Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

Sven rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

‘Did you have a think, Hole?’

‘Yup.’

‘And what did you think about?’

‘About the pictures your girlfriend took of you and Waaler in Prague.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

Harry unlocked the handcuff.

‘The pictures have nothing to do with the case. I was thinking that she was pretending to be a tourist, doing what tourists do.’

‘And that is?’

‘What I said. Taking pictures.’

Sivertsen rubbed his wrists and scrutinised the food on the table.

‘What about a glass to drink from, Hole?’

Harry pointed to the bottle.

Sven unscrewed the top while squinting through semi-closed eyes at Harry.

‘So you’ll risk drinking from the same bottle as a serial killer?’

Harry replied with a mouth full of hamburger: ‘Same boat. Same bottle.’

Olaug Sivertsen was sitting in her living room staring vacantly ahead of her. She had not switched on the light in the hope that they would think she wasn’t at home and give up. They had been ringing the phone, ringing the doorbell, shouting from the garden and throwing pebbles at the kitchen window. ‘No comment,’ she had said, and pulled out the telephone jack plug. In the end they stood around outside, waiting with their long, black telephoto lenses. Once she had gone to draw the curtains in front of one of the windows and she had heard the insect noises from their cameras. Zzzz, Zzzz, click. Zzzz, Zzzz, click.

Almost a day had passed and still the police had not discovered their mistake. It was the weekend. Perhaps they were waiting until Monday and their usual office hours before sorting it out.

If only she had someone to talk to. But Ina still had not returned from her holiday with this mysterious gentleman. Perhaps she should ring Beate, the policewoman? It wasn’t her fault they had arrested Sven. Beate seemed to know that he wasn’t the kind of person to go round killing people. She had even given her a telephone number and said that she could ring if there was anything she wanted to tell them. Anything.

Olaug gazed out of the window. The silhouette of the dead pear tree looked like fingers grasping the moon, which hung low over the garden and the station building. She had never seen a moon like it before. It resembled a dead man’s face. Blue veins standing out against white skin.

What had happened to Ina? Sunday afternoon at the latest, she had said. Olaug had imagined how cosy it would be with a cup of tea, and Ina would be able to meet Sven. Ina who was so reliable as far as punctuality and so on went.

Olaug waited until the wall clock struck two.

Then she pulled out the telephone number.

There was an answer at the third ring.

‘Beate,’ said a sleepy voice.

‘Hello, this is Olaug Sivertsen. I’m really terribly sorry for ringing so late.’

‘Don’t worry, fru Sivertsen.’

‘Olaug.’

‘Olaug. Sorry, I’m not quite awake yet.’

‘I’m ringing because I’m concerned about Ina, my lodger. She should have been home ages ago and with all the things that have happened, well, yes, I’m worried.’

When Olaug did not get an immediate response, she wondered if Beate had gone back to sleep. But then her voice was there again, and this time it was not sleepy.

‘Are you telling me that you’ve got a lodger, Olaug?’

‘Yes, indeed. Ina. She has got the maid’s room. Oh, yes, I didn’t show you, did I. It’s because it’s on the other side of the back steps. She’s been away all weekend.’

‘Where? Who with?’

‘I wish I knew. The person is a relatively new acquaintance whom I have not yet been introduced to. She just said they were going to his holiday cabin.’

‘You should have told us that before, Olaug.’

‘Should I? I’m really very sorry… I…’

Olaug could feel the tears welling up, but she was powerless to prevent it.

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that, Olaug,’ she heard Beate hasten to add. ‘It’s not you I’m angry with. It’s my job to check these things. You couldn’t have known this was relevant to our inquiry. I’ll ring the police control room and they’ll phone you back for personal details about Ina so that they can look into the matter. I’m sure nothing has happened to her, but it’s better to be on the safe side, isn’t it. After that, I think you should try to get a little sleep. I’ll ring you back early in the morning. Shall we say that, Olaug?’

‘Yes,’ Olaug said, trying to put a smile into her voice. She really wanted to ask Beate if she knew how things were going with Sven, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

‘Yes, let’s say that. Bye, Beate.’

She replaced the handset with tears running down her cheeks.

Beate settled down and tried to sleep. She listened to the house. It was talking. Mother had switched off the television at 11.00 and now it was quite still on the floor below. Beate wondered if her mother was also thinking about him, about her father. They seldom spoke of him. It took too much out of them. She had started looking for a flat in the city centre. Last year she had begun to feel confined living on one floor in her mother’s house. Especially since she had started seeing Halvorsen, the rock-steady officer from Steinkjer whom she called by his surname and who treated her with a kind of respect and trepidation that she unaccountably set great store by. She would not have so much room in Oslo. And she would miss the sounds of this house, the wordless monologues she had gone to sleep to all her life.

The telephone rang again. Beate sighed and reached out her arm.

‘Yes, Olaug?’

‘It’s Harry. You seem to be awake already.’

She sat up in bed.

‘Yes, the phone’s been going non-stop tonight. What’s up?’

‘I need some help. And you’re the only person I dare trust.’

‘Right. Knowing you, I suppose that means hassle for me.’

‘Loads of hassle. Are you with me?’

‘What if I say “no”?’

‘Listen to what I have to say first, and then you can say “no” afterwards.’

Monday. The Photograph.

At 5.45 on Monday morning the sun was shining down from Ekeberg Ridge. The Securitas guard on duty in reception at Police HQ yawned loudly and raised his eyes from his Aftenposten as the first arrival signed in with his ID card.

‘Rain on the way according to the paper,’ he said, happy to see another human being.

The tall, somber-looking man cast a brief glance at him, but he didn’t respond.

During the next two minutes three other men followed him in, all equally uncommunicative and sombre.

At 6.00 the four men were sitting in the Divisional Commander’s office on the sixth floor.

‘Well,’ the Divisional Commander said, ‘one of our police inspectors has taken a possible killer from the custody block and nobody knows where they are.’

One of the things that made the Divisional Commander relatively well suited to his position was his ability to sum up a problem. Another was his ability to formulate what had to be done concisely:

‘So I propose we find them quick as fuck. What’s happened so far?’

The head of Kripos stole a furtive glance at Moller and Waaler before clearing his throat and answering:

‘We’ve put a small but experienced group of detectives on the case. Handpicked by Inspector Waaler, who is leading the search. Three from POT. Two from Crime Squad. They began last night only an hour after the officers in the custody block reported that Sivertsen had not been returned.’

‘Snappy work. But why haven’t the uniformed police been informed? And the patrol cars?’

‘We wanted to await developments and make a decision at this meeting, Lars. Hear what you thought.’