Jo Nesbo - The Leopard

‘I once found an unused stick of dynamite on the estate in Manglerud,’ Bellman said. ‘I was fifteen years old. In Manglerud there were three things kids could do. Sport, Bible or dope. I wasn’t interested in any of them. And certainly not in sitting on the post office window ledge waiting for life to take me from hash and heroin, via glue-sniffing, to the grave. As happened to four boys in my class.’

Harry noticed how the old Manglerud patois had crept back into his Norwegian.

‘I hated all that,’ Bellman said. ‘So my first step towards policing was to take the stick of dynamite behind Manglerud church where the dopeheads had their earth bong.’

‘Earth bong?’

‘They had dug a pit in which they placed, upside down, a decapitated beer bottle with a grille inside, where the hash smoked and stank. They had laid plastic tubes under the ground, running from the pit to various points half a metre away. Then they lay on the grass around the bong each sucking on their tube. I don’t know why.. .’

‘To cool the smoke,’ Harry chortled. ‘You get more of a buzz from less dope. Not bad coming from dopeheads, that one. I’ve obviously underestimated Manglerud.’

‘Nevertheless, I pulled out one of the tubes and replaced it with dynamite.’

‘You blew up the earth bong?’

Bellman nodded, and Harry laughed.

‘Soil hailed down for thirty seconds,’ Bellman smiled.

Silence. The wind rushed, low and rasping.

‘Actually, I wanted to say thank you,’ Bellman said, looking down at his cup. ‘For getting Kaja out in the nick of time.’

Harry shrugged. Kaja. Bellman knew that Harry knew about the two of them. How? And did that mean Bellman knew about Kaja and himself, as well?

‘I had nothing else to do down there,’ Harry said.

‘Yes, you did. I looked at Jussi’s body before the helicopter took him away.’

Harry didn’t answer, just squinted through the thickening snowflakes that had begun to fall.

‘The body had a wound at the side of the neck. And there were more on both palms. From the pointed end of a ski pole perhaps. You found him first, didn’t you.’

‘Maybe,’ Harry said.

‘The neck wound had fresh blood. His heart must have been beating when he received that wound, Harry. Beating pretty strongly, too. It should have been possible to dig out a living man in time. But you prioritised Kaja, didn’t you.’

‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘I think Kolkka was right.’ He emptied the rest of his coffee in the snow. ‘You have to choose sides,’ he quoted in Swedish.

They found the snowmobile tracks at three o’clock, a kilometre from the avalanche, between two large fang-shaped rocks, a refuge from the wind.

‘Looks like he paused here,’ Harry said, pointing along the edge of the track left by the tread of the rubber belt. ‘The vehicle has had time to sink in the snow.’ He ran his finger along the middle of the left ski runner while Bellman swept away the light, dry, drifting snow.

‘Yep,’ he said, pointing. ‘He turned here and then drove on northwest.’

‘We’re approaching the cliffs and the snow’s getting thicker,’ Harry said, looking up at the sky and taking out his phone. ‘We’ll have to ring the hotel and ask them to send a guide on a snowmobile. Shit!’

‘What?’

‘No coverage. We’ll have to make our own way back to the hotel.’

Harry studied the display. There was still the missed call from the vaguely familiar number of someone who had left those sounds on his voicemail. The last three digits, where the hell had he seen them? And then it kicked in. The detective memory. The number was in the ‘Former Suspects’ file, and was embossed on a business card.

Along with ‘Tony C. Leike, Entrepreneur’. Harry slowly raised his gaze and looked at Bellman.

‘Leike’s alive.’

‘What?’

‘At least his phone is. He tried to ring me while we were in Havass.’

Bellman returned Harry’s gaze without blinking. Snowflakes settled on his long eyelashes and the white stains seemed to be glowing. His voice was low, almost a whisper. ‘Visibility’s good, don’t you think, Harry? And there’s no snow in the air.’

‘Exceptional visibility,’ Harry said. ‘Not a bloody flake to be seen.’

He quickly jumped back on.

They stuttered through the snowscape, a hundred metres at a time. Located the snowmobile’s probable route, swept the tracks with a broom, took bearings, surged forward. The gouge in the left runner, probably caused by an accident, meant they could be sure they were following the right scooter tracks. In a few places, in tiny hollows or on wind-blown hillcrests, the trail was clear and they could make fast progress. But not too fast. Harry had already shouted warnings about precipices twice and they had had some very close shaves. It was getting on for four now. Bellman flicked the headlights on and off, depending on how much snow was drifting in their faces. Harry studied the map. He had no clear idea of where they were, just that they were straying further and further from Ustaoset. And that daylight was dwindling. A third of Harry was slowly beginning to worry about the trip back. Which just meant that the two-third majority couldn’t care less.

At half past four they lost the trail.

The drifting snow was so thick now they could hardly see.

‘This is madness,’ Harry shouted above the roar of the motor. ‘Why don’t we wait until tomorrow?’

Bellman turned to him and answered with a smile.

At five they picked up the trail again.

They stopped and dismounted.

‘Leads that way,’ Bellman said, trudging back to the snowmobile. ‘Come on!’

‘Wait,’ Harry said.

‘Why? Come on, it’ll soon be dark.’

‘When you shouted just now, didn’t you hear the echo?’

‘Now you mention it.’ Bellman stopped. ‘Rock face?’

‘There are no rock faces on the map,’ Harry said, turning in the direction the tracks indicated.

‘Ravine!’ he yelled. And received an answer. A very swift answer. He turned back to Bellman.

‘I think the snowmobile making these tracks is in serious trouble.’

‘What do I know about Bellman?’ Roger Gjendem repeated to gain some time. ‘He’s reputed to be very competent and extremely professional.’ What was Nordbo, the legendary editor, really after? ‘He does all the right things,’ Gjendem went on. ‘Learns quickly, can handle us press types now. Sort of a whizz-kid. Er, that is if you know…’

‘I am somewhat conversant with the term, yes,’ said Bent Nordbo with an acidic smile, his right thumb and forefinger furiously rubbing the handkerchief on his glasses. ‘However, basically, I am more interested in if there any rumours doing the rounds.’

‘Rumours?’ Gjendem said, failing to notice a relapse into his old habit of leaving his mouth open after speaking.

‘I am truly hopeful you understand the concept, Gjendem. Since that is what you and your employer live off. Well?’

Gjendem hesitated. ‘There are all sorts of rumours.’

Nordbo rolled his eyes. ‘Speculation. Fabrication. Direct lies. I’m not bothered with the niceties here, Gjendem. Turn the sack of gossip inside out, reveal the malevolence.’

‘N-negative things then?’

Nordbo released a pondorous sigh. ‘Gjendem, my dear man, do you often hear rumours about people’s sobriety, financial generosity, fidelity to partners and non-psychopathic leadership styles? Could that be because the function of rumours is to please the rest of us by putting us in a better light?’ Nordbo was finished with one lens and engaged on the cleansing operation of the second.

‘It’s a very, very idle rumour,’ Gjendem said and added with alacrity: ‘And I know for certain of others with the selfsame reputation who categorically are not.’