Jo Nesbo - Police

‘Yes, well, we’ll have to manage with what we’ve got. I’m going to have to tape your face down, Mikael.’

Now the fog had lifted completely and he saw it. The fear.

And it saw him and rose in his throat.

Mikael gasped as he felt his head being forced down onto the mattress and the tape stretched across his forehead. Then the man’s face was directly above his. The mask had slipped. But Mikael’s brain was slowly rotating his vision, upside down became downside up. And he recognised him. And knew why.

‘Do you remember me, Mikael?’ he asked.

It was him. The homo. The one who had tried to kiss him when he was working at Kripos. In the toilet. Someone had come in. Truls had beaten him black and blue in the boiler room, and he had never returned to work. He had known what would be awaiting him. As Mikael did now.

‘Mercy.’ Mikael felt his eyes filling with tears. ‘I stopped Truls. He would have killed you if I hadn’t-’

‘-hadn’t stopped him so that you could save your career and become Chief of Police.’

‘Listen, I’m ready to pay whatever-’

‘Oh, you’ll pay all right, Mikael. You’ll pay in full for what you took from me.’

‘Took. . What did we take from you?’

‘You took revenge from me, Mikael. Punishment for the person who killed René Kalsnes. You all let the murderer off the hook.’

‘Not all cases can be solved. You yourself know that-’

Laughter. Cold, brief, with the brakes suddenly applied. ‘I know you didn’t try, that’s what I know, Mikael. You didn’t give a damn for two reasons. First of all, you found a baton close to the scene of the crime, so you were afraid that if you searched too hard you would find out it was one of your own who had killed this creep, this revolting homo. And what was the second reason, Mikael? René wasn’t as hetero as the police force likes us officers to be. Or what, Mikael? But I loved René. Loved him. Do you hear that, Mikael? I’m saying out loud that I — a man — loved the boy, wanted to kiss him, stroke his hair, whisper sweet nothings into his ear. Do you think that’s revolting? Deep down, though, you know, don’t you? That it’s a gift to be able to love another man. It’s something you should have told yourself before, Mikael, because now it’s too late for you, you’re never going to experience it, what I offered you when we were working at Kripos. You were so frightened of your other self that you lost your temper. You had to beat him out. Beat me out.’

He had gradually raised his voice, but now he lowered it to a whisper.

‘But that was just stupid fear, Mikael. I’ve felt it myself, and I would never have punished you this hard for that alone. What you and all the other so-called police officers on the René Kalsnes case received the death sentence for is that you sullied the only person I have ever loved. Demeaned his human value. Said the victim wasn’t even worth the work you’re paid to do. Wasn’t worth the oath you swore to serve the public and to uphold justice. Which means you fail us all, you desecrate the flock, Mikael, the flock which is all that is sacred. That and love. And so you have to be removed. The way you removed the apple of my eye. But enough chit-chat — I have to concentrate if we’re going to get this right. Fortunately for you and me there are very instructive videos online. What do you think about this?’

He held up a picture in front of Mikael.

‘Should be simple surgery, don’t you think? But shush, Mikael! No one can hear you, but if you yell like that I’ll have to tape up your mouth as well.’

Harry fell into Arnold Folkestad’s chair. It emitted a long, hydraulic wheeze and sank under his weight as Harry switched on the computer and the screen lit up the darkness. And while it started up, with creaks and groans, activated programs and prepared itself for use, Harry read Katrine’s text message yet again.

No files found for statistic .

Arnold had told him the FBI had statistics to the effect that in ninety-four per cent of all the serious cases when the prosecution’s witnesses died, the deaths were suspicious. That was what had made Harry examine Asayev’s death more closely. But the statistic didn’t exist. It was like Katrine’s joke, the one that had been nagging away at Harry’s cortex, the one he remembered and couldn’t understand why:

‘When people use statistics, in seventy-two per cent of cases, they’ve made them up on the spur of the moment.’

Harry must have been ruminating on it for a long time. Must have had a suspicion. That this statistic was one Arnold had made up on the spur of the moment.

Why?

The answer was simple. To persuade Harry to have a closer look at Asayev’s death. Because Arnold knew something, but couldn’t say straight out what it was or how he had acquired the information. Because it would blow his cover. But, being the zealous policeman he was, morbidly keen to solve a murder, he had still been willing to take the risk by putting Harry onto the case.

Because Arnold Folkestad knew that the trail could not only lead Harry to the fact that Asayev had been murdered and to his potential murderer, it could also lead to himself, Arnold Folkestad, and another murder. Because the only person who could know and might also have a particular need to say what actually happened up there at the hospital was Anton Mittet. The sedated, remorse-ridden guard. And there was only one reason Arnold Folkestad and Anton Mittet — total strangers to each other — should have been in contact.

Harry shivered.

Murder.

The computer was ready to search.

Harry stared at the computer screen. He rang Katrine’s number again. Was about to end the call when he heard her voice.

‘Yes?’

She was out of breath, as if she’d been running. But the acoustics suggested she was indoors. And it struck him that he should have heard that the time he’d rung Arnold Folkestad late at night. The acoustics. He’d been outside, not inside.

‘Are you in the gym or what?’

‘Gym?’ She queried the word as though unfamiliar with the concept.

‘I was wondering if that was why you didn’t answer my calls.’

‘No, I’m at home. What’s up?’

‘OK, get your pulse down now. I’m at PHS. I’ve just seen someone’s search history. And I can’t get any further.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Arnold Folkestad has been on medical supply websites. I want to know why.’

‘Arnold Folkestad? What’s this got to do with him?’

‘I think he’s our man.’

‘Arnold Folkestad is the cop killer?’

As Katrine spoke he heard a sound which he immediately identified as Bjørn Holm’s smoker’s cough. And what might have been the creaking of a mattress.

‘Are you and Bjørn in the Boiler Room?’

‘No, I told you. . we. . yes, we’re in the Boiler Room.’

Harry mused. And concluded that in all his years as a policeman he had never heard worse lying.

‘If you’re near a computer, try to find out if Arnold has been buying medical equipment. And if his name turns up in connection with any old crime scenes or murder investigations. And then ring me back. And now give me Bjørn.’

He heard her hand over the phone, say something and then Bjørn’s somewhat thick voice.

‘Yuh?’

‘Get your threads on and hotfoot it to the Boiler Room. Find a police lawyer and get a warrant to tap Arnold Folkestad’s mobile phone. And then check who rang Truls Berntsen this evening, OK? In the meantime, I’ll tell Bellman to deploy Delta. OK?’

‘Yes. I. . we. . well, you know. .’

‘Is this important, Bjørn?’

‘No.’

‘Right.’