Jo Nesbo - Police

Had Truls Berntsen found out Harry was on his way, taken a gun and fled from his flat? Without bothering to lock the door or switch off the television? If so, why hadn’t he just set an ambush for him inside?

Harry had searched the whole flat now and knew there wasn’t a living soul around. He sat down on the leather sofa with the Odessa’s safety catch off, ready, with a view of the bedroom door but out of sight of the keyhole.

If Truls was in there, the first person to make an appearance would be the loser. The stage was set for a duel. So he waited. Unmoving, breathing calmly, deeply, inaudibly, with the patience of a leopard.

After forty minutes had passed and nothing had happened he went into the bedroom.

Harry sat down on the bed. Should he ring Berntsen? It would warn him, but, as it was, he already seemed to be aware that Harry was after him.

Harry took out his phone and switched it on. Waited until it was connected and keyed in the number he had memorised before leaving Holmenkollen almost two hours ago.

After it had rung three times and no one had answered he gave up.

Then he called his contact at the telephone company. And got an answer in two seconds.

‘What do you want, Hole?’

‘I need you to track down a phone signal. For one Truls Berntsen. He’s got a police line, so he must be one of your customers.’

‘We can’t keep meeting like this.’

‘This is official police business.’

‘Follow the procedures then. Contact the police lawyer, send the case to the Crime Squad boss and call us back when you’ve got permission.’

‘This is urgent.’

‘Listen, I can’t keep giving you-’

‘This is about the police murders.’

‘It should only take a few seconds to get permission from the boss, Harry.’

Harry cursed under his breath.

‘Sorry, Harry, but it’s more than my job’s worth. If anyone finds out that I check police movements without authorisation. . What’s the problem with getting permission?’

‘See you.’ Harry rang off. He had two unanswered calls and three text messages. They must have come through while he had the phone off. He opened the texts in turn. The first was from Rakel.

Tried calling. I’m home. Make you something nice if you tell me when you’re coming. Got a surprise. Someone to beat you at Tetris.

Harry read the message again. Rakel had come home. With Oleg. His first instinct was to jump in the car straight away. Drop this mission. He had made a mistake; he shouldn’t be here now. While knowing that was exactly what it was: a first instinct. An attempt to flee from the inevitable. The second message was from a number he didn’t recognise.

Have to talk to you. Are you at home? Silje G

He deleted the message. However, he recognised the number of the third message at once.

Think you’re looking for me. I’ve got a solution for our problem. Meet me at the G crime scene asap. Truls

When Harry crossed the car park he noticed a car with a smashed side window. The light from the street lamp glinted on the glass splinters on the tarmac. It was a Suzuki Vitara. Berntsen had been driving round in one like it. Harry rang the police switchboard.

‘Harry Hole here. I’d like a car checked for the owner.’

‘Everyone can do that online now, Hole.’

‘You can do it for me then, can’t you?’

He received a grunt in response and read out the registration number. The answer came in three seconds.

‘Truls Berntsen. Address-’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Any report to make?’

‘What?’

‘Has it been involved in anything? Does it look as if it’s been stolen or broken into, for example?’

Pause.

‘Hello?’

‘No, it looks fine. Just a misunderstanding.’

‘A mis-’

Harry rang off. Why hadn’t Truls Berntsen driven away in his car? No one on a police salary took taxis in Oslo any more. Harry tried to visualise the metro network in Oslo. There was a line only a hundred metres away. Ryen Station. He hadn’t heard any trains. They must go through a tunnel. Harry blinked into the darkness. He had just heard something else.

The crackle as the hair on his neck stood on end.

He knew it was impossible to hear, yet it was all he could hear. He took out his phone again. Pressed K.

‘Finally,’ Katrine answered.

‘Finally?’

‘Can’t you see I’ve been trying to ring you?’

‘Oh yes? You sound out of breath.’

‘I’ve been running, Harry. Silje Gravseng.’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s got newspaper cuttings of the police murders all over her room. She keeps a baton for beating up rapists, according to the caretaker. And she’s got a brother in the funny farm after being beaten up by two policemen. And she’s nuts, Harry. Off her trolley.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In Vaterlandsparken. She’s not here. I think we should put out an alert for her.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘She’s not the person we’re after.’

‘What do you mean? Motive, opportunity, state of mind. It’s all there, Harry.’

‘Forget Silje Gravseng. I want you to check a statistic for me.’

‘A statistic!’ She shouted so loud the membrane crackled. ‘I’m standing here with half the criminal records from the Vice Squad dribbling their filth all over me, looking for a possible police murderer, and now you want me to check a statistic ! Sod you, Harry Hole!’

‘Check the FBI’s statistics for witnesses who have died in the period between their initial summons and the start of the trial.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Just give me the figures, OK?’

‘Not OK!’

‘Well, regard it as an order then, Katrine Bratt.’

‘OK, but. . hey, just a minute! Who’s the boss here?’

‘If you have to ask, I doubt it’s you.’

Harry heard more Bergensian swearing before he broke the connection.

Mikael Bellman was sitting on the sofa with the TV on. The news had finished, the sport was starting, so Mikael’s gaze wandered from the TV to the window. To the town lying in the black cauldron far beneath them. The item about the City Hall chairman had lasted ten seconds. He had said that reshuffles at City Hall were standard practice, and that this time it was because of an unusually large burden on this particular post, so it was reasonable to pass the baton on to someone else. Isabelle Skøyen would return to her post as secretary to the committee for Social Affairs, which would allow the council to benefit from her skills there. Skøyen herself was unavailable for comment, it was said.

It glittered like a jewel, his town.

He heard the door to one of the children’s rooms close gently and immediately afterwards she snuggled up to him on the sofa.

‘Are they sleeping?’

‘Like logs,’ she said, and he felt her breath on his neck. ‘Feel like watching TV?’ She bit his earlobe. ‘Or. .?’

He smiled, but didn’t budge. Enjoying the moment, feeling how perfect it was. Being here right now. At the top of the pile. The alpha male with women at his feet. One hanging on his arm. The other neutralised and rendered innocuous. The same was true of the men. Asayev was dead, Truls reinstated as his henchman, the former Police Chief an accomplice in their shared wrongdoing in such a way that he would obey if Mikael needed him again. And Mikael knew that now he had the council’s confidence even if it took time to find the cop killer.

It was a long time since he had felt so good, so relaxed. He felt her hands on him. Knew what they would do before she knew herself. She could turn him on. Though not set him alight the way other people could. Like her, the one he had cut down to size. Like him, the one who had died in Hausmanns gate. But she could arouse him enough to know he would be fucking her soon. That was marriage. And it was good. It was more than enough, and there were more important things in life.