Nemesis (42 page)

H
ARRY RAN.
G
REGOR’S STACCATO BARKING WAS LIKE AN
angry metronome in the background, otherwise everything around him was still. His naked feet slapped against wet grass. He stretched his arms in front of him as he burst through another hedge hardly feeling the thorns tearing at his palms and the Bjørn Borg collection. He hadn’t found his own clothes and shoes; he guessed she must have taken them downstairs to where she was sitting and waiting. While searching for another pair of shoes he had heard Gregor whining and he had had to make a run for it as he was, in trousers and shirt. The rain fell into his eyes, and houses, apple trees and bushes blurred in front of him. Another garden appeared out of the dark. He took the risk and jumped over the low fence. But lost his balance. Running with alcohol in your blood. A trim lawn rose and hit him in the face. He stayed down, listening.

He thought he could hear a number of dogs barking now. Was Victor there? So quickly? Waaler must have had them on standby. Harry got to his feet and scoured the area. He was at the top of the hill he had headed towards. Deliberately keeping away from the illuminated roads which police cars would soon be patrolling and
where he could easily be spotted. Down by Bjørnetråkket he could see Albu’s property. There were four cars outside the front gate, two of them with rotating blue lights. He looked down the other side of the hill. Wasn’t it called Holmen, or Gressbanen? Something like that. A civilian car was parked on the pavement by the crossroads with its lights on. Harry had been quick, but Waaler had been quicker. Only the police parked like that.

He rubbed his face hard. Tried to get rid of the anaesthetisation he had longed for so recently. A blue light flashed between the trees in Stasjonsveien. He was caught in the net and it was already tightening. He wouldn’t escape. Waaler was too good. But he didn’t quite understand. This couldn’t be a solo show. Someone must have authorised the use of these huge resources to arrest one single man. What had happened? Hadn’t Beate received the e-mail he had sent her?

He listened. There were more dogs, no question. He cast his eyes around. At the illuminated detached houses scattered across the pitch-black hill. He thought of the snug, warm rooms behind the windows. Norwegians liked light. And they had electricity. They only turned it off when they were away for a fortnight on holiday down south. His gaze moved from house to house.

Tom Waaler stared up at the isolated houses decorating the landscape like Christmas lights. Large, black gardens. Scrumping. He had his feet up on the dashboard in Victor’s specially converted van. They had the best communication equipment available, so he had moved control of the operation there. He was in radio contact with all the units closing the circle around the area. He looked at his watch. The dogs were out; it would soon be ten minutes since they had slipped into the darkness with their handlers, moving through gardens.

The radio crackled: ‘Stasjonsveien to Victor zero one. We have a car here with one Stig Antonsen going to Revehiven 17. Returning from work, he says. Shall we . . . ?’

‘Check ID, address and let him through,’ Waaler said. ‘The same holds for you others out there, OK? Use your heads.’

Waaler tugged a CD out of his top pocket and put it in the player. Several falsettos. Prince sang ‘Thunder.’ The man in the driver’s seat beside him raised an eyebrow, but Waaler pretended not to notice and turned up the volume. Verse. Refrain. Verse. Refrain. Next song: ‘Pop Daddy’. Waaler checked his watch again. Shit, what a long time the dogs were taking. He hit the dashboard. Earning another glance from the driver’s seat.

‘They have a fresh trail of blood to follow,’ Waaler said. ‘How difficult can that be?’

‘They’re dogs, not robots,’ the man said. ‘Relax, they’ll soon have him.’

The artist to be known for ever as Prince was in the middle of ‘Diamonds and Pearls’ when the report came in: ‘Victor zero three to Victor zero one. Think we’ve got him. We’re outside a white house in . . . er, Erik’s trying to find out what the road’s called, but there’s a number 16 on the wall, anyway.’

Waaler turned down the music. ‘OK. Find out and wait for us. What’s the ringing sound I can hear?’

‘It’s coming from the house.’

The radio crackled: ‘Stasjonsveien to Victor one. Sorry to interrupt but there’s a security vehicle here. They say they’re going to Harelabben 16. Their central switchboard registered a burglar alarm going off there. Shall I—?’

‘Victor zero one to all units!’ Waaler yelled. ‘Move in. Harelabben 16.’

Bjarne Møller was in a dreadful mood. In the middle of his favourite TV programme! He found the white house, number 16, parked outside, went through the gate and up to the open door where a police officer was standing with an Alsatian on a leash.

‘Is Waaler here?’ asked the PAS. The officer motioned to the
door. Møller noticed that the glass in the hall window was smashed. Waaler stood in the hall inside in furious discussion with another officer.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’ Møller asked without preamble.

Waaler turned. ‘Right. What brings you here, Møller?’

‘A phone call from Beate Lønn. Who authorised this idiocy?’

‘Our police solicitor.’

‘I’m not talking about the arrest. I’m asking who gave the go-ahead to World War Three because one of our very own colleagues may –
may!
– have a couple of things to explain.’

Waaler rocked back on his heels while eyeballing Møller. ‘PAS Ivarsson. We found a couple of things at Harry’s place which make him more than just someone we would like to talk to. He is under suspicion of murder. Anything else you were wondering about, Møller?’

Møller raised an eyebrow in surprise and concluded Waaler must be very worked up. That was the first time he had ever heard him talk to a superior in such a provocative manner. ‘Yes. Where’s Harry?’

Waaler pointed to the red footprints on the parquet floor. ‘He was here. Broke in, as you can see. Beginning to be quite a lot to explain, isn’t there?’

‘I asked where he is now.’

Waaler and the other police officer exchanged looks. ‘Harry is clearly not that keen to explain. The bird had flown when we arrived.’

‘Oh? I was under the impression you had surrounded the whole area.’

‘We had,’ Waaler said.

‘So how did he get away then?’

‘Using this.’ Waaler pointed to the telephone on the table. The receiver was stained with what looked like blood.

‘He got away using a phone?’ Møller felt an irrational – his bad mood and the seriousness of the situation taken into account – urge to smile.

‘There is reason to believe,’ Waaler said while Møller watched the
powerful musculature of the David Hasselhoff jaw straining, ‘that he ordered a taxi.’

Øystein drove down the alley slowly and turned the taxi into the cobbled semicircle in front of Oslo prison. He reversed in between two cars, his rear end facing the empty park and Grønlandsleiret. He turned the ignition key to kill the engine, but the windscreen wipers kept swishing to and fro. And waited. No one was around, neither in the square nor in the park. He glanced up at Police HQ before pulling the lever under the wheel. There was a click and the boot lid sprang into the air.

‘Come out!’ he shouted, looking in the mirror.

The car rocked, the boot lid was opened fully and smacked shut. Then the back door opened and a man hopped in. Øystein studied the drenched, shivering passenger in the mirror.

‘You look great, Harry.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Cool threads too.’

‘Not my size, but it’s Bjørn Borg. Lend me your shoes, will you.’

‘Eh?’

‘I could only find felt slippers in the hall. Can’t go on a prison visit wearing them. And your jacket.’

Øystein rolled his eyes and struggled out of his short leather jacket.

‘Did you have any trouble getting past the roadblocks?’ Harry asked.

‘Just on the way in. They had to check I had the name and address of the person I was delivering the package to.’

‘I found the name on the door.’

‘On my way back, they just looked in the car and waved me through. Thirty seconds passed and then there was a hell of a racket on the radio. Calling all units and so on. Heh, heh.’

‘I thought I heard something from the back. You do know it’s illegal to tune in to police radio, don’t you, Øystein?’

‘Well, it’s not illegal to tune in. It’s illegal to use it. And I almost never use it.’

Harry tied the shoelaces and threw the slippers over the seat to Øystein. ‘You’ll find your reward in heaven. If they took the number of the taxi and you receive a visit, you’ll have to tell them what happened. You got a booking via a mobile and the passenger insisted on lying in the boot.’

‘Absolutely. And that’s the truth.’

‘Truest thing I’ve heard for a long while.’

Harry took a deep breath and pressed the bell. Not much risk in the first phase, but it was difficult to know how quickly the news that he was a wanted man had spread. After all, police officers were in and out of this prison all the time.

‘Yes,’ a voice said from the intercom.

‘Inspector Harry Hole,’ Harry over-articulated, looking into the camera over the entrance with what he hoped was an unruffled expression. ‘For Raskol Baxhet.’

‘You’re not on my list.’

‘Really?’ Harry said. ‘I asked Beate Lønn to ring you and book me in. Last night, nine o’clock. Just ask Raskol.’

‘If it’s outside visiting hours, you have to be on the list, Inspector. You’ll have to ring during office hours tomorrow.’

Harry shifted weight from one foot to the other. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Bøygset. I’m afraid I can’t—’

‘Listen here, Bøygset. This visit concerns information for an important police case which cannot wait until tomorrow. I imagine you’ve heard the sirens going off all round Police HQ this evening, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Right, unless you’d like to answer the papers’ questions tomorrow about how you messed up the schedule, I suggest we move on from
robot mode and press the common-sense button. That’s the one right in front of you, Bøygset.’

Harry stared into the lifeless camera eye. One-thousand-and-one, one-thousand-and-two. The lock buzzed.

Raskol was sitting in a chair in his cell when Harry was let in.

‘Thank you for confirming the visit,’ Harry said, looking around the four-by-two-metre cell. A bed, a desk, two cupboards, a few books. No radio, no magazines, no personal effects, bare walls.

‘This is how I prefer it,’ Raskol said in answer to Harry’s thoughts. ‘It focuses the mind.’

‘Then feel how this focuses the mind,’ Harry said, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘Arne Albu didn’t kill Anna after all. You got the wrong man. You have innocent blood on your hands, Raskol.’

Harry was not sure, but he seemed to detect the minutest of twitches in the gypsy’s gentle, though cold, martyr’s mask. Raskol lowered his head and placed his palms against his temples.

‘I received an e-mail from the murderer,’ Harry said. ‘Turns out he was manipulating me from day one.’ He ran a hand up and down the criss-cross pattern of the duvet as he summarised what the e-mail said. And followed up with a précis of the day’s events.

Raskol sat motionless, listening until Harry had finished. Afterwards he raised his head. ‘That means there is innocent blood on your hands, too,
Spiuni.
’

Harry nodded.

‘Now you’re here to tell me I was the one who stained your hands. And therefore I owe you a debt.’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘I agree,’ Raskol said. ‘Tell me what I owe.’

Harry stopped stroking the duvet. ‘Three things. First of all, I need a place to hide until I’ve got to the bottom of this business.’

Raskol nodded.

‘Secondly, I need the key to Anna’s flat to check a couple of things.’

‘I’ve already given it back.’

‘Not the key with AA on, that’s in a drawer in my place, and I can’t go there now. And thirdly . . .’

Harry paused and Raskol scrutinised his face with curiosity.

‘If I hear Rakel say anyone has so much as looked askance at them, I will give myself up, put all my cards on the table and finger you as the man behind Arne Albu’s murder.’

Raskol gave him an indulgent, friendly smile. As if, on Harry’s behalf, he regretted one thing they were both absolutely clear on – the fact that no one would ever succeed in finding any link whatsoever between Raskol and the murder. ‘You don’t need to worry about Rakel and Oleg,
Spiuni
. My contact was instructed to call off his artisans the moment we had dealt with Albu. You should be more concerned about the outcome of the trial. My contact says the prospects don’t look too rosy. I understand the father’s family has certain connections?’

Harry hunched his shoulders.

Raskol pulled out the desk drawer, took the shiny Trioving system key and gave it to Harry. ‘Go to the metro station in Grønland. Go down the first set of stairs and you’ll see a woman sitting behind a window by the toilets. You need five kroner to get in. Tell her Harry has arrived, go into the Gents and lock yourself in one of the cubicles. When you hear someone come in whistling “Waltzing Matilda” it means your transport is ready. Good luck,
Spiuni
.’

The rain was hammering down so hard there was a fine shower rebounding off the tarmac, and if anyone had taken the time, they would have seen small rainbows in the streetlamps at the bottom of the narrow one-way section of Sofies gate. However, Bjarne Møller didn’t have time. He got out of the car, raised his coat over his head and ran across the street to the front door where Ivarsson, Weber and a man, apparently of Pakistani origin, stood waiting for him.

Møller shook hands and the dark-skinned man introduced himself as Ali Niazi, Harry’s neighbour.

‘Waaler will be here as soon as he has cleared up in Slemdal,’ Møller said. ‘What have you found?’

‘Quite sensational things, I’m afraid,’ Ivarsson said. ‘The most important thing now is to work out how we’re going to tell the press that one of our own police officers—’