Anne Holt - Death In Oslo

It felt good to have a smoke.

She hesitated for a moment before lighting up another cigarette. Her eyes roamed from a group of journalists who had gathered in front of the building, up to the green bulletproof windows on the sixth floor. They were so obviously different from the rest of the building. She had often wondered why the Minister of Justice should have bulletproof windows in his office, when he went shopping in the local supermarket on his own and had no more than an ordinary Securitas burglar alarm in his home. That’s just the way it is, she said to herself; she always, with absolute loyalty, simply accepted things as they were and had been decided.

A man looked down at her.

She sheepishly lifted her hand in greeting. He waved back. It was Peter Salhus. A good man. A man you could trust. Always friendly whenever they met, attentive and alert, unlike so many of the other important people who came and went in the minister’s office and barely even registered her existence.

Beate Koss dropped her cigarette butt on the ground, and stubbed it out with her shoe. She looked up again and thought she saw Salhus saying something, before he closed the curtains and turned back to the room.

A police car drove past, slowly and quietly, but with its blue light flashing.

‘Now that we’re alone,’ Peter Salhus said when only the Minister of Justice and the Chief of Oslo Police were left in the office behind the green windows, ‘I just wanted to ask…’ He scratched his beard and swallowed. ‘Hotel Opera,’ he blurted out and looked directly at the Chief of Police, Bastesen. ‘Hotel Opera!’

‘Yes…’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t quite understand your question,’ Bastesen said, offended and with a furrow on his brow. ‘It was-’

‘When we’ve got the Continental and the Grand,’ Salhus interrupted, making a great effort to keep his voice down. ‘Wonderful, traditional, good hotels. We have elegant VIP accommodation and we have…’ He lowered his voice even more and tapped the map of the centre of Oslo with his finger. ‘Kings have stayed here. Princesses and presidents. Albert bloody Einstein …’ He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘God knows how many other celebrities, film stars and Nobel Prize winners have slept happily and safely in their beds just here…’ He almost made a hole in the map with his index finger. ‘And then someone decides to put the American president in a bloody transformer kiosk between a central station full of junkies and a bloody building site. Jesus Christ…’

He straightened his back and pulled a face. A faint humming from the air-conditioning was the only sound in the room. The minister and the Chief of Police leant forward and carefully studied the map on the table, as if Madam President might be hiding somewhere there, between the street names and the shaded blocks.

‘What on earth were you thinking?’

The Minister of Justice took a couple of steps back. Bastesen brushed some invisible dust from the front of his uniform.

‘Well, that attitude’s not going to get us anywhere,’ he said calmly. ‘May I just remind you that we are responsible for bodyguard services now. That means the security of all objects, both nationals and non-nationals. And I can assure you that-’

‘Terje,’ Salhus cut in and puffed out his cheeks before exhaling slowly. ‘I apologise. You are absolutely right. I shouldn’t get so agitated. But… we know the Grand! We have experience in making the Continental secure. Why on earth…’

‘Give me a chance to answer, man!’

‘I suggest we sit down,’ the Minister of Justice said in a tense voice.

Neither of the two took any notice of his suggestion.

‘They had just completed the presidential suite,’ Bastesen explained. ‘The hotel is preparing to welcome the cultural elite. Major stars. Up until now, they’ve had a reputation for not quite… Well, let’s just say they’re not quite in the same class as the Grand, but when the new opera house is finished, the location will be a huge competitive advantage and…’ He drew a circle round Bjørvika with his finger. ‘Right now this is Spaghetti Junction and not particularly attractive, it’s true. But the plans are… The presidential suite met all our requirements, in terms of aesthetics, practicality and security. Superb view. They added a couple of rooms on the ninth floor to an already existing suite, which is… And what’s more…’ he gave a crooked smile, ‘it was actually quite reasonable.’

An angel passed through the room. Salhus stared at Bastesen in disbelief; Bastesen stared at the map.

Eventually the Director General of the PST groaned. ‘Reasonable! The American president comes to Norway, the security operation is massive, perhaps the biggest we have ever had, and you choose a hotel that is… cheap! Cheap! ’

‘As I’m sure is also the case in your division,’ Bastesen continued calmly, ‘it is the responsibility of the head of every government agency to save public money wherever possible. We undertook a total analysis of Hotel Opera and compared it with the other hotels you just mentioned. The Opera came out best. Overall. And may I remind you that Madam President travels with a pretty large security operation herself. The Secret Service has of course inspected the area. Thoroughly. And had very few objections, as far as we were led to believe.’

‘I think then we’ll leave it at that,’ the Minister of Justice said. ‘Let’s stick to the actual situation and not get distracted by what might, could or should have been done differently. I suggest that we…’

He went over to the door and opened it.

‘Where are the drawings?’ Peter Salhus asked and looked at the Chief of Police.

‘Of the hotel?’

Salhus nodded.

‘We’ve got them down at HQ. I’ll get you copies straight away.’

‘Thank you.’

Salhus held out his hand in a conciliatory gesture. Bastesen hesitated and then finally shook it.

It was already past two o’clock. Still no one had heard from Helen Bentley. Still no one knew exactly when she had disappeared. And the Director General of the PST and the Chief of Oslo Police still did not know that the architectural drawings of the Hotel Opera that they had back in that bleak, curved building at Grønlandsleiret 44 were incomplete and inaccurate.

The man woke up with his ear full of vomit.

The stench seared his nose and he tried to get up. His arms wouldn’t do as he wanted. He lay back down, resigned. He was too far gone now. He had started to puke. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had to get rid of all the shit he poured into himself. Several decades of practice had made his stomach immune to most things. The only thing he didn’t drink was meths. Two years ago, after a real glut of contraband, he’d ended up in hospital with a couple of brethren spirits. All of them with methanol poisoning. One of them had died. The other one went blind. Whereas he got up after five days and walked straight home, more alert than he had been for a long time. The doctor had said he was lucky.

Practice, he had said to himself. It’s having enough practice that counts.

But he avoided meths.

The flat was a tip. He knew that. He should do something about it. The neighbours had started to complain. About the smell, primarily. He had to do something, or they’d throw him out.

He tried to get up again.

Shit. The whole world was spinning.

He had an intense pain in his groin and sick in his hair. If he rolled his lower body off the sofa, he might be able to get up from there. If it weren’t for the bloody cancer, he’d be doing all right. He wouldn’t have thrown up. He would have had the energy to get up.