Nemesis (46 page)

The taxi glided like a silent black fish through the night, through the traffic lights, beneath the street lighting and the sign indicating the city centre.

‘We can’t keep meeting like this,’ Øystein said. He looked into the mirror and watched Harry put on the black jumper he had brought him from home.

‘Got the crowbar?’ Harry asked.

‘It’s in the boot. What if the john’s at home?’

‘People at home generally answer the phone.’

‘But what if he comes home while you’re in his flat?’

‘Then do what I said: two short hoots.’

‘Alright, alright, but I don’t know what the guy looks like.’

‘About thirty, I said. See anyone like that going into number 9, you honk your horn.’

Øystein pulled over by a
NO PARKING
sign in the polluted, traffic-congested twisted bowel of a street which is referred to on page 265 of a dusty book called
City Fathers IV
in the neighbouring public library as ‘the extremely dull, unsightly street bearing the name Thor Olsens gate’. But it suited Harry down to the ground that night. The noise, passing cars and the darkness would camouflage him and the waiting taxi.

Harry slipped the crowbar down the sleeve of his leather jacket and quickly crossed the street. To his relief he saw there were at least twenty bells outside number 9. That would give him a good many alternatives if his bluff didn’t work at first. Alf Gunnerud’s name was second down on the right. He looked up at the right-hand side of the building. The windows on the fourth floor were unlit. Harry rang the ground-floor bell. A woman’s sleepy voice answered.

‘Hi, I’m trying to contact Alf,’ Harry said. ‘But they’re playing their music so loud they can’t hear the bell. Alf Gunnerud, that is. The locksmith on the fourth. You couldn’t open up for me, could you?’

‘It’s past midnight.’

‘I apologise. I’ll make sure Alf keeps the music down.’

Harry waited. The buzz came.

He took three steps at a time. On the fourth floor he stood and listened, but could only hear his pounding heart. There were two doors to choose between. A grey piece of cardboard with
ANDERSEN
written in felt pen had been glued to one door. The other was bare.

This was the most critical part of the plan. A single lock could probably be bent open without waking the whole block, but if Alf had used a barrage of locks from Låsesmeden AS, Harry had a problem. He scanned the door from top to bottom. No stickers from a security service or central switchboard. No drill-proof security locks. No burglar-proof twin cylinders with double pins. Just an old Yale cylinder lock. Piece of cake.

Harry lifted the sleeve of his jacket and caught the crowbar as it came out. He hesitated before inserting the tip inside the door under the lock. It was almost too easy. No time to think, though, and no choice. He didn’t break open the door, he forced the door towards the hinges so that he could slip Øystein’s bank card inside the latch and the deadlock slid out of the box in the door frame. He applied pressure, to push the door out a tiny bit, and put the sole of his foot against the bottom edge. The door creaked on its hinges as he gave the crowbar a nudge and pushed the card through. He slipped inside and closed the door after him. The whole operation had taken eight seconds.

The hum of a refrigerator and sitcom laughter from a neighbour’s TV. Harry tried to breathe deeply and evenly as he listened to the total darkness. He could hear cars outside and felt a cold draught, indicating that the windows in the flat were old. But most important: no noises to suggest anyone was at home.

He found the light switch. The hall definitely needed a facelift, the sitting room replastering. The kitchen should have been condemned. The interior of the flat explained the poor security measures. Or to be precise – the lack of interior. Alf Gunnerud had nothing, not even a stereo Harry could have asked him to turn down. The only evidence
that someone lived here was two camping chairs, a green coffee table, clothes scattered everywhere and a bed with a duvet but no cover.

Harry put on the washing-up gloves Øystein had brought along and carried one of the chairs into the hall. He put it in front of the row of wall cupboards reaching up to the three-metre-high ceiling, emptied his head of preconceived ideas and cautiously put one foot on the arm. At that moment, the telephone rang. Harry took a step to the side, the camping chair snapped shut and he fell to the floor with a crash.

Tom Waaler had a bad feeling. The situation lacked the clear structure he strove for at all times. Since his career and future prospects did not lie in his own hands, but in the hands of those he allied himself with, the human factor was always a risk he had to take into account. The bad feeling came from the fact that he didn’t know if he could rely on Beate Lønn, Rune Ivarsson or – and this was crucial – the man who was his most important source of income: the Knave.

When it came to Tom’s ears that the City Council had begun to put pressure on the Chief of Police to catch the Expeditor after the Grønlandsleiret bank hold-up, he had instructed the Knave to go into hiding. They had agreed on a place the Knave knew from the past. Pattaya had the biggest collection of wanted western criminals in the eastern hemisphere and was only a couple of hours’ drive south of Bangkok. As a white tourist the Knave would melt into the crowds. The Knave had called Pattaya ‘Asia’s Sodom’, so Waaler couldn’t understand why he had suddenly shown up in Oslo, saying he couldn’t stand it any longer.

Waaler stopped at the lights in Uelands gate and indicated left. Bad feeling. The Knave had carried out the latest bank job without clearing it with him first, and that was a serious breach of rules. Something would have to be done about it.

He had just tried to ring the Knave, but there was no answer. That might mean anything at all. It might mean, for example, that he was
in his chalet in Tryvann working on the details of the heist of a security van they had talked about. Or going over the equipment – clothes, weapons, police radio, drawings. But it might also mean that he had had a relapse and was sitting in the corner nodding, with a syringe hanging from his forearm.

Waaler drove slowly along the dark, filthy little street where the Knave lived. A waiting taxi was parked opposite. Waaler looked up at the windows of the flat. Odd, the lights were on. If the Knave was on junk again, all hell would be let loose. It would be simple enough to get into the flat. There was a naff lock on his door. He looked at his watch. The visit to Beate had excited him, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep yet. He would have to cruise around for a bit, make a couple of calls and see what happened.

Waaler put Prince on louder, accelerated and drove up Ullevålsveien.

Harry sat in the camping chair with his head in his hands, an aching hip and not a shred of evidence that Alf Gunnerud was the man. It had only taken ten minutes to go through the few possessions in the flat, so few that the suspicion lingered that he lived somewhere else. Harry had found a toothbrush in the bathroom, an almost empty tube of toothpaste and a piece of unidentifiable soap stuck to a soap dish. Plus a towel which might once have been white. That was it. That was his chance.

Harry felt like laughing. Banging his head against the wall. Smashing the top off a bottle of Jim Beam and drinking the whiskey with the shards of glass. Because it had to be – had to be – Gunnerud. Of all incriminating evidence, statistically, one piece was head and shoulders above the others – previous charges and convictions. The case simply screamed out Gunnerud’s name. He had narco and guns on his record, he worked for a locksmith, could order whatever system keys he needed, say, to Anna’s flat. Or to Harry’s.

He went over to the window. Wondering how he could have gone
in a circle following an insane man’s script down to the last letter. But now there were no more instructions, no more lines in the dialogue. The moon peeped through a break in the clouds and resembled a half-chewed fluoride tablet, but not even that could jog his memory.

He closed his eyes. Concentrated. What had he seen in the flat which might give him the next line? What had he missed? He went through the flat in his mind, piece by piece.

After three minutes he gave up. It was all over. There was nothing here.

He checked everything was as it had been when he arrived and turned the sitting-room light off. Went to the toilet, stood in front of the bowl and unbuttoned. Waited. Christ, now he couldn’t even do that. Then it flowed and he released a weary sigh. He pressed the handle, the water flushed and at that moment he froze. Wasn’t that a car horn he had heard over the gushing water? He went into the hall and closed the toilet door to hear better. It was. A short, firm beep from the street. Gunnerud was on his way! Harry was already standing in the doorway when it struck him. Of course it had to strike him now, when it was too late. Flushing water.
The Godfather
. The gun.
That’s my favourite place.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

Harry ran back into the toilet, grabbed the knob on top of the cistern and frantically began to loosen it. The rusty, red screw came into view. ‘Faster,’ he whispered. His heart accelerated as he twisted the knob and the damned rod went round and round with a groan but refused to come off. He heard a door slam down in the stairwell. Then it came off and he lifted the cistern lid. The harsh sound of porcelain on porcelain resounded in the semi-dark as the water continued to rise. Harry stuck his hand inside and his fingers brushed against the slippery coating of the tank. What the fuck? Nothing? He turned over the cistern lid, and there it was. Taped to the inside. He took a deep breath. Every notch, every indentation, every jagged edge of the key under the shiny tape was an old friend. It fitted Harry’s front entrance, the cellar and his flat. The picture
beside it was equally well known. The missing photograph in the mirror. Sis was smiling and Harry was trying to look tough. A summer tan and blissfully ignorant. However, Harry was not familiar with the white powder in the plastic bag attached by three broad pieces of black gaffer tape, but he was willing to bet a tidy sum it was diacetyl morphine, better known as heroin. A lot of heroin. Six years’ unconditional, at least. Harry didn’t touch anything, just replaced the lid and began to screw it back while listening for footsteps. As Beate had pointed out, the evidence would be worth diddly if it was discovered that Harry had been in the flat without a warrant. The knob was back in position and he ran for the door. Had no choice, opened the door and stepped onto the landing. Shuffling steps were on their way up. He closed the door quietly, peeped over the railings and saw a dark, thick mop of hair. In five seconds he would see Harry. Three long strides up to the fifth floor would be enough to keep Harry out of sight.

The man stopped abruptly when he spotted Harry sitting in front of him.

‘Hi, Alf,’ Harry said, looking at his watch. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

The man stared at him with large eyes. A pale, freckled face was framed by greasy, shoulder-length hair with a Liam Gallagher cut around his ears. He did not remind Harry of a hard-bitten killer but a young lad frightened of more beatings.

‘What do you want?’ the man asked in a loud, high-pitched voice.

‘I want you to come with me to Police HQ.’

The man reacted spontaneously. He swivelled, grabbed the railings and jumped down to the landing beneath. ‘Hey!’ Harry shouted, but the man had already disappeared from view. The heavy smack of feet as they hit the fifth or sixth step echoed up the stairwell.

‘Gunnerud!’

Harry heard the downstairs door slam by way of response.

He reached inside his jacket pocket and realised he didn’t have any cigarettes. Now it was the cavalry’s turn.

Tom Waaler turned down the music, pulled the bleeping mobile phone from his pocket, pressed the green button and put the phone to his ear. At the other end he could hear breathing coming in quick, nervous pants, and traffic.

‘Hello?’ said the voice. ‘Are you there?’ It was the Knave. He sounded terrified.

‘What’s up, Knave?’

‘Oh, God, there you are. All hell’s broken loose. You’ve got to help me. Quick.’

‘I don’t have to do anything. Answer the question.’

‘They’ve found us. There was a cop on the stairs waiting for me to come home.’

Waaler stopped at the zebra crossing before Ringveien. An old man, with strange, miniscule steps, was making his way across. He seemed to be taking for ever.

‘What did he want?’ Waaler asked.

‘What do
you
think? To arrest me, I suppose.’

‘And why haven’t you been arrested?’

‘I ran like fuck. Legged it straight away. But they’re after me. Three police cars have driven by already. Do you hear? They’ll get me unless—’

‘Don’t shout on the phone. Where were the other officers?’

‘I didn’t see any others. I just took off.’

‘And you got away so easily? Are you sure the guy was a policeman?’

‘Yes, it was him, wasn’t it!’

‘Who?’

‘Harry Hole, I suppose. He was in the shop again recently.’