Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

‘What about the weapons we found at the crime scene?’

‘We’ve checked them,’ Beate said. ‘The tests show that they are ninety-nine point nine per cent certain to be the murder weapons.’

‘That’s good enough,’ Moller said. ‘Any idea where the weapons came from?’

Beate shook her head. ‘As before, the serial numbers have been filed off. The marks are the same as those we see on most of the weapons we confiscate.’

‘Hm,’ Moller said. ‘So, the great gun-running fraternity myth again. Surely the security service guys, POT, will get their hands on them soon, won’t they?’

‘Interpol has been working on the case for more than four years without anything to show for their efforts,’ Waaler said.

Harry rocked back on his chair and stole a furtive glance at Waaler. While doing that, to his consternation, he felt something he had never felt for Waaler before: admiration. The same kind of admiration you feel for beasts of prey that have perfected what they do to survive.

Moller sighed. ‘I know. We’re three-nil down and our opponent still hasn’t given us a sight of the ball. Does no-one have any bright ideas?’

‘I’m not exactly sure if it’s an idea…’

‘Come on, Harry.’

‘It’s more like a gut feeling about the crime scenes. They’ve all got something in common, but I can’t put my finger on what it is yet. The first shooting was in an attic flat in Ullevalsveien. The second about a kilometre north-west, in Sannergata. And the third about the same distance again from there, this time towards the east, in an office block by Carl Berners plass. He moves, but I have the feeling that there is a logic behind it.’

‘How’s that?’ Beate asked.

‘His territory,’ Harry said. ‘The psychologist can probably explain.’

Moller turned to Aune, who was just taking a gulp of tea.

‘Any comment, Aune?’

Aune grimaced. ‘Well, it’s not exactly Earl Grey.’

‘I didn’t mean the tea.’

Aune sighed.

‘It was a joke, Moller. I know what you’re getting at though, Harry. The killer has strong preferences with respect to the geographical location of the crime. Here, in rough terms, we can distinguish between three types.’

Aune counted on his fingers:

‘There is the stationary killer who entices or forces victims into his home and kills them. There is the territorial killer who operates in a restricted area, like Jack the Ripper who only killed in the red-light district, but their territory could easily be a whole town. Finally, there is the nomadic killer who is probably the one with most killings on his conscience. Ottis Toole and Henry Lee Lucas went from state to state in the US and killed more than three hundred people between them.’

‘Right,’ Moller said. ‘Though I can’t quite see the logic you were talking about, Harry.’

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

‘As I was saying, boss, just a gut feeling.’

‘There is one thing they’ve got in common,’ Beate said.

As if operated by remote control, the others turned to face her. Her cheeks immediately flushed and she seemed to regret saying anything. However, she ignored it and went on:

‘He intrudes where women feel at their most secure. Into their home. Into a street in broad daylight. Into the Ladies at work.’

‘Well done, Beate,’ Harry said, and received a quick flash of gratitude.

‘Well observed, young lady,’ Aune chimed in. ‘Since we’re talking about patterns of movement, I’d like to add one more thing. Killers of the sociopath variety are often very self-assured, just as it seems to be in this case. A characteristic feature of theirs is that they follow the investigation closely and tend to take every opportunity to be physically close to whatever is going on. They may interpret the investigation as a game between themselves and the police. Many have expressed pleasure at seeing the police in confusion.’

‘Which means that somewhere out there someone is sitting and lapping it up right now,’ Moller said, clapping his hands together. ‘That’s all for today.’

‘Just one more little thing,’ Harry said. ‘The diamonds that the murderer has placed on the victims…’

‘Yes?’

‘They’ve got five points. Almost like a pentagram.’

‘Almost? As far as I know, it’s exactly like a pentagram.’

‘A pentagram is drawn with one unbroken line which intersects itself.’

‘Aha!’ Aune exclaimed. ‘That pentagram. Drawn using the golden section. Very interesting shape. By the way, did you know that there is a theory that in Viking times the Celts were going to convert Norway to Christianity, so they drew a holy pentagram which they placed over southern Norway and used it to determine the location of towns and churches?’

‘What’s that got to do with diamonds?’ Beate asked.

‘It’s not the diamonds,’ Harry said. ‘It’s the shape, the pentagram. I know I’ve seen it somewhere, at one of the crime scenes, I just can’t remember which and where. This may sound like rubbish, but I think it’s important.’

‘So,’ Moller said, supporting his chin on his hands. ‘You can remember something you can’t quite remember, but you think it’s important?’

Harry rubbed his face hard with both hands.

‘When you go to the scene of a crime, you’re concentrating so hard that the most peripheral things your brain takes in are much more than you can work through. They simply remain there until something happens, until something new crops up, one piece of the jigsaw fits another, but then you can’t remember where you got the first piece from. Your gut feeling tells you that it’s important, though. How does that sound?’

‘Like a psychosis,’ Aune said, yawning.

The other three looked at him.

‘Can you not at least smile when I’m being funny?’ he said. ‘Harry, it sounds like an absolutely normal working brain. Nothing to be frightened of.’

‘I think there are four brains here that have done enough for one day,’ Moller said and got up.

At that moment the telephone in front of him rang.

‘Moller here… Just a minute.’

He passed the telephone over to Waaler, who took it and placed it against his ear.

‘Yes?’

There was a scraping of chairs, but Waaler motioned with his hand that they should wait.

‘Great,’ he said, hanging up.

The others turned to him with renewed interest.

‘A witness has called in. She saw a cyclist coming out of an apartment block in Ullevalsveien near Our Saviour’s Cemetery on the Friday afternoon when Camilla Loen was killed. She remembered it because she thought it was so peculiar that he was wearing a white cloth round his mouth. The courier who nipped off for a beer in St Hanshaugen wasn’t wearing one.’

‘And?’

‘She didn’t know which number it was in Ullevalsveien, but Skarre drove her past. She pointed out the building and it was Camilla Loen’s.’

Moller slammed his hand down hard on the surface of the table.

‘At last!’

Olaug was sitting on the bed with her hand around her throat and feeling her pulse slowly return to normal.

‘How you frightened me,’ she whispered in a voice which was hoarse and unrecognisable now.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Ina said, taking the last Maryland cookie. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘It’s me who should apologise,’ Olaug said. ‘Bursting in like that. I didn’t see that you were wearing those…’

‘Headphones,’ Ina laughed. ‘I probably had the music on pretty loud. Cole Porter.’

‘You know I’m not so up to date with modern music.’

‘Cole Porter is an old jazz musician. He’s dead, in fact.’

‘Dear me, someone as young as you shouldn’t be listening to dead people.’