Jo Nesbo - The Leopard

‘Correct,’ Harry smiled. ‘And you’re one of the few people I can trust to keep your mouth shut. And if you’re not a genius, you’re definitely smarter than the average detective.’

‘Three smashed nicotine-stained fingers up your tiny little arsehole.’

‘No one can find out what we’re up to. But I promise you we’re the Blues Brothers here.’

‘On a mission from God?’ she quoted.

‘I’ve written the password on the back of the SIM card inside the dongle.’

‘What makes you think I know how to use the search engines?’

‘It’s like googling. Even I worked that out when I was at POT.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘After all, the engines were created for the police.’

She released a deep sigh.

‘Thank you,’ Harry said.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘When can you have something for me, do you reckon?’

‘Fuck you!’ She banged the table with her hand. Harry noticed a nurse glance in their direction. Harry held Katrine’s wild stare. Waited.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think I should be sitting in the Hobbies Room using illegal search engines in broad daylight, if I can put it like that.’

Harry got up. ‘OK, I’ll contact you in three days.’

‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

‘What?’

‘To tell me what’s in it for me?’

‘Well,’ Harry said, buttoning up his coat, ‘now I know what you want.’

‘What I want…’ The surprise on her face gave way to amazement as the meaning dawned on her, and she shouted after Harry, who was already on his way to the door: ‘You cheeky bastard! And presumptuous with it!’

Harry got into the taxi, said ‘Airport’, removed his mobile phone and saw three missed calls from one of the only two numbers he had in his contacts. Good, that meant they had something.

He called back.

‘Lake Lyseren,’ Kaja said. ‘Rope-making business there. Closed down fifteen years ago. The County Officer responsible for Ytre Enebakk can show us the place this afternoon. He had a couple of persistant criminals in the area, but small beer: break-ins and car theft. Plus one who had done time for beating up his wife. He’s sent us a list of men, though, and I’m going to run a check with Criminal Records right now.’

‘Good. Pick me up from Gardemoen on the way to Lyseren.’

‘It’s not on the way.’

‘You’re right. Pick me up anyway.’

Despite the slow speed, Bjorn Holm’s Volvo Amazon was rolling and pitching on the narrow road that snaked between Ostfold’s meadows and fields.

Harry was asleep on the back seat.

‘So no sex offenders around Lake Lyseren,’ Bjorn said.

‘None that have been caught,’ Kaja corrected. ‘Didn’t you see the survey in VG? One in twenty say they have committed what might be termed sexual abuse.’

‘Do people really answer that sort of questionnaire honestly? If I’d pushed a girl too far I think my brain would’ve goddam rationalised it away afterwards.’

‘Is that what you did?’

‘Me?’ Bjorn swung out and overtook a tractor. ‘Nope. I’m one of the nineteen. Ytre Enebakk. Christ, what’s the name of that comic who hails from these parts? The bumpkin with the cracked glasses and moped. What’s his face from Ytre Enebakk. Hilarious parody.’

Kaja shrugged. Bjorn looked into the mirror, but found himself looking down Harry’s open mouth.

The County Officer for Ytre Enebakk was standing by the treatment plant on the Voyentangen peninisula waiting for them as arranged. They parked, he introduced himself as Skai – the Norwegian name for the synthetic leather that Bjorn Holm seemed to hold in such high regard – and they accompanied him to a jetty where a dozen boats bobbed up and down in the calm waters.

‘Early to have boats in the lake, isn’t it?’ Kaja said.

‘There hasn’t been any ice this year, won’t be either,’ the officer said. ‘First time since I was born.’

They stepped into a broad, flat-bottomed boat, Bjorn with greater caution than the others.

‘It’s green here,’ Kaja said as the officer pushed off from the jetty with a pole.

‘Yes,’ he said, peering down into the water and pulling the cord to start the engine. ‘The ropery is over there, on the deep side. There’s a path, but the terrain is so steep that it’s best to go by boat.’ He flicked the handle on the side of the engine forwards. A bird of indeterminate species took off from a tree inside the bare forest and shrieked a warning.

‘I hate the sea,’ Bjorn said to Harry, who could just hear his colleague above the hacking sound of the two-stroke outboard motor. They slipped through the grey afternoon light in a channel between the two-metrehigh rushes. Crept past a pile of twigs that Harry assumed must have been a beaver’s nest and out through an avenue of mangrove-like trees.

‘This is a lake,’ Harry said. ‘Not the sea.’

‘Same shit,’ Bjorn said, shifting closer to the middle of the seat. ‘Give me inland, cow muck and rocky mountains.’

The channel widened and there it lay in front of them: Lake Lyseren. They chugged past islands and islets from which winter-abandoned cabins with black windows seemed to be staring at them through wary eyes.

‘Basic cabins,’ the officer said. ‘Here you’re free from the stress down on the gold coast where you have to compete with your neighbour for the biggest boat or the most attractive cabin extension.’ He spat into the water.

‘What’s the name of that TV comic from Ytre Enebakk?’ Bjorn shouted over the drone of the motor. ‘Cracked glasses and moped.’

The officer sent Holm a blank look and shook his head slowly.

‘The ropery,’ he said.

In front of the bow, right down by the lake, Harry saw an old wooden building, oblong in shape, standing alone at the foot of a steep slope, dense forest on both sides. Beside the building, steel rails ran down the mountainside and disappeared into the black water. The red paint was peeling off the walls with gaping spaces for windows and doors. Harry squinted. In the fading light it looked as if there was a person in white standing at a window staring at them.

‘Jeez, the ultimate haunted house,’ Bjorn laughed.

‘That’s what they say,’ said County Officer Skai, cutting the engine.

In the sudden silence they could hear the echo of Bjorn’s laughter from the other side and a lone sheep bell reaching them from far across the lake.

Kaja took the rope, jumped onto the shore and, being of a nautical bent herself, tied a half-hitch around a rotten green pole protruding between the water lilies.

The others got out of the boat, onto the huge rocks serving as a wharf. Then they entered through the doorway and found themselves in a deserted narrow, rectangular room smelling of tar and urine. It hadn’t been so easy to discern from the outside because the extremities of the building merged into the dense forest, but while the room was barely two metres across it must have been more than sixty metres from end to end.

‘They stood at opposite ends of the building and twined the rope,’ Kaja explained before Harry could ask.

In one corner lay three empty bottles and signs of attempts to light a fire. On the facing wall, a net hung in front of a couple of loose boards.

‘No one wanted to take over after Simonsen,’ Skai said, looking around. ‘It’s been empty ever since.’

‘What are the rails at the side of the building for?’ Harry asked.

‘Two things. To raise and lower the boat he used to collect timber. And to hold the sticks under water while they soaked. He tied the sticks to the iron carriage, which must be up in the boathouse. Then he cranked the carriage down under the water and wound it back up after a few weeks when the wood was ready. Practical fellow, Simonsen.’