Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (179 page)

And there was one clear one, probably a thumbprint, on one side of the syringe plunger, where there were also black dots that could have been anything at all, but Harry guessed it was gunpowder residue.

As soon as he had all the fingerprints on the cling film he compared them. The same person had held the gun and the syringe. Harry had checked the walls and the floor by the mattress and had found quite a few prints, but none of them matched those on the pistol.

He opened the canvas suitcase and the pocket inside, took out the contents and placed them on the kitchen table. Switched on the LED light.

Looked at his watch. Eleven hours to go. Oceans of time.

It was two o’clock and Hans Christian Simonsen looked strangely out of place as he entered Schrøder’s.

Harry was sitting in the corner by the window, his favourite table.

Hans Christian sat down.

‘Good?’ he asked, nodding to the pot of coffee by Harry.

Harry shook his head.

‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Not at all. Saturday’s a free day. A free day and nothing to do. What’s up?’

‘Oleg can come home.’

The solicitor brightened up. ‘Does that mean …?’

‘Those who might be a danger to Oleg have gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Yes. Is he far away?’

‘No, twenty minutes outside town. Nittedal. What do you mean they’ve gone?’

Harry raised his coffee cup. ‘Sure you want to know, Hans Christian?’

The solicitor eyed Harry. ‘Does that mean you’ve solved the case as well?’

Harry didn’t answer.

Hans Christian leaned forward. ‘You know who killed Gusto, don’t you.’

‘Mm.’

‘How?’

‘A few matching fingerprints.’

‘And who—?’

‘Not important. But I’m leaving today, so it would be nice to say goodbye to Oleg.’

Hans Christian smiled. Pained, but a smile nonetheless. ‘Before you and Rakel leave, you mean?’

Harry twirled his coffee cup. ‘So she’s told you?’

‘We had lunch. I agreed to look after Oleg for a few days. I gather that some men will come from Hong Kong and collect him, some of your people. But I must have misunderstood something. You see, I thought you were in Bangkok.’

‘I was delayed. There’s something I want to ask you—’

‘She said more. She said you had proposed.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, in your way, of course.’

‘Well—’

‘And she said she’d thought about it.’

Harry held up a hand. He didn’t want to hear the rest.

‘The conclusion of her thoughts was no, Harry.’

Harry breathed out. ‘Good.’

‘So she’d stopped thinking about it, she said. And started feeling instead.’

‘Hans Christian—’

‘Her answer’s yes, Harry.’

‘Listen to me, Hans Christian—’

‘Didn’t you hear? She wants to marry you, Harry. Lucky bastard.’ Hans Christian’s face beamed as if with happiness, but Harry knew it was the glow of despair. ‘She said she wanted to be with you until the end of your days.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and his voice alternated between falsetto and husky. ‘She said she would have a terrible and nothing short of catastrophic time with you. She would have a fair-to-middling time with you. And she would have a fantastic time with you.’

Harry knew he was quoting her verbatim. And he knew why he was doing it. Because every word was seared into his heart.

‘How much do you love her?’ Harry asked.

‘I …’

‘Do you love her enough to take care of her and Oleg for the rest of her life?’

‘What?’

‘Answer me.’

‘Yes, of course, but—’

‘Swear.’

‘Harry.’

‘Swear, I said.’

‘I … I swear. But that doesn’t change anything.’

Harry smiled wryly. ‘You’re right. Nothing changes. Nothing can change. It can’t ever change. The river flows along the same damned course.’

‘This makes no sense. I don’t understand.’

‘You will,’ Harry said. ‘And she will, too.’

‘But … you love each other. She said that straight out. You’re the love of her life, Harry.’

‘And she mine. Always has been. Always will be.’

Hans Christian regarded Harry with a mixture of bewilderment and something that resembled sympathy. ‘And yet you don’t want her?’

‘There is nothing I would rather have than her. But it’s not certain I’ll be here for much longer. And if I’m not, you’ve made me a promise.’

Hans Christian snorted. ‘Aren’t you being a trifle melodramatic, Harry? I don’t even know if she’ll have me.’

‘Convince her.’ The pains in his neck seemed to be making it more difficult for him to breathe. ‘Do you promise?’

Hans Christian nodded, and said, ‘I’ll try.’

Harry hesitated. Then he proffered his hand.

They shook.

‘You’re a good man, Hans Christian. I’ve got you saved under H.’ He lifted his mobile phone. ‘You’ve replaced Halvorsen.’

‘Who?’

‘Just a former colleague I hope to see again. I have to go now.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Meet Gusto’s murderer.’

Harry rose, turned to the counter and saluted to Rita, who waved back.

Once outside and striding across the road between cars, there was an explosion behind his eyes, and his throat felt as if it would be torn apart. And in Dovregata came the gall. He stood bent double by the wall in the middle of the quiet street and brought up Rita’s bacon, eggs and coffee. Then he straightened and walked on down Hausmanns gate.

In the end it had been a simple decision, despite everything.

I was sitting on a filthy mattress and felt my petrified heart throbbing as I rang. I hoped he would pick up the phone, and I hoped he wouldn’t.

I was about to hang up when he answered, and there was my foster-brother’s voice, lifeless and clear.

‘Stein.’

I have occasionally considered how apt that name is. Stone. An impenetrable surface with a rock-hard centre. Impassive, bleak, heavy. But even rocks have a weak point, a place where a soft blow from a sledgehammer can make them split. In Stein’s case it was easy.

I cleared my throat. ‘It’s Gusto. I know where Irene is.’

I heard light breathing. Stein’s breathing was always light.

He could run and run for hours, needed almost no oxygen. Or a reason to run.

‘Where?’

‘That’s the thing,’ I said. ‘I know where, but it’ll cost you to find out.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I need it.’

It was like a wave of heat. No, of cold. I could feel his hatred. Heard him swallow.

‘How mu—’

‘Five thousand.’

‘Fine.’

‘I mean ten.’

‘You said five.’

Fuck.

‘But it’s urgent,’ I said, even though I knew he was already on his feet.

‘Fine. Where are you?’

‘Hausmanns gate 92. The lock on the door’s broken. Second floor.’

‘I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere.’

Go anywhere? I took a couple of dog-ends from the ashtray in the sitting room and lit up in the kitchen amid the deafening afternoon silence. Shit, it was so hot in here. Something rustled. I followed the noise. The rat again, scurrying along by the wall.

It came from behind the stove. Had a nice hiding place there.

I smoked dog-end number two.

Then I jumped up.

The stove weighed a bloody ton, until I discovered it had two wheels at the back.

The rathole was bigger than it ought to have been.

Oleg, Oleg, my dear friend. You’re smart, but this particular ruse you learned from me.

I fell on my knees. I was on a high even while working with the wire. My fingers shook so much I felt like biting them off. I could feel I had it, but then I lost it. It had to be violin. Had to be!

Then at long last I got a nibble, and it was a big ’un. I reeled it in. A large, heavy cloth bag. I opened it. It had to be, had to be!

A rubber tube, a spoon, a syringe. And three small transparent packages. The white powder inside was flecked with brown. My heart sang. I was reunited with the only friend and lover I have always been able to rely on.

I stuffed two of the packages in my pocket and opened the third. Now I had enough for a week if I was frugal, I just had to shoot up and vamoose before Stein or anyone else came. I sprinkled some powder onto the spoon, flicked my lighter. I usually added a few drops of lemon, the kind you buy in bottles and people put in tea. The lemon juice prevented the powder
from going clumpy and you got all of it in the syringe. But I had neither the lemon nor the patience, now there was only one thing that mattered: getting the shit into my bloodstream.

I wrapped the tube round the top of my arm, put the end between my teeth and pulled. Found a big blue vein. Angled the syringe to give myself the biggest target and reduce the shaking. Because I was shaking. Shaking like hell.

I missed.

Once. Twice. Breathed in. Don’t think too much now, don’t be too keen, don’t panic.

The needle wobbled. I took a stab at the blue worm.

Missed again.

I fought against my despair. Thought I might smoke a bit of it first, to compose myself. But it was the rush I wanted, the kick you get when the whole dose hits the blood, goes straight to the brain, the orgasm, the free fall!

The heat and the sunlight, they were blinding me. I moved to the sitting room, sat in the shadow by the wall. Shit, now I couldn’t even see the sodding vein! Take it easy. I waited for my pupils to dilate. Luckily my forearms were as white as cinema screens. The vein looked like a river on a map of Greenland. Now.

Missed.

I didn’t have the energy for this, felt tears coming. A shoe creaked.

I had been concentrating so hard that I hadn’t heard him come in.

And when I looked up my eyes were so full of tears that shapes were distorted, like in a fricking fairground mirror.

‘Hi, Thief.’

I hadn’t heard anyone call me that for ages.

I blinked away the tears. And the shapes became familiar. Yes, now I recognised everything. Even the gun. It hadn’t been nicked from the rehearsal room by passing burglars, as I had thought.

The weird thing was I wasn’t frightened. Not at all. All of a sudden I was quite calm.

I looked down at the vein again.

‘Don’t do it,’ said the voice.

I studied my hand. It was as steady as a pickpocket’s. This was my chance.

‘I’ll shoot you.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Because then you’ll never find out where Irene is.’

‘Gusto!’

‘I’m doing what I have to do,’ I said and stabbed. Hit the vein. Raised my thumb to press the plunger. ‘So you can do what you have to do.’

The church bells started chiming again.

Harry sat in the shadow by the wall. The light from the street lamp outside fell on the mattresses. He checked his watch. Nine. Three hours to the Bangkok flight. The pains in his neck had suddenly got worse. Like the heat from the sun before it disappears behind a cloud. But soon the sun would be gone; soon he would be out of pain. Harry knew how this had to end. It was as inevitable as his return to Oslo. Just as he knew that the human need for order and cohesion meant he would manipulate his mind into seeing a kind of logic to it. Because the notion that everything is no more than cold chaos, that there is no meaning, is harder to bear than even the worst, though comprehensible, tragedy.

He groped inside his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes and felt the knife handle against his fingertips. Had a feeling he should have got rid of it. A curse lay over it. Over him. But it wouldn’t have made any difference; he had been cursed long before the knife appeared. And the curse was worse than any knife; it said that his love was a plague he carried around with him. Just as Asayev had said the knife transmitted the suffering and sickness of its owner to whoever had been stabbed by it, all those who had allowed themselves to be loved by Harry had been made to pay. Had been destroyed, taken from him. Only the ghosts were left. All of them. And soon Rakel and Oleg would be ghosts as well.

He opened the pack and looked inside.

What was it he had imagined? That he would be allowed to escape the curse? That he would be able to flee to the other side of the globe with
them and live happily ever after? He was thinking this as he checked his watch again, wondering how late he could leave and still make the flight. This was his selfish, greedy heart he was listening to.

He took out the dog-eared family photo and looked at it again. At Irene. And the brother, Stein. The one with the grey look. Harry had had two hits in his memory database when he met him. One was from this photograph. The second was the night Harry came to Oslo. He had been to Kvadraturen. The close scrutiny to which Stein had subjected him made Harry think he was a policeman at first, but he was wrong. Very wrong.

Then he heard the footsteps on the stairs.

The church bells chimed. They sounded so frail and lonely.

Truls Berntsen stopped on the top step and stared at the front door. Felt his heart beating. They were going to see each other again. He looked forward to the meeting and yet dreaded it. Inhaled.

And rang.

Straightened his tie. He did not feel comfortable in a suit. But he had known there was no way out when Mikael had told him who was coming to the housewarming party. All the top brass, from the outgoing Chief of Police and unit heads to their old Crime Squad rival, Gunnar Hagen. Politicians would be there, too. The foxy council woman whose pictures he had stared at, Isabelle Skøyen. And a couple of TV celebs. Truls had no idea how Mikael had got to know them.

The door opened.

Ulla.

‘You look nice, Truls,’ she said. Hostess smile. Glittering eyes. But he knew at once he was too early.

He just nodded, unable to say what he should have said, that she looked very attractive herself.

She gave him a quick hug, said to come in. They would be welcoming guests with glasses of champagne but she hadn’t poured them yet. She smiled, wrung her hands and cast semi-panicked glances at the staircase to
the first floor. Probably hoping that Mikael would come soon and take over. But Mikael must have been changing, inspecting himself in the mirror, checking every hair was in the right place.