The Devil's Star Read online

  ‘Yes indeed. Gosh . . . Guess who I’m sitting looking at now?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Sven Sivertsen as large as life, as tall as ever. In profile in front of Vigeland’s six giants. Looks as if he’s walking past.’

  ‘Has he got a brown polythene bag in his hand?’

  ‘The picture is cut off too high to see.’

  ‘OK, but at least he was there.’

  ‘Yes, but no-one was killed on a Saturday, Harry. So that’s no alibi for anything.’

  ‘It means that at least something of what he said is true.’

  ‘Well, the best lies are ninety per cent truth.’

  Beate could feel the lobes of her ears getting warm as she realised that that was a direct quote from The Gospel According to Harry. She had even used his intonation.

  ‘Where are you?’ she added quickly.

  ‘As I said, it’s best for us both that you don’t know.’

  ‘Sorry, slipped up there.’

  Pause.

  ‘We . . . er, we’ll keep checking the photos,’ Beate said. ‘Bjørn’s got hold of a list of tourist groups who were in Frogner Park at the times of the other murders.’

  Harry rang off with a grunt, which Beate interpreted as a ‘thank you’.

  Harry put his thumb and first finger in the corners of his eyes on each side of the ridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Including the two hours he had slept this morning, he had had six hours’ sleep in the last three days. And he knew it might be a long time before he had any more. He had dreamed about streets. He had seen the map slide into his view and he had dreamed about street names in Oslo. Sons gate, Nittedalgata, Sørumgata, Skedsmogata, all the twisting little streets in Kampen. And then he had dreamed it was night, snow was falling and he was walking along a street in Grünerløkka (Markveien? Toftes gate?) and a red sports car was parked there with two people in it. As he drew closer, he saw that one person was a woman with the head of a pig, wearing an old-fashioned dress. He called her name, he called out ‘Ellen’, but when she turned round and opened her mouth to answer, it was full of gravel and the gravel spilled out.

  Harry stretched his stiff neck from side to side. ‘Listen,’ he said, attempting to focus on Sven Sivertsen, who was lying on a mattress on the floor. ‘The person I just talked to on the phone has set some machinery in motion for your and my sake that could lead to her not only losing her job, but also being imprisoned for acting as an accomplice. I need something that can give her peace of mind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I want her to see a copy of one of the pictures you have of you and Waaler in Prague.’

  Sivertsen laughed.

  ‘Are you hard of hearing, Harry? This is the only card I have to bargain with, I’m telling you. If I play it now, you can just cancel Operation Save Sivertsen.’

  ‘We may do that sooner than you imagine. They’ve found a picture which proves you were in Frogner Park on Saturday. But nothing for the day Barbara Svendsen was killed. Rather odd considering that the Japanese have had the Fountain under flash attack all summer, don’t you think? It’s bad news for your story anyway. That’s why I want you to ring your girl and get her to mail or fax the picture to Beate Lønn in Forensics. She can censor Waaler’s face if you think you have to keep what you claim is your trump card, but I want to see a picture of you and someone else in that square, someone who could be Tom Waaler.’

  ‘Václav Square.’

  ‘Whatever. She’s got an hour to do it, starting now. If not, our agreement is history. Understand?’

  Sivertsen fixed Harry with a long stare before he answered.

  ‘I don’t know if she’ll be at home.’

  ‘She doesn’t work,’ Harry said. ‘Worried, pregnant girlfriend. How is she not going to be at home waiting for a telephone call from you? Let’s hope so anyway, for your sake. Fifty-nine minutes left.’

  Sivertsen’s gaze took in a whistle-stop tour of the room, but rested on Harry again in the end. He shook his head.

  ‘I can’t, Hole. I can’t drag her into this. She’s innocent. For the moment, Waaler knows nothing about her or where we live, but if this fails I know he’ll find out. And then he’ll go after her as well.’

  ‘And what will she think about being left alone to bring up a child while the father’s serving a life sentence for four murders? You’re caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, Sivertsen. Fifty-eight.’

  Sivertsen put his face in his hands.

  ‘Fuck . . .’

  When he looked up again Harry was holding out the mobile phone.

  He bit his bottom lip. Then he took the phone, punched in the number and pressed the red phone against his ear. Harry checked his watch. The second hand was stuttering its way round. Sivertsen shifted with unease. Harry counted 20 seconds.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She may have gone to her mother’s in Brno,’ Sivertsen said.

  ‘Pity. For you,’ Harry said with his eyes still on his watch. ‘Fifty-seven.’

  He heard the phone fall to the floor. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of Sivertsen’s contorted face before feeling a hand close around his neck. Harry brought both arms up quickly. He hit Sivertsen’s wrists and Sivertsen lost his grip. Then Harry lunged at the face ahead of him and hit something; he felt it give way. He struck again and felt warm sticky blood running between his fingers and made a bizarre association: that the blood was like freshly stirred strawberry jam off slices of bread at his grandmother’s house. He raised his hand to strike again. He saw the handcuffed, defenceless man try to cover his body, but it only made him even more furious. Tired, frightened and furious.

  ‘Wer ist da?’

  Harry froze. He and Sivertsen stared at each other. Neither of them said anything. The nasal sound came from the mobile phone on the floor.

  ‘Sven? Bist du es, Sven?’

  Harry grabbed the phone and held it to his ear.

  ‘Sven is here,’ he said slowly. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Eva,’ said the indignant woman’s voice. ‘Bitte, was ist passiert?’

  ‘Beate Lønn.’

  ‘Harry. I –’

  ‘Hang up and call my mobile.’ She rang off.

  Ten seconds later he had her on what he would insist on calling ‘the line’.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’re being monitored.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’ve got an anti-hacking software package and it shows that all our phone calls and e-mails are being monitored by a third party. It’s meant to protect us against criminals, but Bjørn says it looks like the ISP is doing it.’

  ‘Listening in?’

  ‘Hardly. But all our conversations and e-mails are being recorded.’

  ‘That’s Waaler and his boys.’

  ‘I know. So now they know that you’re ringing me, which in turn means that I cannot help you any more, Harry.’

  ‘Sivertsen’s girl is sending you a picture of a meeting Sivertsen and Waaler had in Prague. The picture shows Waaler from the back and can’t be used as evidence of any kind, but I want you to look at it and tell me if it seems genuine. She has the photo on her computer, so she can mail it to you. What’s the e-mail address?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said, Harry? They check all incoming e-mails and calls. What do you think will happen if we get an e-mail or a fax from Prague right now? I can’t do it, Harry. And I’ll have to find a plausible explanation for why you phoned me and I’m not as quick-thinking as you. My God, what will I say to them?’

  ‘Relax, Beate. You don’t need to say anything. I haven’t rung you.’

  ‘What are you saying? You’ve rung me three times in all.’

  ‘Yes, but they don’t know that. I’m using a mobile I exchanged with a pal.’

  ‘So, you anticipated all this?’

  ‘No, not this. I did it because mobile phones send signals to phone masts that pinpoint which part of the town t
he phone is in. If Waaler has got people working on the mobile phone network trying to trace me with the help of my mobile they’ll have something to sharpen their wits on because it is more or less in constant motion all over Oslo.’

  ‘I want to know as little about this as possible, Harry. But don’t send me anything here. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Harry.’

  ‘You’ve given me your right arm, Beate. You don’t need to apologise for holding on to your left.’

  He knocked at the door. Five short knocks at room number 303. He hoped it was loud enough to be heard over the music. He waited. He was going to knock once more when he heard the music being turned down and the padding of bare feet on the floor. The door opened. She looked as if she had been asleep.

  ‘Yes?’

  He flashed his ID card which, strictly speaking, was false since he was no longer a police officer.

  ‘Apologies again for what happened on Saturday,’ Harry said. ‘Hope you weren’t too frightened when they burst in.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said with a grimace. ‘I suppose you were only doing your job.’

  ‘Yes.’ Harry rocked on his heels while casting quick glances up and down the corridor. ‘A colleague from Forensics and I are checking Marius Veland’s room for clues. We have to send off a document right this minute but my laptop has gone on strike. It’s pretty important. I remembered that you were surfing the Net on Saturday and so I wondered . . .’

  She gestured that any further explanation was superfluous and switched on the computer.

  ‘The computer’s on. I suppose I ought to apologise for the mess or something like that. Hope you don’t mind if I don’t give a damn.’

  He sat down in front of the screen, got the e-mail program up, pulled out a slip of paper and banged Eva Marvanova’s address in with the greasy keys. The message was brief. Ready. This address. Send.

  He swung round on the chair and watched the girl, who was sitting on the sofa, pulling on a tight pair of jeans. He hadn’t even noticed that she was only wearing a pair of knickers, presumably because of the baggy T-shirt with a picture of a hemp leaf on.

  ‘On your own today?’ he asked, mostly to say something while waiting for Eva. He could tell by the expression on her face that it was not a particularly successful attempt at conversation.

  ‘I only screw at weekends,’ she said, sniffing a sock before she put it on. And she beamed with pleasure when it was apparent that Harry had no intention of following up her comment. It was apparent to Harry that she could have done with a trip to the dentist.

  ‘You’ve got an e-mail,’ she said.

  He turned round to the screen. It was from Eva. No text, just an attachment. He double-clicked on it. The screen went black.

  ‘He’s old and sluggish,’ the girl said with an even broader grin. ‘He’ll get it up eventually. You’ll just have to wait a bit.’

  In front of Harry the picture had begun to appear on the screen, first as a blue glaze, and then, when there was no more sky, a grey wall and a black and green monument. Then the square. And the tables. Sven Sivertsen. And a man in a leather jacket with his back to the camera. Dark hair. Powerful neck. It was no good as evidence, of course, but Harry was in no doubt at all that it was Tom Waaler. Nevertheless, that was not what made him sit and stare at the picture.

  ‘Er, you, I have to go to the loo,’ the girl said. Harry had no idea how long he had been sitting there. ‘And the bloody sound carries, so I get very embarrassed, don’t I? So if you could . . .’

  Harry stood up, mumbled his thanks and left.

  On the stairs between the third and the fourth floor he stopped.

  The picture.

  It couldn’t be chance. It was theoretically impossible.

  Or was it?

  Anyway, it couldn’t be true. No-one did that kind of thing.

  No-one.

  37

  Monday. Confession.

  The two men standing opposite each other in the church of the Holy Apostolic Princess Olga were the same height. The warm, clammy air smelled of sweet smoke and acrid tobacco. The sun had shone on Oslo every day now for almost five weeks, and the sweat was running in streams down Nikolai Loeb’s thick woollen tunic as he was reading the prayer to take confession:

  ‘Lo, you have come to the place of healing. The invisible spirit of Jesus Christ is here and will receive your confession.’

  He had tried to find a lighter, more modern tunic in Welhavens gate, but they didn’t have any for Russian Orthodox priests, they said. The prayer over, he placed the book beside the cross on the table between them. The man standing in front of him would soon clear his throat. They always cleared their throats before confessing, as if their sins were encapsulated in mucus and saliva. Nikolai had a vague sensation that he had seen the man before, but he could not remember where. And the name meant nothing to him. The man had seemed a little taken aback when he realised that the confession would be face to face and that he would even have to give his name. To tell the truth, Nikolai had had a feeling that the man had not given his real name, either. He may have come from a different congregation. Occasionally they came here with their secrets because this was a small anonymous church where they didn’t know anyone. Nikolai had often pardoned the sins of members of the established Church of Norway. If they asked for it, they got it; the mercy of the Lord was infinite.

  The man cleared his throat. Nikolai closed his eyes and promised himself that he would cleanse his body with a bath and his ears with Tchaikovsky as soon as he arrived home.

  ‘It is said that lust – exactly like water – will find the lowest level, Father. If there is an opening, a crack or a flaw in your character, lust will find it.’

  ‘We are all sinners, my son. Have you any sins to confess?’

  ‘Yes. I have been unfaithful to the woman I love. I have been together with a wanton woman. Even though I do not love her, I have not been able to resist going back to her.’

  Nikolai suppressed a yawn. ‘Continue.’

  ‘I . . . she became an obsession.’

  ‘Became, you say. Does that mean that you have stopped meeting her?’

  ‘They died.’

  It was not just what he said; there was also something in his voice that startled Nikolai.

  ‘They?’

  ‘She was pregnant. I believe.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear of your loss, my son. Does your wife know this?’

  ‘No-one knows anything.’

  ‘What did she die of?’

  ‘A bullet through the head, Father.’

  The sweat on Nikolai Loeb’s skin suddenly went ice cold. He swallowed.

  ‘Are there any other sins you would like to confess, my son.’

  ‘Yes. There is a person. A policeman. I have seen the woman I love go to him. I have thoughts about . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sinning. That is all, Father. Can you read the prayer of absolution now?’

  A silence fell over the church.

  ‘I . . .’ Nikolai began.

  ‘I have to go now, Father. Would you be so kind?’

  Nikolai closed his eyes again. Then he began to read and did not open his eyes until he came to ‘I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost’.

  He crossed himself over the man’s bowed head.

  ‘Thank you,’ the man whispered. He turned and scurried out of the church.

  Nikolai did not move from the spot and listened to the echo of the words still hanging between the walls. He thought he could remember where he had seen him now. In Gamle Aker assembly house. He had brought a new Star of Bethlehem to replace the ruined one.

  As a priest Nikolai was bound by his oath of secrecy and he had no intention of breaking it as a result of what he had heard. Yet there was something about the man’s voice, the way he had said he had thoughts about . . . about what?

  Nikolai gazed out of the window
. Where were the clouds? It was so sultry now that something had to happen soon. Rain. First of all though, thunder and lightning.

  He closed the door, knelt in front of the small altar and prayed. He prayed with an intensity that he had not felt for many years. For guidance and strength. And for forgiveness.

  At 2.00 Bjørn Holm stood in the doorway to Beate’s office and told her they had something she should have a look at.

  She got up and followed him into the photo lab, where he pointed to a photograph that was still hanging on a piece of cord to dry.

  ‘That’s from last Monday,’ Bjørn said. ‘Taken at about half past five, so roughly half an hour after Barbara Svendsen was shot in Carl Berners plass. You can easily cycle to Frogner Park in that time.’

  The picture showed a girl smiling in front of the Fountain. Beside her you could see part of a sculpture. Beate knew which one it was. One of the ‘tree groups’, the carving of a girl diving. She had always stood in front of the sculpture when she and her mother and father had driven to Oslo to go for a Sunday walk in Frogner Park. Her father had explained that Gustav Vigeland had intended the diving girl to symbolise the young girl’s fear of adult life and becoming a mother.

  However, today it was not the girl Beate was looking at. It was the back of a man on the margin of the picture. He was standing in front of a green litter bin. In his hand he was holding a brown polythene bag. He was wearing a tight yellow top and black cycling pants. On his head he wore a black helmet, sunglasses and there was a cloth over his mouth.

  ‘The courier,’ Beate whispered.

  ‘Maybe,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘Unfortunately, he is still masked.’

  ‘Maybe.’ It sounded like an echo. Beate stretched out her hand without taking her eyes off the photo. ‘The magnifying glass.’

  Holm found it on the table between the bags of chemical reagents and passed it to her.

  She squeezed one eye shut as she moved the magnifying glass across the photograph.

  Bjørn Holm watched his boss. Of course he had heard the stories about Beate Lønn when she was working on bank robbery cases. About how she had sat for days on end in the ‘House of Pain’ – the hermetically sealed video room – playing the videos of the robbery, frame by frame, while she checked every detail of build, body language, contours of faces behind the masks. In the end she discovered the identity of the bank robber because she had seen him in another recording, from some post office robbery 15 years before, when she had still been pre-pubescent, a recording that had been stored on the hard disk containing a million faces and every bank robbery committed in Norway since video surveillance began. Some people had maintained it was down to Beate’s unusual fusiform gyrus – the part of the brain that recognises faces – and that it must have been a talent she was born with. That was why Bjørn Holm didn’t look at the photo, just at Beate Lønn’s eyes scrutinising the picture in front of her, examining it in minute detail in a way that would be impossible to learn.