The Leopard hh-8 Read online

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Truls Berntsen. I work with Mikael.’

  She had heard of Truls Berntsen, of course. The shadow. Beavis – wasn’t that what Mikael called him?’

  ‘I’m-’

  ‘Kaja Solness.’

  ‘Right, how do you…?’ She swallowed, reformulated the question. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you,’ he answered with a single-toned rasp.

  ‘Right. And what am I doing here?’

  He laughed his grunt-laugh. But didn’t reply. Stood right in front of her with his arms hanging down and away from his sides. One eyelid twitched as if an insect were trapped beneath it.

  Kaja sighed. ‘If you’re doing the same as me, you’re here to keep an eye on the factory,’ she said. ‘In case he might reappear.’

  ‘Yes, in case he might reappear,’ said the Beavis type without taking his eyes off her.

  ‘It’s not so unlikely, is it?’ she said. ‘He may not know it’s burned down.’

  ‘My father worked there,’ Beavis said. ‘He used to say he made PSG, coughed PSG and became PSG.’

  ‘Are there a lot of Kripos people in the area? Did Mikael give you orders to come here?’

  ‘You don’t meet him any more, do you? You meet Harry Hole.’

  Kaja felt a chill in her stomach. How on earth did this man know that? Had Mikael really told people about them?

  ‘You weren’t at Havass,’ she said to change the topic.

  ‘Wasn’t I?’ Grunted laughter. ‘I suppose I was free. Time off. Jussi was there.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘He was there.’

  A gust of wind swept in, and she twisted her head to prevent a branch scratching her face. Had he been following her or had he been here before she arrived?

  When she turned to ask him, he wasn’t there. She shone her torch between the trees. He was gone.

  It was two in the morning when she parked in the street, went through the gate and up the steps to the yellow house. She pressed the button over the painted ceramic tile bearing the words ‘fam. Hole’ in ornate looped writing.

  After ringing for the third time she heard a low cough and turned to see Harry returning a service revolver to the lining of his trousers. He must have crept around the corner of the house without making any noise.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked, terrified.

  ‘Just being extra careful. You should have phoned and said you were coming.’

  ‘Sh-shouldn’t I have come?’

  Harry went up the steps past her and unlocked the door. She followed him in, put her arms around him from behind, clung to his back and kicked the door shut with her heel. He freed himself, turned, was about to say something, but she stopped him with a kiss. A greedy kiss that demanded reciprocity. She put her cold hands up his shirt, felt from the glowing hot skin that he had come straight from bed, removed the revolver from his trousers and banged it down on the hall table.

  ‘I want you,’ she whispered, bit his ear and pushed her hand down his trousers. His dick was warm and soft.

  ‘Kaja…’

  ‘Can I have you?’

  She thought she could discern a slight hesitation, a certain reluctance. She wrapped her other hand around his neck, looked into his eyes. ‘Please…’

  He smiled. Then his muscles relaxed. And he kissed her. Cautiously. More cautiously than she wanted. She groaned with frustration, undid his trouser buttons. Held his dick firmly without moving her hand, felt it grow.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he sighed and lifted her. Carried her up the stairs. Kicked open the bedroom door and laid her on the bed. On his mother’s side. She tilted back her head, closed her eyes, felt her clothes being removed, quickly, efficiently. Felt the heat radiating from his skin the moment he lowered himself onto her and forced her legs apart. Yes, she thought. Fuck me.

  She lay with her cheek and ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

  ‘What were you thinking,’ she whispered, ‘when you were lying there knowing you were going to die?’

  ‘That I was going to live,’ Harry said.

  ‘Just that?’

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘Not that you were going to… meet those you loved?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I did. It was strange. I was so frightened that something special was going to pieces. And then the horror passed and instead I was filled with peace. I just slept. And then you came. And woke me up. Rescued me.’

  Harry passed her his cigarette and she took a drag, then sniggered.

  ‘You’re a hero, Harry. The type they give medals. Who would have thought that of you, eh?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Believe me, sweetheart, I was thinking only of myself. I didn’t spare you a thought until I reached the fireplace.’

  ‘Maybe not, but when you got there you still had very little air. By digging me out you knew we would use up the air twice as quickly.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m a generous guy.’

  She slapped his chest with a laugh. ‘A hero!’

  Harry inhaled hard. ‘Or perhaps it was survival instinct outmanoeuvring conscience.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The person I found first was so strong he almost managed to keep the pole. So I guessed it had to be Kolkka and that he was alive. I knew it was a question of seconds and minutes, but instead of digging him out I prodded the snow to find you. You were quite still. I thought you were dead.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So maybe I was thinking deep down that if I dug out the dead one first the one who was alive might die in the meantime. In that way I could have all the air to myself. It’s hard to know what governs your actions.’

  She went quiet. Outside, the snarl of a motorbike rose and fell. A motorbike in March. And today she had seen a migratory bird. Everything was out of balance.

  ‘Do you always brood so much?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Maybe. I don’t know.’

  She wriggled closer to him. ‘What are you brooding about now?’

  ‘How he can know what he knows.’

  She sighed. ‘Our killer?’

  ‘And why he’s playing with me. Why he sends me a bit of Tony Leike. How he thinks.’

  ‘And how are you going to find out?’

  He stubbed out the cigarette on the bedside table. Took a deep breath and released it in a long hiss. ‘That’s the point. I can only think of one way. I have to talk to him.’

  ‘Him? Prince Charming?’

  ‘Someone like him.’

  The dream came on the threshold of sleep. He was staring up at a nail. It was sticking out of a man’s head. But there was something familiar about the face tonight. A familiar portrait, one he had seen so many times. Seen recently. The foreign object in Harry’s mouth exploded and he twitched. He was asleep.

  70

  Blind Spot

  Harry walked along the hospital corridor with a prison warder dressed in civilian clothing. Two strides in front was the doctor. She had informed Harry of his condition, prepared him for what he should expect.

  They came to a door and the warder unlocked it. Inside, the corridor continued for a few metres. There were three doors in the wall to the left. A uniformed prison warder stood in front of one of them.

  ‘Is he awake?’ asked the doctor while the warder searched Harry. The officer nodded, put all the contents of Harry’s pockets on the table, unlocked the door and stepped aside.

  The doctor signalled that Harry should wait a moment and entered with the warder. She came back out immediately.

  ‘Fifteen minutes maximum,’ she said. ‘He’s doing better, but he’s weak.’

  Harry nodded. Took a deep breath. And stepped inside.

  He stopped by the door and heard it close behind him. The curtains were drawn, and the room was dark apart from a lamp by the bed. The light fell on a figure sitting semi-upright against a pillow, head bowed and long hair hanging down on
each side.

  ‘Come closer, Harry.’ The voice had changed; it sounded like the lament of unoiled door hinges. But Harry recognised it, and his blood ran cold.

  He approached the bed and sat on the chair that had been provided. The man raised his head. And Harry stopped breathing.

  He looked as if someone had poured hot wax over his face. Which had stiffened into a mask that was too tight, pulling the forehead and the chin back and turning the mouth into a small, lipless gap in a lumpy landscape of bony tissue. The laughter was two short blasts of air.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, Harry?’

  ‘I recognise the eyes,’ Harry said. ‘That’ll do. It’s you.’

  ‘Anything new from…’ The small carp-like mouth seemed to be forming a smile. ‘… our Rakel?’

  Harry had prepared himself for this, braced himself the way a boxer braces himself for pain. Nonetheless, the sound of her name in his mouth made him clench his fists.

  ‘You agreed to talk to me about a man. A man we think is like you.’

  ‘Like me? Better-looking, I trust.’ Again two short blasts. ‘It’s bizarre, Harry. I’ve never been a vain man; I thought the pain would be the worst aspect of this illness. But do you know what? It’s the deterioration. It’s seeing yourself in the mirror, seeing the monster emerge. They still let me go to the toilet alone, but I avoid the mirrors. I was a good-looking man, you know.’

  ‘Have you read the things I sent you?’

  ‘I had a quick skim. Dr Dyregod’s of the opinion I shouldn’t wear myself out. Infections. Inflammations. Fever. She’s genuinely concerned about my health, Harry. Quite astonishing when you consider what I’ve done, eh? Personally I’m more interested in dying. That’s precisely where I envy those I… but you put a stop to that, didn’t you, Harry?’

  ‘Death would have been too kind a punishment.’

  Something seemed to ignite in the sick man’s eyes and appeared as a cold white light from the slits in his face.

  ‘At least I have a name and a place in the annals of history. People will read about the Snowman. Someone will inherit the mantle and act out my ideas in life. What have you got, Harry? Nothing. Quite the contrary, you’ve lost the little you had.’

  ‘True,’ Harry said. ‘You won.’

  ‘Do you miss your middle finger?’

  ‘Well, I’m missing it right now.’ Harry raised his head and met the other’s gaze. Held it. Then the small carp mouth opened. The laughter sounded like a gun with a silencer.

  ‘At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour, Harry. You know I’m going to demand something in return, don’t you?’

  ‘No cure, no pay. But go ahead.’

  The man twisted with some difficulty to the bedside table, lifted the glass of water standing there and put it to his mouth. Harry stared at the hand holding the glass. It resembled a white bird’s claw. After finishing, the man carefully put the glass back and spoke. The lament was fainter now, like a radio on low batteries.

  ‘I believe there is something in the prison manual about high suicide risks. At any rate, they watch me like hawks. They searched you before you came in, didn’t they? Afraid you would bring me a knife or something similar. But I don’t want to see any further deterioration, Harry. It’s enough now, don’t you think?’

  ‘No,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t think so. Talk about something else.’

  ‘You could have lied and said yes.’

  ‘Would you prefer that?’

  The man waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’d like to see Rakel.’

  Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’d just like to say something to her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That is a matter between her and me.’

  The chair scraped as Harry stood up. ‘It won’t happen.’

  ‘Wait. Take a seat.’

  Harry took a seat.

  The man looked down and tugged at the bedcover. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I have no regrets about the others. They were whores. But Rakel was different. She was… different. I just wanted to say that.’

  Harry studied him, dumbfounded.

  ‘So what do you think?’ the Snowman said. ‘Say yes. Lie if you have to.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harry lied.

  ‘You’re a bad liar, Harry. I want to talk to her before I help you.’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘Why should I trust you?’

  ‘Because you have no choice. Because thieves trust thieves when they have to.’

  ‘Do they?’

  Harry forced a thin smile. ‘When I bought opium in Hong Kong, for a while we used a disabled toilet in The Landmark shopping complex, Des Voeux Road. I went in first, put a baby’s bottle under the cistern lid in the cubicle on the far right. Went for a walk, looked at fake watches, returned and my bottle was still there. Always with the right quantity of opium in. Blind faith.’

  ‘You said you used the toilet “for a while”.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘One day the bottle went missing. Perhaps the dealer cheated me, perhaps someone had seen us and made off with the money or the goods. There are no guarantees.’

  The Snowman eyed Harry thoughtfully.

  Harry walked down the corridor with the doctor. The warder went first.

  ‘That didn’t take long,’ she said.

  ‘He kept it brief,’ Harry said.

  Harry strolled through the reception area, out to the car park, unlocked his car. Watched his hand tremble as he put the key in the ignition. The back of his shirt was drenched with sweat as he leaned against the seat.

  He had kept it brief.

  ‘Let’s assume he’s like me, Harry. After all, that assumption is vital if I am to be able to help you. Motive first. Hatred. A red-hot, burning hatred. This is the stuff of survival, it’s the magma inside that keeps him warm. And, just like magma, hatred is a precondition of life, so that everything doesn’t freeze to ice. At the same time the pressure from the internal heat will inevitably lead to an eruption, the destructive element will be released. And the longer it goes without an eruption, the more violent it will be. Now the eruption is in full flow, and it is violent. Which tells me you will have to search way back in time for the cause. Because it is not the actions committed out of hatred, but the cause of the hatred that will solve this riddle for you. The actions will make no sense without the cause. Hatred takes time to build up, but the cause is simple. Something happened. It’s all about this one thing that happened. Find out what it is and you’ve got him.’

  Of all the metaphors, what had made him use a volcano? Harry drove down the steep, winding road from B?rum Hospital.

  ‘Eight murders. He’s the king now, at the top. He’s built a universe in which everything appears to obey him. He’s the puppet master, and he’s playing with you all. And especially with you, Harry. It’s hard to see why you should have been appointed – perhaps it’s a matter of chance. Gradually, though, as he controls his puppets, he will look for more thrills. He will talk to the puppets, be close to them, enjoy his triumphs where he can enjoy them most, together with those over whom he triumphs. But he’s well disguised. He doesn’t stand out like a puppet master, he may even seem subservient, someone who is easily led, someone who is underrated, someone you would never imagine could direct such a complex drama.’

  Harry was heading for the city centre on the E18. There was a jam. He shifted into the public transport lane. He was a policeman, for Christ’s sake. And this was urgent, urgent, urgent. His mouth was dry, the dogs were in full cry.

  ‘He’s close to you, Harry, of that I’m pretty certain, he simply can’t let go. But he’s closed in on you from a blind spot. Stolen into your life in some way and inspired trust at a time when you had your attention focused elsewhere. Or when you were weak. He’s at home where he is. A neighbour, a friend, a colleague. Or someone who’s simply there, right behind another person who is clearer to you, a shadow you don’t even think abou
t, other than as an appendix to this first person. Think about those who have crossed your field of vision. Because he has been there. You know his face already. He may not have exchanged many words with you, but if he’s like me, he hasn’t been able to restrain himself, Harry. He’s cosied up to you.’

  Harry parked outside the Savoy and went to the bar.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  Harry let his eyes wander along the bottles on the glass shelves behind the barman.

  Beefeater, Johnnie Walker, Bristol Cream, Absolut, Jim Beam.

  He was searching for a man with a burning hatred. Someone who didn’t let his emotions stray. Someone with an armoured heart.

  His wandering eyes came to a halt. And jumped back. His mouth fell open. It was like a divine flash. And everything, everything was in that flash.

  The voice came from a distance.

  ‘Sir? Excuse me, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Made a decision?’

  Harry nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’ve made a decision.’

  71

  Bliss

  Gunnar Hagen was rolling a pencil between his forefingers and observing Harry, who for once was sitting – and not lying – in the chair in front of his desk.

  ‘Technically, for the time being, you are employed by Kripos and thereby part of Bellman’s team,’ the Crime Squad boss said. ‘Ergo, an arrest by you would be a home win for Bellman.’

  ‘And if I – all this is still perfectly hypothetical – informed you and left the arrest to someone at Crime Squad, say, Kaja Solness or Magnus Skarre?’

  ‘I would be forced to refuse such a generous offer even from you, Harry. As I said, I am bound by agreements.’

  ‘Mm. Bellman’s still got a hold on you?’

  Hagen sighed. ‘If I were to work a dodge like taking an arrest off Bellman in Norway’s biggest murder case, the Ministry of Justice would want to know everything straight away. If I were to defy them and bring you back here to investigate this case, that would be regarded as disobeying orders. And it would hit the whole unit. Sorry, Harry, but I can’t.’