Nemesis

  Beate was standing on a chair beside Lev's body when Harry came in. She was struggling to bend one of Lev's fingers so she could press it against the inside of a small shiny metal box.

  'Blast,' she said. 'The ink pad has been standing in the sun at the hotel and it's dried out.'

  'If you can't get a good print, we'll have to use the firemen's method.'

  'And that is?'

  'People caught in a fire automatically use their hands. Even on charred bodies the skin on the fingertips may be intact and you can use fingerprints to identify bodies. Sometimes, for practical reasons, firemen cut off a finger and take it to Forensics.'

  'That's called desecration of a body.'

  Harry shrugged. 'If you look at his other hand, you can see he's already missing one finger.'

  'I can see,' she said. 'Looks like it's been cut off. What might that mean?'

  Harry went closer and shone the torch. 'It means the finger was cut off long after he hanged himself. Someone may have come here and seen he'd already done the job for them.'

  'Who?'

  'Well, in some countries gypsies punish thieves by cutting their fingers off,' Harry said. 'If they stole from gypsies, that is.'

  'I think I've got a good print,' Beate said, wiping the sweat off her brow. 'Shall we cut him down?'

  'No,' Harry said. 'As soon as we've had a look around, we'll tidy up after us and clear off. I saw a phone box in the main street. I'll phone the police anonymously from there and report the death. When we get to Oslo, you can phone the Brazilian police and have the medical report sent. I have no doubt he died of asphyxiation, but I want the time of death.'

  'What about the door?'

  'Not much we can do about that.'

  'And your neck? The bandage is all red.'

  'Forget it. My arm hurts more. I landed on it when I went through the door.'

  'How bad is it?'

  Harry gingerly raised his arm and grimaced. 'It's fine so long as I don't move it.'

  'Think yourself lucky you haven't got the Setesdal Twitch.'

  Two out of three in the room laughed, but their laughter quickly subsided.

  * On the way back to the hotel, Beate asked Harry if it all made sense to him.

  'From a technical point of view, yes. Beyond that, I'll never get suicide to make sense.'

  He flicked his cigarette away. It described a glowing arc in the almost tangible night. 'But that's me.'

  29

  Room 316

  The window opened with a bang.

  'Trond is travelling,' she trilled. Her bleached hair had obviously

  been given another dose of chemicals since their previous visit and her

  scalp shone through the devitalised hair. 'Have you been down south?' Harry raised a tanned face and peered at her.

  'In a way. Do you know where he is?'

  'He's packing his car,' she said, pointing to the other side of the

  houses. 'I think he's going to travel, the poor thing.'

  'Mm.'

  Beate wanted to go, but Harry stayed put. 'You've lived here a long

  time, have you?' he asked.

  'Oh yes. Thirty-two years.'

  'You can probably remember Lev and Trond from the time they

  were small, can you?'

  'Of course. They left their mark on Disengrenda.' She smiled and

  leaned against the frame of the window. 'Especially Lev. A real

  charmer. We always knew he would be dangerous for the ladies.' 'Dangerous, yes. Maybe you know the story about the man who

  fell from the footbridge?'

  Her face darkened and she whispered in a tragic voice: 'Oh, yes.

  Dreadful business. I heard he was never able to walk properly again,

  the poor chap. His knees stiffened up. Can you imagine a child

  thinking up such a wicked trick?'

  'Mm. He must have been a real wild child.'

  'Wild child?' She shaded her eyes. 'I wouldn't exactly say that. He

  was a polite, well-brought-up boy. That was what was so shocking.' 'And everybody round here knew he'd done it?'

  'Everybody. I saw him from this window. A red jacket heading off

  on his bike. I should have known there was something wrong when he

  came back. The lad's face was completely drained of colour.' She shuddered in the cold gust of wind. Then she pointed across the road. Trond was walking towards them with his arms hanging down by

  his sides. He slowed down more and more until, in the end, he was

  hardly moving.

  'It's Lev, isn't it,' he said on finally reaching them.

  'Yes,' Harry said.

  'Is he dead?'

  From the corner of his eye he saw the gaping face in the window.

  'Yes, he's dead.'

  'Good,' said Trond. Then he bent over and hid his face in his hands.

  Bjarne Moller stood staring through the window with a concerned expression on his face when Harry peeked in through the half-open door. Harry tapped.

  Moller turned and brightened up. 'Oh, hi.'

  'Here's the report, boss.' Harry tossed a green Manila wallet on his desk.

  Moller fell into his chair, managed after some exertion to heap his excessively long legs under the desk and put on his glasses.

  'Aha,' he mumbled as he opened the wallet inscribed LIST OF DOCUMENTS. Inside there was a solitary piece of A4 paper.

  'Didn't think you'd want to know all the ins and outs,' Harry said.

  'If you say so, I'm sure you're right,' Moller said, running his eyes over the generously spaced lines.

  Harry looked over his boss's shoulder and out of the window. There was nothing to see, just thick damp mist which lay like a used nappy over the town. Moller put down the piece of paper.

  'So you just went there, someone told you where the man lived and you found the Expeditor hanging from a rope?'

  'In broad outline, yes.'

  Moller shrugged his shoulders. 'Fine by me so long as we have watertight evidence that this is the man we've been looking for.'

  'Weber checked the fingerprints this morning.'

  'And?'

  Harry sat down in the chair. 'They tally with those we found on the Coke bottle the robber was holding before he went into action.'

  'Can we be sure it's the same bottle . . . ?'

  'Relax, boss. We've got the bottle and the man on the video. You just read in the report that we have a handwritten suicide note in which Lev Grette confesses, didn't you? We went to Disengrenda this morning and informed Trond Grette. We asked if we could borrow some of Lev's old schoolbooks from the loft and Beate took them to the Kripos handwriting expert. He says there's no doubt the suicide note was written by the same person.'

  'Yes, yes, yes, I just wanted to be absolutely sure before we went public with this, Harry. It's front-page news, you know.'

  'You should try to be a little happier, boss.' Harry got to his feet. 'We've just solved our biggest case for a good while. The place should be festooned with streamers and balloons.'

  'I'm sure you're right,' Moller sighed. He paused before asking, 'Why don't you look happier then?'

  'I won't be happy until we solve the other case, you know . . .' Harry went towards the door. 'Halvorsen and I are clearing our desks today and we'll make a start on the Ellen Gjelten case tomorrow.'

  He stopped in the doorway when Moller cleared his throat. 'Yes, boss?'

  'I was wondering how you found out Lev Grette was the Expeditor.'

  'Well, the official version is that Beate recognised him on the video. Would you like to hear the unofficial one?'

  Moller was massaging a stiff knee. The concerned expression was back. 'Probably not.'

  'Mm,' said Harry, standing in the doorway to the House of Pain. 'Mm,' said Beate, twisting round on her chair and glancing at the

  pictures rolling across the screen.

  'Suppose I ought to thank you for great teamwork.'


  'Same to you.'

  Harry stood fingering his bunch of keys. 'Anyway,' he said. 'I don't

  think Ivarsson will be pissed off for very long. After all, he bathed in

  some of the glory as it was his idea to make us a team.' Beate smiled faintly. 'For as long as it lasted.'

  'Don't forget what I said about you-know-who.'

  'No.' Her eyes flashed.

  Harry pushed his shoulders forward. 'He's a bastard. It would be

  unconscionable of me not to tell you.'

  'Lovely to know you, Harry.'

  Harry let the door close behind him.

  Harry unlocked the door to his flat, put down his bag and the plastic Playstation carrier in the middle of the hall floor and went to bed. Three dreamless hours later he was awoken by the telephone ringing. He turned over and saw it was 19.03 on his alarm clock; he swung his legs out of bed, shuffled into the hallway, picked up the telephone and said: 'Hi, Oystein,' before the other person could even introduce himself.

  'Hello, you in Oslo, I'm at the airport in Cairo,' Oystein said. 'We said we'd speak now, didn't we?'

  'You're punctuality personified,' Harry said with a yawn. 'And you're drunk.'

  'Not drunk, no,' Oystein slurred indignantly. 'Just had a couple of Stellas. Or was it three? Have to watch your fluids in the desert, y'know. I'm clear-headed and sober, Harry.'

  'That's good to hear. I hope you have more good news.'

  'As the doctor says, there's good news and bad news. I'll tell you the good news first . . .'

  'Right.'

  A long pause followed, during which all Harry could hear was a crackling noise over what sounded like heavy breathing.

  'Oystein?'

  'Yes?'

  'I'm standing here, getting as excited as a child at Christmas.'

  'Hey?'

  'The good news?'

  'Oh, yes. Um, well, I've got the client's number, Harry. No problemo, as they say here. It was a Norwegian mobile phone number.'

  'Mobile? Is that possible?'

  'You can send wireless e-mails all over the world. You just connect your computer to a mobile which in turn connects to the server. That's pretty damn old news, Harry.'

  'OK, but has this client a name?'

  'Er . . . of course. But the guys in El Tor don't have it. They just bill the Norwegian telephone operator, Telenor in this case, who in turn invoices the end client. So I rang Information in Norway and got the name.'

  'Yes?' Harry was fully awake now.

  'Now we've come to the not quite such good news.'

  'OK?'

  'Have you checked your telephone bill recently, Harry?'

  It took a few seconds before it clicked. 'My mobile phone. Is the bastard using my mobile phone?'

  'You no longer have it, I suppose?'

  'No, I lost it that evening . . . with Anna. Fuck!'

  'And it never occurred to you it might be a good idea to cancel your contract?'

  'Occurred to me?' Harry groaned. 'Nothing sensible has occurred to me since this shit started, Oystein. Sorry, I'm freaking out here. It's all so simple and obvious. That was why I didn't find my phone at Anna's. And that's why he's laughing.'

  'Apologies for ruining your day.'

  'Hang on a moment,' Harry said, suddenly in high spirits. 'If we can prove he has my phone, we can also prove he was at Anna's after I left!'

  'Yippee!' screeched the receiver. And then a more cautious: 'If it means you're happy, anyway? Hello? Harry?'

  'I'm still here. I'm thinking.'

  'It's good to think. You keep thinking. I've got a date with Stella. Well, several actually. And if I'm going to make the Oslo flight . . .'

  'All the best, Oystein.'

  Harry stood with the receiver in his hand, weighing up whether to hurl it into the mirror or not. When he woke up next day, he hoped he had dreamed the conversation with Oystein. In fact he had. Six or seven versions of it.

  Raskol sat with his head bowed, resting on his hands, as Harry talked. He neither moved nor interrupted while Harry described how they had found Lev Grette and how his own mobile phone was the reason they still had no evidence against Anna's murderer. When Harry had finished, Raskol folded his hands and slowly raised his head: 'You've solved your case then, but mine remains unresolved.'

  'I don't see them as your case and mine, Raskol. My responsibility--'

  'I do, though, Spiuni,' Raskol cut in. 'I run a military organisation.'

  'Mm. What exactly do you mean by that?'

  Raskol closed his eyes. 'Have I told you about the time King Wu invited Sun Tzu to teach the ladies of the court the arts of war, Spiuni?'

  'Well, no.'

  Raskol smiled. 'Sun Tzu was an intellectual and he began by precisely and pedagogically explaining marching instructions to the women. When the drums rolled, they didn't march, they just giggled and laughed. 'It's the general's fault if the commands are not understood,' Sun Tzu said and explained once more. But the same happened when he gave the order to march. 'It's the officer's fault if an order is understood but not obeyed,' he said and ordered two of his men to pick out two of the leaders of the courtesans. They were lined up and beheaded in front of the other terrified women. When the king heard that his two favourite concubines had been executed, he fell ill and had to take to his bed for several days. When he got up again, he put Sun Tzu in control of his armed forces.' Raskol opened his eyes again. 'What does this story teach us, Spiuni?'

  Harry didn't answer.

  'Well, it teaches us that in a military organisation the logic has to be total and absolutely consistent. If you relax your demands, you're left with a court of giggling concubines. When you came to ask for another 40,000 kroner, you got it because I believed the story of the photograph in Anna's shoe. Because Anna is a gypsy. When we gypsies travel, we leave a patrin at forks in the road. A red scarf tied around a branch, a chipped bone, they all have different meanings. A photograph means someone has died. Or will die. You weren't to know, so I trusted what you said.' Raskol placed his hands on the table, palms upwards. 'But the man who took the life of my brother's daughter is free and when I look at you now I see a giggling concubine, Spiuni. Absolute consistency. Give me his name, Spiuni.'

  Harry breathed in. Two words. Four syllables. If he revealed Albu's name, what sentence would be passed on Albu? Premeditated murder motivated by jealousy. Nine years, out after six? And the consequences for Harry? The investigation would inevitably uncover the fact that he, a policeman, had concealed the truth to prevent the finger of suspicion pointing at him. Shot himself in the foot. Two words, four syllables. All Harry's problems would be solved. Albu would be the one to face the final consequence.

  Harry's answer was one syllable.

  Raskol nodded and regarded Harry with sad eyes. 'I was afraid you would say that. You don't give me any choice then, Spiuni. Do you remember what I answered when you asked me why I trusted you?'

  Harry nodded.

  'Everyone has something they live for. Isn't that true, Spiuni? Something which can be taken from them. Well, does room 316 ring any bells?'

  Harry didn't answer.

  'Let me tell you then. Three one six is the number of a room in the International Hotel in Moscow. Olga is on watch on that floor. She'll soon be retired and would like a nice, long holiday by the Black Sea. There are three stairways and a lift to the floor. As well as the staff lift. The room has twin beds.'

  Harry gulped.

  Raskol rested his forehead on his folded hands: 'The little one sleeps nearest the window.'

  Harry got up, went to the door and hit it hard. He could hear the echo resounding down the corridor outside. He continued to beat the door until he heard the key in the lock.

  30

  Vibrate Mode

  'Sorry, but I came as quickly as I could,' Oystein said, driving his taxi off the pavement outside Elmer's Fruit&Tobacco shop.

  'Welcome back,' Harry said, wondering whether the bus coming from t
he right had realised that Oystein had no intention of stopping.

  'We're going to Slemdal, aren't we?' Oystein ignored the furious hooting from the bus.

  'Bjornetrakket. You know you have to give way here?'

  'Decided not to.'

  Harry looked across at his pal. He could just discern two bloodshot eyes behind the narrow slits.

  'Tired?'

  'Jet lag.'

  'The time difference between here and Egypt is one hour, Oystein.'

  'At least.'

  Since neither the shock absorbers nor the springs in his seat worked any more, Harry felt every cobbled stone and change of level in the road as they careered through the bends on their way up to Albu's house, but right now nothing interested him less. He borrowed Oystein's mobile phone, rang the International Hotel and room 316. Oleg answered. Harry could hear the pleasure in his voice when Oleg asked him where he was.

  'In a car. Where's your mum?'

  'Out.'

  'I didn't think she had to go to court until tomorrow.'

  'All the solicitors are meeting in Kuznetski Most,' he said in an adult voice. 'She'll be back in an hour.'

  'Listen, Oleg, can you give your mum a message. Tell her to change hotel. Immediately.'

  'Why?'

  'Because . . . I said so. Just tell her, OK? I'll ring again later.'

  'Alright.'

  'Good boy. I've got to go.'

  'You . . .'

  'What?'

  'Nothing.'

  'OK. Don't forget to tell your mum what I told you.'

  Oystein braked and pulled onto the pavement.

  'Wait here,' Harry said and jumped out. 'If I'm not back in twenty minutes, ring the ops room, the number I gave you. Tell them--'

  'Inspector Hole from Crime Squad wants a patrol car with armed officers here right away. I got it, Harry.'

  'Good. If you hear shots, ring immediately.'

  'Right. Which film is this again?'

  Harry looked up at the house. No barking to be heard. A dark blue BMW drove slowly past them and parked further down the street. Otherwise everything was quiet.

  'Most of them,' Harry breathed.

  Oystein grinned. 'Cool.' Then a wrinkle of concern appeared between his eyes. 'It is cool, isn't it? Not just insanely dangerous?' *