Nemesis (15 page)

The boy behind the counter gave the man in the boiler suit a cream bun and picked up the ten-kroner coin he put down.

‘Hello.’

‘Right,’ Beate said. ‘He’s not wearing gloves. But he doesn’t seem to have touched anything in the shop. And there you can see the rectangle of light I was telling you about.’

Harry didn’t say a word.

The man went out of the shop as the last person in the queue was being served.

‘Mm. We’ll have to start searching for witnesses again,’ Harry said, getting up.

‘I wouldn’t be too optimistic,’ Beate said, still staring at the screen. ‘Remember only one witness reported having seen the Expeditor escape in the Friday rush hour. The robber’s best hiding place is in a crowd.’

‘OK, but have you got any other suggestions?’

‘Sit down or you’ll miss the climax.’

Mildly disconcerted, Harry shot her a look and faced the screen. The boy behind the counter had turned towards the camera with a finger jammed up his nose.

‘One man’s climax is another—’ Harry grumbled.

‘Look at the skip outside the window.’

The window pane reflected the light, but they could still see the man in the black boiler suit. He was standing on the pavement between the skip and a parked car. His back was to the camera and a hand was resting on the edge of the skip. He seemed to be keeping an eye on the bank while eating the cream bun. The holdall he was carrying was on the tarmac.

‘That’s his lookout post,’ Beate said. ‘He ordered the skip and had it placed on that precise spot. It is ingeniously simple. He can watch for the security van while hiding from the security cameras. And notice the way he stands. First of all, half of the passers-by won’t even be able to see him because of the skip, and those who can will see a man in a boiler suit and cap beside a skip: a builder, a removal man or a waste-disposal worker. In short, nothing that will gain a foothold in the cerebral cortex. No wonder we didn’t get any witnesses.’

‘He’s leaving some nice, fat fingerprints on the skip,’ Harry said. ‘Shame it’s done nothing but rain for the last week.’

‘But the cream bun—’

‘He’s eating his fingerprints too,’ Harry sighed.

‘—makes him thirsty. Watch this now.’

The man bent down, unzipped the holdall and pulled out a white plastic bag. From this he removed a bottle.

‘Coca-Cola,’ Beate whispered. ‘I zoomed in on a still before you came. It’s a Coke bottle with a cork in.’

The man held the bottle at the top while pulling out the cork. Then he threw back his head, held the bottle high in the air and poured. They could see the last dregs running out, but the cap blotted out the open mouth and face. Then he put the bottle in the plastic bag, knotted it and was about to put it in his holdall when he paused.

‘Watch. Now he’s thinking,’ Beate whispered, and in a low monotone: ‘How much room will the money take up? How much room will the money take up?’

The protagonist studied the holdall. Looked at the skip. Then he made up his mind and with a quick toss of his arm the bag, with the
bottle inside, sailed in an arc through the air and landed in the open skip.

‘A three-pointer!’ Harry roared.

‘The crowd goes wild!’ Beate yelled.

‘Fuck!’ Harry shouted.

‘Oh no,’ Beate groaned and banged her forehead against the wheel in despair.

‘They must have just been here,’ Harry said. ‘Hang on!’

He flung open the car door in front of a cyclist who swerved out of the way, and ran across the street, into the 7-Eleven and over to the counter.

‘When did they take the skip?’ he asked the boy who was about to wrap two Big Bite sausages for two large-bottomed girls.

‘Wait your turn, for Christ’s sake,’ the boy said without looking up.

One of the girls let out an indignant whine as Harry leaned over, blocking access to the ketchup bottle, and grabbed hold of the boy’s green shirt front.

‘Hello there, it’s me again,’ Harry said. ‘Now follow this carefully, otherwise this sausage will be going right up . . .’

The boy’s terrified expression forced Harry to collect himself. He released his grip and pointed to the window, through which you could now see Nordea Bank on the other side of the street because of the gaping hole left by the skip. ‘When did they take the skip? Quickly!’

The boy swallowed and stared at Harry. ‘Now. Just now.’

‘When is now?’

‘Two minutes ago.’ His eyes had glazed over.

‘Where were they going?’

‘How should I know? I don’t know nuffin about skips.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Eh?’

But Harry had already gone.

Harry put Beate’s red mobile phone to his ear.

‘Oslo Waste Management? This is the police, Inspector Harry Hole. Where do you empty those skips of yours? The private ones, yes. Metodica, OK. Where are . . . Verkseier Furulands vei in Alnabru? Thank you. What?
Or
Grønmo? How do I know which one . . . ?’

‘Look,’ Beate said. ‘A traffic jam.’

Cars formed an apparently impenetrable wall down towards the T-junction in front of Kafé Lorry in Hegdehaugsveien.

‘We should have taken Uranienborgveien,’ Harry said. ‘Or Kirkeveien.’

‘Shame you’re not driving,’ Beate said, forcing the front offside wheel up onto the pavement, leaning on the horn and accelerating. People jumped out of the way.

‘Hello?’ Harry said on the mobile phone. ‘You’ve just collected a green skip from Bogstadveien by the Industrigata crossroads. Where is it going? Yes. I’ll wait.’

‘Let’s take a chance on Alnabru,’ Beate said and swung out into the crossroads in front of a tram. The wheels spun on the steel rails until they got a grip on the tarmac. Harry had a vague feeling of déjà vu.

They had come to Pilestredet when the man from Oslo Waste Management came back to say that they couldn’t contact the driver on his mobile, but the skip was
probably
on its way to Alnabru.

‘Fine,’ Harry said. ‘Can you ring Metodica and ask them not to empty the contents of the skip into the incinerator until we . . . Your office is closed from 11.30 to 12.00? Careful! No, I was talking to the driver. No,
my
driver.’

In the Ibsen tunnel Harry called Police HQ and asked them to send a patrol car to Metodica, but the closest available car was at least fifteen minutes away.

‘Fuck!’ Harry threw the mobile phone over his shoulder and smacked the dashboard.

At the roundabout between Byporten and Plaza Beate sneaked
into the space between a red bus and a Chevy van, straddling the white line. When she came down the raised intersection known as the traffic machine doing 110 km/h and performed a controlled skid on screaming tyres, into the hairpin bend on the fjord side of Oslo Central station, Harry realised that all hope was not yet lost.

‘Who was the mad bastard who taught you to drive?’ he asked, holding on tight as they swerved in and out between cars on the three-lane motorway leading to Ekeberg tunnel.

‘Self-taught,’ Beate said.

In the middle of the Vålerenga tunnel a large, ugly, diesel-vomiting lorry loomed up ahead of them. It lumbered into the right-hand lane; on the back, held in place by two yellow arms, was a green skip bearing the words
OSLO WASTE MANAGEMENT
.

‘Yess!’ Harry shouted.

Beate swung in front of the lorry, slowed down and activated the right indicator. Harry rolled down the window, stretched out a hand holding his ID and waved the lorry into the side of the road with the other.

The driver had no objection to Harry taking a look inside the skip, but wondered if they shouldn’t wait until they were in the Metodica yard, where they could empty the contents onto the ground.

‘I don’t want the bottle to be smashed!’ Harry yelled over the noise of passing traffic from the back of the lorry.

‘I was thinking about your nice suit,’ the driver said, but by then Harry had already scrambled up into the skip. The next moment, a rumble of thunder could be heard from inside, and the driver and Beate heard Harry roundly cursing. Then quite a bit of rooting around. And finally another ‘Yess!’ before he reappeared over the top of the skip with a white plastic bag held above his head like a trophy.

‘Give the bottle to Weber immediately and tell him it’s urgent,’ Harry said as Beate started the car. ‘Say hello from me.’

‘Will that help?’

Harry scratched his head. ‘No. Just say it’s urgent.’

She laughed. Not very much, nor heartfelt, but Harry noted the laughter.

‘Are you always so enthusiastic?’ she asked.

‘Me? What about you? You were ready to drive us into an early grave for this evidence, weren’t you?’

She smiled, but didn’t answer. Checked the mirror before returning to the carriageway.

Harry glanced at his watch. ‘Damn!’

‘Late for a meeting?’

‘Do you think you could drive me to Majorstuen church?’

‘Of course. Is that why you’re wearing the black suit?’

‘Yes. A . . . friend of mine.’

‘Then perhaps you’d better try and get rid of the brown stain on your shoulder first.’

Harry craned his head. ‘From the skip,’ he said, brushing at it. ‘Has it gone now?’

Beate passed him a handkerchief. ‘Try a little spit. Was it a close friend?’

‘No. Or yes . . . for a while perhaps. But you have to go to funerals, don’t you.’

‘
Do
you?’

‘Don’t
you
?’

‘I’ve only been to one funeral all my life.’

They drove in silence.

‘Your father?’

She nodded.

They passed the intersection at Sinsen. At Muselunden, the large area of grass below Haraldsheimen, a man and two boys had a kite in the air. All three stood looking at the blue sky and Harry saw the man give the string to the taller of the two boys.

‘We still haven’t caught the man who did it,’ she said.

‘No, we haven’t,’ Harry said. ‘Not yet.’

‘God giveth and God taketh away,’ the priest said, peering down over the empty rows of benches and at the tall man with cropped hair who had just tiptoed in, looking for a seat at the very back. He waited as the echo of a loud, heart-rending sob died away under the arched ceiling. ‘But on occasion it can seem as if He is merely taking.’

The priest stressed ‘taking’ and the acoustics lifted the word and carried it to the back of the church. The sobbing grew in volume again. Harry watched. He had thought that Anna, who was so extroverted and bubbly, would have had lots of friends, but Harry counted only eight people, six in the front row and two further back. Eight. Yes, well, how many would go to his funeral? Eight people was perhaps not such a bad turnout.

The sobbing came from the front row where Harry could see three heads wrapped in bright scarves and three bare-headed men. The other two were a man sitting to the left and a woman in the middle. He recognised the globe-shaped afro of Astrid Monsen.

The organ pedals creaked, then the music began. A psalm. The grace of God. Harry closed his eyes and felt how tired he was. The notes from the organ rose and sank, the high notes trickled like water from the ceiling. The frail voices sang for forgiveness and mercy. He longed to immerse himself in something which could warm and conceal him. The Lord shall come to judge the quick and the dead. God’s vengeance. God as Nemesis. The low organ notes caused the unoccupied wooden benches to vibrate. The sword in one hand and the scales in the other, punishment and justice. Or no punishment and no justice. Harry opened his eyes.

Four men were carrying the coffin. Harry recognised Officer Ola Li behind two swarthy men in Armani suits, white shirts open at the neck. The fourth person was so tall he made the coffin tip. The suit hung loosely on the thin body, but he was the only one of the four who did not seem weighed down by the coffin. Harry’s eye was particularly caught by the man’s face. Narrow, finely formed with large, pained, brown eyes set in deep hollows in the cranium. The
black hair was swept back in a long plait, leaving the high, shiny forehead bared. The sensitive, heart-shaped mouth was enwreathed by a long, well-groomed beard. It was as if Christ had stepped down from the altar behind the priest. And there was something else: there are very few faces you can say this about, but this face was
radiant
. As the four men approached Harry down the aisle, he tried to see what made it radiant. Was it grief? Not pleasure. Goodness? Evil?