The Devil's Star

  He forced one leg onto the gutter and scrambled over. Even though the roof was steep, the grip his robust Doc Martens had on the tiles was good enough for him to take the two steps to the drainpipe and clutch it to his chest as if it were a long-lost friend. He straightened and looked around. There was a flash of lightning over Nesodden. The air, which had not stirred when he arrived, was softly plucking at his jacket. Harry gave a start as a black shadow suddenly raced past his face. The shadow intersected the space above the central yard. A swallow. Harry just caught sight of it as it sought shelter under the eaves.

  Harry scrabbled his way to the top of the roof, aimed for a black weathervane 15 metres away, took a deep breath and began to walk along the ridge of the roof with his arms held out like a line dancer.

  He had reached the halfway point when it happened.

  Harry heard a whoosh, which he first thought came from the tops of the trees beneath him. The sound rose in volume at the same time as the rotary dryer down in the yard began to rotate and shriek. He couldn’t feel any wind, not yet. Then it hit him. The drought was over. The wind struck him in the chest like an avalanche of air set in motion by a plunging mass of water. He tottered back a step and stood swaying on the ridge. He heard it advancing towards him over the clattering roof tiles. The rain. The deluge. It beat down against the roof and in less than a second everything was wet. Harry tried to keep his balance, but there was nothing to grip; it was like walking on soap. One shoe slipped and he made a desperate dive for the weathervane. His arms were stretched out in front of him, his fingers splayed. His right hand scrabbled at the surface of a tile, searching for something to hold on to, but there was nothing. Gravity was pulling at him. The scratching of his nails made the same rasping noise as a scythe blade on a whetstone as he slid downwards. He heard the shriek of the rotary dryer abating, felt the gutter against his knees and knew he was on his way over the edge. He stretched his body out in a last-ditch attempt, tried to make himself longer, turn himself into an aerial. An aerial. His left hand grabbed hold of it, held on tight. The metal softened, bowed and bent. It threatened to follow him down into the yard. But it held.

  Harry took hold of it with both hands and pulled himself up. He managed to get his rubber soles back underneath him and pushed as hard as he could against the surface and gained a foothold. With the rain furiously whipping into his face he crawled up to the ridge, sat astride it and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The contorted metal aerial beneath him was pointing downwards. Someone was going to have a reception problem with tonight’s repeat showing of Beat for Beat.

  Harry waited until his pulse had calmed down a little. Then he stood up and continued the tightrope walk. The weathervane received a kiss.

  Barli’s terrace was inset in the roof, so he could easily swing his legs down onto the red terracotta tiles. His feet made a splash as he landed, but the sound was drowned out by the roaring and gurgling of the flooded roof gutters.

  The chairs had been taken in, the barbecue lay black and dead in a corner, but the terrace door was ajar.

  At first, all he could hear was the drumming of the rain on the tiles, but as he cautiously crossed the threshold and entered the room he could discern another sound, also made by water. It came from the bathroom downstairs. The shower. Finally a bit of luck. Harry patted the pockets of his drenched jacket to find his chisel. An undressed and unarmed Barli was the best he could hope for, especially if Wilhelm still had the gun that Sven handed over in Frogner Park on Saturday.

  Harry saw that the bedroom door was open. There was a Sami knife in the toolbox beside the bed. He tiptoed over to the door and crept into the bedroom.

  The room was dark, barely lit by the reading lamp on the bedside table. Harry stood at the foot of the bed; his gaze fell on the wall and the picture of Lisbeth and Wilhelm on their honeymoon in front of an old majestic building and the statue of a horse and rider. Harry knew now that this picture had not been taken in France. In Sven’s opinion, any half-educated person should be able to recognise this statue of the Czech national hero, Václav, in front of the National Museum in Václav Square in Prague.

  Harry’s eyes were used to the dark now. He shifted his attention to the double bed and froze: he held his breath and stood as rigid as a snowman. The duvet had been thrown to the floor and the sheet had been half removed so that blue rubber was revealed. On top, a naked person was lying stomach down, the upper body supported by its elbows. The eyes were directed towards the area where the cone of light from the reading lamp met the blue mattress.

  The rain on the roof played its last drum roll before it abruptly stopped. The person had clearly not heard Harry coming into the room, but Harry had the same problem as most snowmen in July. Water was running off him. Water was dripping from his jacket and onto the parquet floor with what, to Harry’s ears, sounded like a thundering roar.

  The body on the bed tensed up. And turned over. First of all his head. Then his entire, naked body.

  What Harry first noticed was the erect penis oscillating to and fro like a metronome.

  ‘My God! Harry?’

  Wilhelm Barli’s voice sounded at once frightened and relieved.

  41

  Monday. Happy Ending.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Rakel kissed Oleg on the forehead and tucked him in around his body. Then she went downstairs and sat in the kitchen watching the rain falling.

  She liked rain. It cleaned the air and washed away the past. A new start. That was what was needed. A new start.

  She walked over to the front door and felt to see if it was locked. It was the third time she had done so this evening. What was she really so frightened about?

  Then she switched on the TV.

  There was a kind of music programme. Three people sitting on the same piano stool. They were smiling at each other. Like a little family, Rakel thought.

  She jumped as a clap of thunder rent the air.

  ‘You have no idea what a fright you gave me just now.’

  Wilhelm Barli shook his head and his detumescent penis shook with it.

  ‘I can probably more or less imagine,’ Harry said. ‘Since I came in through the terrace door, I mean.’

  ‘No, Harry, you really can’t.’

  Wilhelm stretched down over the edge of the bed to pick up the duvet off the floor and put it round him.

  ‘Sounds like you’re having a shower,’ Harry said.

  Wilhelm shook his head and pulled a face.

  ‘Not me,’ he said.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘I’ve got a visitor. A . . . woman.’

  He smirked and pointed to a chair, which had a suede skirt, a black bra and one single black stocking with an elasticated top thrown over it.

  ‘Loneliness makes us men weak. Doesn’t it, Harry? We look for solace where we can find it. Some do it with a bottle. Others . . .’

  Wilhelm shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘We willingly accept that we can make mistakes, don’t we, Harry? And, yes, I do have a guilty conscience.’

  Harry’s eyes had focused and he could see them now, the trail of tears on Wilhelm’s cheeks.

  ‘Will you promise not to tell anyone, Harry? It was a lapse.’

  Harry went over to the chair, hung the solitary stocking over the back of the chair and sat down.

  ‘Who should I tell, Wilhelm? Your wife?’

  The room was suddenly lit up by a flash followed by the crack of thunder.

  ‘It’ll be right over us soon,’ Wilhelm said.

  ‘Yes.’ Harry ran his hand across his wet forehead.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I think you know that, Wilhelm.’

  ‘Say it anyway.’

  ‘We’ve come to take you away.’

  ‘Not we. You’re on your own, aren’t you. Completely on your own.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Your eyes. Body language. I can read people, Harry. You sneak in he
re and you’re dependent on the element of surprise. That’s not how you attack when you hunt in herds, Harry. Why are you on your own? Where are the others? Does anyone know you’re here?’

  ‘That’s not important. Let’s say I am on my own. You still have to answer for the murder of four people.’

  Wilhelm placed a finger to his lips and seemed to be reflecting as Harry rolled off the names:

  ‘Marius Veland. Camilla Loen. Lisbeth Barli. Barbara Svendsen.’

  Wilhelm stared vacantly in the air for a while. Then he slowly nodded and took his finger away from his mouth.

  ‘How did you find out, Harry?’

  ‘When I knew why. Jealousy. You wanted to take your revenge on them both, didn’t you. When you found out that Lisbeth had met Sven Sivertsen and they had been together during your honeymoon in Prague.’

  Wilhelm closed his eyes and laid back his head. The waterbed gurgled.

  ‘I didn’t know that photograph of you and Lisbeth was taken in Prague until I saw the same statue in a photo I was e-mailed from Prague earlier today.’

  ‘And then you knew everything?’

  ‘Well, when the thought first occurred to me I rejected it as an absurd idea, but then gradually it seemed to make sense. As much sense as insanity can. It made sense that the Courier Killer was not a sexually fixated serial killer, but someone who stage-managed the murders to make them appear to be sexual crimes. To make the whole thing look as if Sven Sivertsen was the killer. The only one person who could stage-manage something like that was a professional, someone whose job and whose passion it was.’

  Wilhelm opened one eye.

  ‘If I understand you correctly, you’re saying that this person planned to kill four people to take revenge on only one person?’

  ‘Of the five appointed victims only three were randomly chosen. You made the crime scenes look as if they had been determined by a randomly placed devil’s star, but in reality you designed the star from two of the points: your own address and the house belonging to Sven Sivertsen’s mother. Cunning, but simple geometry.’

  ‘Do you really believe this theory of yours, Harry?’

  ‘Sven Sivertsen had never heard of any Lisbeth Barli. But do you know what, Wilhelm? He remembered her well enough when I told him what her maiden name was: Lisbeth Harang.’

  Wilhelm didn’t answer.

  ‘The only thing I don’t understand,’ Harry said, ‘is why you waited so many years to take your revenge.’

  Wilhelm wriggled up the bed.

  ‘Let’s assume that I don’t understand what you’re trying to insinuate, Harry. I’m reluctant to make a confession and put both of us in a difficult spot. However, since I’m in the fortunate position of knowing that you cannot prove a thing, I don’t mind chatting for a bit. You know that I approve of people who can listen.’

  Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘Yes, Harry, it is correct that I knew Lisbeth was having an affair with this man, but I didn’t find out until this summer.’

  It began to drizzle again. Raindrops spattered against the window.

  ‘Did she tell you that?’

  Wilhelm shook his head. ‘She would never have done that. She came from a family where things were not talked about. It would never have come out if we hadn’t been doing up the flat. I found a letter.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The external wall in her study is just bare brick. It’s the original wall from when the building work was done at the turn of the century. Solid, but it gets absolutely freezing in winter. I wanted to clad it with panelling and insulate it on the inside. Lisbeth objected. I thought that was weird, because she was a practical girl, brought up on a farm, not the type to become sentimental about an old brick wall. So one day, when she was out, I examined the wall. I didn’t find anything until I shoved her desk to one side. I still couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but I poked at each of the bricks. One moved just a little. I pulled, and it came away. She had camouflaged the cracks round it with grey building mortar. Inside I found two letters. The name of Lisbeth Harang was on the envelope and a poste restante address I had no idea she had. My first reaction was to put the letters back unread and convince myself that I had never seen them. But I’m a weak man. I wasn’t capable of it. “Liebling, you are always in my thoughts. I can still feel your lips against mine, your skin against mine” – that’s how the letter begins.’

  The bed made a rippling noise.

  ‘The words smarted like lashes from a whip, but I kept on reading. It was eerie because every word that was written could have been written by me. When he finished saying how much he loved her, he went on to describe what they had done together in the hotel room in Prague in some detail. It wasn’t the description of their love-making that hurt me most, though. It was when he quoted what she had obviously said about our relationship. That for her it was just “a practical solution to a loveless life”. Can you imagine how something like that feels, Harry? When it turns out that the woman you love has not only deceived you, but she has never loved you. Not to be loved – isn’t that the essential definition of a failed life?’

  ‘No,’ Harry said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Carry on, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  Wilhelm gave Harry a searching look.

  ‘He’d enclosed a photo of himself. I presume she had begged him to send it. I recognised him. He was the Norwegian we met at a cafe in Perlova, a rather shady area of Prague with prostitutes and what were, to all intents and purposes, brothels. He was sitting in the bar when we came in. I noticed him because he was just like one of those mature, distinguished gentlemen that Boss uses as models. Elegantly dressed and old, actually. But with such young, playful eyes that men need to keep an extra careful eye on their wives. So I was not particularly surprised when the man came over to our table after a little while, introduced himself in Norwegian and asked us if we would like to buy a necklace. I thanked him politely and said no, but when he took it out of his pocket anyway and showed it to Lisbeth, she was swooning of course and said that she loved it. The pendant was a red diamond in the shape of a five-pointed star. I asked him what he wanted for the star and when he gave me a price that was so ridiculously over the top that it could only be interpreted as provocation, I asked him to leave us. He smiled at me as if he’d just won a victory, wrote down the address of another café on a slip of paper and said that we could find him there at the same time the following day if we changed our minds. Naturally he gave the piece of paper to Lisbeth. I can remember that I was in a bad mood for the rest of the morning. But then I forgot everything. Lisbeth is clever at making you forget. On occasion she manages . . .’ Wilhelm ran his finger under his eye, ‘. . . to do that with her mere presence.’

  ‘Mm. What was in the other letter?’

  ‘It was a letter she had written and obviously tried to send to him. The envelope was stamped with “Return to sender”. She wrote that she’d tried to get in touch with him in all sorts of ways, but no-one answered at the telephone number he’d given her and neither directory enquiries nor the Post Office had been able to trace him. She wrote that she hoped the letter would find him somehow and asked if he’d had to flee from Prague. Perhaps he was still beset by the same economic problems he’d had when he’d borrowed money from her?’

  Wilhelm gave a hollow laugh.

  ‘If so, he should contact her, she wrote. And she would help him again. Because she loved him. She couldn’t think of anything else – the separation was driving her mad. She’d hoped it would pass with time, but instead it had spread like a disease and every centimetre of her body ached. And some centimetres obviously ached more than others because she wrote to him that when she let her husband – me, in other words – make love to her she closed her eyes and pretended it was him. I was shocked, of course. Yes, stunned. But I died when I saw the date stamp on the envelope.’

  Wilhelm squeezed his eyes shut hard again.

 
‘The letter was sent in February. This year.’

  A new flash of lightning cast shadows on the wall. The shadows remained there like spectres of light.

  ‘What do you do?’ Wilhelm asked.

  ‘Yes, what did you do?’

  Wilhelm smiled weakly.

  ‘My solution was to serve foie gras with white wine. I covered the bed with roses and we made love all night. As she slept through in the early morning I lay watching her. I knew that I could not live without her, but I also knew that to make her mine, first of all I would have to lose her.’

  ‘And so you planned the whole thing. Stage-managed how you were going to take the life of your wife and at the same time ensure that the man she loved would be blamed.’

  Wilhelm shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I went to work in the same way that I did with any stage production. Like all men of the theatre, I know that the most important thing is the illusion. The deceit must be presented as so credible that the truth would seem extremely unlikely. That may sound as if it is tricky to achieve, but in my profession you quickly discover that it is generally easier than the alternative. People are much more used to hearing lies than the truth.’

  ‘Mm. Tell me how you did it.’

  ‘Why should I risk that?’

  ‘I can’t use any of what you say in a court of law anyway. I have no witnesses and I entered your flat illegally.’

  ‘No, but you’re a smart fellow, Harry. I might give something away that you can use in the investigation.’

  ‘Maybe, but I think you’re willing to take that risk.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you really want to tell me. You’re burning to tell me. To hear yourself say it.’

  Wilhelm Barli laughed out loud.