Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

‘What are you doing here on your own?’ he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders and took a sip from her glass.

‘Anders is away, travelling, and won’t be back until this evening. So I am indulging myself a little.’

‘Has he gone far?’

‘Somewhere in Europe. You know how it is. They never tell you anything.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He sells fittings for churches and chapels. Altar-pieces, pulpits, crosses and suchlike. Used and new.’

‘Mm. And he does that in Europe?’

‘When a church in Switzerland needs a new pulpit, it could well come from Alesund. And the old one may well end up being restored in Stockholm or Narvik. He travels all the time. He’s away more than he’s at home. Especially in the last few months. This last year really.’ She took a drag of her cigarette and added while inhaling: ‘He’s not Christian though.’

‘No?’

She shook her head as the smoke rose in a thick coil from the red lips with the small, closeset wrinkles above them.

‘His parents were in the Pentecostal sect, and he grew up with that stuff. I’ve only been to one meeting, but do you know what? I think it’s creepy, I do. When they start talking in tongues and all that. Have you been to any meetings like that?’

‘Twice,’ Harry said. ‘With the Philadelphians.’

‘Were you saved?’

‘Unfortunately not. I just went there to find someone who said he would stand in court as a witness for me.’

‘Well, if you didn’t find Jesus, at least you found your witness.’

Harry shook his head.

‘They said he’d stopped going, and he doesn’t live at any of the addresses I’ve been given. So no, I definitely wasn’t saved.’

Harry drained his beer and signalled to the bar. He lit another cigarette.

‘I tried to get hold of you during the day,’ she said. ‘At your work.’

‘Oh yes?’

Harry thought of the wordless message on his answerphone.

‘Yes, but I was told it wasn’t your case.’

‘If you’re thinking about the Camilla Loen case, then that’s correct.’

‘So I spoke to the other one who was at our place. The fit-looking one.’

‘Tom Waaler?’

‘Yes. I told him a few things about Camilla. The sort of thing I couldn’t say when you were there.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Anders was sitting there.’

She took a long drag on her cigarette.

‘He can’t stand it when I say anything derogatory about Camilla. He gets absolutely furious. Even though we hardly knew her.’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘I don’t think it’s derogatory. It’s Anders who thinks that. I suppose it’s our upbringing. I believe that he actually thinks that all women should go through their lives without having sex with more than one man.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and added in a low voice: ‘And barely that.’

‘Mm. And Camilla had sex with more than one man?’

‘The upper-class name says it all.’

‘How do you know that? Can you hear noises?’

‘Not between floors. So in the winter we didn’t hear much. But in the summer, with the windows open. You know, sound…’

‘… carries over enclosed spaces.’

‘Exactly. Anders used to get up and slam the bedroom window shut. And if I happened to make a comment, like “now she’s got a good head of steam up”, well, he would get so angry that he would go and bed down in the sitting room.’

‘So you tried to get hold of me to tell me this?’

‘Yes. And there was one other thing. I received a phone call. At first I thought it was Anders, but I can usually hear background noise when he calls. As a rule he rings from some street in some European town. The weird thing is that the sound is exactly the same, just as if he were ringing from the same place every time. Anyway, this sounded different. Normally I would have just slammed down the receiver and not given it a second thought, but what with the Camilla business and with Anders away…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, it was no big deal.’

She gave a tired smile. Harry thought it was a wonderful smile.

‘It was just someone breathing on the phone. I thought it was creepy though, so I wanted to tell you. Waaler said he would look into it, but I don’t think they could find what number he was calling from. It does happen that these murderers return to the scene of the crime, doesn’t it?’

‘Think that’s mostly in detective novels,’ Harry said. ‘I wouldn’t give it another thought.’

He twirled his glass round. The medicine was beginning to work.

‘Do you and your partner know Lisbeth Barli by any chance?’

Vibeke held his gaze, her pencilled eyebrows raised aloft.

‘The woman who’s disappeared? Why on earth should we?’

‘You’re right, why on earth should you?’ Harry mumbled and wondered what made him ask.

It was close to 9.00 when they stepped out onto the pavement outside Underwater.

Harry had to find his sea-legs.

‘I live just down the road,’ Harry said. ‘What about…?’

Vibeke tilted her head and smiled.

‘Don’t say anything you’ll come to regret now, Harry.’

‘Regret?’

‘For the last half an hour you’ve been talking nonstop about this Rakel. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’

‘She doesn’t want me, I said.’

‘Yes, and you don’t want me, either. You want Rakel. Or a Rakel substitute.’

She put her hand on his arm.

‘If things were different, maybe I could have imagined being that person for a while, but they aren’t. And Anders will be home soon.’

Harry shrugged his shoulders and steadied himself with a step to the side.

‘Well, let me accompany you to your door,’ he snuffled.

‘It’s two hundred metres, Harry.’

‘I can manage it.’

Vibeke laughed out loud and linked her arm under his.

They glided slowly down Ullevalsveien as cars and unoccupied taxis cruised past and the evening air caressed their skin as it does in Oslo in July, but only then. Harry listened to the regular hum of her voice and wondered what Rakel was doing right now.

They stopped outside the black wrought-iron entrance.

‘Goodnight, Harry.’

‘Mm. Are you going to take the lift?’

‘How’s that?’

‘Nothing.’ Harry shoved his hands in his trouser pockets in an attempt to keep his balance. ‘Take care. Goodnight.’

Vibeke smiled, went over to him, and Harry breathed in her fragrance as she kissed him on the cheek.

‘In another life, who knows?’ she whispered.

The gate closed after her with a smooth, well-oiled click. Harry stood there trying to orientate himself when something in the showroom window in front of him caught his attention. It wasn’t the range of headstones, but something in the reflection. A red car parked by the kerb on the other side of the road. If Harry had been in the slightest bit interested in cars, he would perhaps have known that this exclusive toy was a Tommykaira ZZR.

‘Fuck you,’ Harry muttered under his breath and stepped out to cross the road. A taxi shot past him with a blaring horn. He crossed over to the sports car and stood by the driver’s door. A blackened window was lowered without a sound.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Harry wheezed. ‘Are you spying on me?’

‘Good evening, Harry,’ Tom Waaler yawned. ‘I’m keeping Camilla Loen’s flat under surveillance, watching who comes and goes. You know, it’s not just a hollow phrase that criminals go back to the scene of the crime.’

‘Yes, it is. That’s exactly what it is,’ Harry said.

‘But, as you have perhaps realised, it’s all we have. The murderer hasn’t left us a lot to go on.’