Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

‘Are you sleeping?’

‘I slept last night,’ Harry said.

‘Good. And the code? Did you crack it?’

‘Partly. I know where and when. I just don’t know why.’

‘So now you can read the text, but you don’t know what it means?’

‘Something like that. We’ll have to wait for the rest when we’ve got him.’

‘What don’t you understand?’

‘Loads. Like why hide one of the bodies? Or trivial things like him cutting all the fingers from the victims’ left hands, but different fingers. The index finger with the first victim, the middle finger with the second and the ring finger with the third.’

‘In sequence then. Must like systems.’

‘Yes, but why not start with the thumb? Is there a message there?’

Oystein burst out laughing.

‘Take care, Harry. Codes are like women: if you can’t crack them, they’ll crack you.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘Am I? Good, because that means I’m a caring person. I can’t believe my own eyes, but it looks to me as if I’ve just got a customer in the car, Harry. Talk to you later.’

‘OK.’

Harry watched the smoke dance pirouettes in slow motion. He looked at his watch. There was one thing he hadn’t told Oystein: that he had a hunch the rest of the details would soon fall into place. It was a little too pat because, despite the rituals, there was something unemotional about the killings, an almost conspicuous lack of hatred, desire or passion. Or love for that matter. They had been carried out too perfectly, almost mechanically, according to the book. It felt as if he was playing chess against a computer, not against someone whose mind was agitated or unbalanced. Time would tell, though.

He looked at his watch again.

His heart was beating faster.

Saturday. Into Action.

Otto Tangen’s mood was in the ascendant.

He had slept for a couple of hours and had woken up to a thundering headache and furious banging on the door. When he opened up, Waaler, Falkeid of the Special Forces and some character calling himself Harry Hole, who looked nothing like a police inspector, crashed in on him and the first thing they did was to complain about the air inside the bus. But after getting a coffee down him from one of the four thermos flasks, turning on the screens and setting the tapes to ‘record’, Otto felt the wonderful tingle of excitement he always got when a target was approaching.

Falkeid explained that guards wearing civilian clothes had been posted all round the student building the evening before. The dog patrol had gone through the loft and the cellar to check that no-one was hiding in the building. Only the house occupants had been coming and going, although the girl in 303 had explained to the guard at the entrance that she had her boyfriend staying. Falkeid’s people were in position and awaiting orders.

Waaler nodded.

Falkeid checked the communication at regular intervals. Special Forces’ own equipment, not Otto’s responsibility. Otto closed his eyes and enjoyed the sounds. The brief second of atmospheric noise when they released the ‘speak’ button, then the mumbling incomprehensible codes, a kind of playground lingo for adults.

‘Smilly dillies.’ Otto shaped the words silently with his lips and remembered sitting in the apple tree one autumn evening spying on the adults behind the illuminated windows. Whispering ‘smilly dillies’ into a tin can with a cord hanging down over the fence, where Nils crouched waiting with the other tin can next to his ear. If he hadn’t got sick of it and gone home for his supper, that is. The tin cans had never quite worked the way it said they should in the Woodchuck Book.

‘We’re ready to go on air,’ Waaler said. ‘Clock ready, Tangen?’

Otto nodded.

‘Sixteen hundred,’ Waaler said. ‘Right… now.’

Otto started the timer on the recorder. Tenths of seconds and seconds shot past on the screen. He felt a silent joyful childlike laughter burst in his intestines. This was better than the apple tree. Better than Aud-Rita’s cream buns. Better than when she groaned with a lisp and told him what he should do to her.

Show Time.

Olaug Sivertsen smiled as she opened the door to Beate, as if she had been looking forward to her visit for ages.

‘Oh it’s you again! Come in. You can keep your shoes on. Horrid this heat, isn’t it?’

Olaug Sivertsen went down the hallway ahead of Beate.

‘Don’t worry, froken Sivertsen. It looks as if this case will soon be over.’

‘As long as I’ve got a visitor, you may take your time,’ she laughed and then put her hand over her mouth in alarm: ‘Dear me, what am I saying! After all, the man’s taking people’s lives, isn’t he?’

The grandfather clock in the sitting room struck four as they entered.

‘Tea, my dear?’

‘Please.’

‘Am I allowed to go to the kitchen on my own?’

‘Yes, but if I may come along…’

‘Come on, come on.’

Apart from a new stove and fridge, the kitchen did not seem to have changed much since wartime. Beate found a chair by the large wooden table while Olaug put the kettle on.

‘It smells great in here,’ Beate said.

‘D’you think so?’

‘Yes. I like kitchens that smell like this. To be honest, I prefer being in the kitchen. I’m not so fond of sitting rooms.’

‘Aren’t you?’ Olaug Sivertsen put her head to one side. ‘Do you know what? I don’t think we’re so different, you and me. I’m a kitchen person, too.’

Beate smiled.

‘The sitting room shows how you want to present yourself. But in the kitchen everyone relaxes more. It’s like you’re allowed to be yourself. Did you notice that we relaxed with each other as soon as we came in?’

‘I think you’re absolutely right.’

The two women laughed.

‘D’you know what?’ Olaug said. ‘I’m glad they sent you. I like you. And there’s no need to blush, my dear. I’m just a lonely old lady. Save it for an admirer. Or perhaps you’re married? You’re not? No, well, that’s not the end of the world.’

‘Have you ever been married?’

‘Me?’

She laughed as she set out the cups.

‘No, I was so young when I had Sven that I never had a chance…’

‘You didn’t?’

‘Well, yes, I probably did have a chance or two. But a woman in my situation had such low prestige in those days that the offers you received were generally from men no-one else wanted. It’s not called “finding your match” for nothing.’

‘Just because you were a single mother?’

‘Because Sven was the son of a German, my dear.’

The kettle began to give a low whistle.

‘Ah, I understand,’ Beate said. ‘He must have had a tough time growing up.’

Olaug stared into the air without sensing that the whistling was getting louder.

‘The toughest you can imagine. Just thinking about it can still make me cry. Poor boy.’

‘The water…’

‘There you see. I’m getting senile.’

Olaug lifted the kettle from the stove and poured water into their cups.

‘What does your son do now?’ Beate asked, looking at her watch:

‘Import-Export. Various things from the old communist countries.’ Olaug smiled. ‘I don’t know how much money he’s making out of it, but I like the sound of it. “Import-Export.” It’s just nonsense, but I like it.’

‘Anyway, it’s all worked out fine. Despite the tough time he had growing up, I mean.’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t always like that. You’ve probably got him on your records.’

‘There are lots of people on our records. Many who’ve turned out alright, too.’