Nemesis (8 page)

‘Looks like you’ve had a foretaste, Harry.’

‘Just a little cycle race with Halvorsen.’

‘Oh yes? And what’s that in your hand?’

‘Japone pepper. A small red chilli.’

‘Didn’t know you cooked.’

Harry gazed with wonderment at the bag containing the chilli, as if it was new to him, too. ‘By the way, lucky I met you, boss. We have a problem.’

Møller could feel his scalp chafing.

‘I don’t know who decided Ivarsson should lead the investigation into the killing in Bogstadveien, but it’s not working.’

Møller put the list in the shopping basket. ‘How long have you worked together now? Two whole days?’

‘That’s not the point, boss.’

‘Can’t you just do your job for once in your life, Harry? And let others decide how it’s organised? Having a go at not being against everyone won’t inflict permanent damage, you know.’

‘I just want the case to be solved as quickly as possible, boss, so that I can get on with the other one, you know.’

‘Yes, I know, but you’ve been working on that case for a good deal longer than the two months I promised you, and I cannot defend the commitment of time and resources with personal considerations and emotions, Harry.’

‘She was a colleague, boss.’

‘I know!’ Møller barked. He paused, looked around, then continued in more muted tones: ‘What’s your problem, Harry?’

‘They’re used to working on robberies, and Ivarsson is not in the slightest bit interested in constructive input.’

Bjarne Møller was unable to suppress a grin at the thought of Harry’s ‘constructive input’.

Harry leaned forward. He spoke quickly and intensely: ‘What’s the first thing we ask ourselves when a murder has been committed, boss? Why? What’s the motive? That’s what we ask. In the Robberies Unit they automatically take it for granted money is the motive and don’t ask the question.’

‘So what do you think the motive is?’

‘I don’t think anything. The point is that they use completely the wrong methodology.’

‘A different methodology, Harry,
different
. I have to get these vegetable things bought and go home, so tell me what it is you want.’

‘I want you to talk to the people you have to talk to so that I can have one person to work solo with.’

‘Step down from the investigation team?’

‘Parallel investigation.’

‘Harry—’

‘That was how we caught the Redbreast, do you remember?’

‘Harry, I can’t interfere—’

‘I want to work with Beate Lønn, so that she and I can start afresh. Ivarsson is already getting bogged down—’

‘Harry!’

‘Yes?’

‘What’s the real reason?’

Harry shifted weight. ‘I can’t work with the smiling croc.’

‘Ivarsson?’

‘I’ll go and do something extremely stupid.’

Bjarne Møller’s eyebrows met across the bridge of his nose in a black V: ‘Is that supposed to be a threat?’

Harry placed a hand on Møller’s shoulder. ‘Just this one favour, boss. I’ll never ask for anything else again. Ever.’

Møller growled. Over the years, how many times had he put his head on the block for Harry, instead of heeding the well-meant career advice from older colleagues? Keep him at arm’s length, they said. A loose cannon, he is. The only thing that was certain about Harry Hole was that one day something was going to go disastrously
wrong. However, because, in some mysterious way, he and Harry had so far always landed on their feet, no one had been able to implement any drastic measures. So far. The most interesting question of all, though, was: Why did he put up with it? He looked across at Harry. The alcoholic. The troublemaker. The ever-unbearable, arrogant bullhead. And the best investigator he had, apart from Waaler.

‘You keep your nose clean, Harry. Otherwise I’ll shove you behind a desk and lock the door. Have you got that?’

‘Received loud and clear, boss.’

Møller sighed. ‘I have a meeting with the Chief Superintendent and Ivarsson tomorrow. We’ll have to wait and see. I’m not promising anything, do you hear?’

‘Aye, aye, boss. Regards to your wife.’ Harry craned his head round on the way out. ‘Coriander’s on the far left, bottom shelf.’

Bjarne Møller stood staring into his shopping basket. He remembered the reason now. He liked the alcoholic, obstreperous, stubborn bastard.

H
ARRY NODDED TO ONE OF THE REGULARS AND SAT DOWN AT
a table under the narrow, wavy window panes looking out onto Waldemar Thranes gate. On the wall behind him hung a large painting of a sunny day in Youngstorget with women holding parasols and being cheerily greeted by men promenading in top hats. The contrast with the forever autumnally gloomy light and the almost devout afternoon quiet in Restaurant Schrøder could not have been greater.

‘Nice that you could come,’ Harry said to the corpulent man already sitting at the table. It was easy to see he was not one of the regulars. Not by the elegant tweed jacket, nor by the bow tie with red dots, but because he was stirring a white mug of tea on a cloth smelling of beer and perforated with blackened cigarette burns. The unlikely customer was Ståle Aune, a psychologist, one of the country’s finest in his field and an expert to whom the police had had frequent recourse. Sometimes with pleasure and sometimes regret, as Aune was a thoroughly upright man who preserved his integrity and in a court of law never pronounced on matters which he could not support to the hilt with scientific evidence. However, since there is
little evidence for anything in psychology, it often happened that the prosecution witness became the defence’s best friend, the doubts he sowed generally working in favour of the accused. Harry, in his capacity as a police officer, had used Aune’s expertise in murder cases for so long that he regarded him as a colleague. In his capacity as an alcoholic, Harry had put himself so totally in the hands of this warmhearted, clever and becomingly arrogant man that – if cornered – he would have called him a friend.

‘So this is your refuge?’ Aune said.

‘Yes,’ Harry said, raising an eyebrow to Maja at the counter, who responded at once by scuttling through the swing doors into the kitchen.

‘And what have you got there?’

‘Japone. Chilli.’

A bead of sweat rolled down Harry’s nose, clung for a second to the tip, then fell onto the tablecloth. Aune studied the wet stain with amazement.

‘Sluggish thermostat,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been in the gym.’

Aune screwed up his nose. ‘As a man of science, I ought to applaud you, I suppose, but as a philosopher I would question putting your body through that kind of unpleasantness.’

A steel coffee jug and a mug landed in front of Harry. ‘Thanks, Maja.’

‘Pangs of guilt,’ Aune said. ‘Some people can only deal with it by punishing themselves. Like when you go to pieces, Harry. In your case alcohol isn’t a refuge but the ultimate way to punish yourself.’

‘Thank you. I’ve heard you put forward that diagnosis before.’

‘Is that why you train so hard? Bad conscience?’

Harry shrugged.

Aune lowered his voice: ‘Is Ellen playing on your mind?’

Harry’s eyes shot up to meet Aune’s. He put the mug of coffee to his lips slowly and took a long drink before putting it down again with a grimace. ‘No, it’s not the Ellen Gjelten case. We’re getting
nowhere, but it’s not because we’ve done a bad job. That I do know. Something will turn up. We just have to bide our time.’

‘Good,’ Aune said. ‘It’s not your fault Ellen was killed. Keep that uppermost in your mind. And don’t forget: all your colleagues consider that the right man was arrested.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. He’s dead and can’t answer.’

‘Don’t let it become an
idée fixe
, Harry.’ Aune poked two fingers into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat, pulled out a silver pocket watch and cast a rapid glance at it. ‘But I scarcely imagine you wanted to speak about guilt?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Harry took a wad of photographs from his inside pocket. ‘I’d like to know what you think about these.’

Aune held out his hand and began to leaf through the pile. ‘Looks like a bank raid. My understanding is this is not a Crime Squad matter.’

‘You’ll understand when you see the next picture.’

‘Indeed? He’s holding up one finger to the camera.’

‘Sorry, the next one.’

‘Ooh. Does she . . . ?’

‘Yes, you can hardly see the flame as it’s an AG3, but he has just fired. Look there, the bullet has just entered the woman’s forehead. In the next picture it exits the back of her head and bores into the woodwork beside the glass partition.’

Aune put down the photos. ‘Why do you always have to show me grisly pictures, Harry?’

‘So that you know what we’re talking about. Look at the next one.’

Aune sighed.

‘The robber’s got his money there,’ Harry said, pointing. ‘All he has to do now is escape. He’s a pro, calm, precise, and there’s no reason to intimidate anyone or force anyone to do anything. Yet he opts to delay his escape for a few seconds to shoot the bank cashier. Simply because the branch manager was six seconds too slow emptying the ATM.’

Aune formed slow figures of eight in his tea with the spoon. ‘And now you’re wondering what his motive is?’

‘Well, there’s always a motive, but it’s difficult to know which side of rationality to look. First reactions?’

‘Serious personality disorder.’

‘But everything else he does seems so rational.’

‘A personality disorder doesn’t mean he is stupid. Sufferers are just as good, frequently better, at achieving their aims. What distinguishes them from us is that they want different things.’

‘What about drugs? Is there a drug which can make an otherwise normal person so aggressive that he wants to kill?’

Aune shook his head. ‘Drugs will only emphasise or weaken latent tendencies. A drunk who kills his wife also has a propensity to beat her when sober. Wilful murders like this one are almost always committed by people with a particular predisposition.’

‘So what you’re saying is that this guy is barking?’

‘Or pre-programmed.’

‘Pre-programmed?’

Aune nodded in assent. ‘Do you remember the robber who was never caught, Raskol Baxhet?’

Harry shook his head.

‘Gypsy,’ Aune said. ‘There were rumours going round about this mysterious figure for a number of years. He was supposed to be the real brains behind all the major robberies of security vans and financial institutions in Oslo in the eighties. It took a number of years for the police to accept that he actually existed and even then they never managed to produce any evidence against him.’

‘Now I have a vague recollection,’ Harry said. ‘But I thought he’d been arrested.’

‘False. The closest they got was two robbers who pledged they would give evidence against Raskol, but they disappeared under curious circumstances.’

‘Not unusual,’ Harry said, taking out a packet of Camel cigarettes.

‘It’s unusual when they’re in prison.’

Harry gave a low whistle. ‘I still think that’s where he ended up.’

‘That is true,’ Aune said. ‘But he wasn’t arrested. Raskol gave
himself up. One day he appears at the Police HQ reception desk, saying he wants to confess to a string of old bank robberies. Naturally, this creates a tremendous commotion. No one understands a thing, and Raskol refuses to explain why he is giving himself up. Before the case comes to court, they ring me up to check he is of sound mind and that his confessions will stand up. Raskol agrees to talk to me on two conditions. One, that we play a game of chess – don’t ask me how he knew I was an active player. And, two, that I take a French translation of
The Art of War
with me, an ancient Chinese book about military strategy.’

Aune opened a box of Nobel Petit cigarillos.

‘I had the book sent from Paris and took a chess set along. I was let into his cell and greeted a man with all the outward appearance of a monk. He asked if he could borrow my pen, flicked through the book and with a jerk of his head indicated that I could set out the board. I put the pieces in position and led with Réti’s opening – you don’t attack your opponent until you control the centre, frequently effective against medium-calibre players. Now it’s impossible to see from a single move that this is what I’m thinking, but this gypsy peers over the book at the board, strokes his goatee, looks at me with a knowing smile, makes a note in the book . . .’

A silver lighter bursts into flame at the end of the cigarillo.

‘. . . and continues to read. So I say:
Aren’t you going to make a move?
I watch his hand scribbling away with my pen as he answers:
I don’t need to. I’m writing down how this game will finish, move for move. You will knock over your king
. I explain that it is impossible for him to know how the game will develop after just one move.
Shall we have a bet?
he says. I try to laugh it off, but he is insistent. So I agree to bet a hundred to put him into a benevolent frame of mind for my interview. He demands to see the note and I have to place it beside the board where he can see it. He raises his hand as if to make his move, then things happen very fast.’

‘Lightning chess?’

Aune smiled and, deep in thought, exhaled a ring of smoke
towards the ceiling. ‘The next moment I was held in a vice-like grip with my head forced backwards so that I was looking up at the ceiling, and a voice whispered into my ear:
Can you feel the blade
,
Gadjo?
Of course I could feel it, the sharp, razor-thin steel pressed against my larynx, straining to cut through the skin. Have you ever experienced that feeling, Harry?’

Harry’s brain raced through the register of related experiences, but failed to find anything altogether identical. He shook his head.

‘It felt, to quote a number of my patients, rank. I was so frightened I was on the point of urinating in my trousers. Then he whispered in my ear:
Knock over the king, Aune
. He slackened his grip a little so that I could raise my arm and I sent my pieces flying. Then, equally abruptly, he let me go. He returned to his side of the table and waited for me to get on my feet and regain control of my breathing.
What the hell was that?
I groaned.
That was a bank robbery
, he answered.
First the plan and then the execution.
Then he showed me what he had written in the book. All I could see was my solitary move and
White king capitulates
. Then he asked:
Does that answer your questions, Aune?
’