Jo Nesbo - The Leopard

‘But I do,’ Beate Lonn said. ‘I was given the report with sketches and photographs. The prints from X1’s left hand were found on top of the pompous and very ugly desk. Like so.’ She stood up and leaned on her left hand. ‘If I’m not much mistaken, it’s where the landline is. Like so.’ She used her right hand to make the international sign for a telephone, thumb to her ear and little finger to her mouth.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Bellman said with a broad smile and a sweeping arm gesture, ‘I’ll be damned if we don’t have a genuine lead. Carry on searching for a match to X1, Holm. But promise me it isn’t the husband of one of the Polish women who joined them to make a few free calls home, alright?’

On the way out, the Pelican sidled up to Harry. She tossed one of her new dreads. ‘You might be better than I thought, Harry. But when you advance your theories, it wouldn’t hurt to intersperse the occasional “I think” here and there.’ She smiled and nudged him in the hip.

Harry appreciated the smile; the nudge in the hip on the other hand… His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out. Not Rikshospital.

‘He calls himself Nashville,’ said Katrine Bratt.

‘Like the American town?’

‘Yep. He’s been on the websites of all the big newspapers, read the whole caboodle about the murders. The bad news is that’s all I’ve got for you. Nashville’s only been active on the Net for a couple of months, you see, and he’s searched exclusively for things related to the murders. It almost seems as if Nashville has been waiting to be investigated.’

‘Sounds like our man, alright,’ Harry said.

‘Well,’ Katrine said, ‘you’ll have to search for men with cowboy hats.’

‘What?’

‘Nashville. Mecca of country music and all that.’

Pause.

‘Hello? Harry?’

‘I’m here. Right. Thanks, Katrine.’

‘Kisses?’

‘All over.’

‘No, thank you.’

They rang off.

Harry had been allocated an office with a view of Bryn and was observing some of the more unlovely details of the area when there was a knock at the door.

Beate Lonn was standing in the doorway.

‘Hm, how does it feel to be in bed with the enemy?’

Harry shrugged. ‘The enemy’s name is Prince Charming.’

‘Good. Just wanted to say we’ve run the fingerprints on the desk against the database and he’s not on it.’

‘I didn’t expect him to be.’

‘How’s your dad?’

‘Days away.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Thank you.’

They looked at each other. And suddenly it struck Harry that this was a face he would see at the funeral. A small pale face he had seen at other funerals, tear-stained, with large tragic eyes. A face as if made for funerals.

‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked.

‘I know only one killer who has murdered in this way,’ Harry said, turning back to the view.

‘He reminds you of the Snowman, does he?’

Harry nodded slowly.

She sighed. ‘I promised I wouldn’t say, but Rakel rang.’

Harry stared at the blocks of flats in Helsfyr.

‘She asked about you. I said you were fine. Did I do the right thing, Harry?’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘Sure.’

Beate remained in the doorway for a while. Then she left.

How is she? How is Oleg? Where are they? What do they do when night falls, who looks after them, who keeps watch? Harry rested his head on his arms and covered his ears with his hands.

Only one person knows how Prince Charming thinks.

The afternoon gloom descended without warning. The Captain, the overenthusiastic receptionist, rang to say someone had called to ask if Iska Peller, the Australian lady in Aftenposten, was staying there. Harry said it was probably a journalist, but the Captain thought even the lowest press vermin knew the rules of the game; they had to introduce themselves by name and state where they worked. Harry thanked him and was on the point of asking him to call back if he heard any more. Until he considered what this invitation would involve. Bellman rang to say there was a press conference; if Harry felt like taking part, then…

Harry declined and could hear Bellman’s relief.

Harry drummed on the desk. Lifted the receiver to phone Kaja, but cradled it again.

Raised it again and rang some city centre hotels. None of them could recall being asked questions about anyone called Iska Peller.

Harry looked at his watch. He felt like a drink. He felt like going into Bellman’s office, asking what the hell he had done with his opium, raising his fist and watching him cower…

Only one person knows.

Harry got up, kicked the chair, grabbed his woollen coat and strode out.

He drove to town and parked in a glaringly illegal spot outside the Norwegian Theatre. Crossed the street and went to the hotel reception desk.

The Captain had acquired his nickname while he was working as a doorman at the same hotel. The reason was probably a combination of the gaudy red uniform and the fact that he was continually commenting on, and issuing commands to, everyone and everything around. Furthermore, he saw himself as an intersection for anything of importance that happened in the city centre, the man with his finger on the city’s pulse, the man who knew. The Informant with a capital I, an inestimable part of the police force’s machinery keeping Oslo safe.

‘Right at the very back of my brain, I can hear a rather special voice,’ the Captain said, tasting his own words with an appreciative smack. Harry caught the rolling eyes of his colleague standing next to the Captain behind the reception desk.

‘Sort of gay,’ the Captain concluded.

‘Do you mean high-pitched?’ Harry asked, thinking of something Adele’s friends had mentioned. Adele had said it was a turn-off the way her boyfriend spoke, like her gay flatmate.

‘No, more like this.’ The Captain crooked his hands, fluttered his eyelashes and peformed a parody of a loud-mouthed queen. ‘I’m just sooo cross with you, Soren!’

His colleague, who, sure enough, was wearing a name tag inscribed with SOREN, giggled.

Harry thanked him and again it was on the tip of his tongue to ask the Captain to call him should anything else occur to him. He went outside. Lit a cigarette and looked up at the hotel sign. There was something… At that moment he spotted the Traffic Department car parked behind his and the overalled warden jotting down his registration number.

Harry crossed the street and held up his ID card. ‘I’m on police business.’

‘Makes no difference. No parking is no parking,’ Overalls said without pausing his writing. ‘Send in a complaint.’

‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘you know we also have the authority to dish out parking fines if we want to?’

The man poked up his head and grinned. ‘If you think I’m going to let you write your own fine, you’re wrong, pal.’

‘I was thinking more of that car.’ Harry pointed.

‘That’s mine and the Traffic-’

‘No parking is no parking.’

Overalls sent him a grouchy look.

Harry shrugged. ‘Send in a complaint. Pal.’

Overalls slammed his notepad shut, spun on his heel and walked back to his car.

As Harry drove up Universitetsgata, his phone rang. It was Gunnar Hagen. Harry could hear the quiver of excitement in the usually controlled voice of the Crime Squad boss.

‘Come here right away, Harry.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Just come. The culvert.’

Harry heard the voices and saw the flashes going off long before he had reached the end of the concrete corridor. Gunnar Hagen and Bjorn Holm were standing by the door to his old office. A woman from Krimteknisk was brushing the door and door handle for fingerprints while a Holm lookalike was taking pictures of half a boot print in the corner.