He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up an image of her. Not from the time they were castaways, but from the last time he had seen her. They had eaten together. Apparently. She had filled his glass - had it been wine? Had he tasted it? Apparently. She had given him a refill. He had lost his grip on things. Topped up his glass. She had laughed at him. Kissed him. Danced for him. Whispered her usual sweet nothings in his ear. They had piled into bed and cast off. Had that really been so easy for her? Or for him?
No, it can't have been.
But Harry didn't know for sure. He couldn't have said with any confidence that he hadn't been lying in a bed in Sorgenfrigata with a rapturous smile on his lips. He had been reunited with an ex-lover while Rakel lay staring up at a hotel ceiling in Moscow, unable to sleep for fear of losing her child.
Harry huddled up. The cold, raw wind blew right through him as if he were a ghost. These were thoughts he had managed to keep at bay, but now they crowded in on him: if he couldn't know whether he was capable of cheating on the woman he treasured most in his life, how could he know what else he had done? Aune maintained that drink and drugs merely strengthened or weakened qualities latent within us. But who knew for sure what was inside them? Humans are not robots and the chemistry of the brain changes over time. Who had a full inventory of all the things - given the right circumstances and the wrong medication - we are capable of doing?
Harry shivered and cursed. He knew now. Knew now why he had to find Arne Albu and get a confession before others silenced him. It wasn't because his profession had got into his bloodstream or law had become a personal matter; it was because he had to know. And Arne Albu was the only person who could tell him.
Harry closed his eyes again. The low whistle of the wind against the granite could be heard above the persistent, hypnotic rhythm of the waves.
When he opened his eyes, it was no longer dark. The wind had swept away the clouds and the matt stars twinkled above him. The moon had moved. Harry glanced at his watch. He had been sitting there for almost an hour. Gregor was barking madly at the sea. Stiff, he got to his feet and stumbled over to the dog. The gravitational pull of the moon had shifted, the water level had sunk and Harry plodded down what had become a broad sandy beach.
'Come on, Gregor. We won't find anything here.'
The dog snapped at him when he went to take his collar, and Harry automatically jumped back a step. He peered across the water. The moonlight glittered on the black surface, but now he could make out something he hadn't seen when the water was at its highest ebb. It looked like the tips of two mooring poles just above sea level. Harry went to the water's edge and shone the torch.
'Jesus Christ,' he whispered.
Gregor leapt out into the water and he waded after the dog. It was ten metres into the water, but it didn't even come up to his knees. He stared down at a pair of shoes. Hand-sewn, Italian. Harry shone the torch into the water where the light was reflected back from bare, bluish-white legs, sticking up like two pale tombstones.
Harry's shouts were carried on the wind and drowned instantly in the crashing of the waves. But the torch he dropped, to be swallowed up by the water, remained on the sandy bottom and shone for almost twenty-four hours. When the little boy who found it the following summer ran with it to his father, the salt water had corroded the black casing and neither of them connected a Maglite with the grotesque discovery of a corpse. The previous year it had been in all the papers, but in the summer sun that seemed an eternity away. PA RT V
32
David Hasselhoff
The morning light stood like a white pillar through a tear in the sky and cast what Tom Waaler called 'Jesus Light' onto the fjord. A number of similar pictures had hung on the walls at home. He strode over the plastic ribbon cordoning off the crime scene. Those who thought they knew him would have said it was his nature to jump over, rather than duck under. They were right about the latter, but not the former. Tom Waaler doubted that anyone knew him. And he intended it to stay that way.
He raised a digital camera to the steel-blue lenses of his Police sunglasses, of which he had a dozen pairs at home. A return favour from an appreciative customer. As indeed the camera was, too. The frame captured the hole in the ground and the body beside it. It was wearing black trousers and a shirt which had once been white, but was now brown from the clay and sand.
'Another photo for your private collection?' It was Weber.
'This was new,' Waaler said without looking up. 'I like creative murderers. Have you identified the man?'
'Arne Albu. Forty-two years old. Married, three children. Seems to have a fair bit of money. He owns a chalet just behind here.' 'Did anyone see or hear anything?'
'They're making door-to-door inquiries now. But you can see for yourself how deserted it is here.'
'Someone at the hotel over there perhaps?' Waaler pointed towards a large yellow wooden building at the end of the beach.
'Doubt it,' Weber said. 'There won't be anyone staying at this time of the year.'
'Who found the body?'
'Anonymous call from a telephone box in Moss. To the Moss police.'
'The murderer?'
'Don't think so. He said he saw a pair of legs sticking up when he was taking his dog for a walk.'
'Have they got the conversation on tape?'
Weber shook his head. 'He didn't ring the emergency number.'
'What do you make of this?' Waaler motioned towards the corpse.
'The doctors still have to send in their report, but to me it looks like he was buried alive. No external signs of violence, but blood in the nose and mouth and burst blood vessels in the eyes suggest a large accumulation of blood in the head. In addition, we found sand deep in his throat, which means he must have been breathing when he was buried.'
'I see. Anything else?'
'The dog was tied to the railing outside his chalet up there. Great big, ugly Rottweiler. In surprisingly good shape. The door wasn't locked. No signs of a struggle inside the chalet, either.'
'In other words, they marched in, threatened him with guns, tied up the dog, dug a hole for him and asked him if he would mind jumping in.'
'If there were several of them.'
'Big Rottweiler, one-and-a-half-metre-deep hole. I think we can take that as read, Weber.'
Weber didn't react. He had never had a problem working with Waaler. The man was a talented investigator, one of the few; his results spoke for themselves. But that didn't mean Weber had to like him. Although dislike wasn't perhaps the right word. It was something else, something which made you think of Spot the Difference pictures. You couldn't quite put your finger on what it was, but there was something that disquieted you. Disquieted, that was the word.
Waaler crouched down beside the body. He knew Weber didn't like him. That was fine by him. Weber was an older police officer working in Forensics, who was going nowhere, who could not conceivably affect Waaler's career or life in any way. He was, to cut a long story short, not someone he needed to like him.
'Who identified him?'
'A few of the locals popped by,' Weber answered. 'The owner of the grocery shop recognised him. We got hold of his wife in Oslo and brought her out here. She's confirmed it's Arne Albu.'
'And where is she now?'
'In the chalet.'
'Has anyone questioned her?'
Weber shrugged.
'I like being the first on the scene,' Waaler said, leaning forward and snapping a close-up of the face.
'Moss police district has the case. We've just been called in to assist.'
'We have the experience,' Waaler said. 'Has anyone politely explained that to the country clods?'
'A couple of us have in fact investigated murder before,' a voice behind them said. Waaler peered up at a smiling man in a black leather police jacket. The epaulettes bore one star and gold edges.
'No offence taken,' the inspector laughed. 'I'm Paul Sorensen. You must be Inspector Waaler.'
&nbs
p; Waaler briefly acknowledged him and ignored Sorensen's moves to shake hands. He didn't like physical contact with men he didn't know. Nor with men he did know, for that matter. It was another matter with women. As long as he was in control, anyway. And he was.
'You haven't investigated anything like this before, Sorensen,' Waaler said, prising open one of the dead man's eyelids and revealing a blood-red eyeball. 'This isn't a pub stabbing or a drunken misadventure. That's why you called us in, isn't it?'
'This doesn't look like anything local, no,' Sorensen said.
'I suggest you and the boys stick around here and keep watch while I go and have a word with the corpse's wife.'
Sorensen laughed as if Waaler had told a good joke, but stopped when he saw Waaler's raised eyebrows over the Police sunglasses. Tom Waaler stood up and began to walk to the police cordon. He counted slowly to three, then he shouted without turning: 'And move that police car. I see you've parked in the turnaround, Sorensen. Forensics will be looking for tyre tracks from the murderer's car. Thanking you.'
He didn't need to turn to know the smile had been wiped off Sorensen's jolly face. And that the crime scene had just been taken over by Oslo police district.
'Fru Albu?' Waaler enquired as he entered the living room. He had decided he wanted this over as quickly as possible. He had a lunch date with a promising young girl, and he intended to keep it.
Vigdis Albu looked up from the photo album she was flicking through. 'Yes?'
'You can stop here.'
Waaler liked what he saw. The meticulously maintained body, the confident way she was sitting, the studied TV hostess-style casualness and the third button of her blouse undone. He also liked what he heard. The soft voice simply made for the special words he liked his women to say. And he liked the mouth he already hoped he would hear the words come out of.
'Inspector Tom Waaler,' he said, taking a seat opposite her. 'I understand what a shock this must have been for you. It is, of course, a cliche, and I doubt it has any significance for you at this time, but I would like to extend my sympathy to you. I have also lost someone very close to me.'
He waited. Until she was obliged to look up and he could catch her eyes. They were blurred, and at first Waaler thought tear-blurred. It wasn't until she answered that he realised she was drunk: 'Have you got a cigarette, Constable?'
'Call me Tom. I don't smoke. Sorry.'
'How long do I have to be here, Tom?'
'I'll arrange it so that you can leave as soon as possible. I just need to ask a few questions, OK?'
'OK.'
'Good. Have you any idea who could have wanted to take the life of your husband?'
Vigdis Albu rested her chin on her hand and gazed out of the window. 'Where's the other constable, Tom?'
'Pardon me?'
'Shouldn't he be here?'
'Which constable, fru Albu?'
'Harry. He's got this case, hasn't he?'
The main reason Tom Waaler had advanced through the ranks faster than anyone else from his intake year was that he had worked out that no one, not even defence counsels, would probe how he had obtained evidence of the accused's demonstrable guilt. The next reason was that he had sensitive antennae. Of course, on occasion, they didn't react when they should have. But they never reacted when they shouldn't have. And they were reacting now.
'Are you referring to Harry Hole, fru Albu?'
Tom Waaler still liked the voice. He pulled into the kerb, leaned forward and looked up at the pink house towering over the hill. The morning sun glinted on an animal-like object in the garden.
'That was very nice of you,' Vigdis Albu said. 'To persuade Sorensen to let me leave, and to drive me home.'
Waaler gave her a warm smile. He knew it was warm. Many people had said he looked like David Hasselhoff of Baywatch fame; he had the same chin, body and smile. He had seen Baywatch and knew what they meant.
'I should thank you,' he said.
It was true. During the drive from Larkollen he had learned several interesting things. Such as that Harry Hole had been trying to find evidence that her husband had murdered Anna Bethsen, who - to the best of his recollection - was the woman who had committed suicide in Sorgenfrigata a while back. The case had been closed. He himself had concluded it was suicide and written the report. So what was that idiot Hole up to? Was he trying to get even for old hostilities? Was Hole trying to prove Anna Bethsen was a victim of a criminal act to compromise him - Tom Waaler? It would be just like that crazy alkie to dig up something like that, but it didn't quite make sense to Waaler that Hole was putting so much energy into a case which, in the very worst scenario, would only demonstrate that Waaler had been a bit too quick to draw conclusions. He flatly rejected the notion that Harry's motive might simply be to clear up the case. Only police officers in films spent their free time doing that sort of thing.
The fact that Harry's suspect was dead now naturally meant that a number of alternative solutions were on the cards. Waaler wasn't sure which, but as his instincts told him Harry Hole was involved, he was interested in finding out. So when Vigdis Albu asked Waaler if he would like to come in for a cup of coffee it wasn't primarily the titillating thought of fresh widow that attracted him. This could be the chance to shake off the man who had been breathing down his neck for - how long was it now? Over a year?
Over a year, yes, indeed. Over a year since Officer Ellen Gjelten - thanks to one of Sverre Olsen's blunders - had discovered that Tom Waaler was the main man behind the organised arms smuggling in Oslo. When he gave Olsen the order to execute her before she passed on what she knew, he had been all too aware that Hole would never give up until he had found who killed her. So he had made sure Olsen's cap was found at the crime scene, so that he could shoot the murder suspect 'in self-defence' while arresting him. There was nothing to incriminate him, yet Waaler had the strangely unpleasant sensation that Hole was closing in. And he could be dangerous.
'The house is so empty when everyone is away,' Vigdis Albu said, unlocking the door.
'How long have you been . . . er . . . alone?' Waaler asked, as he followed her up the steps to the living room. He still liked what he saw.
'The children are with my parents in Nordby. The idea was they would stay there until things were back to normal.' She sighed and sank down into one of the deep armchairs. 'I must have a drink. Then I'd better call them.'
Tom Waaler stood observing her. She had ruined everything with what she had just said. The little tingle of excitement he had felt was gone. She suddenly looked much older. Perhaps it was because the effect of the alcohol was wearing off. It had smoothed out the wrinkles and softened her mouth, which hardened now into a crooked, pink fissure.
'Sit down, Tom. I'll make us some coffee.'
He dropped into the sofa as Vigdis disappeared into the kitchen. He spread his legs and noticed a faded stain on the material. It reminded him of the stain on his sofa, left by menstrual blood.
He smiled at the thought.
The thought of Beate Lonn.
Sweet, innocent Beate Lonn, who had sat on the opposite side of the coffee table and swallowed every word he had said as if they were sugar lumps in her cafe latte, the little girl's drink. I think it's crucial to have the courage to be yourself. The most important thing in a relationship is honesty, don't you think? It was difficult to know where to pitch your selection of pseudo-profound cliches with young girls, but he had obviously hit the bullseye with Beate. She had docilely followed him home after he had concocted a drink for her which was anything but a young girl's.
He had to laugh. Even the day after, Beate Lonn had thought her blackout was due to tiredness, and the fact that the drink had been stronger than she was used to. Getting the dose right was everything.
The best bit had been when he went into the living room in the morning and she was rubbing a wet cloth over the sofa where, the evening before, they had done the basics before she passed out and the real fun had started.
/> 'I'm sorry,' she said, close to tears. 'I've only just seen it. It's so embarrassing. I didn't think I was due until next week.'
'Doesn't matter,' he had answered and patted her cheek. 'As long as you do your best to get the shit off.'
Then he had had to dart into the kitchen. He had turned on the tap and clattered the refrigerator door to drown his laughter. As Beate Lonn scrubbed at the bloodstain left by Linda. Or was it Karen?
Vigdis called from the kitchen. 'Do you have milk in your coffee, Tom?' Her voice sounded hard; there was an Oslo West End edge to it. Anyway, he had discovered what he needed.
'I've just remembered I have a meeting in town,' he said. He turned and saw her standing in the kitchen doorway with two coffee cups and large, surprised eyes. As if he had slapped her. He lingered on the thought.
'You need time to yourself,' he said, getting up. 'I know. I've recently lost a close friend, as I said.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' Vigdis said, perplexed. 'I didn't even ask who it was.'
'Her name was Ellen. A colleague. I liked her very much.' Tom Waaler tilted his head to the side and watched Vigdis, who responded with a tentative smile.
'What are you thinking about?' she asked.
'I might pop by one day and see how you're getting on.' He sent her an extra warm smile, his best David Hasselhoff, and thought what a chaotic world it would be if people could read each others' minds.
33
Dysosmia
The afternoon rush-hour traffic had started and in Gronlandsleiret car-borne wage slaves slowly trooped past Police HQ. A hedge sparrow sat on a branch and saw the last leaf let go, lift off and flutter past the window of the meeting room on the fifth floor.