Phantom hh-9 Read online

  ‘You’re hot,’ she said. ‘Feverishly hot. Are you sure whatever is under your so-called plaster isn’t infected?’

  He shook his head. Knowing full well, from the dull, pulsating pain, that the wound was inflamed. But with his many years of experience from Crime Squad he knew something else as well. That the police had interviewed the barman and the customers at the Nirvana bar and would know the person who had killed the knifeman had left the place with deep cuts to his chin and neck. They would also have alerted all the doctors in town and run surveillance on A amp;E departments. And this was no time to be held on remand.

  She stroked his shoulder, up as far as his neck and back again. Over his chest. And he thought she must be able to feel his heart beating and that she was like the Pioneer TV they had stopped producing because it was too good, and you could see it was good because the black bit of the picture was so black.

  He had managed to open a window a fraction; they didn’t want suicides on their hands at the hotel. And even up on the eighteenth floor they could hear the rush hour, the occasional car horn, and from somewhere else, perhaps another room, an inappropriate, belated summer song.

  ‘Are you sure you want this?’ he said without trying to cough away his hoarseness. They stood there; she with a hand on his shoulder, her eyes fixed on his like a concentrated tango partner.

  She nodded.

  Such a cosmic, intense black in the blackness that it sucked you in. He didn’t even notice her raise her foot and close the door. He heard it close, so gently, that was all, the sound of an expensive hotel, like a kiss.

  And while they made love he thought only of the darkness and the aroma. The darkness of her hair, eyebrows and eyes. And the aroma of the perfume he had never asked her about, but that was only hers, which was in her clothes, in her wardrobe, which had rubbed off on his clothes then, when they hung together with hers. And which was now in the wardrobe here. Because the other man’s clothes had also hung in her wardrobe. And that was where she had found them, not at his house, perhaps it had not even been his idea, perhaps she had just taken them straight from the wardrobe and brought them here. But Harry said nothing. Because he knew he had her on loan, that was all. He had her right now, and it was either that or nothing. So he held his tongue. Made love to her the way he always had, with intensity and at his leisure. Not allowing himself to be influenced by her greed or impatience, but did it with such slow passion that she alternated between cursing him and gasping. Not because that was how he thought she wanted it, but because that was how he wanted it. Because he only had her on loan. He had only these few hours.

  And when she came, stiffened and stared at him with that paradoxical, wronged expression, all the nights they had spent together came back, and he was close to tears.

  Afterwards they shared a cigarette.

  ‘Why won’t you tell me that you’re a couple?’ Harry said, inhaling and passing her the cigarette.

  ‘Because we aren’t. It’s a… a stop-gap thing.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more. I should stay away from everything and everyone.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘That’s the point. I need a good man, so why don’t I want a good man? Why are we so bloody irrational when we actually know what’s best for us?’

  ‘Humans are a perverted and damaged species,’ Harry said. ‘And there is no cure, only relief.’

  Rakel cuddled up to him. ‘That’s what I like about you, the indomitable optimism.’

  ‘I see it as my duty to spread sunshine, my love.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Is there any way back? For us?’

  Harry closed his eyes. Listened to the heartbeats. His own and hers.

  ‘Not back, no.’ He turned to her. ‘But if you think you still have some future left in you…’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘This is just pillow talk, isn’t it?’

  ‘Muppet.’ She kissed him on the cheek, passed him the cigarette and stood up. Got dressed.

  ‘You can stay upstairs at mine, you know.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s best like this now.’

  ‘Don’t forget I love you,’ she said. ‘Never forget that. Whatever happens. Do you promise?’

  He nodded. Closed his eyes. The door closed as gently again the second time. Then he opened his eyes. Looked at his watch.

  It’s best like this now.

  What else could he have done? Gone back to Holmenkollen with her, ensuring Dubai had followed his trail there, and dragged Rakel into this confrontation, the way he had done with the Snowman? Because he could see it now, he could see they had been dogging his steps from the very first day. Sending an invitation to Dubai via his pushers had been superfluous. They would find him before he found them. And then they would find Oleg.

  So, the sole advantage he had was that he could choose the place. The scene of the crime. And he had chosen. Not here in the Plaza, this was so that he could have some time out, a couple of hours’ sleep and collect himself. The place was Hotel Leon.

  Harry had considered contacting Hagen. Or Bellman. Explaining the situation to them. But it would give them no other choice but to arrest him. Even so, it was just a question of time before the police would put together the three descriptions they had been given by the barman in Kvadraturen, the security guard at Vestre Cemetery and the old lady in Madserud alle. A man, one ninety-two, wearing a linen suit, scar on one side of his face and a bandaged chin and neck. They would soon be putting out a call for Harry Hole. So it was urgent.

  He got up with a groan, opened the wardrobe.

  Put on the ironed underpants and a shirt with a polo player. Mulled over the Armani trousers. Shook his head with a soft expletive and donned his suit instead.

  Then he pulled out the tennis bag lying on the hat shelf. Hans Christian had explained it was the only one he had with enough space for a rifle.

  Harry bundled it over his shoulder and left. The door behind him closed with a soft kiss.

  32

  I don’t know if it’s possible to say exactly how the throne changed hands. Exactly when violin came to power and began to rule over us rather than vice versa. Everything had gone down the pan; the deal I had tried to make with Ibsen, the coup at Alnabru. And Oleg went around with that depressed Russian mug on him, complaining life without Irene was meaningless. After three weeks we shot up more than we earned, we were high when working and we knew it was all about to go tits up. As even then it meant less than the next fix. It sounds like a cliche, it is a cliche, and that’s precisely how it is. So bloody simple and so absolutely impossible. I think I can safely say that I have never loved any human, I mean, really loved. But I was hopelessly in love with violin. For while Oleg was using violin as medicine to dull the pain of his broken heart, I was using violin as it is supposed to be used. To be happy. And I mean just that: fricking happy. It was better than food, sex, sleep, yes, it was even better than breathing.

  And that was why it did not come as a shock when, one evening after the showdown, Andrey took me aside and said the old boy was concerned.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  He explained that if I didn’t sharpen up and go to work with a clear head every bloody day from now on the old boy said I would be forcibly packed off to rehab.

  I laughed. Said I didn’t realise this job had fringe benefits like health schemes and stuff. Did Oleg and I get dental treatment and pensions as well?

  ‘Oleg doesn’t.’

  I saw in his eyes more or less what that meant.

  I had no intention of kicking the habit yet. And neither did Oleg. So we didn’t give a toss, and the following evening we were as high as the Post Office building, sold half of our stock, took the rest, stole a car and drove to Kristiansand. Played fricking Sinatra at full blast, ‘I Got Plenty of Nothing’, which was true, we didn’t even have a bloody licence. In the end Oleg was singing too, but o
nly to drown out Sinatra and moi, he claimed. We laughed and drank lukewarm beer, it was like the old days. We stayed at Hotel Ernst, which wasn’t as dull as it sounds, but when we asked at reception where the dope dealers hung out, we got only a blank look in return. Oleg had told me about the town’s festival, which had been wrecked by some idiot who was so desperate to be a guru he booked bands that were so cool they couldn’t afford them. Nevertheless, the Christian folk in the town maintained that half of the population between eighteen and twenty-five had bought drugs because of the festival. But we didn’t find any customers; we zoomed around on a dark evening in the pedestrian area where there was one — one! — drunken man and also fourteen members of a Ten Sing choir, who enquired whether we wanted to meet Jesus.

  ‘If he wants some violin, yes,’ I said.

  But apparently Jesus didn’t, so we went back to our hotel room and had a goodnight shot. I have no idea why, but we hung around in the back of beyond. Did nothing, just got high and sang Sinatra. One night I woke up with Oleg standing over me. He was holding a fricking dog in his arms. Said he’d been woken up by the squeal of brakes outside the window and that, when he looked out, this dog was lying in the street. I had a peep. It didn’t look good. Oleg and I were agreed, its back was broken. Mangy with lots of sores as well. The poor creature had been beaten up, whether by an owner or other dogs who knows. But it was fine, it was. Calm, brown eyes looked at me as if it believed I could fix what was wrong. So I tried. Gave it food and water, patted its head and talked to the animal. Oleg said we should take it to a vet, but I knew what they would do, so we kept the dog in the hotel room, hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and let it lie in the bed. We took turns to stay awake and check it was breathing. It lay there getting hotter and hotter and with its pulse getting weaker. The third day I gave it a name. Rufus. Why not? Nice to have a name if you’re going to peg it.

  ‘It’s suffering,’ Oleg said. ‘The vet’ll put it to sleep with an injection. Won’t hurt at all.’

  ‘No one’s going to inject Rufus with cheap dope,’ I said, flicking the syringe.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Oleg said. ‘That violin is worth two thousand kroner.’

  Perhaps it was. At any rate Rufus left this fricking world business class.

  I seem to remember the journey home was cloudy. Anyway there was no Sinatra, no one sang.

  Back in Oslo, Oleg was terrified about what would happen. As for myself I was quite cool, strangely enough. It was as if I knew the old boy wouldn’t touch us. We were two harmless junkies on our way down. Broke, unemployed and after a while out of violin. Oleg had found out that the expression ‘junkie’ was more than a hundred years old, from the time when the first heroin addicts stole junk metal from the harbour in Philadelphia and sold it to finance their consumption. And that was precisely what Oleg and I did. We began to sneak into building sites down by the harbour in Bjorvika and stole whatever we came across. Copper and tools were gold. We sold the copper to a scrap merchant in Kalbakken, the tools to a couple of Lithuanian tradesmen.

  But as more people latched onto the scam, the fences grew in height, more nightwatchmen were employed, the cops showed up and the buyers went AWOL. So there we sat, our cravings lashing us like rabid slave drivers round the clock. And I knew I would have to come up with a decent idea, an Endlosung. So I did.

  Of course I said nothing to Oleg.

  I prepared the speech for a whole day. Then I rang her.

  Irene had just returned home from training. She sounded almost happy to hear my voice. I talked without stopping for an hour. She was crying by the time I’d finished.

  The following evening I went down to Oslo Central Station and was standing on the platform when the Trondheim train trundled in.

  Her tears were flowing as she hugged me.

  So young. So caring. So precious.

  As I’ve mentioned, I’ve never really loved anyone. But I must have been close to it, because I was almost crying myself.

  33

  Through the narrow opening of the window in room 301 Harry heard a church bell strike eleven somewhere in the darkness. His aching chin and throat had one advantage: they kept him awake. He got out of bed and sat in the chair, tilted it back against the wall beside the window so that he was facing the door with the rifle in his lap.

  He had stopped at reception and asked for a strong light bulb to replace the one that had gone in his room and a hammer to knock in a couple of nails sticking up from the door sill. Said he would fix them himself. Afterwards he had changed the weak bulb in the corridor outside and used the hammer to loosen and remove the door sill.

  From where he was sitting he would be able to see the shadow in the gap beneath the door when they came.

  Harry lit another cigarette. Checked the rifle. Finished the rest of the pack. Outside in the darkness the church bell chimed twelve times.

  The phone rang. It was Beate. She said she had been given copies of four of the five lists from patrol cars trawling the Blindern district.

  ‘The last patrol car had already delivered its list to Orgkrim,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Harry said. ‘Did you get the bags from Rita at Schroder’s?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I’ve told Pathology to make it a priority. They’re analysing the blood now.’

  Pause.

  ‘And?’ Harry asked.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I know that intonation, Beate. There’s something else.’

  ‘DNA tests take more than a few hours, Harry. It-’

  ‘-can take days before we have a final result.’

  ‘Yes, so for the time being it’s incomplete.’

  ‘How incomplete?’ Harry heard footsteps in the corridor.

  ‘Well, there’s at least a five per cent chance there’s no match.’

  ‘You’ve been given an interim DNA profile and have a match on the DNA register, haven’t you?’

  ‘We use incomplete tests only to say who we can eliminate.’

  ‘Who’s the match for?’

  ‘I don’t want to say anything until-’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘No. But I can say it’s not Gusto’s own blood.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s not Oleg’s. Alright?’

  ‘Very alright,’ Harry said, suddenly aware that he had been holding his breath.

  A shadow under the door.

  ‘Harry?’

  Harry rang off. Pointed the rifle at the door. Waited. Three short knocks. Waited. Listened. The shadow didn’t move. He tiptoed along the wall towards the door, out of any possible firing line. Put his eye to the peephole in the middle of the door.

  He saw a man’s back.

  The jacket hung straight and was so short he could see the trouser waistband. A black piece of cloth hung from his back pocket, a cap perhaps. But he wasn’t wearing a belt. His arms hung close to his sides. If the man was carrying a weapon it had to be in a holster, either on his chest or on the inside of his calf. Neither very common.

  The man turned to the door and knocked twice, harder this time. Harry held his breath while studying the distorted image of a face. Distorted, and yet there was something unmistakable about it. A pronounced underbite. And he was scratching himself under the chin with a card he had hanging from his neck. The way police officers sometimes carried ID cards when they were going to make an arrest. Shit! The police had been quicker than Dubai.

  Harry hesitated. If the guy had orders to arrest him he would also have a blue chit with a search warrant he had already shown the receptionist and he would have been given a master key. Harry’s brain calculated. He tiptoed back, pushed the rifle in behind the wardrobe. Went back and opened the door. Said: ‘What do you want and who are you?’ while glancing up and down the corridor.

  The man stared at him. ‘What a state you’re in, Hole. Can I come in?’ He held up his ID card.

  ‘Truls Berntsen. You used to work for Bellman, didn’t you?’

 
; ‘Still do. He sends his regards.’

  Harry stepped aside and let Berntsen go first.

  ‘Cosy,’ Berntsen said, looking around.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Harry said, indicating the bed and sitting on the chair by the window.

  ‘Chewing gum?’ Berntsen said, offering a packet.

  ‘Gives me cavities. What do you want?’

  ‘As friendly as ever?’ Berntsen grinned, rolled up the chewing gum, placed it in his drawer-like prognathous jaw and sat down.

  Harry’s brain was registering intonation, body language, eye movement, smell. The man was relaxed, yet threatening. Open palms, no sudden movements, but his eyes were collecting data, reading the situation, preparing for something. Harry already regretted stowing his rifle. Failure to hold a licence was the least of his problems.

  ‘Thing is, we found blood on Gusto’s shirt in connection with a grave desecration at Vestre Cemetery last night. And the DNA test shows it to be your blood.’

  Harry watched as Berntsen neatly folded the silver paper that had been wrapped round the chewing gum. Harry remembered him better now. They had called him Beavis. Bellman’s errand boy. Stupid and smart. And dangerous. Forrest Gump gone bad.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Harry said.

  ‘No, I can imagine,’ Berntsen said with a sigh. ‘Mistake on the register perhaps? I’ll have to drive you down to Police HQ to take another blood sample.’

  ‘I’m searching for a girl,’ Harry said. ‘Irene Hanssen.’

  ‘She’s in Vestre Cemetery?’

  ‘She’s been missing since this summer at any rate. She’s the foster-sister of Gusto Hanssen.’

  ‘News to me. Nevertheless you’ll have to come with me down to-’

  ‘It’s the girl in the middle,’ Harry said. He had taken the Hanssen family photograph from his jacket pocket and passed it to Berntsen. ‘I need a bit of time. Not much. Afterwards you’ll understand why I’ve had to do things like this. I promise to report within forty-eight hours.’

  ‘ 48 Hours,’ Berntsen said, studying the picture. ‘Good film. Nolte and that negro. McMurphy?’