Jo Nesbo - Police

‘Harry doesn’t do misunderstandings,’ Rakel said, surprised by the composure in her voice. ‘Nor rape.’ The composure and the conviction. She wondered how long it would last.

‘You’re wrong,’ Silje said, smiling through the tears.

‘Am I?’ Rakel felt like smacking a fist into her smug, spoiled face.

‘Yes, fru Fauke. Now you’re the one who misunderstands.’

‘Say what you have to say and get out.’

‘Harry. .’

Rakel hated the sound of his name from her mouth with such intensity that she instinctively looked around for something to silence it. A frying pan, a blunt bread knife, gaffer tape, whatever came to hand.

‘. . he thought I went to ask him about coursework. But he misunderstood. I went to seduce him.’

‘Do you know what, my girl? I already knew that’s what you did. And now you’re claiming you got what you wanted, but it was still rape? So, what happened? Did you gasp your hot little pseudo-chaste “no, no, no”s until it became one “no” which afterwards you reckoned you meant, and he should have known what you really meant before you did?’

Rakel could hear how her rhetoric suddenly sounded like the defence counsel’s refrain she had heard so often during rape trials, the refrain Rakel hated with a passion but which lawyers understood and accepted had to be recited. But it wasn’t just rhetoric, it was what she felt, the way it had to be, it couldn’t be any different.

‘No,’ Silje said. ‘What I want to tell you is that he didn’t rape me.’

Rakel blinked. Had to rewind a couple of seconds to be sure she had heard correctly. Didn’t rape.

‘I threatened to report him for rape because. .’ The girl used the knuckle of her first finger to take the tears from her eyes that had filled up again. ‘. . because he wanted to report me to the board of governors for behaving inappropriately towards him. Which he had every right to do. But I was desperate. I tried to thwart him by accusing him of rape. I’ve been wanting to tell him I’ve had a change of heart and I regret what I’ve done. Tell him it. . yes, what I did was a crime. Wrongful accusation. Paragraph 168 of the Penal Code. Recommended sentence: eight years.’

‘Correct,’ Rakel said.

‘Ah, yes.’ Silje smiled through the tears. ‘I forgot you were a lawyer.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Oh,’ Silje said with a sniffle, ‘I know a lot about Harry’s life. I’ve studied him, you might say. He was my idol, and I was just a stupid girl. I even investigated the police murders for him, thought I could give him a helping hand. Me, a student who knows nothing. I started with a short lecture to explain to him how it all fitted. I wanted to tell Harry Hole how to catch the cop killer.’ Silje produced another forced smile while shaking her head.

Rakel grabbed the kitchen roll behind her and passed it to Silje. ‘And you came here to tell him this?’

Silje nodded slowly. ‘I knew he wouldn’t answer a call from me. So I came out here on my run to see if he was at home. I saw the car was gone and was about to continue on my way when I saw you in the kitchen window. And decided it would be even better to say it straight to your face. It would be the best proof that I meant it, that I had no ulterior motives for coming here.’

‘I saw you standing outside,’ Rakel said.

‘Yes. I had to think it through. Then man up.’

Rakel could feel how her anger for the confused, lovelorn girl with the much too open eyes had shifted to Harry. He hadn’t said a word! Why not?

‘It was good that you came, Silje. But now perhaps you should go.’

Silje nodded. Got up. ‘There’s some schizophrenia in our family,’ she said.

‘Oh?’ Rakel said.

‘Yes. I may not be completely normal.’ And added in a grown-up tone: ‘But that’s fine too.’

Rakel accompanied her to the door.

‘You won’t see me again,’ the girl said, standing on the doorstep.

‘Good luck, Silje.’

Rakel stood on the steps with her arms crossed, watching her run across the drive. Had Harry omitted to say something because he thought she wouldn’t believe him? That there would always be a shadow of doubt?

The next thought came in its wake. Would there be a shadow of doubt? How well did they know each other? How well could one person know another?

The black-clad figure with the blonde, bouncing ponytail was gone long before the sound of trainers crunching on gravel.

‘He’d dug her up,’ Bjørn Holm said.

Roar Midtstuen sat with bowed head. Scratching his neck where the short bristles stuck up like a brush. The night stole in, without a sound, as they sat there in the beams of Midtstuen’s car headlamps. When Midtstuen did finally say something Bjørn had to lean forward to hear what it was.

‘My only child.’ Then a short nod. ‘I suppose he was only doing what he had to do.’

At first Bjørn thought he had heard wrong. Then he thought Midtstuen must have said it wrong. He didn’t say what he meant, a word had been moved, omitted or put in the wrong place in the sentence. And yet the sentence was so correct and clear it sounded natural. It sounded like the truth. The cop killer was only doing what he had to do.

‘I’ll get the rest of the flowers,’ Midtstuen said, rising to his feet.

‘OK,’ Bjørn said, staring at the small bouquet lying there as the other man went round the car into the darkness. He heard the boot lid being opened while he mused about what Midtstuen had said. My only child. It reminded him of his confirmation and what Aune had said about the killer being God. An avenging God. But God had also made a sacrifice. He had sacrificed his only son. Hung him on a cross. Displayed him for all to see. To see and imagine the suffering. The son’s and the father’s.

Bjørn visualised Fia Midtstuen on the chair. My only child. The two of them. Or the three of them. There had been three of them. What was it the priest had called it again?

Bjørn heard a clink coming from the boot and thought the box of flowers must be under something metallic.

The trinity. That was it. The third had been the Holy Spirit. The ghost. The demon. The one they never saw, who popped up here and there in the Bible and was gone again. Fia Midtstuen’s head had been attached to the pipe in such a way that she wouldn’t collapse, that the body would be displayed. Like the crucifixion.

Bjørn Holm heard footsteps behind him.

Who was sacrificed, crucified by his own father. Because that was how the story had to be. What were the words he used?

‘He was only doing what he had to do.’

Harry stared at Megan Fox. Her beautiful contours were trembling, but her gaze was constant. The smile didn’t fade. The invitation her body offered stood. He lifted the remote control and switched off the television. Megan Fox both disappeared and stayed. The silhouette of the film star was burned into the plasma screen.

Both gone and still here.

Harry looked around Truls Berntsen’s bedroom. Then he went to the cabinet where he knew Berntsen kept his goodies. In theory a person could fit in there. Harry held the Odessa ready. Tiptoed over to the cabinet, hugged the wall and opened the door with his left hand. Saw the light inside come on automatically.

Otherwise nothing happened.

Harry poked his head forward and withdrew it as quickly. But he had seen what he wanted. No one there. So he stood in the doorway.

Truls had replaced what Harry had taken the last time he was here, the bulletproof vest, the gas mask, the MP5, the riot gun. He still had the same guns as far as he could see. Apart from in the middle of the board where an outline of a gun had been drawn around one of the hooks.