Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

Aune rubbed his index finger against his chin, considered for a moment and nodded.

‘You’re right, Harry.’

Others round the table exchanged enquiring looks.

‘Right about what?’ Skarre called out.

‘The choice of victim and place suggests the opposite,’ Aune said. ‘That the murderer is moving quickly into the phase where he loses control and begins to kill indiscriminately.’

‘How so?’ Moller asked.

Harry talked without looking up from the table.

‘The first shooting, of Camilla Loen, took place in a flat where she lived alone. The killer could go in and out without any risk of being caught or identified. He could carry out the killing and the rituals without being disturbed, but he’s already taking chances when he goes for the second victim. He kidnaps Lisbeth Barli in the middle of a residential area, in broad daylight, probably using a car, and obviously a car has a number plate. The third killing is of course a pure lottery – in the ladies’ lavatory in an office area. True, it’s after normal office hours, but there are so many people around that luck has to be with him if he’s not to be caught or at least identified.’

Moller turned towards Aune.

‘So what’s the conclusion?’

‘That we can’t conclude anything,’ Aune said. ‘The most we can assume is that he is a well-integrated sociopath. And we don’t know whether he’s about to go bananas or whether he is still in control of himself.’

‘What can we hope for?’

‘One scenario is that we are about to witness a bloodbath, but there is a chance that we might nab him as he’ll be taking risks. The other scenario is that there will be longer intervals between each murder, but all our experience tells us that we will not manage to capture him in the foreseeable future. Make your own choice.’

‘But where shall we begin to look?’ Moller asked.

‘If I believed my statistics-minded colleagues I would say among bedwetters, animal tormentors, rapists and pyromaniacs, particularly pyromaniacs. But I don’t believe them. Unfortunately I have no alternative idols, so I suppose the answer is: I have no idea.’

Aune put the top on his marker pen. The silence was oppressive.

Tom Waaler jumped up.

‘OK, folks. We’ve got a bit to do. To begin with, I want everyone we have talked to so far to be interviewed again. I want all convicted murderers checked out and I want a review of all the criminals who have been convicted of rape or arson.’

Harry observed Waaler as he delegated assignments, noted his efficiency and self-assurance, the speed and flexibility with which he dealt with relevant, practical objections, his strength of mind and decisiveness when the objections were not relevant.

The clock above the door showed 9.15. The day had hardly begun and Harry already felt drained of energy, like an old, dying lion who hung back from the pack when once he could have challenged the leader. Not that he had ever nurtured ambitions of leading the pack, but things had taken a nosedive anyway. All he could do was lie low and hope that someone would throw him a bone.

And someone had thrown him a bone. A big one.

The muffled acoustics in the small interview rooms gave Harry the feeling he was talking into a duvet.

‘I import hearing aids,’ the short, stout man said, running his hand down his silk tie. A discreet gold tiepin held his tie in place against the white shirt.

‘Hearing aids?’ Harry repeated, looking down at the interview sheet which Tom Waaler had given him. In the box for his name the man had written Andre Clausen and under profession, Private Businessman.

‘Have you got hearing problems?’ Clausen asked. Harry couldn’t decide whether this sarcasm was being directed towards himself or whether Clausen was being ironic.

‘Mm. So you were at Halle, Thune and Wetterlid’s to talk about hearing aids?’

‘I just wanted an evaluation of an agency contract. One of your kind colleagues took a copy of it yesterday afternoon.’

‘This?’ Harry pointed to a folder.

‘Exactly.’

‘I was looking at it just now. It was signed and dated two years ago. Is it going to be renewed?’

‘No. I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t being conned.’

‘Only now?’

‘Better late than never.’

‘Haven’t you got your own solicitor?’

‘Yes, but he’s getting on, I’m afraid.’ There was the flash of a gold filling when Clausen smiled and continued speaking. ‘I asked for an introductory meeting to hear what this firm of solicitors could offer.’

‘And you agreed this meeting before the weekend? With a firm which specialises in debt collection?’

‘I only realised that in the course of the meeting. That is, the short while we had before all the uproar.’

‘But if you’re looking for a new solicitor, you must have arranged meetings with several,’ Harry said. ‘Can you tell us which ones?’

Harry didn’t look at Andre Clausen’s face. That wasn’t where a lie would reveal itself. Harry had known immediately they met that Clausen was one of those people who didn’t like his facial expression to reveal what he was thinking. Possibly because of shyness, possibly because his profession required a poker face or possibly because, in his past, self-control had been seen as an essential virtue. Accordingly, Harry kept an eye open for other signs, such as if his hand came up from his lap to stroke his tie again. It didn’t. Clausen just sat looking at Harry. He wasn’t staring, but his eyelids were heavy as if he found the situation irritating, just a little tedious.

‘Most solicitors I rang didn’t want to arrange a meeting until after the holidays,’ Clausen said. ‘Halle, Thune and Wetterlid were a great deal more obliging. Tell me: Am I under suspicion for anything?’

‘Everyone is under suspicion,’ Harry said.

‘Fair enough.’

Clausen said this in English with a precise BBC accent.

‘I’ve noticed that you have a slight accent.’

‘Oh? I’ve travelled a lot in recent years. Perhaps that’s why.’

‘Where do you travel to?’

‘In point of fact, mostly inside Norway. I visit hospitals and institutions. Otherwise I’m often in Switzerland, at the factory where they manufacture the hearing aids. The way products are advancing you have to keep up to date professionally.’

Again this indefinable sarcasm in the tone of his voice.

‘Are you married? Have you got a family?’

‘If you look at the form your colleague filled in, you’ll see I haven’t.’

Harry looked at the form.

‘Yes, I see. So you live on your own… let’s see… in Gimle terrasse?’

‘No,’ Clausen said. ‘I live with Truls.’

‘Exactly. I know.’

‘Do you?’ Clausen smiled, his eyelids sinking a little lower. ‘Truls is a golden retriever.’

Harry could feel a headache coming on behind his eyes. A look at his list showed that he had four interviews before lunch, and five after. He didn’t have the energy to trade blows with them all.

He asked Clausen to tell him again what had happened, from the time he entered the building in Carl Berners plass until the police arrived.

‘More than gladly,’ he said, yawning.

Harry sat back in the chair as Clausen, fluently and with self-confidence, told him how he had arrived by taxi, taken the lift up and, after a brief exchange with the receptionist, had waited for five or six minutes for her to return with the water. When she didn’t come back, he wandered through to the offices and found Mr Halle’s nameplate on his door.

Harry saw from Waaler’s notes that Halle had confirmed the time Clausen knocked on the door as 5.05.

‘Did you see anyone go into or come out of the Ladies?’