Nemesis (25 page)

Harry picked up the black king and compared it with the white. If you didn’t look too closely, you could be deceived into thinking they were identical.

‘The weapon is not registered. It may have been Anna’s; it may have been his. I don’t know exactly what happened in the flat, and the world will probably never know, as she is dead. From the police point of view, it is an open and shut case: suicide.’

‘
I? Police point of view?
’ Raskol stroked his goatee. ‘Why not
we
and
our point of view?
Are you trying to tell me you’re flying solo here, Inspector?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know very well what I mean. The trick of sending your colleague out to give me the impression this was between you and me, I understand that, but . . .’ He pressed his palms together. ‘Although that might be possible. Does anyone else know what you know?’

Harry shook his head.

‘So, what are you after? Money?’

‘No.’

‘I wouldn’t be so quick, if I were you, Inspector. I haven’t had a chance to say what this information is worth to me yet. We may be talking big bucks. If you can prove what you’ve said. And punishment of the guilty party may be done under – shall we say – private auspices without any interference from the state.’

‘That’s not the issue,’ Harry said, hoping the perspiration on his forehead wasn’t visible. ‘The question is what is
your
information worth to
me.’

‘What are you suggesting,
Spiuni
?’

‘What I’m suggesting,’ Harry said, holding the two kings in the same hand, ‘is a trade-off. You tell me who the Expeditor is and I’ll obtain evidence against the man who took Anna’s life.’

Raskol chuckled. ‘There we have it. You can go now,
Spiuni
.’

‘Think about it, Raskol.’

‘Quite unnecessary. I trust people who chase money; I don’t trust crusaders.’

They sized each other up. The neon tube crackled. Harry nodded, replaced the chess pieces, rose to his feet, went to the door and banged on it. ‘You must have been fond of her,’ he said with his back to Raskol. ‘The flat in Sorgenfrigata was registered in your name, and I know exactly how broke Anna was.’

‘Oh?’

‘Since it’s your flat, I’ve asked the housing committee to send you the key. A courier will be bringing it today. I suggest you compare it with the one you got from me.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘There are three keys to Anna’s flat. Anna had one, the electrician had the second. I found this one in the chalet of the man I’ve been talking about. In the drawer of the bedside table. It’s the third and last key. The only one which can have been used, if Anna was murdered.’

They heard footsteps outside the door.

‘And if it enhances my credibility,’ Harry said, ‘I’m only trying to save my own skin.’

P
EOPLE WITH A THIRST DRINK ANYWHERE
. T
AKE
M
ALIK’S IN
Thereses gate, for example. It was a hamburger bar and had nothing of what gave Schrøder’s, for all its failings, a certain dignity as a licensed taproom. It was true they had the hamburgers they pushed, rumoured to be a cut above the competition; with a degree of charity one might say that the slightly Indian-inspired interior with the picture of the Norwegian Royal Family did have a kind of naff charm; however, it was and always would be a fast-food outlet where those willing to pay for alcoholic credibility would never dream of imbibing their beer.

Harry had never been one of them.

He hadn’t been to Malik’s for a long time, but as he gave it the once-over, he was able to confirm that nothing had changed. Øystein was sitting with his male (and one female) drinking pals at the smokers’ table. With a backdrop of outdated pop hits, Eurosport and sizzling fat they were enjoying a convivial conversation about lottery wins, a recent triple murder and an absent friend’s moral shortcomings.

‘Well, hi, Harry!’ Øystein’s gruff voice cut through the sound
pollution. He flicked back his long, greasy hair, wiped his hand on the thigh of his trousers and held it out to Harry.

‘This is the cop I was telling you about, folks. Who shot the guy in Australia. Hit him in the head, didn’t you.’

‘Good work,’ said one of the other customers. Harry couldn’t see his face because he was bent forward with his long hair hanging over his beer like a curtain. ‘Exterminate the vermin.’

Harry pointed to a free table and Øystein nodded, stubbed out his cigarette, put the packet of Petterøes in the pocket of his denim shirt and concentrated on carrying the freshly drawn draught beer to the table without spilling it.

‘Long time, no see,’ Øystein said, rolling a new cigarette. ‘Same as the rest of the boys, by the way. Never see ’em. They’ve all moved, got married and had kids.’ Øystein laughed. A gravelly, bitter laugh. ‘They’ve all settled down, anyroad. Who would’ve believed it?’

‘Mm.’

‘Ever been back to Oppsal? Your dad still lives in his house, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, but I’m not there very often. We talk on the phone now and then.’

‘And your sis? Is she any better?’

Harry smiled. ‘You don’t get better with Down’s Syndrome, Øystein. She’s doing fine, though. Has her own flat in Sogn. Got a partner.’

‘Christ, more than I’ve got then.’

‘How’s the driving going?’

‘Alright. Just changed taxi company. Last one thought I smelt. Tosser.’

‘Still not interested in going back to computers?’

‘Are you crazy!’ Øystein shook off internal laughter as he ran the tip of his tongue along the paper. ‘Annual salary of a million and a quiet office – of course, I could do with that, but I’ve missed the boat, Harry. The time for rock’n’roll guys like me in IT is over.’

‘I was talking to someone in the data-protection department of
Den norske Bank. He said you were still reckoned to be a code-breaking pioneer.’

‘Pioneer means past it, Harry. No one has any time for a washed-up hacker ten years behind the latest developments. You can understand that, can’t you? And then there was all that bother.’

‘Mm. What actually happened?’

‘What happened?’ Øystein rolled his eyes. ‘You know me. Once a hippy, always a hippy. Needed dough. Tried a code I shouldn’t have.’ He lit his roll-up and looked around in vain for an ashtray. ‘What about you? Stopped hitting the bottle for good, have you?’

‘Trying.’ Harry reached over for an ashtray from the next table. ‘I’m with someone.’

He told Øystein about Rakel, Oleg and the court case in Moscow. And about life in general. It didn’t take long.

Øystein talked about the others in the gang of friends who had grown up in Oppsal. About Sigge, who had moved to Harestua with a woman Øystein thought was much too refined for him, and Kristian who was in a wheelchair after being hit by a car while he was on his motorbike north of Minnesund. ‘Doctors have given him a chance.’

‘A chance of what?’ Harry asked.

‘Of humping again,’ Øystein said, draining his glass.

Tore was still a teacher, but he had split up with Silje.

‘His chances aren’t so good,’ Øystein said. ‘He’s put on thirty kilos. That was why she cleared off. It’s true! Torkild met her out on the town and she told him she couldn’t stand all the blubber.’ He put down his glass. ‘But I take it that wasn’t why you called?’

‘No, I need some help. I’m on a case.’

‘To catch baddies? And you come to me? Jesus!’ Øystein’s laughter morphed into a coughing fit.

‘It’s a case I’m personally involved in,’ Harry said. ‘It’s a bit difficult to explain everything, but I’m trying to trace someone who is sending me e-mails. I think he’s using a server with anonymous clients somewhere abroad.’

Øystein nodded pensively. ‘So you’re in trouble?’

‘Maybe. What makes you think that?’

‘I’m a pisshead taxi driver who knows
nada
about the latest in IT. And everyone who knows me can tell you, I’m unreliable as far as work goes. In short, the only reason you’ve come to me is that I’m an old pal. Loyalty. I’ll keep my mouth shut, won’t I.’ He took a long swig of a new beer. ‘I may enjoy the odd bevvy, but I’m not stupid, Harry.’ He pulled hard on his cigarette. ‘So – when do we begin?’

Night had settled over Slemdal. The door opened and a man and a woman appeared on the steps. They took leave of their hosts amid laughter, walked down the drive, the shingle crunching under shiny black shoes as they commented in low voices on the food, the host and hostess and the other guests. Thus, as they left the gateway into Bjørnetråkket, they didn’t notice the taxi parked a bit further down the road. Harry stubbed out his cigarette, turned up the car radio and listened to Elvis Costello droning through ‘Watching the Detectives’. On P4. He had noticed that when his favourite hot sounds were old enough, they ended up on tepid radio channels. Naturally, he was all too aware that could mean only one thing – he was getting old, too. Yesterday they had played Nick Cave after Cliff Richard.

An ingratiating night-time voice introduced ‘Another Day in Paradise’ and Harry switched off. He rolled down the window and listened to the muted bass throb coming from Albu’s house, which was the only sound to stir the silence. An adult party. Business connections, neighbours and old college friends. Not quite ‘The Birdy Song’ and not quite a rave, but G and Ts, Abba and the Rolling Stones. People in their late thirties who had been through higher education. In other words, not too late back to the babysitter. Harry looked at his watch. He thought about the new e-mail on his computer when he and Øystein had switched it on:

I am bored. Are you frightened or just stupid?

S
²
MN

He had left the computer in Øystein’s hands and borrowed his taxi, a clapped-out Mercedes from the seventies, which had shaken like an old sprung mattress over the speed bumps when he came into the residential area, but was still a dream to drive. He had decided to wait when he saw the formally dressed guests leaving Albu’s house. There was no reason to make a scene. And, anyway, he needed to spend some time thinking things through before he did anything stupid. Harry had tried to be cold and rational, but this
I am bored
had got in the way.

‘Now you’ve thought things through,’ Harry muttered to himself in the rear-view mirror. ‘
Now
you can do something stupid.’

Vigdis opened the door. She had performed the magic trick only female illusionists master and one men will never get to the bottom of: she had become beautiful. The only specific change Harry could put his finger on was that she was wearing a turquoise evening dress matching her large blue eyes – suddenly wide open with surprise.

‘I apologise for disturbing you at such a late hour, fru Albu. I would like to speak to your husband.’

‘We’re having a party. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ She sent him an imploring smile, and Harry could see how much she burned to slam the door.

‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Your husband was not telling the truth when he said he didn’t know Anna Bethsen. And I don’t think you were, either.’ Harry didn’t know whether it was the evening dress or the confrontation which made him choose a formal tone. Vigdis Albu’s mouth was like a mute ‘o’.

‘I have a witness who saw them together,’ Harry said. ‘And I know where the photograph is from.’

She blinked twice.

‘Why . . . ?’ she stammered. ‘Why . . . ?’

‘Because they were lovers, fru Albu.’

‘No, I mean – why are you
telling
me this? Who gave you the right?’

Harry opened his mouth, ready to answer, to say he thought she had a right to know, that it would come out anyway, and so on.
Instead he stood looking at her. She knew why he was telling her, and he hadn’t known himself, not until now. He swallowed.

‘The right to do what, dearest?’

Harry caught sight of Arne Albu as he came down the stairs. His forehead was glistening with sweat and his bow tie was hanging loose over his shirt front. From the living room up the stairs he could hear David Bowie erroneously insisting ‘This Is Not America’.

‘Shh, Arne, you’ll wake the children,’ Vigdis said, without taking her imploring eyes off Harry.

‘They wouldn’t wake up if an atomic bomb was dropped,’ her husband slurred.

‘I think that’s what herr Hole just did,’ she said softly. ‘In order to inflict maximum damage, it appears.’

Harry met her eyes.

‘Well?’ Arne Albu grinned and put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘Can I join in the game?’ The smile was full of amusement, yet open at the same time, almost innocent. Like the irresponsible delight of a boy who has borrowed his father’s car without permission.

‘My apologies,’ Harry said. ‘The game is over. We have the proof we need. And right now an IT expert is tracking down the address you have been sending the e-mails from.’

‘What is he talking about?’ Arne laughed. ‘Proof? E-mails?’

Harry studied him. ‘The photograph in Anna’s shoe. She took it from the photo album when you and she were at the chalet in Larkollen a few weeks ago.’

‘Weeks?’ Vigdis asked, looking at her husband.

‘He knew that when I showed him the photo,’ Harry said. ‘He was in Larkollen yesterday and stuck a copy in its place.’

Arne Albu frowned, but continued to smile. ‘Have you been drinking, Constable?’

‘You shouldn’t have told her she was going to die,’ Harry went on and knew he was about to lose his grip. ‘Or at the very least taken your eyes off her afterwards. She sneaked the photo into her shoe. And that was what gave you away, Albu.’

Harry heard a sharp intake of breath from fru Albu.

‘A shoe here or there . . .’ Albu said, still stroking his wife’s neck. ‘Do you know why Norwegian businessmen can’t do business abroad? They forget their shoes. They wear shoes bought in Norway with Prada suits costing fifteen thousand kroner. Foreigners regard that with suspicion.’ Albu pointed below. ‘Look. Hand-sewn, Italian shoes. Eighteen hundred kroner. Cheap at the price if you’re buying confidence.’

‘What I’m wondering is why you were so keen to let me know you were waiting outside,’ Harry said. ‘Was it jealousy?’