Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (160 page)

Then they took Oleg back to the car while I was summoned to the old boy. He sat in a chair opposite me, with no table in between.

‘Were you two there?’ he asked.

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘If you’re asking whether we were in Alnabru the answer’s no.’

He studied me in silence.

‘You’re like me,’ he said at length. ‘It’s impossible to see when you’re lying.’

I wouldn’t swear to it, but I thought I detected a smile.

‘Well, Gusto, did you understand what that was, downstairs?’

‘It was the undercover cop. Beret Man.’

‘Correct. And why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have a guess.’

I imagine the guy must have been a crap teacher in a former life. But, whatever, I answered: ‘He’d nicked something.’

The old boy shook his head. ‘He found out I lived here. He knew he had no basis for a search warrant. After the arrest of Los Lobos and the recent seizure of Alnabru he saw the writing on the wall, he would never get a search warrant, however good his case was …’ The old boy grinned. ‘We’d given him a warning we thought would stop him.’

‘Oh?’

‘Cops like him rely on their false identity. They think it’s impossible to discover who they are. Who their family is. But you can find everything in
police archives, provided you have the right passwords. Which you do if, for example, you hold a trusted position in Orgkrim. And how did we warn him?’

I answered without a second’s thought. ‘Bumped off his kids?’

The old boy’s face darkened. ‘We’re not monsters, Oleg.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Besides, he didn’t have any children.’ Chug-chug laugh. ‘But he had a sister. Or perhaps it was just a foster-sister.’

I nodded. It was impossible to see if he was lying.

‘We said she would be raped then put out of her misery. But I misjudged him. Instead of thinking he had other relatives to keep an eye on, he went on the attack. A very lonely, but desperate attack. He managed to break in here last night. We were not prepared for that. He probably loved this sister a lot. He was armed. I went down to the cellar, and he followed. And then he died.’ He tilted his head. ‘Of what?’

‘Water was coming out of his mouth. Drowning?’

‘Correct. But drowned where?’

‘Was he brought here from a lake or something?’

‘No. He broke in, and he drowned. So?’

‘Then I don’t know—’

‘Think!’ The word cracked like a whiplash. ‘If you want to survive you have to be able to think, draw conclusions from what you can see. That’s real life.’

‘Fine, fine.’ I tried to think. ‘The cellar’s not a cellar but a tunnel.’

The old boy crossed his arms. ‘And?’

‘It’s longer than this property. It could of course come out in a field.’

‘But?’

‘But you told me you own a neighbouring property, so it probably goes there.’

The old boy smiled with satisfaction. ‘Guess how old the tunnel is.’

‘Old. The walls were green with moss.’

‘Algae. After the Resistance movement had made four failed attacks on this house the Gestapo boss had a tunnel built. They succeeded in keeping it secret. When Reinhard came home in the afternoon he came in through the front door here so that everyone could see. He switched on the light and then walked through the tunnel to his real home next door and sent
the German lieutenant everyone thought lived over there, over here. And this lieutenant strutted around, often close to windows, wearing the same kind of uniform as his Gestapo boss.’

‘He was a decoy.’

‘Correct.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I want you to know what real life is like, Gusto. Most people in this country don’t know anything about it, don’t know how much it costs to survive in real life. But I’m telling you all this because I want you to remember that I trusted you.’

He looked at me as if what he was saying was very important. I pretended to understand; I wanted to go home. Perhaps he could see that.

‘Nice to see you, Gusto. Andrey will drive you both back.’

When the car passed the university there must have been some student gig taking place on campus. We could hear the thrashing guitars of a rock band playing on an outdoor stage. Young people streamed towards us down Blindernveien. Happy, expectant faces, as if they had been promised something, a future or some such thing.

‘What’s that?’ asked Oleg, who was still blindfolded.

‘That,’ I said, ‘is unreal life.’

‘And you’ve no idea how he drowned?’ Harry asked.

‘No,’ Oleg said. ‘The foot-pumping had increased; his whole body was vibrating.

‘OK, so you were blindfolded, but tell me everything you can remember about the journey to and from this place. All the noises. When you got out of the car, for example, did you hear a train or a tram?’

‘No. But it was raining when we arrived, so basically that is what I heard.’

‘Heavy rain, light rain?’

‘Light. I hardly felt it as we left the car. But that was when I heard it.’

‘OK, if light rain doesn’t usually make much noise it might when it falls on leaves?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What was under your feet going towards the front door? Tarmac? Flagstones? Grass?’

‘Shingle. I think. Yes, there was a crunch. That’s how I knew where Peter was. He’s the heaviest, so he crunched most.’

‘Good. Steps by the door?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many?’

Oleg groaned.

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Was it still raining by the door?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I mean, was it in your hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘So no porch-type structure then.’

‘Are you planning to search for places in Oslo without a porch?’

‘Well, different parts of Oslo were built in different periods, and they have a number of common features.’

‘And what’s the period for timber houses, shingle paths and steps to a door without an overhang or nearby tramlines?’

‘You sound like a chief superintendent.’ Harry did not reap the smile or laughter he had hoped he would. ‘When you left did you notice any sounds close by?’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as the peeping of the pedestrian crossing.’

‘No, nothing like that. But there was music.’

‘Recorded or live?’

‘Live, I think. The cymbals were clear. You could hear the guitars, sort of floating and fading on the wind.’

‘Sounds live. Well remembered.’

‘I only remember because they were playing one of your songs.’

‘My
songs?’

‘From one of your records. I remember because Gusto said this was unreal life, and I thought that must have been an unconscious train of thought. He must have heard the line they had just sung.’

‘Which line?’

‘Something about a dream. I’ve forgotten, but you used to play that song all the time.’

‘Come on, Oleg, this is important.’

Oleg looked at Harry. His feet stopped tapping. He closed his eyes and tried humming a tune.
‘It’s just a dreamy Gonzales
…’ He opened his eyes, his face was red. ‘Something like that.’

Harry hummed it to himself. And shook his head.

‘Sorry,’ Oleg said, ‘I’m not sure, and it lasted only a few seconds.’

‘That’s fine,’ Harry said, patting the boy’s shoulder. ‘Tell me what happened at Alnabru then.’

Oleg’s foot started up again. He took two breaths, two deep mouthfuls of air, as he had learned to do on the start line before he crouched down. Then he spoke.

Afterwards Harry sat for a long time rubbing the back of his neck. ‘So you drilled a man to death?’

‘We didn’t. A policeman did.’

‘Whose name you don’t know. Or where he worked.’

‘No, both Gusto and he were careful about that. Gusto said it was best if I didn’t know.’

‘And you’ve no idea what happened to the body?’

‘No. Are you going to report me?’

‘No.’ Harry took his pack of cigarettes and flipped out a smoke.

‘Do I get one?’ Oleg asked.

‘Sorry, son. Bad for your health.’

‘But—’

‘On one condition. That you let Hans Christian hide you and leave it to me to find Irene.’

Oleg stared at the blocks of flats on the hill behind the stadium. Flowerboxes still hung from the balconies. Harry studied his profile. The Adam’s apple going up and down the slim neck.

‘Deal,’ he said.

‘Good.’ Harry passed him a cigarette and lit up for both of them.

‘Now I understand the metal finger,’ Oleg said. ‘It’s so that you can smoke.’

‘Yep,’ Harry said, holding the cigarette between the titanium prosthesis and his index finger while selecting Rakel’s number. He didn’t need to ask for Hans Christian’s number as he was there with her. The solicitor said he would come at once.

Oleg bent double as if it had suddenly become colder. ‘Where’s he going to hide me?’

‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know either.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have such sensitive testicles. I spill the beans at the very mention of the words
car battery.’

Oleg laughed. It was short, but it was laughter. ‘I don’t believe that. You’d let them take your life before you said a word.’

Harry eyed the boy. He could crack weak jokes all day if only to see those glimpses of a smile.

‘You’ve always had such high expectations of me, Oleg. Too high. And I’ve always wanted you to see me as better than I am.’

Oleg looked down at his hands. ‘Don’t all boys see their fathers as heroes?’

‘Maybe. And I didn’t want you to expose me as a deserter, someone who clears off. But things happened as they did anyway. What I wanted to say was that even if I wasn’t there for you, that doesn’t mean you weren’t important to me. We can’t live the lives we would like to. We’re prisoners of … things. Of who we are.’

Oleg lifted his chin. ‘Of junk and shit.’

‘That too.’

They inhaled in unison. Watching the smoke drift in gusts towards the vast, open, blue sky. Harry knew that nicotine couldn’t appease the cravings in the boy, but at least it was a distraction. And that was all it was about, for the next few minutes.

‘Harry?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why didn’t you come back?’

Harry took another drag before answering. ‘Because your mother thought I wasn’t good for you or her. And she was right.’

Harry continued to smoke as he stared into the distance. Knowing Oleg would not want him to look at him now. Eighteen-year-old boys don’t like being watched when they’re crying. Nor would he want him to put an arm around his shoulder and say something. He would want him to be there. Without straying. To think alongside him about the impending race.

When they heard the car approach they walked down the stand and into the car park. Harry saw Hans Christian place a hand on Rakel’s arm as she was about to charge out of the car.

Oleg turned to Harry, puffed himself up, hooked his thumb round Harry’s and nudged his right shoulder with his. But Harry didn’t let him get away so easily and pulled him close. Whispered in his ear: ‘Win.’

Irene Hanssen’s last known address was her family home. The house was in Grefsen, semi-detached. A small overgrown garden with apple trees, no apples, and a swing.

A young man Harry guessed to be about twenty opened the door. The face was familiar, and Harry’s police brain searched for a tenth of a second before it had two hits on the database.

‘My name’s Harry Hole. And you are Stein Hanssen perhaps?’

‘Yes?’

His face had the combination of innocence and alertness of a young man who had experienced both good and bad, but still vacillated between overly revealing openness and overly inhibiting caution in his confrontation with the world.

‘I recognise you from a photo. I’m a friend of Oleg Fauke’s.’

Harry looked for a reaction in Stein Hanssen’s grey eyes, but it failed to materialise.

‘You may have heard that he’s been released? Someone has confessed to the killing of your foster-brother.’

Stein Hanssen shook his head. Still minimal expression.

‘I’m an ex-policeman. I’m trying to find your sister, Irene.’

‘How come?’

‘I want to be sure she’s OK. I’ve promised Oleg I would.’

‘Great. So that he can continue to feed her drugs?’

Harry shifted his weight. ‘Oleg’s clean now. As you may know, that takes its toll. But he’s clean because he wanted to try to find her. He loves her, Stein. But I’d like to try to find her for all our sakes, not only for his. And I’m reckoned to be quite handy at finding people.’

Stein Hanssen looked at Harry. Hesitated. Then he opened the door.

Harry followed him into the living room. It was tidy, nicely furnished and seemed completely unoccupied.

‘Your parents …’

‘They don’t live here now. And I’m only here when I’m not in Trondheim.’

He had a conspicuous trilled ‘r’, the kind that was once regarded as a status symbol for families who could afford nannies from Sørland. The kind of ‘r’ that makes your voice easy to remember, Harry thought without knowing why he did.

There was a photograph on the piano, which looked as if it had never been used. The photograph must have been six or seven years old. Irene and Gusto were younger, smaller versions of themselves, sporting clothes and hairstyles that Harry assumed would have been deadly embarrassing for them to see now. Stein stood at the back with a serious expression. The mother stood with her arms crossed and wore a condescending, almost sarcastic, smile. The father was smiling in a way that made Harry think it had been his idea to have this family photo taken. At least, he was the only person showing any enthusiasm.

‘So that’s the family?’

‘Was. My parents are divorced now. My father moved to Denmark. Fled is probably a more precise word. My mother’s in hospital. The rest … well, you obviously know the rest.’

Harry nodded. One dead. One missing. Big losses for one family.

Harry sat down unbidden in one of the deep armchairs. ‘What can you tell me that might help me find Irene?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

Harry smiled. ‘Try.’

‘Irene moved to my place in Trondheim after going through an experience she wouldn’t tell me about. But which I’m sure Gusto was behind. She idolised Gusto, would do anything for him, imagined he cared because now and then he would pat her on the cheek. But after a few months there was a phone call and she said she had to return to Oslo. Refused to divulge why. That’s four months ago, and since then I’ve neither seen nor heard from her. When, after more than two weeks, I hadn’t been able to contact her, I went to the police and reported her missing. They took note, did a bit of checking, then nothing else happened. No one cares about a homeless junkie.’