The Thirst: Harry Hole 11 Page 11

  She heard a low cough. Wolff, the oldest of the detectives. Should have been pensioned off by now. ‘Seeing as you said “write off”, presumably that means the map didn’t show a match for Elise Hermansen’s address?’

  ‘Correct,’ Katrine said. She put her hands on her hips. ‘And it means that we only have to check the alibis of nine per cent.’

  ‘But the location of your phone doesn’t exactly give you an alibi,’ Skarre said, and looked round for support.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Katrine said with a sigh. What was it with this lot? They were here to solve a murder, not suck all the energy out of each other.

  ‘Krimteknisk,’ she said, and sat down at the front so she wouldn’t have to look at them for a while.

  ‘Not much,’ Bjørn Holm said, getting to his feet. ‘The lab’s examined the paint left in the wound. It’s pretty specific stuff. We think it’s made of iron filings in a vinegar solution, with added vegetable-based tannic acid from tea. We’ve looked into it, and it could stem from an old Japanese tradition of dying teeth black.’

  ‘Ohaguro,’ Katrine said. ‘The darkness after the sun’s gone down.’

  ‘Correct,’ Bjørn said, giving her the same appreciative look that he used to when they were having breakfast at a cafe and she would get the better of him for once in the quiz in Aftenposten.

  ‘Thanks,’ Katrine said, and Bjørn sat down. ‘Then there’s the elephant in the room. What VG is calling “a source” and we call a leak.’

  The already quiet room grew even more so.

  ‘One thing is the damage that’s already been done: now the murderer knows what we know, and can plan accordingly. But what’s worse is that we in this room no longer know if we can trust each other. Which is why I want to ask a very blunt question: who talked to VG?’

  To her surprise she saw a hand in the air.

  ‘Yes, Truls?’

  ‘Müller and I spoke to Mona Daa right after the press conference yesterday.’

  ‘You mean Wyller?’

  ‘I mean the new guy. Neither of us said anything. But she gave you her card, didn’t she, Müller?’

  All eyes turned to look at Wyller, whose face was glowing bright red beneath his blond fringe.

  ‘Yes … but …’

  ‘We all know that Mona Daa is VG’s crime reporter,’ Katrine said. ‘You don’t need a business card to call the paper and get hold of her.’

  ‘Was it you, Wyller?’ Magnus Skarre asked. ‘Look, all rookies are allowed a certain number of fuck-ups.’

  ‘I haven’t talked to VG,’ Wyller said, with desperation in his voice.

  ‘Berntsen just said that you did,’ Skarre replied. ‘Are you saying that Berntsen’s lying?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Out with it!’

  ‘Look … she said she was allergic to cats, and I said I’ve got a cat.’

  ‘See, you did talk! What else?’

  ‘You could be the leak, Skarre.’ The calm, deep voice came from the very back of the room, and everyone turned round. No one had heard him come in. The tall man was more lying than sitting in a chair against the back wall.

  ‘Speaking of cats,’ Skarre said. ‘Look what it’s just dragged in. I haven’t talked to VG, Hole.’

  ‘You or anyone else in here could have unconsciously given away a bit too much information to a witness you were talking to. And they could have called the paper and said that they got it directly from the cops. Hence “a source in the police”. Happens all the time.’

  ‘Sorry, but no one believes that, Hole,’ Skarre snorted.

  ‘You should,’ Harry said. ‘Because no one here is going to admit to talking to VG, and if you end up thinking you’ve got a mole, your investigation isn’t going to go anywhere.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Skarre wondered, turning to Katrine.

  ‘Harry is here to set up a group that’s going to work in parallel to us,’ Katrine said.

  ‘So far it’s a one-man group,’ Harry said. ‘And I’m here to order some materials. Those nine per cent whose location you don’t know for the time of the murder, can I have a list of them, in order of the length of their most recent sentence?’

  ‘I can do that,’ Tord said, then paused and looked questioningly at Katrine.

  She nodded. ‘What else?’

  ‘A list of which sex offenders Elise Hermansen helped put away. That’s all.’

  ‘Noted,’ Katrine said. ‘But seeing as we’ve got you here, any initial thoughts?’

  ‘Well.’ Harry looked round. ‘I know the forensics officer has found lubricant which probably comes from the murderer, but we can’t rule out the possibility of revenge as the main motive, and anything sexual as a bonus. The fact that the murderer was probably already inside the flat when she got home doesn’t mean that she let him in or that they knew each other. I don’t think I’d have restricted the investigation at such an early stage. But I’m assuming that you’ve already thought of that yourselves.’

  Katrine gave a crooked smile. ‘Good to have you back, Harry.’

  Possibly the best, possibly the worst, but certainly the most mythologised murder detective in the Oslo Police managed to perform a perfectly acceptable bow from his almost prone position. ‘Thanks, boss.’

  ‘You meant that,’ Katrine said. She and Harry were standing in the lift.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You called me boss.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They got out in the garage and Katrine pressed the key fob. There was a bleep and some lights flashed somewhere in the darkness. Harry had persuaded her that she ought to make use of the car that was automatically at her disposal during a murder case like this one. And then that she ought to drive him home, stopping for coffee at Schrøder’s Restaurant on the way.

  ‘What’s happened to your taxi driver?’ Katrine asked.

  ‘Øystein? He got fired.’

  ‘By you?’

  ‘Course not. By the taxi firm. There was an incident.’

  Katrine nodded. And thought about Øystein Eikeland, the long-haired beanpole with teeth like a junkie’s, a voice like a whiskey drinker, who looked about seventy but was actually one of Harry’s childhood friends. One of only two, according to Harry. The other one was called Tresko, and he was, if possible, an even more bizarre character: an overweight, unpleasant office worker who turned into a Mr Hyde of a poker player at night.

  ‘What sort of incident?’ Katrine wondered.

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Not really, but go on.’

  ‘Øystein doesn’t like panpipes.’

  ‘No, who does?’

  ‘So he got a long job driving to Trondheim with this guy who has to go by taxi because he’s terrified of both trains and planes. And the guy has trouble with aggression too, so he’s got this CD with him, panpipe versions of old pop songs that he has to listen to while he’s doing breathing exercises to stop him losing control. What happens is that in the middle of the night, up on the Dovre Plateau, when the panpipe version of “Careless Whisper” comes round for the sixth time, Øystein pulls the CD out, opens the window and chucks it out. That’s when the fisticuffs started.’

  ‘Fisticuffs is a nice word. And that song’s bad enough in the original.’

  ‘In the end Øystein managed to kick the guy out of the car.’

  ‘While it was moving?’

  ‘No. But in the middle of the plateau, in the middle of the night, twenty kilometres from the nearest house. In his defence, Øystein did point out that it was July, mild weather, and that the guy couldn’t possibly be terrified of walking as well.’

  Katrine laughed. ‘And now he’s out of a job? You ought to employ him as your private chauffeur.’

  ‘I’m trying to get him a job, but Øystein is – to quote his own words – pretty much made for unemployment.’

  Schrøder’s Restaurant was, in spite of its name, basically just a bar. The usual early-eve
ning clientele was in place and nodded good-naturedly to Harry without actually saying anything.

  The waitress, on the other hand, lit up as if the prodigal son had just returned home. And served them a coffee that definitely wasn’t the reason why foreign visitors had recently started to count Oslo among the best cities in the world for coffee.

  ‘Sorry it didn’t work out with you and Bjørn,’ Harry said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Katrine didn’t know if he wanted her to elaborate. Or if she wanted to elaborate. So she just shrugged.

  ‘Yeah,’ Harry said, and raised his cup to his lips. ‘So what’s it like being single again?’

  ‘Curious about the single life?’

  He laughed. And she realised she’d missed that laugh. She’d missed making him laugh, it felt like a reward every time she managed it.

  ‘Single life is fine,’ she said. ‘I’m seeing guys.’ She looked for a reaction. Was she hoping for a reaction?

  ‘Well, I hope Bjørn’s seeing people too, for his sake.’

  She nodded. But she hadn’t really given it much thought. And, like an ironic comment, the cheery ping indicating a Tinder match rang out, and Katrine saw a woman dressed in desperation red hurry towards the door.

  ‘Why are you back, Harry? The last thing you said to me was that you were never going to work on another murder.’

  Harry turned his coffee cup. ‘Bellman threatened to get Oleg thrown out of Police College.’

  Katrine shook her head. ‘Bellman really is the biggest heap of shit on two legs since the Emperor Nero. He wants me to tell the press that this is an almost impossible case. To make him look better when we solve it.’

  Harry looked at his watch. ‘Well, maybe Bellman’s right. A murderer who bites people with iron teeth and drinks half a litre of blood from the victim … This is probably more about the act of killing than who the victim is. And that instantly makes the case harder.’

  Katrine nodded. The sun was shining on the street outside, but she still thought she could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance.

  ‘The pictures of Elise Hermansen from the crime scene,’ Harry said. ‘Did they remind you of anything?’

  ‘The bite marks on her neck? No.’

  ‘I don’t mean the details, I mean …’ Harry stared out of the window. ‘As a whole. Like when you hear music you’ve never heard before, by a group you don’t know, but you still know who wrote the track. Because there’s something there. Something you can’t put your finger on.’

  Katrine looked at his profile. His brush of short hair was sticking up, as messily as before, but not quite as thick. His face had acquired some new lines, the wrinkles and furrows had deepened, and even if he had laughter lines around his eyes, the more brutal aspects of his appearance were more prominent. She had never understood why she thought he was so handsome.

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Is Oleg the reason you came back?’

  He turned and looked at her with one eyebrow raised. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  And she felt it now as she had back then, the way that look could hit her like an electric shock, the way he – a man who could be so reserved, so distant – could bulldoze everything else aside just by looking at you for a second, and demand – and get – all of your attention. In that one second there was only one man in the whole world.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, and laughed. ‘Why am I asking that? Let’s get going.’

  ‘Ewa with a “w”. Mum and Dad wanted me to be unique. Then it turned out to be really common in those old Iron bloc countries.’ She laughed and drank a sip of her beer. Then opened her mouth and used her forefinger and thumb to wipe the lipstick from the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Iron Curtain and Eastern bloc,’ the man said.

  ‘Huh?’ She looked at him. He was quite cute. Wasn’t he? Nicer than the ones she was usually matched with. There was probably something wrong with him, something that would show up later. There usually was. ‘You’re drinking slowly,’ she said.

  ‘You like red.’ The man nodded towards the coat she’d draped over her chair.

  ‘So does that vampire guy,’ Ewa said, pointing at the news bulletin on one of the enormous televisions in the bar. The football match had ended and the bar, which had been full five minutes ago, had started to empty. She could feel she was a bit tipsy, but not too much. ‘Did you read VG? He drank her blood.’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘Do you know, she had her last drink a hundred metres down the road from here, at the Jealousy Bar?’

  ‘Is that true?’ She looked round. Most of the other customers seemed to be in groups or pairs. She had noticed one man who had been sitting on his own watching her, but he was gone now. And it wasn’t the Creep.

  ‘Yes, quite true. Another drink?’

  ‘Yes, I think I’d better,’ she said with a shiver. ‘Ugh!’

  She gestured to the bartender, but he shook his head. The minute hand had just passed the magic boundary.

  ‘Looks like it’ll have to be another day,’ the man said.

  ‘Just when you’ve managed to terrify me,’ Ewa said. ‘You’ll have to walk me home now.’

  ‘Of course,’ the man said. ‘Tøyen, you said?’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, and buttoned her red coat over her red blouse.

  She tottered slightly on the pavement outside, and felt him discreetly holding her up.

  ‘I had one of those stalkers,’ she said. ‘I call him the Creep. I met him one time, and we … well, we had quite a nice time. But when I didn’t want to take it any further, he got jealous. He started to show up in different places when I was out meeting other people.’

  ‘That must have been unpleasant.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s quite funny as well, being able to bewitch someone so that all they can think about is you.’

  The man let her put her hand through his arm, and listened politely as she talked about other men she had bewitched.

  ‘I looked stunning, you see. So at first I wasn’t really surprised when he showed up, I just assumed he’d been following me. But then I realised that he couldn’t possibly have known where I’d be. And you know what?’ She stopped abruptly and swayed.

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Sometimes I had a feeling that he’d been inside my flat. You know, your brain registers how people smell and recognises them even when you’re not consciously aware of it.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What if he’s this vampire?’

  ‘That would be quite a coincidence. Is this where you live?’

  She looked up in surprise at the building in front of her. ‘It is. Goodness, that was quick.’

  ‘As they say, time flies when you’re in good company, Ewa. Well, this is where I say—’

  ‘Can’t you come up for a bit? I think I’ve got a bottle tucked away in the cupboard.’

  ‘I think we’ve both had enough …’

  ‘Just to make sure he isn’t there. Please.’

  ‘That’s really not very likely.’

  ‘Look, the light’s on in the kitchen,’ she said, pointing at one of the first-floor windows. ‘I’m sure I switched it off before I left!’

  ‘Are you?’ the man said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really do need to get home and go to bed.’

  She stared at him coldly. ‘What’s happened to all the real gentlemen?’

  He smiled tentatively. ‘Er … maybe they all went home to bed?’

  ‘Ha! You’re married, you succumbed to temptation, and now you regret it, is that it?’

  The man looked at her thoughtfully. As if he felt sorry for her.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s it. Sleep well.’

  She unlocked the front door. Went up the stairs to the first floor. Listened. She couldn’t hear anything. She didn’t know
if she’d turned the kitchen light off, it was just something she’d said to get him to come with her. But now that she’d said it, it was as if she’d talked it up. Maybe the Creep really was in there.

  She heard shuffling footsteps behind the door to the basement, heard the lock turn and a man in a security guard’s uniform came out. He locked the door with a white key, turned round, caught sight of her looking down and seemed to start back in surprise.

  He let out a laugh. ‘I didn’t hear you. Sorry.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘There’ve been a few break-ins in basement storerooms recently, so the housing association have ordered extra patrols.’

  ‘So you work for us?’ Ewa tilted her head a little. He wasn’t bad-looking. And he wasn’t as young as most other security guards either. ‘In that case, could I maybe ask you to check my flat? I’ve had a break-in too, you know. And now I can see that there’s a light on, even though I know I turned everything off before I went out.’

  The guard shrugged. ‘We’re not supposed to go into people’s flats, but OK.’

  ‘Finally, a man who’s useful for something,’ she said, and looked him up and down once more. A grown-up security guard. Probably not all that smart, but solid, safe. And easy to handle. The common denominator for the men in her life had been that they had everything: came from good families, were looking at a decent inheritance, education, a bright future. And they had worshipped her. But sadly they had also drunk so much that their mutually bright future vanished into the depths with them. Maybe it was time to try something new. Ewa half turned away and bobbed her hip rather provocatively as she went through her keys. God, so many keys. And maybe she was a tiny bit drunker than she had thought.

  She found the right one, unlocked the door, didn’t bother to kick her shoes off in the hall, and went into the kitchen. She heard the security guard follow her.

  ‘No one here,’ he said.

  ‘Except you and me,’ Ewa smiled, leaning back against the worktop.

  ‘Nice kitchen.’ The guard was standing in the doorway, running his hand over his uniform.

  ‘Thanks. If I’d known I’d be having a visitor I’d have tidied up.’

  ‘And maybe done the washing-up.’ Now he smiled.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, there are only twenty-four hours in a day.’ She brushed a lock of hair away from her face, and stumbled slightly on her high heels. ‘Would you mind checking the rest of the flat while I mix us a cocktail. What do you say?’ She put her hand on the smoothie blender.