The Leopard hh-8 Page 22

  ‘Yup,’ Harry said. ‘Bore down on you like a galleon in full rig, mean, sexy and dead scary. Equipped like a fairground. Curves on her like a roller coaster.’

  Kaja laughed even louder. ‘The local fun-fair, no less?’

  ‘In a way,’ Harry said. ‘But she went to Ekeberg restaurant pri marily to be seen and adored, I think. And for the free drinks from faded dance-floor kings, of course. No one ever saw Killer Queen go home with any of them. Perhaps that was what fascinated us. A woman who’d had to go down a league or two for admirers, but in a way still had style.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Oystein and Tresko said they would each buy me a whiskey if I dared ask her to dance.’

  They crossed the tramlines and drove up the steep hill to the restaurant.

  ‘And?’ Kaja said.

  ‘I dared.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We danced. Until she said she was sick of having her feet trodden on and it would be better if we went for a walk. She left first. It was August, hot, and, as you can see, there’s only forest round here. Thick foliage and loads of paths to hidden places. I was drunk, but still so excited that I knew she would be able to hear the tremor in my voice if I said anything. So I kept my trap shut. And that was fine, she did all the talking. And the rest, too. Afterwards she asked me if I wanted to go home with her.’

  Kaja sniggered. ‘Oooh. And what happened there?’

  ‘We can talk about that during the meal. We’re here.’

  They came to a halt in the car park, got out and walked up the steps to the restaurant. The head waiter welcomed them at the entrance to the dining area and asked for the name. Harry answered that they hadn’t reserved a table.

  The waiter could barely restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

  ‘Full for the next two months,’ Harry snorted as they left, after buying cigarettes at the bar. ‘I think I liked the place better when water was leaking into the restaurant and rats squealed at you from behind the toilets. At least we could get in.’

  ‘Let’s have a smoke,’ Kaja suggested.

  They walked over to the low brick wall from where the forest sloped downwards into Oslo. The clouds in the west were tinged with orange and red, and the queues of traffic on the motorway glittered like phosphorescence against the blackness of the town. It seemed to be lying there in wait, keeping watch, Harry thought. A camouflaged beast of prey. He tapped out two cigarettes, lit them and passed one to Kaja.

  ‘The rest of the story,’ Kaja said, inhaling.

  ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Killer Queen took you home.’

  ‘No, she asked if I wanted to go. And I politely declined.’

  ‘Declined? You’re lying. Why?’

  ‘Oystein and Tresko asked me that when I got back. I told them I couldn’t just leave when I had two pals and free whiskey waiting for me.’

  Kaja laughed and blew smoke over the view.

  ‘But of course that was a lie,’ Harry said. ‘Loyalty had nothing to do with it. Friendship means nothing to a man if he has a tempting enough offer. Nothing. The truth is that I didn’t dare. Killer Queen was simply in the scariest league of all for me.’

  They sat silent for a while. Listening to the hum of the town and watching the smoke curl upwards.

  ‘You’re thinking,’ Kaja said.

  ‘Mm. I’m thinking about Bellman. How well informed he is. He not only knew I was coming to Norway, he even knew which flight I was on.’

  ‘Perhaps he has contacts at Police HQ.’

  ‘Mm. And at Lake Lyseren today Skai said that Bellman had rung him about the rope the same evening that we’d been at the ropery.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But Beate says she didn’t tell Bellman about the rope until the morning after we’d been there.’ Harry followed the glow of tobacco on its flight over the slope. ‘And Bjorn has been promoted to coordinator for forensics and strategic planning.’

  Kaja stared at him in surprise. ‘That’s not possible, Harry.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Bjorn Holm! Would he have kept Bellman informed about what we were doing? You two have worked together for so long, you’re… friends!’

  Harry shrugged. ‘As I said, I think…’ He dropped his cigarette onto the ground and crushed it with a swivel of his heel. ‘… friendship means nothing to a man if he has a tempting enough offer. Do you dare join me for today’s special at Schroder’s?’

  I dream all the time now. It was summer and I loved her. I was so young and thought that if you wanted something enough it was yours to have.

  Adele, you had her smile, her hair and her faithless heart. And now Aftenposten says they have found you. I hope you were as foul on the outside as you were on the inside.

  It also says they’ve put Inspector Harry Hole on the case. He was the one who caught the Snowman. Perhaps there’s hope, perhaps the police can save lives after all?

  I’ve printed out a photo of Adele from the Verdens Gang website and pinned it on the wall, next to the torn page from the Havass cabin guest book. Including mine, there are only three more names now.

  37

  Profile

  The Special AtSchroder’s was bubble and squeak served with fried eggs and raw onions.

  ‘Nice,’ said Kaja.

  ‘The cook must be sober today,’ Harry agreed. Then he pointed. ‘Look.’

  Kaja turned and looked up at the TV Harry was indicating.

  ‘Well, hello!’ she said.

  Mikael Bellman’s face filled the screen, and Harry signalled to Rita that they wanted the volume up. Harry studied the movements of Bellman’s mouth. The soft, quasi-feminine features. The gleam in the intense brown eyes beneath the elegantly formed eyebrows. The white patches, like sleet on his skin, didn’t disfigure him, quite the contrary, they made him more interesting to look at, like an exotic animal. If his number were not ex-directory, as was the case with most detectives, his phone would be full of lusting and love-lorn texters afterwards. Then the sound came on.

  ‘… at Havass cabin on the night of the 7th of November. So we are appealing to those of you who were there to come forward to the police as quickly as possible.’

  Then the newsreader returned and there was a new item.

  Harry pushed his plate away and waved for coffee. ‘Let me hear your thoughts about this killer now that we’ve found Adele. Give me a profile.’

  ‘Why?’ Kaja asked, sipping water from her glass. ‘From tomorrow we’ll be working on other cases.’

  ‘Just for fun.’

  ‘Does profiling of serial killers come under your definition of fun?’

  Harry sucked on a toothpick. ‘I know there’s a good answer to that, but I can’t think of it.’

  ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘So who is he?’

  ‘It’s still a he, first off. And still a serial killer. I don’t necessarily think Adele was number one.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it was so flawless that he must have kept a clear head. The first time you kill you’re not so clear-headed. Besides, he hid her so well that we definitely were not intended to find her. That suggests he may be behind many of the present missing persons statistics.’

  ‘Good. More.’

  ‘Erm…’

  ‘Come on. You just said that he made a good job of hiding Adele Vetlesen. The first of the murder victims we know anything about. How do the other murders develop?’

  ‘He becomes bolder, more self-assured. He stops hiding them. Charlotte is found behind a car in the forest and Borgny in a cellar beneath a city centre office block.’

  ‘And Marit Olsen?’

  Kaja mulled this over. ‘It’s too overblown. He’s lost control, his grip is going.’

  ‘Or…’ Harry said, ‘… he’s gone up to the next level. He wants to show everyone how clever he is, so he starts exhibiting his victims. The murder of Marit Olsen in Frogner Lido is a huge scream fo
r attention, but there are few indications of failing control in the execution. The rope he used was at worst careless, but otherwise he left no clues. Disagree?’

  She deliberated and shook her head.

  ‘Then there’s Elias Skog,’ Harry said. ‘Anything different there?’

  ‘He tortures the victim with a slow death,’ Kaja said. ‘The sadist in him reveals itself.’

  ‘A Leopold’s apple is also an instrument of torture,’ Harry said. ‘But I agree with you that this is the first time we’ve seen sadism. At the same time, it’s a conscious choice; he reveals himself, he doesn’t let others do it. He is still directing the show, he’s in charge.’

  The coffee pot and cups were dumped down in front of them.

  ‘But…’ Kaja said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Doesn’t it jar a bit that a sadistic killer would leave the crime scene before he can witness the victim’s sufferings and final death? According to the landlady, she could hear banging noises from the bathroom after the guest had gone. He ran off… funny, eh?’

  ‘Good point. So what have we got? A fake sadist. And why does he fake it?’

  ‘Because he knows we’ll try to profile him, the way we’re doing now,’ Kaja said eagerly. ‘And then we’ll go looking for him in the wrong places.’

  ‘Mm. Maybe. A sophisticated killer, if so.’

  ‘What do you think, oh, venerable wise one?’

  Harry poured the coffee. ‘If this is really a serial killer, I think the murders are well spread out.’

  Kaja leaned across the table, and her pointed teeth glistened as she whispered: ‘You think it might not be a serial killer?’

  ‘Well, there’s a signature missing. Usually, there are special aspects of the murder that trigger a serial killer, and thus certain things that recur throughout. Here we have no indications that the killer did anything sexual during the killing. And there’s no similarity in the methods used, apart from Borgny and Charlotte both being murdered with a Leopold’s apple. The crime scenes are quite different, and so are the victims. Both sexes, different ages, different backgrounds, different physiques.’

  ‘But they have not been selected at random; they spent the same night in the same cabin.’

  ‘Precisely. And that’s why I’m not absolutely convinced we’re up against a classic serial killer. Or, rather, not one with a classic motive to kill. For serial killers, the killing itself is generally enough of a motive. If, for example, the victims are prostitutes. It doesn’t really matter whether they are sinners, just that they are easy prey. I know of only one serial killer who had criteria for the selection of individual victims.’

  ‘The Snowman.’

  ‘I don’t think a serial killer chooses his victims from a random page of a cabin guest book. And if anything happened at Havass to give the killer a motive, we’re not talking about classic serial murders. Besides, the move to show himself was too quick for the usual serial killer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He sent a woman to Rwanda and the Congo to cover up a murder and at the same time to buy the murder weapon for the next. Afterwards he killed her. In other words, he went to extremes to hide one murder, yet for the next one, a few weeks later, he did absolutely nothing. And for the next murder again, he’s like a matador shoving his bollocks in our faces with a flourish of his cloak. This is a personality change at fast-forward speed. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Do you think there could be several killers? Each with a different method?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘There is one similarity. The killer doesn’t leave any clues. If serial killers are rare, one that kills without leaving any clues is a white whale. There is only one of them in this case.’

  ‘Right, so what are we talking here?’ Kaja threw up her arms. ‘A serial killer with multiple-personality disorder?’

  ‘A white whale with wings,’ Harry said. ‘No, I don’t know. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re only doing this for fun. It’s a Kripos case now.’ He drained his coffee. ‘I’m going to take a taxi to the hospital.’

  ‘I can drive you.’

  ‘Thank you but no. Go home and prepare for new and interesting cases.’

  Kaja heaved a weary sigh. ‘The business with Bjorn…’

  ‘Must not be mentioned to a soul,’ Harry completed. ‘Have a good sleep.’

  Altman was leaving Harry’s father’s room at Rikshospital when he arrived.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ the nurse said. ‘I gave him ten milligrams of morphine. You can sit here, no problem, but he’s unlikely to stir for several hours.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Harry said.

  ‘That’s OK. I had a mother who… well, who had to put up with more pain than was necessary.’

  ‘Mm. Do you smoke, Altman?’

  Harry saw from the guilt-ridden reaction that Altman did, and invited him to join him outside. The two men smoked while Altman, first name Sigurd, explained that it had been because of his mother that he had specialised in anaesthesia.

  ‘So when you gave my father an injection just now…’

  ‘Let’s say it was a favour from one son to another,’ Altman smiled. ‘But I cleared it with the doctor, naturally. I would like to keep my job.’

  ‘Wise,’ Harry said. ‘Wish I were as wise.’

  They finished their cigarettes, and Altman was about to go when Harry asked: ‘Since you’re an anaesthetics expert, could you tell me how a person might get hold of ketanome?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Altman said. ‘I probably shouldn’t answer that.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Harry said with a wry smile. ‘It’s about the murder case I’m working on.’

  ‘Aha. Well, unless you work with anaesthetics, ketanome is very hard to get hold of in Norway. It works like a bullet, almost literally – the patient is knocked flat. But the side effects – ulcers – are nasty. In addition, the risk of a cardiac arrest with an overdose is high. It’s been used for suicide. But not any more. Ketanome was banned in the EU and Norway some years ago.’

  ‘I know that, but where would you go to get ketanome?’

  ‘Well, ex-Soviet states. Or Africa.’

  ‘The Congo, for example?’

  ‘Definitely. The producer sells it at dumping prices since the European ban, so it ends up in poor countries. It’s always like that.’

  Harry sat by his father’s bedside watching his frail pyjama-clad chest rise and fall. After an hour he got up and left.

  Harry decided he would postpone making a call until he had unlocked the house, put on ‘Don’t Get Around Much Any More’ – one of his father’s Duke Ellington records – and taken out the brown clump. He saw that Gunnar Hagen had left a message, but he had no intention of listening to it as he knew roughly what it was about. Bellman would have been nagging him again: from now on they were not allowed to touch the murder case however compelling their excuses. And Harry was to report for normal duties if he still wanted a job with the police. Well, perhaps not the last part. It was time to head off on his travels. And the travels should start here, now, tonight. He took out the lighter with one hand while the other brought up the two texts he had received. The first was from Oystein. He suggested ‘a gentlemen’s night out’ in the not too distant future, with an invitation to Tresko, who was probably the most well-to-do of the three. The second was a number Harry didn’t recognise. Harry opened the message. I see from the Aftenposten website that you’re in charge of the case. I can help. Elias Skog talked before he was glued to the bath. C.

  Harry dropped the lighter, which hit the glass table with a loud bang, and he felt his heart race. During murder cases they always got loads of people ringing in with tip-offs, advice and hypotheses. People who were willing to swear they had seen, heard or been told all sorts, and couldn’t the police spare them a moment to listen? Often it was the same old voices again and again, but there were always some new, mixed-up windbags. Harry was quite certain that this was not one of them. The
press had written a lot about the case; readers possessed a considerable amount of information. The general public had not been told that Elias Skog had been glued to the bath, however. Or been given Harry’s ex-directory mobile number.

  38

  Permanent Scarring

  Harry had turned down Duke Ellington and sat with the phone in his hand. This person knew about the superglue. And had his number. Should he check the name and address of the caller, perhaps even have the person arrested because there was a chance he might frighten him off? On the other hand, whoever it was expected an answer.

  Harry pressed ‘return call’.

  It buzzed twice, then he heard a deep voice. ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Harry Hole.’

  ‘Nice to talk to you again, Hole.’

  ‘Mm. When have we spoken before?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? Elias Skog’s flat. Superglue.’

  Harry felt the carotid artery in his neck throb, cramp the space in his throat.

  ‘I was there. Who am I speaking to, and what were you doing there?’

  The other end went quiet for a second and Harry immediately concluded the person had rung off. But then the voice was back with a drawn-out ‘Oh, sorry, I may have signed off the message with just C. Did I?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘I generally do. This is Inspector Colbjornsen. From Stavanger. You gave me your number, remember?’

  Harry cursed himself, realised he was still holding his breath and let it out in a long hiss.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Harry said, grabbing the teaspoon on the table and scraping off a bit of the opium. ‘You said you had something for me?’

  ‘Yes, I have. But on one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘It stays between us.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I don’t want that prick Bellman coming over here thinking he’s God’s gift to criminal investigations. He and fucking Kripos are trying to get a monopoly over the whole country. Far as I’m concerned he can go to hell. The problem is my bosses. I’m not allowed to touch the bloody Skog case.’