The Leopard (11 page)

13

Office

T
HE NEXT TIME
H
ARRY OPENED HIS EYES, HE HAD BEEN
lying in the cell for two hours, and Gunnar Hagen was standing outside struggling to open the door with the key.

‘Sorry, Harry, I was in a meeting.’

‘Suited me fine, boss,’ Harry said, stretching on the bed with a yawn. ‘Am I being released?’

‘I spoke to the police lawyer, who said it was OK. Custody is detention, not a punishment. I heard two Kripos men brought you in. What happened?’

‘I’m hoping you can tell me.’

‘I can tell you?’

‘Ever since I landed in Oslo I’ve been followed by Kripos.’

‘Kripos?’

Harry sat up and ran a hand through the brush-like bristles on his head. ‘They tracked me down to Rikshospital. They arrested me on a formality. What’s going on, boss?’

Hagen raised his chin and stroked the skin over his larynx. ‘Hell, I should have anticipated this.’

‘Anticipated what?’

‘That it would leak out that we were trying to run you to earth. That Bellman would try to stop us.’

‘A few main clauses would be nice.’

‘It’s pretty complicated, as I told you. It’s all about cuts and rationalisation in the force. About jurisdiction. The old fight, Crime Squad versus Kripos. Whether there are enough resources for two specialist branches with parallel expertise in a small country. The discussion flared up when Kripos got a new second in command, one Mikael Bellman.’

‘Tell me about him.’

‘Bellman? Police College, brief period of service in Norway before washing up in Europol in The Hague. Came back to Kripos a wonder boy, ready to move upwards and onwards. Nothing but grief from day one when he wanted to employ an ex-colleague from Interpol, a foreigner.’

‘Not Finnish, by any chance, was he?’

Hagen nodded. ‘Jussi Kolkka. Police training in Finland, but has none of the formal qualifications required for police status in Norway. The trade union went ballistic. The solution was, of course, that Kolkka would be temporarily employed on an exchange. Bellman’s next initiative was to make it clear that the rules should be interpreted in such a way that on bigger murder investigations Kripos would decide whether it was their case or the police district’s, not vice versa.’

‘And?’

‘And that is quite unacceptable, goes without saying. We have the country’s largest murder unit here at Police HQ, we decide which cases we take within the Oslo district, what we need help with and where we request Kripos to take control. Kripos was established to offer their know-how to police districts running murder cases, but Bellman has, at the drop of a hat, endowed the department with his emperor status. The Ministry of Justice was drawn into the matter. And they soon saw their chance to do what we have managed to keep a lid on for so long: to centralise murder investigations so that there is one centre of expertise. They don’t give two hoots about our arguments concerning the dangers of standardisation and inbreeding, the importance of local knowledge and the spread of skills, recruitment and—’

‘Thank you, you’re preaching to the converted.’

Hagen held up a hand. ‘Fine, but the Ministry of Justice is working now on an appointment . . .’

‘And … ?’

‘They say they’re going to be pragmatic. It’s all about exploiting scarce resources in the most cost-effective way. If Kripos can show that they achieve their best results by being unencumbered by police districts—’

‘—then all the power goes to Kripos HQ in Bryn,’ Harry said. ‘Big office for Bellman and bye-bye Crime Squad.’

Hagen hunched his shoulders. ‘Something of that nature. When Charlotte Lolles was found dead behind the Datsun and we saw the similarities with the girl murdered in the cellar of the new building, there was a head-on collision. Kripos said that even though the bodies were found in Oslo, a double murder is a matter for Kripos, not Oslo Police District, and started their own independent investigation. They’ve realised that the battle for the ministry’s support will stand or fall on this case.’

‘So it’s just a question of solving the case before Kripos?’

‘As I said, it’s complicated. Kripos refuses to share info with us even though they’ve made no headway. Instead they went to the ministry. The Chief Constable here received a call to say that the ministry
would like to see
Kripos being allowed to run this case until they’ve made up their mind about how to allocate areas of responsibility in the future.’

Harry shook his head slowly. ‘It’s beginning to sink in. You all got desperate . . .’

‘I wouldn’t use that word.’

‘Desperate enough to dig up the old serial-killer hunter, Hole. An outsider no longer on the payroll, who could investigate the matter on the q.t. That was why I couldn’t say anything to anyone.’

Hagen sighed. ‘Bellman found out anyway, obviously. And stuck a tail on you.’

‘To see whether you seemed to be complying with the ministry’s request. To catch me in flagrante delicto reading old reports or questioning old witnesses.’

‘Or even more effective: to disqualify you from the game. Bellman knows one single mistake would be enough to have you suspended, one single beer while on duty, one single breach of service rules.’

‘Mm. Or resisting arrest. He’s thinking of taking the case further, the prick.’

‘I’ll talk to him. He’ll drop it when I tell him you don’t want the case anyway. We don’t dump police officers in the shit when there’s no point.’ Hagen glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got work waiting for me. Let’s get you out.’

They walked out of the custody block, across the car park and stopped at the entrance to Police HQ, a tower of concrete and steel presiding over the park. Beside them, attached to Police HQ by an underground culvert, stood the old grey walls of Botsen, Oslo District Prison. Beneath them, the area of Grønland stretched down to the fjord and harbour. The facades were winter-pale and filthy as though ash had rained down on them. The cranes by the harbour stood like gallows outlined against the sky.

‘Not a pretty sight, eh?’

‘No,’ Harry said, breathing in.

‘But there’s something about this town nonetheless.’

Harry nodded. ‘There is that.’

They stood there for a while, rocking back on their heels, hands in pockets.

‘Chilly,’ Harry said.

‘Not really.’

‘S’pose not, but my thermostat is still set to Hong Kong temperatures.’

‘I see.’

‘You’ve got a cup of coffee waiting for you upstairs, have you?’ Harry motioned to the sixth floor. ‘Or was it work? The Marit Olsen case?’

Hagen didn’t answer.

‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘So Bellman and Kripos have got that, too.’

Harry received the odd measured nod on his way through the corridors of the red zone on the sixth floor. A legend in the building he might have been, but he had never been a popular man.

They passed an office door on which someone had glued an A4 piece of paper saying ‘I SEE DEAD PEOPLE’.

Hagen cleared his throat. ‘I had to let Magnus Skarre take over your office. Everywhere else is bursting at the seams.’

‘No worries,’ Harry said.

They each took their paper cup of the infamous percolated coffee from the kitchenette.

Inside Hagen’s office Harry settled in the chair facing the POB’s desk, where he had sat so many times.

‘You’ve still got it, I see,’ Harry said, pointing with his head to the memento on the desk that, at first sight, resembled a white exclamation mark. It was a stuffed little finger. Harry knew it had once belonged to a Japanese Second World War commander. In retreat, the commander had cut off his finger in front of his men to apologise for not being able to return and pick up their dead. Hagen loved to use the story when he was teaching middle management about leadership.

‘And you still haven’t.’ Hagen nodded towards the hand, minus middle finger, Harry was using to hold the paper cup.

Harry conceded the point and drank. The coffee hadn’t changed, either. Liquefied tarmac.

Harry grimaced. ‘I need a team of three.’

Hagen drank slowly and put down the cup. ‘Not more?’

‘You always ask that. You know I don’t work with large teams of detectives.’

‘In that case I won’t complain. Fewer people means less chance of Kripos and the Ministry of Justice catching wind of our investigations into the double murder.’

‘Triple murder,’ Harry said with a yawn.

‘Hold on, we don’t know if Marit Olsen—’

‘Woman alone at night, abducted, murdered in an unconventional manner. The third time in little old Oslo. Triple. Believe me. But however many there are of us, you can take it from me that we will take bloody good care that our paths don’t cross those of Kripos.’

‘Yes,’ Hagen said. ‘I do know that. That’s why it’s a condition that if the investigation were to be brought to light, it has nothing to do with Crime Squad.’

Harry closed his eyes. Hagen went on.

‘Of course we will regret that some of our employees have been involved, but make it clear that this is something the notorious maverick Harry Hole initiated off his own bat, without the knowledge of the unit head. And you will confirm that version of events.’

Harry opened his eyes again and stared at Hagen.

Hagen met his stare. ‘Any questions?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Where’s the leak?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Who’s informing Bellman?’

Hagen rolled his shoulders. ‘I don’t have the impression that he has any systematic access to what we’re doing. He could have caught a sniff of your return in lots of places.’

‘I know Magnus Skarre has a habit of talking anywhere and anyhow.’

‘Don’t ask me any more questions, Harry.’

‘OK. Where should we set up shop?’

‘Right. Right.’ Gunnar Hagen nodded several times as if that were something they had already discussed. ‘As far as an office is concerned . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘As I said, the place is full to bursting, so we’ll have to find somewhere outside, but not too far away.’

‘Fine. Where then?’

Hagen looked out of the window. At the grey walls of Botsen.

‘You’re kidding,’ Harry said.

14

Recruitment

B
JØRN
H
OLM ENTERED THE CONFERENCE ROOM AT
K
RIMTEKNISK
in the Bryn district of Oslo. Outside the windows, the sun was relinquishing its grip on the house fronts and casting the town into afternoon gloom. The car park was packed, and in front of the entrance to Kripos, across the road, there was a white bus with a soup dish on the roof and the Norwegian Broadcasting Company logo on its side.

The only person in the room was his boss, Beate Lønn, an unusually pale, petite and quiet-mannered woman. Had one not known any better, one might have thought a person like this would have problems leading a group of experienced, professional, self-aware, always quirky and seldom conflict-shy forensics officers. Had one known better, one would have realised she was the only person who could deal with them. Not primarily because they respected the fact that she stood erect and proud despite losing two policemen to the eternity shift, first her father and later the father of her child. But because, in their group, she was the best, and radiated such unimpeachability, integrity and gravity that when Beate Lønn whispered an order with downcast gaze and flushed cheeks, it was carried out on the spot. So Bjørn Holm had come as soon as he was informed.

She was sitting in a chair drawn up close to the TV monitor.

‘They’re recording live from the press conference,’ she said without turning. ‘Take a seat.’

Holm immediately recognised the people on the screen. How strange it was, it struck him, to be watching signals that had travelled thousands of kilometres out into space and back, just to show him what was happening right now on the opposite side of the street.

Beate Lønn turned up the volume.

‘You have understood correctly,’ said Mikael Bellman, leaning towards the microphone on the table in front of him. ‘For the present we have neither leads nor suspects. And to repeat myself once again: we have not ruled out the possibility of suicide.’

‘But you said—’ began a voice from the body of journalists present.

Bellman cut her off. ‘I said we regard the death as
suspicious
. I am sure you’re familiar with the terminology. If not, you should . . .’ He left the end of the sentence hanging in the air and pointed to a person behind the camera.

‘
Stavanger Aftenblad
,’ came the slow bleat of the Rogaland dialect. ‘Do the police see a connection between this death and the two in—?’

‘No! If you’d been following, you would have heard me say that we
do not rule out
a connection.’

‘I caught that,’ continued the slow, imperturbable dialect. ‘But those of us here are more interested in what you think rather than what you
don’t rule out
.’

Bjørn Holm could see Bellman giving the man the evil eye as impatience strained at the corners of his mouth. A uniformed woman officer at Bellman’s side placed her hand over the microphone, leaned in to him and whispered something. The POB’s face darkened.

‘Mikael Bellman is getting a crash course in how to deal with the media,’ said Bjørn Holm. ‘Lesson one, stroke the ones
with
hair, especially the provincial newspapers.’

‘He’s new to the job,’ Beate Lønn said. ‘He’ll learn.’

‘Think so?’

‘Yes. Bellman’s the type to learn.’

‘Humility’s hard to learn, I’ve heard.’

‘Genuine humility, that’s true. But to grovel when it suits you is basic to modern communication. That’s what Ninni’s telling him. And Bellman’s smart enough to appreciate that.’

On-screen, Bellman coughed, forced an almost boyish smile and leaned into the microphone. ‘I apologise if I sounded a bit brusque, but it’s been a long day for all of us, and I hope you understand that we are simply impatient to get back to the investigation into this tragic case. We have to finish here, but if any of you have any further questions, please direct them to Ninni, and I promise I will try to return to you later this evening. Before the deadline. Is that OK?’