Phantom (28 page)

“You’re gouging out chunks of the law to suit you. You’re a lawyer. You know better.”

“I’m a mother—I work as a lawyer. What about you, Harry? Are you a policeman? Is that what you’ve become? A robot, a slave of the anthill and ideas other people have had? Is that where you are?”

“Mm.”

“Do you have an answer?”

“Well, why do you think I came to Oslo?”

Pause.

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t cry.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry.”

“Good night, Harry. I …”

“Good night.”

H
ARRY WOKE
. H
E
had heard something. Something that had drowned out the sound of his running footsteps in the corridor and the avalanche. He looked at his watch: 1:34. The broken curtain pole leaned against the window frame and formed the silhouette of a tulip. He got up and went to the window and peered down into the backyard. A trash can lay on its side, still rattling around. He rested his forehead against the glass.

It was early, and the morning rush-hour traffic was creeping along at a whisper toward Grønlandsleiret as Truls walked up to Police HQ. He caught sight of the red poster on the linden tree just before he arrived at the doors with the curious portholes. Then he turned, walked calmly back. Past the slow-moving lines on Oslo Gate to the cemetery.

The cemetery was deserted, as usual. At least with respect to the living. He stopped in front of the headstone for A. C. Rud. There were no messages written on it, so it had to be payday.

He crouched down and dug into the earth beside the stone. Caught hold of the brown envelope and pulled it out. Resisted the temptation to open it and count the money there and then, stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He was about to get up, but a sudden sense that he was being watched made him stay in the crouch for a couple of seconds, as if meditating about A. C. Rud and the transient nature of life, or some such bullshit.

“Stay where you are, Berntsen.”

A shadow had fallen over him. And with it a chill, as if the sun were hidden behind a cloud. Truls Berntsen felt as though he were in free fall, and his stomach lurched into his chest. So this was what it would be like. Being exposed.

“We have a different type of job for you this time.”

Truls felt terra firma beneath his feet again. The voice. The slight accent. It was him. Truls glanced to his side. Saw the figure standing with bowed head two gravestones away, apparently praying.

“You have to find out where they’ve hidden Oleg Fauke. Look straight ahead!”

Truls stared at the stone in front of him.

“I’ve tried,” he said. “But the move hasn’t been recorded anywhere. Nowhere I can access, anyway. And no one I’ve spoken to has heard anything about the guy, so my guess is they’ve given him another name.”

“Talk to those in the know. Talk to the defense counsel. Simonsen.”

“Why not the mother? She must—”

“No women!” The words came like a whiplash. Had there been other people in the cemetery they would surely have heard them. Then, calmer: “Try the defense counsel. And if that doesn’t work …”

In the ensuing pause Berntsen heard the whoosh through the cemetery treetops. It must have been the wind; that was what had suddenly made everything so cold.

“There’s a man named Chris Reddy,” the voice continued. “On the street he’s known as Adidas. He deals in—”

“Speed. Adidas means amphet—”

“Shut up, Berntsen. Just listen.”

Truls shut up. And listened. The way he had shut up whenever anyone with a similar voice had told him to shut up. Listened when they told him to dig muck. Told him …

The voice gave an address.

“You’ve heard a rumor that Adidas has been going around boasting he shot Gusto Hanssen. So you take him in for questioning. And he makes a no-holds-barred confession. I’ll leave it to you to agree on the details so that it’s a hundred percent credible. First, though, try to make Simonsen talk. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but why would Adidas—”

“Why is not your problem, Berntsen. Your sole question should be ‘How much.’ ”

Truls Berntsen swallowed. And kept swallowing. Dug shit. Swallowed shit. “How much?”

“That’s right, yes. Sixty thousand.”

“A hundred thousand.”

No answer.

“Hello?”

But all that could be heard was the whisper of the morning congestion.

Berntsen sat still. Glanced to the side. No one there. Felt the sun beginning to warm him again. And sixty thousand was good. It was.

I
T WAS TEN
in the morning and there was still mist on the ground as Harry pulled up in front of the main building on the Skøyen farm. Isabelle Skøyen stood on the steps, smiling and slapping a little riding whip against the thigh of her black jodhpurs. While Harry was getting out of the car he heard the gravel crunch under her boots.

“Morning, Harry. What do you know about horses?”

Harry slammed the car door. “I’ve lost a lot of money on them. Does that help?”

“So you’re a gambler as well?”

“As well?”

“I’ve done a bit of detective work, too. Your achievements are offset by your vices. That, at least, is what your colleagues claim. Did you lose the money in Hong Kong?”

“Happy Valley Racecourse. It happened only once.”

She began to walk toward a low red building, and he had to quicken his pace to keep up with her. “Have you ever done any riding, Harry?”

“My grandfather had a sturdy old horse in Åndalsnes.”

“Experienced rider, then.”

“Another one-off. My grandfather said horses weren’t toys. He said riding for pleasure showed a lack of respect for working animals.”

She stopped in front of a wooden stand holding two narrow leather saddles. “Not a single one of my horses has ever seen or will ever see a cart or plow. While I saddle up I suggest you head over there …” She pointed to the farmhouse. “You’ll find some suitable clothes belonging to my ex-husband in the hall closet. We don’t want to ruin your elegant suit, do we?”

In the closet Harry found a sweater and a pair of jeans that were in fact big enough. The ex-husband must have had smaller feet, though, because he couldn’t get any of the shoes on, until he found a pair of used blue Norwegian Army sneakers at the back.

When he re-emerged in the yard, Isabelle was ready and waiting with two saddled horses. Harry opened the passenger door of the rental car, sat inside with his legs out, changed shoes, removed the insoles, left them on the car floor and reached for his sunglasses from the glove compartment. “Ready.”

“This is Medusa,” Isabelle said, patting a large sorrel on the muzzle. “She’s an Oldenburg from Denmark, perfect breed for dressage. Ten years old and the boss of the herd. And this is Balder. He’s five years old, so he’ll follow Medusa.”

She passed him Balder’s reins and swung herself up on Medusa.

Harry put his left foot in the left stirrup and rose into the saddle. Without waiting for a command the horse began to walk briskly after Medusa.

Harry had understated the case when he said he had ridden only once, but this was quite different from his grandfather’s steadfast battleship of a nag. He had to balance in the saddle, and when he squeezed
his knees against the slim horse’s sides he could feel its ribs and the movement of its muscles. And when Medusa accelerated on the path across the field and Balder responded, even this minor increase in pace made Harry feel he had a Formula One animal between his legs. At the end of the field they joined a path that disappeared into the forest and onto the ridge. Where the path forked around a tree Harry tried to steer Balder to the left, but the horse ignored him and followed in Medusa’s hoofprints to the right.

“I thought stallions were the leaders of a herd,” Harry said.

“As a rule they are,” Isabelle said over her shoulder. “But it’s all about character. A strong, ambitious and smart mare can outcompete all of them if she wants.”

“And you want.”

Isabelle Skøyen laughed. “Of course. If you want something you have to be willing to compete. Politics is all about acquiring power.”

“And you like competing?”

He saw her shrug her shoulders in front of him. “Competition is healthy. It means the strongest and the best make the decisions, and that’s to the benefit of the whole herd.”

“And she can also mate with whomever she likes?”

Isabelle didn’t answer. Harry watched her. Her back was willowy and her firm buttocks appeared to be massaging the horse, moving from side to side with gentle hip movements. They came into a clearing. The sun was shining, and beneath them lay scattered puffs of mist across the countryside.

“We’ll let them have a rest,” Isabelle Skøyen said, dismounting. After they had tethered the horses to a tree, Isabelle lay down on the grass and waved for Harry to follow. He sat beside her and adjusted his sunglasses.

“Are those glasses for men?” she teased.

“They protect against the sun,” Harry said, taking out a pack of cigarettes.

“I like that.”

“What do you like?”

“I like men who are secure in their masculinity.”

Harry looked at her. She was leaning on her elbows and had undone a button on her blouse. He hoped his sunglasses were dark enough. She smiled.

“So, what can you tell me about Gusto?” Harry said.

“I like men who are genuine,” she said. The smile broadened.

A brown dragonfly whizzed past on the last flight of the autumn.
Harry didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. What he had seen ever since he arrived. Expectant relish. And none of the tormented unease there ought to be in someone facing a career-threatening scandal.

“I don’t like falseness,” she said. “Such as bluffing, for example.”

Triumph shone from her blue-mascara-wreathed eyes.

“I called a police contact, you see. And apart from telling me a little about the legendary detective Harry Hole, he was able to tell me that no blood had been analyzed in the Gusto Hanssen case. The sample had apparently been destroyed. There are no nails with my blood type under them. You were bluffing, Harry.”

Harry lit a cigarette. No blood in his cheeks or ears. He wondered if he had become too old to blush.

“Mm. If all the contact you had with Gusto was some innocent interviews, why were you so frightened I would send the blood to be tested?”

She chuckled. “Who says I was frightened? Perhaps I just wanted you to come out here. Enjoy the nature and so on.”

Confirming that he was not too old to blush, Harry lay down and blew smoke up into the ludicrously blue sky. Closed his eyes and tried to find some good reasons not to fuck Isabelle Skøyen. There were many.

“Was that wrong?” she asked. “All I’m saying is that I’m a single adult woman with natural needs. That doesn’t mean I’m not serious. I would never get involved with anyone I didn’t consider my equal, such as Gusto.” He heard her voice coming closer. “With a tall adult man, on the other hand …” She laid a hot hand on his stomach.

“Did you and Gusto lie where we’re lying now?” Harry asked softly.

“What?”

He wriggled up onto his elbows and nodded toward the blue sneakers. “Your wardrobe was full of exclusive men’s shoes, size forty-two. These barges were the only forty-fives.”

“So what? I can’t guarantee that I haven’t had a male visitor who wears size forty-five at some point.” Her hand stroked backward and forward.

“This sneaker was made a while ago for the Armed Services, and when they changed the model, the surplus stock was given to charitable organizations, who then distributed them to the needy. The police call them junkie shoes, since they were doled out by the Salvation Army at the Watchtower. The question, of course, is why a casual visitor, a size forty-five, would leave behind a pair of shoes. The obvious explanation is that he probably acquired a new pair.”

Isabelle Skøyen’s hand stopped moving. So Harry continued.

“I’ve seen a picture of the crime scene. When Gusto died he was wearing a cheap pair of trousers, but a very expensive pair of shoes. Alberto Fasciani, unless I’m much mistaken. A generous gift. How much did you pay for them? Five thousand?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She pulled her hand away.

Harry regarded his erection with disapproval; it was already pressing against the inside of the borrowed trousers. He stretched his feet.

“I left the insoles in the car. Did you know that foot sweat is excellent for DNA testing? We’ll probably find some microscopic remains of skin, too. And there can’t be that many shops in Oslo that sell Alberto Fasciani shoes. One, two? Anyway, it’ll be a simple job to cross-check against your credit card.”

Isabelle Skøyen had sat up. She stared into the distance.

“Can you see the farms?” she asked. “Aren’t they beautiful? I love cultivated landscapes. And I hate forests. Apart from planted ones. I hate chaos.”

Harry studied her profile. The ax nose looked downright dangerous.

“Tell me about Gusto Hanssen.”

She shrugged. “Why? You’ve obviously worked most of it out.”

“Who do you want questioning you? Me or
Verdens Gang
?”