‘I think it was one of the few times Dylan was telling the truth, but I think you’re lying. If I’m going to be part of this madness, I want to know why you’re in on it. So spit it out.’
Harry shook his head. ‘OK, Øystein, I’m not going to tell you everything, for your sake and for my own. You’re just going to have to trust me here.’
‘When was the last time that paid off?’
‘Don’t remember. Never?’
Øystein laughed. Pushed a CD into the player and turned up the volume. ‘Heard the latest from Talking Heads?’
‘Naked, 1987?’
‘’88.’
Øystein lit up cigarettes for both of them as ‘Blind’ streamed out of the loudspeakers. They smoked without rolling down the windows while David Byrne sang about signs being lost and signs disappearing. The smoke lay like a sea fog inside the car.
‘Have you ever had the feeling that you know you’re going to do something stupid, but do it all the same?’ Øystein asked, taking one last drag on the cigarette.
Harry stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘The other day I saw a mouse walk right up to a cat and get killed. What was that all about, you think?’
‘I dunno, you tell me. A lack of instinct for self-preservation?’
‘Some sort of urge, anyway. We’re drawn — some of us, at least — towards the edge of the precipice. They say it’s because the closeness to death intensifies the feeling of being alive. But fuck it, I don’t know.’
‘Well said,’ Øystein said.
They gazed at the Munch Museum.
‘I agree,’ Harry said. ‘Absolutely horrible.’
‘OK,’ Øystein said.
‘OK what?’
‘OK, I’ll take the job.’ Øystein stubbed his cigarette out on top of Harry’s. ‘It’s bound to be more fun than selling coke. Which is fucking boring, actually.’
‘Røed pays well.’
‘That’s all right, I’ll still take it.’
Harry smiled and took out his phone, which was vibrating. Saw a ‘T’ on the display.
‘Yes, Truls.’
‘I’ve checked that report from the Forensic Medical Institute you asked about. Susanne Andersen had stitches to her head. And they found saliva and mucus on one of her breasts. They ran an express DNA analysis but got no hits on the database of registered offenders.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
Harry hung up. That was it, what Katrine didn’t want to — or thought she couldn’t — tell him. Saliva. Mucus.
‘So where to, boss?’ Øystein asked, turning the key in the ignition.
12
Monday
Wegner swivel chair
‘Is this a joke?’ the pathologist asked from behind her face mask.
Alexandra stared in disbelief at the open cranium of the corpse on the table in front of them. It was usual during a full autopsy for the pathologist to saw a round incision in the skull and examine the brain. And beside them, on the table of instruments, lay the usual tools: the manual and the electric bone saws, along with the T-shaped skull key that they used to remove the top of the skull. What was unusual was that none of these instruments had been used on Susanne Andersen. It had not been necessary. Because after they had cut the stitches, removed the scalp and placed the toupée of Susanne’s long, blonde hair on another table, it had become clear that someone had beaten them to it. The skull had already been sawn open. The pathologist had tilted back the top of the skull, like a hinged lid. And now she was asking if it was supposed to be a joke.
‘No,’ Alexandra whispered.
‘You’re kidding,’ Katrine said into the phone as she looked out the window of her office, at Botsparken, with the avenue of linden trees leading up to the old part of Oslo Prison, the almost picturesque Botsfengselet. The sky was clear, and although people were no longer lying on the grass in just their underwear, they were sitting on the benches with faces turned towards the sun in the knowledge that this might be the last day of the year with summer temperatures.
She listened and realised that Alexandra Sturdza was not kidding. She had never actually believed she was. Because wasn’t this something she half expected on Saturday, when Alexandra had told her about the stitches? That they weren’t dealing with a rational murderer, but a crazy person, one they could not find by answering Harry’s why. Because there was no why, at least not that a normal person could understand.
‘Thanks,’ Katrine said, hanging up, getting to her feet and making her way through the open-plan office. To the windowless office that had once been Harry’s and which he had turned down changing for a larger, brighter one when he was promoted to inspector. Perhaps that was why Sung-min had chosen precisely this office as a base while working on the case, or perhaps he just thought it was better than the other two available offices she had shown him. The door was open, so she knocked on it as she entered.
Sung-min’s suit jacket hung on the coat stand on a hanger she realised he must have brought with him. His shirt was so white it seemed to glow in the gloomy room. She found herself automatically looking around for the items that had been here when it was Harry’s cave. Like the framed Dead Policemen’s Society picture, with the photo of all the colleagues Harry had lost in service. But everything was gone, even the coat stand was new.
‘Bad news,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
‘We’ll get the preliminary results of the autopsy in an hour, but Sturdza gave me a heads-up. Susanne Andersen is missing her brain.’
Sung-min raised an eyebrow. ‘Literally?’
‘There’s only so much a post-mortem can uncover, so yes, I mean literally. Someone’s opened up Susanne’s cranium and...’
‘And?’
‘Removed her entire brain.’
Sung-min leaned back in the office chair. She recognised the drawn-out, plaintive creak. The chair. That worn-out wreck. So they hadn’t replaced that.
Johan Krohn watched as Markus Røed sneezed, wiped his nose on one of his light blue handkerchiefs, put it back into his inside pocket and leaned back in the Wegner swivel chair behind his desk. Krohn knew it was a Wegner because he had wanted one just like it himself. But the listed price was close to thirteen thousand kroner, and he didn’t feel he could justify that to the partners, his wife or the clients. It was a simple chair. Elegant, but in no way ostentatious, and thus untypical for Markus Røed. He presumed that someone, perhaps Helene, had advised him that the previous office chair, a high-backed Vitra Grand Executive in black leather, was too vulgar. Not that he thought the other two people in the room cared. Harry Hole had pulled out a chair from the conference table and sat down in front of Røed’s desk, while the other individual — a highly dubious Captain Hook-like figure Harry had introduced as a driver and general factotum on his team — had sat down by the door. So at least he knew his place.
‘Tell me, Hole,’ Røed sniffled, ‘is this a joke?’
‘Nope,’ said Harry, who had sunk into the chair, placed his hands behind his head, stretched out his long legs and was now turning his shoes at angles to examine them as if he hadn’t noticed them before. They looked like a pair of John Lobb shoes to Krohn, but it was hard to imagine someone like Hole could afford that.
‘Seriously, Hole, you’re thinking our team should consist of a hospitalised cancer patient, a policeman under investigation for corruption and a man who drives a taxi?’
‘I said drove a taxi. He’s in the retail business now. And it’s not our team, Røed, it’s mine.’
Røed’s face darkened. ‘The problem, Hole, is that there isn’t a team, it’s a... theatre troupe. And I’d be made to look like a clown if I was foolish enough to announce that these... these are the best I could find.’