The Leopard hh-8 Read online

  Harry mused, staring into middle distance. ‘OK, boss.’ He jumped up from the chair and strode to the door.

  ‘Wait!’

  Harry waited.

  ‘Why are you asking me about this now, Harry? Has something happened that I ought to know about?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Just testing a few hypotheses, boss. That’s our job, isn’t it?’

  Harry spent the hours until three o’clock making phone calls. The last one was to Bjorn Holm, who agreed to drive without a second thought.

  ‘I haven’t told you where or why,’ Harry said.

  ‘No need,’ said Bjorn and continued, stressing every word. ‘I-trust-you.’

  A pause arose.

  ‘Guess I deserved that,’ Harry said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bjorn.

  ‘I have a feeling I apologised, but did I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t? OK. Mm… Mm… Mm. Christ, this is hard. Mm… Mm…’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a slow starter there, buddy boy,’ Bjorn said, but Harry could hear he was smiling.

  ‘Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I hope I have some fingerprints for you to check before we leave. If they don’t match, you won’t have to drive, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Why so secretive?’

  ‘Because you trust me.’

  It was half past three when Harry knocked on the door to the small duty room at Rikshospital.

  Sigurd Altman opened.

  ‘Hi, could you take a look at these?’

  He passed the nurse a small pile of photographs.

  ‘They’re sticky,’ Altman said.

  ‘They’ve come straight from the darkroom.’

  ‘Hm. A severed finger. What’s that about?’

  ‘I suspect the owner has been given a hefty dose of ketanome. I was wondering if you as an anaesthetics expert can say whether we will be able to find any traces of the drug in the finger.’

  ‘Yes, no doubt, it circulates through the whole body with the blood.’

  Altman flicked through the photographs. ‘The finger looks pretty drained of blood, but in theory one drop is enough.’

  ‘Then the next question is whether you can assist us with an arrest tonight?’

  ‘Me? Haven’t you got pathologists who-?’

  ‘You know more than they do about this. And I need someone I can trust.’

  Altman shrugged, looked at his watch and passed the photographs back. ‘I’m off duty in two hours, so…’

  ‘Great. We’ll pick you up. You’re going to be part of Norwegian crime history, Altman.’

  The nurse gave a wan smile.

  Mikael Bellman rang as Harry was on his way to Krimteknisk.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Harry? Missed you at the morning meeting.’

  ‘Round and about.’

  ‘Round what?’

  ‘Our wonderful city,’ Harry said, dropping an A4 envelope on the bench in front of Kim Erik Lokker and pointing to his own fingertips to show him he wanted the contents checked for prints.

  ‘I get nervous when you’re not even on the radar for a whole day, Harry.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me, Mi-ka-el? Afraid I’ll end up on the booze?’

  The other end went quiet.

  ‘You report to me, and I would like to be kept informed, that’s all.’

  ‘Reporting in to say there’s nothing to report, boss.’

  Harry rang off and went in to see Bjorn. Beate was already sitting in his office waiting.

  ‘What did you want to tell us?’ she asked.

  ‘A real cops and robbers story,’ Harry said, taking a seat.

  He was halfway through his narrative when Lokker stuck his head round the door.

  ‘I’ve found these,’ he said, holding up a fingerprint transparency.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bjorn, sitting by the computer and taking the transparency. He put it on his scanner, brought up the file of the prints they had found in Holmenveien and started the matching program.

  Harry was aware it would take only a couple of seconds, but he closed his eyes, felt his heart throbbing even though he knew – he knew. The Snowman knew. And had told Harry the little he had needed, formulated the words, made the sound wave that would trigger the avalanche.

  This was how it had to be.

  It should only take a couple of seconds.

  His heart was thumping.

  Bjorn Holm cleared his throat. But said nothing.

  ‘Bjorn,’ Harry said, still with his eyes pinched shut.

  ‘Yes, Harry.’

  ‘Is this one of those dramatic pauses you want me to savour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it over now, you bloody sod?’

  ‘Yes. And we have a match.’

  Harry opened his eyes. Sunlight. Flooding into the room, filling it so that they could veritably swim out on it. Bliss. Fucking bliss.

  The three of them stood up at the same time. Staring at each other with open mouths forming mute roars of delight. Then they embraced each other in a clumsy group hug with Bjorn on the outside and little Beate squashed flat. They continued with muffled shouts, cautious high fives, and Bjorn Holm concluded with what Harry considered above and beyond any normal demands of a Hank Williams fan, a flawless moonwalk.

  72

  Boy

  The two men stood on a little grassy knoll – except that there was no grass – between Manglerud church and the motorway.

  ‘We used to call it an earth hookah or an earth bong,’ said the man in the leather biker jacket, tossing the long, thin strands of hair to the side. ‘In the summer we lay here smoking all the stuff we had. Fifty metres from Manglerud police station.’ He smirked. ‘There was me, Ulla, TV, his woman, plus a few others. Those were the days.’

  The man’s eyes glazed over as Roger Gjendem made notes.

  It had not been easy to find Julle, but in the end Roger had tracked him down to a bikers’ club in Alnabru where it turned out he ate, slept and lived his life as a free man; he moved no further afield than the supermarket to buy snus and bread. Gjendem had seen it before, how prison made people dependent on familiar surroundings, routine, security. Though, strangely enough, Julle had agreed quite willingly to talk about the past. The operative word had been Bellman.

  ‘Ulla was my woman and it was so bloody good because everyone round Manglerud was in love with Ulla.’ Julle nodded as if agreeing with himself. ‘But no one was so insanely jealous as him.’

  ‘Mikael Bellman?’

  Julle shook his head. ‘The other one. The shadow. Beavis.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Julle opened his palms. Roger had noticed the scabs. A jailbird migrating between dope in prison and dope outside. ‘Mikael Bellman grassed me up over nicking some petrol; I already had a suspended sentence for hash, and so had to do time. I heard rumours that Bellman and Ulla had been seen together. Anyhow, when I got out and went to pick her up, the Beavis guy was waiting for me. Almost killed me. Said Ulla belonged to him. And Mikael. Not to me, at any rate. And if I ever showed my face near…’ Julle ran his forefinger across a lean neck with grey stubble. ‘Pretty insane. And bloody scary. No one in the sodding gang believed me when I told them the Beavis guy had been so close to doing me in. The slavering idiot just trotted after Bellman.’

  ‘You mentioned something about quantities of heroin,’ Roger said. When he interviewed people in drugs cases he always made sure he used precise terminology that could not be misunderstood, as the slang expressions changed quickly and meant different things in different places. For example, smack might mean cocaine in Hovseter, heroin in Hellerud and anything that got you high in Abildso.

  ‘Me, Ulla, TV and his woman were on a bike tour in Europe the summer I went to the slammer. We took half a kilo of boy with us from Copenhagen. Bikers like me and TV were checked at every single border crossing, but we sent the girls over separately. Jesus, they looked good, wearing summer dresses, with blue eyes and a q
uarter of a kilo up their cunts. We sold most to a dealer down in Tveita.’

  ‘You’re very open,’ Roger said while taking notes, putting brackets round ‘cunts’ for later rewording and adding ‘boy’ to a long list of synonyms for heroin.

  ‘Time’s lapsed, so they can’t arrest anyone for it now. The point is that the dealer in Tveita was arrested. And was offered a reduced sentence if he grassed on the suppliers. Which, of course, he did, the scumbag.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Hah! The guy told me a few years later when we were doing time together in Ullersmo. He’d given the names and addresses of all fucking four of us, including Ulla. All that was missing was our national identity numbers. We were so bloody lucky that the case was shelved.’

  Roger made feverish notes.

  ‘And guess who had the case at the Stovner cop shop? Guess who questioned the guy? Who in all probability recommended the case should be dropped, thrown out, shelved? Who saved Ulla’s skin?’

  ‘I’d like you to say, Julle.’

  ‘Very happy to. It was the cunt thief himself. Mikael Bellman.’

  ‘One last question,’ Roger said, knowing he had arrived at a critical point. Could the story be proved? Could the source be checked? ‘Have you got the name of the dealer? I mean, he’s not risking anything and his name won’t be mentioned anyway.’

  ‘Would I grass him up, you mean?’ Julle laughed out loud. ‘You bet your ass I will.’

  He spelt the name, and Roger turned a page and wrote it in capital letters while noticing that his jaw was broadening. Into a smile. He controlled himself and put on a straight face. But he knew the taste was going to be there for a long time: the sweet taste of a scoop.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ Roger said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Julle. ‘Just make sure you crush that Bellman, then we’re even.’

  ‘Er, by the way, out of curiosity, why do you think the dealer told you he had informed on you?’

  ‘Because he was frightened.’

  ‘Frightened? Why?’

  ‘Because he knew too much. He wanted others to know the story in case the cop carried out his threat.’

  ‘Bellman threatened the informer?’

  ‘Not Bellman. His shadow. He said if the guy so much as mentioned Ulla’s name again he would put something in him that would shut him up. For ever.’

  73

  Arrest

  Bjorn Holm’s Volvo Amazon turned into Rikshospital, opposite the tram stop. Sigurd Altman stood waiting with his hands in his duffel coat pockets. Harry beckoned him from the back seat. Sigurd and Bjorn said hello, and they drove onto Ringveien where they continued eastwards towards the Sinsen intersection.

  Harry leaned forward between the seats.

  ‘It was like one of the chemistry experiments we did at school. In fact, you have all the ingredients you need to get a reaction, but you don’t have the catalyst, the external component, the spark that’s necessary to trigger it. I had the information, all I needed was something to help me assemble it in the correct fashion. My catalyst was a sick man, a murderer known as the Snowman. And a bottle on a bar shelf. Alright if I have a smoke?’

  Silence.

  ‘I see. Well…’

  They drove through the tunnel at Bryn, up towards the Ryen intersection and Manglerud.

  Truls Berntsen stood on the old undeveloped site, looking up the slope, up to Bellman’s house.

  How peculiar it was that he who had so often eaten dinner, played and slept there when they were growing up had not been there a single time since Mikael and Ulla took over the house.

  The reason was obvious: he had not been invited.

  He sometimes stood where he was now, in the afternoon dusk, looking up at the house to catch a glimpse of her. Her, the unattainable one no one could have. No one except him, the prince, Mikael. Now and then he wondered whether Mikael knew. Knew and that was why they didn’t invite him. Or was she the one who knew? And made it clear to Mikael, without saying as much, that this Beavis he had grown up with was not someone they needed to associate with privately. At least not now his career had finally taken off, and it was more important to move in the right circles, meet the right people, send out the right signals. It wasn’t tactically astute to surround yourself with ghosts from a past that contained things best forgotten.

  Oh, he knew that. He just didn’t know why she couldn’t understand it: that he would never hurt her. The opposite. Had he not protected her and Mikael all these years? Yes, he had. He kept watch, was there for them, cleared up. Ministered to their happiness. Such was his love.

  The windows up there this evening were lit. Were they having a party? Were they eating and laughing, drinking wines the Manglerud Vinmonopol had never stocked and speaking in the new way? Was she smiling and were her eyes sparkling, eyes that were so beautiful it hurt when they looked at you? Would she see more in him if he acquired money, became rich? Was that a possibility? So simple?

  He stood for a while at the bottom of the explosion-riddled building site. Then he lumbered home.

  Bjorn Holm’s Amazon tilted majestically around the Ryen roundabout.

  A sign showed the exit for Manglerud.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Sigurd Altman asked, leaning against the door.

  ‘We’re going where the Snowman said we should go,’ Harry said. ‘Way back in time.’

  They passed the exit.

  ‘Here,’ Harry said, and Bjorn bore right.

  ‘The E6?’

  ‘Yep, we’re going east. To Lyseren. Know these parts, Sigurd?’

  ‘Well enough, but-’

  ‘This is where the story starts,’ Harry said. ‘Many years ago, outside a dance hall. Tony Leike, the man who owned the finger I showed you photos of before, is standing at the edge of the wood, kissing Mia, County Officer Skai’s daughter. Ole, who’s in love with Mia, goes out to look for Mia and bumps into them. Ole, devastated and angry, throws himself on the interloper, the charmer Tony. But now another side of Tony reveals itself. Gone is the smiling, charming flirt everyone likes. To be replaced by a beast. And like all animals that feel threatened he attacks, with a fury and brutality that numb Ole, Mia and subsequent onlookers. The blood mist has descended, he takes out a knife and cuts off half of Ole’s tongue before he is dragged away. And even though Ole is innocent in this matter, he is the one who is afflicted by shame. The shame of his unrequited love exhibited in front of others, humiliation in rural Norway’s ritual mating duel and his stunted speech as eternal evidence of his defeat. So he flees. Flees. Are you with me so far?’

  Altman nodded.

  ‘Many years pass. Ole has established himself somewhere new, has a job where he is well liked and respected for his abilities. He has friends, not many, but enough; all that counts is that they don’t know his past. What’s missing in his life is a woman. He has met some, via dating websites, personal ads, on the odd occasion at a restaurant. But they soon evaporate. Not because of his tongue, but because he carries the defeat with him like a rucksack full of shit. Because of ingrained self-denigrating modes of speech, anticipations of rejection and suspicion of women who behave as if they actually do want him. The usual stuff. The stench of defeat that everyone flees. Then one day something happens. He meets a woman who has done the rounds. She even lets him live out his sexual fantasies; they have sex in a disused factory. He invites her on a skiing trip in the mountains, as a first sign he means business. Her name is Adele Vetlesen, and she joins him with some reluctance.’

  Bjorn Holm turned off by Gronmo where the smoke from incinerated refuse rose into the air.

  ‘They have a great skiing trip in the mountains. Maybe. Or maybe Adele is bored, she’s a restless soul. They go to a cabin in Havass where there are already five people. Marit Olsen, Elias Skog, Borgny Stem-Myhre, Charlotte Lolles and a sick Iska Peller who is sleeping off her fever in a room alone. After dinner they light the fire and someone opens a bottle of red wine
while others go to bed. Like Charlotte Lolles. And Ole who is lying in a sleeping bag in the bedroom waiting for his Adele. But Adele would rather be up. Perhaps at last she has begun to notice the stench. Then something happens. One last person arrives late at night. The walls are thin and Ole hears a new man’s voice from the sitting room. He stiffens. It’s the voice from his worst nightmare, from his sweetest dreams of revenge. But it can’t be him, it can’t be. Ole listens. The voice talks to Marit Olsen. For a while. Then it talks to Adele. He hears her laughing. But gradually they lower their voices. He hears the others go to bed in adjoining rooms. But not Adele. And not this man with the familiar voice. Then he hears nothing. Until the sounds outside reach his ears. He creeps over to the window, looks out, sees them, sees her eager face, recognises her moans of pleasure. And he knows the impossible is happening; history is repeating itself. For he recognises the man standing behind Adele, who is taking her. It’s him. It’s Tony Leike.’

  Bjorn Holm turned up the heating. Harry pushed himself back in the seat.

  ‘When the others get up the following morning, Tony has left. Ole acts as if nothing has happened. Because he is stronger now; many years of hatred have hardened him. He knows the others have seen Adele and Tony, they have seen his humiliation, just like before. But he is calm. He knows what he is going to do. He might have been longing for it, this last nudge, the free fall. A couple of days later he has a plan ready. He returns to the Havass cabin, maybe gets a lift there on a snowmobile, and tears out the page in the guest book detailing their names. For this time it won’t be him who flees the witnesses in shame; they are the ones who are going to suffer. And Adele. But the person who will suffer most is Tony. He will have to carry all the shame Ole has carried; his name will be dragged through the mud; his life will be destroyed; he will be smitten by the same unjust God who allows tongues of the lovelorn to be severed.’

  Sigurd Altman rolled down the window and a soft whistling sound filled the car.

  ‘The first thing Ole has to do is find himself a room, a headquarters where he can work undisturbed and without fear of being discovered. And what could be more natural than the disused factory where he experienced the happiest night of his life? There he starts gathering information about his victims and planning in detail. Of course, he has to kill Adele Vetlesen first as she was the only person at Havass to know his full identity. Names that may have been exchanged up there would have been forgotten soon enough and no copy of the guest book page existed. Sure about the cigarette, boys?’