Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

Harry put the key into the lock and turned. He waited for a second; he could hear a movement inside. Then he pulled open the door.

The man staring up at him from the bunk didn’t look like a killer. Harry knew that didn’t mean a thing. Sometimes they looked like what they were; sometimes they didn’t.

This one was good-looking, clean cut, solidly built, short dark hair and blue eyes that may once have been like his mother’s, but over the years had become his own. Harry would soon be 40, Sven Sivertsen was over 50. Harry felt sure that most people would have guessed the other way round.

Sivertsen, for one reason or another, was wearing the red prison working trousers and jacket.

‘Good evening, Sivertsen. I’m Inspector Hole. Would you mind standing up and turning round.’

Sivertsen raised an eyebrow. Harry dangled the handcuffs in front of him.

‘It’s the rules.’

Sivertsen got up without a word, and Harry clicked the handcuffs into place and pushed him back down on the bunk.

There were no chairs to sit on in the cell. There was no personal property that could be used to harm yourself or others. In here the state had a monopoly on punishment. Harry leaned against the wall and pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket.

‘You’ll set off the smoke alarm,’ Sivertsen said. ‘They’re extremely sensitive.’

His voice was surprisingly high-pitched.

‘That’s true. You’ve been here before, haven’t you.’

Harry lit the cigarette, stood up on tiptoes, whipped off the alarm cover and took out the batteries.

‘And what do the rules say about that?’ Sven Sivertsen asked acidly.

‘Don’t remember. Smoke?’

‘What’s this? The good-cop trick?’

‘No.’ Harry smiled. ‘We’ve got so much on you that we don’t need to do any play-acting. We don’t need to clear up details. We don’t need the corpse of Lisbeth Barli. We don’t need a confession. We simply don’t need your help, Sivertsen.’

‘Why are you here then?’

‘Curiosity. We deal with deep-sea creatures here and I wanted to see what kind of creature we had got on the hook this time.’

Sivertsen snorted a laugh.

‘A fanciful image, but you’ll be disappointed, Inspector Hole. It might feel like something big, but I’m afraid this one’s just an old boot.’

‘Would you mind lowering your voice a bit.’

‘Are you frightened someone will hear us?’

‘Just do as I say. You seem very calm for someone who’s been arrested for four murders.’

‘I’m innocent.’

‘Mm. Let me give you a brief resume of the situation, Sivertsen. In your briefcase, we find a red diamond that is not exactly an everyday item, but has been found on the bodies of several of the victims. Plus a Ceska Zbrojovka, a relatively rare weapon in Norway, but the same make as the gun used to murder Barbara Svendsen. According to your statement, you were in Prague on the dates the murders were committed, but we’ve checked with the airlines and it turns out that you were on a flying visit to Oslo on all of the five relevant dates, including yesterday. How are your alibis for five o’clock on all of the days in question, Sivertsen?’

Sven Sivertsen did not reply.

‘Thought so. So don’t you innocent me, Sivertsen.’

‘As if I care what you think, Hole. Was there anything else?’

Harry, his back against the wall, slid down into a crouch position.

‘Yes. Do you know Tom Waaler?’

‘Who?’

It came quickly. Too quickly. Harry took his time, blew smoke up at the ceiling. The expression on Sven Sivertsen’s face was one of abject boredom, but Harry had met killers with a hard shell before – and with a psyche that was like a shaking jelly inside. Nonetheless, he’d also met the deep-frozen variety who were shell right the way through. He wondered how tough this one actually was.

‘You don’t need to pretend that you don’t remember the name of the man who arrested and questioned you, Sivertsen. I wonder if you already knew him?’

Harry noted a tiny little hesitation in his eyes.

‘You’ve been done for smuggling before. The weapon that was found in your case has a particular mark on it made by a machine used to grind away the serial number. In recent years we have found the same marks on more and more unregistered guns in Oslo. We think there is a ring of smugglers responsible.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Have you been smuggling arms for Waaler, Sivertsen?’

‘Jesus, do you guys do that kind of thing, too?’

Sven Sivertsen didn’t even blink. However, a little bead of sweat was making its way down from his dense hairline.

‘Warm, Sivertsen?’

‘Comfortable.’

‘Mm.’

Harry got up, went over to the basin and with his back to Sivertsen he loosened a white plastic beaker from the container and turned the tap on full.

‘Do you know what, Sivertsen? It didn’t occur to me until a colleague told me about the way Waaler arrested you. Then I remembered how Waaler reacted when I said that Beate Lonn had found out who you were. Normally, he’s a cold sod, but he went ashen and for a while seemed almost stunned. At that time I thought it was because he realised we’d been outmanoeuvred and we might get landed with another dead body. But when Lonn told me about Waaler’s two guns and said that he’d shouted out that you shouldn’t shoot him, it all clicked into place. It wasn’t the fear of another murder that had given him the shakes. It was my mentioning your name. He knew you. In fact, you’re one of his couriers. And Waaler appreciated of course that if you were accused of murder everything would come out into the open. All about the guns you used, the reason for your frequent trips to Oslo, all your contacts. A judge might even mitigate the sentence if you were willing to work with the police. That was why he planned to shoot you.’

‘Shoot…’

Harry filled the beaker with water, turned and went over to Sven Sivertsen. He put the beaker on the floor in front of him and unlocked his handcuffs. Sivertsen rubbed his wrists.

‘Drink up,’ Harry said. ‘Then you can have a smoke before I put the cuffs back on.’

Sven hesitated. Harry looked at his watch. He still had half an hour left.

‘Come on, Sivertsen.’

Sven took the beaker, put his head back and emptied it while keeping an eye on Harry.

Harry put a cigarette between his lips and lit it before giving it to Sivertsen.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Harry said. ‘You think the opposite, that Tom Waaler is the one who’s going to rescue you from this – what shall we call it? – tiresome situation, don’t you? That he’ll take a risk as a reward to you for long and loyal service to his wallet. With all you’ve got on him, the worst that can happen is that you can blackmail him into helping you.’

Harry gently shook his head. ‘I thought you were smart, Sivertsen. All these puzzles you set up, the way you stage-managed everything, with you always one step ahead. All this and I imagined someone who knew exactly what we would think and what we would do. But you aren’t even up to understanding how a shark like Waaler operates.’

‘You’re right,’ Sivertsen said, blowing smoke up at the ceiling with his eyes half closed. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Sivertsen tapped at the cigarette. The ash fell outside the plastic beaker he was holding underneath.

Harry wondered if it was a crack he could see. But then he had seen cracks before and had been wrong.

‘Did you know that colder weather is forecast?’ Harry asked.

‘I don’t follow Norwegian news.’ Sivertsen smirked. The man apparently thought that he had won.

‘Rain,’ Harry said. ‘How was the water, by the way?’