Phantom Page 25

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the beeping of a crosswalk signal.”

  “No, nothing like that. But there was music.”

  “Recorded or live?”

  “Live, I think. The cymbals were clear. You could hear the guitars, sort of floating and fading on the wind.”

  “Sounds live. Good memory.”

  “I only remember because they were playing one of your songs.”

  “My songs?”

  “From one of your records. I remember because Gusto said this was unreal life, and I thought that must have been an unconscious train of thought. He must have heard the line they had just sung.”

  “Which line?”

  “Something about a dream. I’ve forgotten, but you used to play that song all the time.”

  “Come on, Oleg—this is important.”

  Oleg looked at Harry. His feet stopped tapping. He closed his eyes and tried humming a tune. “It’s just a dreamy Gonzales …” He opened his eyes and his face was red. “Something like that.”

  Harry hummed it to himself. And shook his head.

  “Sorry,” Oleg said. “I’m not sure, and it lasted only a few seconds.”

  “That’s fine,” Harry said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Tell me what happened at Alnabru, then.”

  Oleg’s foot started up again. He took two breaths, two deep mouthfuls of air, as he had learned to do on the starting line before he crouched down. Then he spoke.

  Afterward Harry sat for a long time rubbing the back of his neck. “So you drilled a man to death?”

  “We didn’t. A policeman did.”

  “Whose name you don’t know. Or where he worked.”

  “No, both Gusto and he were careful about that. Gusto said it was best if I didn’t know.”

  “And you’ve no idea what happened to the body?”

  “No. Are you going to report me?”

  “No.” Harry took his pack of cigarettes and flipped out a cigarette.

  “Do I get one?” Oleg asked.

  “Sorry, son. Bad for your health.”

  “But—”

  “On one condition. That you let Hans Christian hide you and leave it to me to find Irene.”

  Oleg stared at the apartment buildings on the hill behind the stadium. Flower boxes still hung from the balconies. Harry studied his profile. The Adam’s apple going up and down the slim neck.

  “Deal,” he said.

  “Good.” Harry passed him a cigarette and lit up for both of them.

  “Now I understand the metal finger,” Oleg said. “It’s so that you can smoke.”

  “Yep,” Harry said, holding the cigarette between the titanium prosthesis and his index finger while selecting Rakel’s number. He didn’t need to ask for Hans Christian’s number, since he was there with her. The lawyer said he would come at once.

  Oleg bent double as if it had suddenly become colder. “Where’s he going to hide me?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have such sensitive testicles. I spill the beans at the very mention of the words car battery.”

  Oleg laughed. It was short, but it was laughter. “I don’t believe that. You’d let them take your life before you said a word.”

  Harry eyed the boy. He would crack weak jokes all day if only to see those glimpses of a smile.

  “You’ve always had such high expectations of me, Oleg. Too high. And I’ve always wanted you to see me as better than I am.”

  Oleg looked down at his hands. “Don’t all boys see their fathers as heroes?”

  “Maybe. And I didn’t want you to expose me as a deserter, someone who disappears. But things happened as they did anyway. What I wanted to say was that even if I wasn’t there for you, that doesn’t mean you weren’t important to me. We can’t live the lives we would like to. We’re prisoners of … things. Of who we are.”

  Oleg lifted his chin. “Of junk and shit.”

  “That, too.”

  They inhaled in unison. Watching the smoke drift in gusts toward the vast, open, blue sky. Harry knew that nicotine couldn’t appease the cravings in the boy, but at least it was a distraction. And that was all it was about, for the next few minutes.

  “Harry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why didn’t you come back?”

  Harry took another drag before answering. “Because your mother thought I wasn’t good for you or her. And she was right.”

  Harry continued to smoke as he stared into the distance. Knowing Oleg would not want him to look at him now. Eighteen-year-old boys don’t like being watched when they’re crying. Nor would he want him to put an arm around his shoulder and say something. He would want him to be there. Without straying. To think alongside him about the impending race.

  When they heard the car approach they walked down from the stands and into the parking lot. Harry saw Hans Christian place a hand on Rakel’s arm as she was about to charge out of the car.

  Oleg turned to Harry, puffed himself up, hooked his thumb around Harry’s and nudged his right shoulder with his. But Harry didn’t let him get away so easily and pulled him close. Whispered in his ear: “Win.”

  IRENE HANSSEN’S LAST known address was her family home, a semidetached house in Grefsen. A small overgrown garden with apple trees but no apples, and a swing.

  A young man Harry guessed to be about twenty opened the door. The face was familiar, and Harry’s police brain searched for a tenth of a second before it had two hits in the database.

  “My name’s Harry Hole. And you are Stein Hanssen?”

  “Yes?”

  His face had the combination of innocence and alertness of a young man who had experienced both good and bad, but still vacillated between overly revealing openness and overly inhibiting caution in his confrontation with the world.

  “I recognize you from a photo. I’m a friend of Oleg Fauke’s.”

  Harry looked for a reaction in Stein Hanssen’s gray eyes, but it failed to materialize.

  “You may have heard that he’s been released? Someone has confessed to the killing of your foster brother.”

  Stein Hanssen shook his head. Still minimal expression.

  “I’m an ex-policeman. I’m trying to find your sister, Irene.”

  “How come?”

  “I want to be sure she’s OK. I’ve promised Oleg I would.”

  “Great. So that he can continue to feed her drugs?”

  Harry shifted his weight. “Oleg’s clean now. As you may know, that takes its toll. But he’s clean because he wants to try to find her. He loves her, Stein. But I’d like to try to find her for all our sakes, not only for his. And I’m considered quite handy at finding people.”

  Stein Hanssen looked at Harry. Hesitated. Then he opened the door.

  Harry followed him into the living room. It was tidy, nicely furnished and seemed completely unoccupied.

  “Your parents …”

  “They don’t live here now. And I’m only here when I’m not in Trondheim.”

  He had a conspicuous trilled r, the kind that was once regarded as a status symbol for families who could afford nannies from Sørland. The kind of r that makes your voice easy to remember, Harry thought without knowing why.

  There was a photograph on the piano, which looked as if it had never been used. The photograph must have been six or seven years old. Irene and Gusto were younger, smaller versions of themselves, sporting clothes and hairstyles that Harry assumed would have been deadly embarrassing for them to see now. Stein stood at the back with a serious expression. The mother stood with her arms crossed and wore a condescending, almost sarcastic, smile. The father was smiling in a way that made Harry think it had been his idea to have this family photo taken. At least, he was the only person showing any enthusiasm.

  “So that’s the family?”

  “Was. My parents are divorced now. My father moved to Denmark. Fled is probably a m
ore precise word. My mother’s in the hospital. The rest … well, you obviously know the rest.”

  Harry nodded. One dead. One missing. Big losses for one family.

  Harry sat down unbidden in one of the deep armchairs. “What can you tell me that might help me find Irene?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  Harry smiled. “Try.”

  “Irene moved to my place in Trondheim after going through an experience she wouldn’t tell me about. But which I’m sure Gusto was behind. She idolized Gusto, would do anything for him, imagined he cared because now and then he would pat her on the cheek. But after a few months there was a phone call and she said she had to return to Oslo. Refused to divulge why. That’s four months ago, and since then I’ve neither seen nor heard from her. When, after more than two weeks, I hadn’t been able to contact her, I went to the police and reported her missing. They took note, did a bit of checking, then nothing else happened. No one cares about a homeless junkie.”

  “Any theories?” Harry asked.

  “No. But she didn’t go of her own free will. She’s not the type to clear off like … like some others.”

  Harry had no idea whom he actually meant, yet the remark hit home.

  Stein Hanssen scratched a scab on his forearm. “What is it you all see in her? Your daughter? Do you think you can have your daughters?”

  Harry looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “You old farts drooling over her. Just because she looks like a fourteen-year-old Lolita.”

  Harry recalled the picture on the locker door. Stein Hanssen was right. And the thought took root in Harry. Irene might be the victim of a crime that had nothing to do with this case.

  “You study in Trondheim. At the University of Science and Technology?”

  “Yes.”

  “What subject?”

  “Information technology.”

  “Mm. Oleg also wanted to study. Do you know him?”

  Stein shook his head.

  “You’ve never spoken to him?”

  “We must have met a couple of times. Very short meetings, you might say.”

  Harry scrutinized Stein’s forearm. It was an occupational hazard for Harry. But apart from the scab there were no other marks. Of course not—Stein Hanssen was a survivor, one of those who would cope. Harry got to his feet.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry about your brother.”

  “Foster brother.”

  “Mm. Could I take your cell number? In case anything crops up.”

  “Like what?”

  They looked at each other. The answer hung in the air between them, unnecessary to elucidate, unbearable to articulate. The scab had burst and a line of blood was trickling down toward his hand.

  “I know one thing that might help,” Stein Hanssen said when Harry was outside on the step. “The places you’re planning to search for her. Urtegata. The Møtestedet café. The parks. The hostels. Junkie hangouts. Red-light district. Forget it. I’ve been there.”

  Harry nodded. Put on his sunglasses. “Keep your cell switched on, OK?”

  HARRY WENT TO the Lorry café for lunch, but on the steps felt a sudden craving for beer and about-turned in the doorway. Instead he went to a new place opposite the House of Literature. Left after a quick scan of the clientele, and ended up in Pla, where he ordered a Thai variant of a tapa.

  “Drink? Singha?”

  “No.”

  “Tiger?”

  “Do you only have beer?”

  The waiter took the hint and returned with water.

  Harry had king prawns and chicken but declined their Thai-style sausage. Then he called Rakel at home and asked her to go find the CDs he had left at Holmenkollen over the years. Some he had wanted to listen to for his own pleasure, and some he had wanted to introduce to them. Elvis Costello, Miles Davis, Led Zeppelin, Count Basie, the Jayhawks, Muddy Waters.

  She kept what, without any tangible irony, she called “Harry music” in its own section on the rack.

  “I’d like you to read all the song titles to me,” he said.

  “Are you joking?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “OK. The first is from Aztec Camera.”

  “Have you—”

  “Yes, I’ve organized them alphabetically.” She sounded embarrassed.

  “That’s a boy thing.”

  “It’s a Harry thing. And they’re your CDs. Can I read them now?”

  After twenty minutes they had got to W and Wilco without Harry picking up on any associations. Rakel heaved a sigh, but went on.

  “ ‘When You Wake Up Feeling Old.’ ”

  “Mm. No.”

  “ ‘Summerteeth.’ ”

  “Mm. Next.”

  “ ‘In a Future Age.’ ”

  “Wait!”

  Rakel waited.

  Harry started laughing.

  “Was that funny?” Rakel asked.

  “The chorus on ‘Summerteeth.’ It goes like this: ‘It’s just a dream he keeps having.’ ”

  “That doesn’t sound great, Harry.”

  “Yes, it does! I mean, the original does. So beautiful that I played it several times for Oleg. But he thought the lyrics went, ‘It’s just a dreamy Gonzales.’ ” Harry laughed again. And began to sing: “ ‘It’s just a dreamy Gonz—’ ”

  “Please, Harry.”

  “OK. Could you go onto Oleg’s computer and find something on the Net for me?”

  “What?”

  “Google Wilco and find their home page. See if they’ve had any concerts in Oslo this year. And if so, where.”

  Rakel came back after six minutes.

  “One.” She told Harry where.

  “Thank you,” Harry said.

  “You have got that voice again.”

  “Which voice?”

  “The hyped-up one. The boy’s voice.”

  LIKE A HOSTILE armada, the ominous steel-gray clouds came rolling over Oslo Fjord at four o’clock. Harry turned from Skøyen toward Frogner Park and parked on Thorvald Erichsens Vei. After calling Bellman’s cell three times without any luck, he had tried Police HQ and been told that Bellman had left early to practice with his son at the Oslo Tennis Club.

  Harry watched the clouds. Then he went in and surveyed OTC’s facilities.

  A superb clubhouse, clay courts, hard courts, even a center court with stands. Yet only two of the twelve courts were in use. In Norway you played soccer and skied. Tennis players attracted whispers and suspicious glances.

  Harry found Bellman on a clay court. He was plucking balls out of a basket and hitting them gently at a boy who might have been practicing backhand cross-court shots; it was hard to say, because the balls were going all over the place.

  Harry went through the gate behind Bellman, onto the court and stood beside him. “Looks like he’s struggling,” Harry said, taking out his pack of cigarettes.

  “Harry,” Mikael Bellman said, without stopping or taking his eyes off the boy. “He’s getting there.”

  “There’s a certain similarity. Is he …?”

  “My son. Filip. Ten.”

  “Time flies. Talented?”

  “He’s got a little of his father in him, but I have faith. He just needs to be pushed.”

  “I didn’t think that was legal anymore.”

  “We want the best for our children, Harry, but may do them a disservice. Move your feet, Filip!”

  “Did you find out about Martin Pran?”

  “Pran?”

  “The hunchback weirdo at the Radiumhospitalet.”

  “Oh, yes, the gut instinct. Yes and no. That is, yes, I checked. And no, we’ve got nothing on him. Nothing at all.”

  “Mm. I was thinking about asking for something else.”

  “Down on your knees! What would that be?”

  “A warrant to dig up Gusto Hanssen to see if there was any blood under his nails for a new test.”

  Bellman took his eyes off his son, evidently to c
heck whether Harry was serious.

  “There’s a very plausible confession, Harry. I think I can say with some confidence that that warrant would be rejected.”

  “Gusto did have blood under his nails. The sample went missing before it was tested.”

  “That sort of thing happens.”

  “Very rarely.”

  “And whose blood is it, in your opinion?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. But if the first sample was sabotaged that means it spells danger for someone.”

  “This dealer who confessed, for example. Adidas?”

  “Real name Chris Reddy.”

  “Anyway, aren’t you done with this case now that Oleg Fauke has been released?”

  “Anyway, shouldn’t he have both hands on the racket for backhand?”

  “Do you know anything about tennis?”

  “Seen some on TV.”

  “One-handed backhands develop character.”

  “I don’t even know if the blood has anything to do with the murder. Perhaps someone’s frightened of being linked with Gusto.”

  “Such as?”

  “Dubai, maybe. Besides, I don’t think Adidas killed Gusto.”

  “Why not?”

  “A hardened dealer suddenly confessing out of the blue?”

  “See your point,” Bellman said. “But it is a confession. And a good one.”

  “And it’s just a drug murder,” Harry continued, ducking a stray ball. “And you’ve got enough cases to crack.”

  Bellman sighed. “It’s the same as it’s always been, Harry. Our resources are too strained for us to be able to focus on cases where we already have a solution.”

  “A solution? What about the solution?”

  “As boss, one is obliged to accept slippery formulations.”

  “OK, so let me offer you two case solutions. In exchange for help with finding a house.”

  Bellman stopped hitting balls. “What?”

  “A murder in Alnabru. A biker named Tutu. A source informed me he got drilled through his head.”

  “And the source is willing to testify?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And the second?”

  “The undercover guy who washed up by the Opera House. Same source saw him dead on Dubai’s cellar floor.”