data-protection department of Den norske Bank. He said you were still reckoned to be a codebreaking pioneer.'

  'Pioneer means past it, Harry. No one has any time for a washedup hacker ten years behind the latest developments.
You can understand that, can't you? And then there was all that bother.'

  'Mm. What actually happened?'

  'What happened?' Oystein rolled his eyes. 'You know me. Once a hippy, always a hippy. Needed dough. Tried a code I shouldn't have.' He lit his roll-up and looked around in vain for an ashtray. 'What about you? Stopped hitting the bottle for good, have you?'

  'Trying.' Harry reached over for an ashtray from the next table. 'I'm with someone.'

  He told Oystein about Rakel, Oleg and the court case in Moscow. And about life in general. It didn't take long.

  Oystein talked about the others in the gang of friends who had grown up in Oppsal. About Sigge, who had moved to Harestua with a woman Oystein thought was much too refined for him, and Kristian who was in a wheelchair after being hit by a car while he was on his motorbike north of Minnesund. 'Doctors have given him a chance.'

  'A chance of what?' Harry asked.

  'Of humping again,' Oystein said, draining his glass.

  Tore was still a teacher, but he had split up with Silje.

  'His chances aren't so good,' Oystein said. 'He's put on thirty kilos. That was why she cleared off. It's true! Torkild met her out on the town and she told him she couldn't stand all the blubber.' He put down his glass. 'But I take it that wasn't why you called?'

  'No, I need some help. I'm on a case.'

  'To catch baddies? And you come to me? Jesus!' Oystein's laughter morphed into a coughing fit.

  'It's a case I'm personally involved in,' Harry said. 'It's a bit difficult to explain everything, but I'm trying to trace someone who is sending me e-mails. I think he's using a server with anonymous clients somewhere abroad.'

  Oystein nodded pensively. 'So you're in trouble?'

  'Maybe. What makes you think that?'

  'I'm a pisshead taxi driver who knows nada about the latest in IT. And everyone who knows me can tell you, I'm unreliable as far as work goes. In short, the only reason you've come to me is that I'm an old pal. Loyalty. I'll keep my mouth shut, won't I.' He took a long swig of a new beer. 'I may enjoy the odd bevvy, but I'm not stupid, Harry.' He pulled hard on his cigarette. 'So - when do we begin?'