“Why are defense lawyers always presented as the lone defenders of justice?”
Hagen murmured, “They’re the necessary counterweight to the police, Katrine, and objectivity has never been your strong suit. Or self-control.”
“Self-control?”
“Cheer him up?”
Katrine shrugged. “What do you think about his proposal?”
Hagen rubbed his chin. “It’s problematic. But of course the pressure in the Rakel Fauke case is growing by the day, and if we failed to get Finne convicted it would be the defeat of the decade. But on the other hand, there’s all the reports of rapists going free over the past few years, and we’d be dropping three cases... What do you think, Katrine?”
“I hate the guy, but his proposal makes sense. I think we should be pragmatic and look at the bigger picture. Let me talk to the women who have reported him.”
“OK.” Hagen cleared his throat tentatively. “Talking about objectivity...”
“Yes?”
“Your attitude isn’t in any way affected by the fact that it would mean Harry going free as well?”
“What?”
“You’ve worked closely together, and...”
“And?”
“And I’m not blind, Katrine.”
Katrine walked over to the window and looked down at the path that led away from Police Headquarters, through Botsparken, where the snow was finally in full retreat, and down towards the sluggish traffic at Grønlandsleiret.
“Have you ever done anything you regretted, Gunnar? I mean, really regretted?”
“Hm. Are we still talking professionally?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
Katrine thought about how liberating it would be to tell someone. That someone knew. She had thought that the burden, the secret, would become easier to bear with time, but it was the other way around, it felt heavier with each passing day.
“I understand him,” she said quietly.
“Krohn?”
“No, Svein Finne. I understand that he wants to confess.”
22
Dagny Jensen put her palms down on the cold desk and looked at the dark-haired police officer sitting at the school desk in front of her. It was break time, and in the playground outside the windows she could hear the pupils shouting and laughing. “I appreciate that this isn’t an easy decision,” the woman said. She had introduced herself as Katrine Bratt, head of the Crime Squad Unit of the Oslo Police District.
“It sounds like the decision has already been made for me,” Dagny said.
“Naturally we can’t force you to retract an accusation,” Bratt said.
“But that’s exactly what you’re doing in practice,” Dagny said. “You’re handing the responsibility for him being convicted of murder over to me.”
The police officer looked down at the desk.
“Do you know what the main purpose of the Norwegian education system is?” Dagny said. “To teach the pupils to become responsible citizens. That it’s a responsibility as much as a privilege. Of course I’ll retract the accusation if it means Svein Finne can be locked up for the rest of his life.”
“When it comes to rape victims’ compensation...”
“I don’t want any money. I just want to forget it.” Dagny looked at her watch. Four minutes until the next lesson started. She was happy. Yes, she was — even after ten years teaching she was still happy, happy to be able to give young people something she genuinely thought would help them to have a better future. It felt meaningful, in a relatively straightforward way. And that was basically all she wanted. That, and to forget. “Can you promise me that you’ll get him convicted?”
“I promise,” the police officer said, and stood up.
“Harry Hole,” Dagny said. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“I don’t know, but hopefully Finne’s lawyer will drop the charge of kidnapping.”
“Hopefully?”
“What he did was obviously unlawful, and not how a police officer is supposed to act,” Katrine said. “But he sacrificed himself to make sure Finne was caught.”
“Like he sacrificed me, so he could get his own personal vengeance?”
“As I said, I can’t defend Harry Hole’s behaviour in this matter, but the fact remains that without him Svein Finne would probably have been able to go on terrorising you and other women.”
Dagny nodded slowly.
“I need to get back and prepare for an interview. Thank you for agreeing to help us. I promise you won’t regret it.”
23
“No, you’re not disturbing me at all, Mrs. Bratt,” Johan Krohn said, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he buttoned his shirt. “So all three accusations have been dropped?”
“How soon can you and Finne be ready for questioning?”
Johan Krohn enjoyed hearing her rolling Bergen “r”s. Bratt’s accent wasn’t strong, but there was still a trace of it there. Like a skirt that was long but not too long. He liked Katrine Bratt. She was pretty, smart and she offered some resistance. The fact that she had a wedding ring on her finger didn’t have to mean that much. He himself was living proof of that. And he found it rather exciting that she sounded so nervous. The same nervousness a buyer feels after he hands over the money and is waiting for the dealer to give him the bag of dope. Krohn went over to the window, put his thumb and forefinger between the slats of the blind, opened up a gap and looked down at Rozenkrantz’ gate, six floors below the law firm’s offices. It was only just after three o’clock, but in Oslo that meant rush hour. Unless you worked in law. Krohn sometimes wondered what would happen when the oil ran out and the Norwegian people had to face up to the demands of the real world again. The optimist in him said things would be fine, that people adapt to new situations quicker than you think, you just had to look at countries that had been at war. The realist in him said that in a country without any tradition of innovation and advanced thinking, there would be a slippery slope straight back to where Norway had come from: the bottom division of European economies.
“We can be there in two hours,” Krohn said.
“Great,” Bratt said.
“See you then, Mrs. Bratt.”
Krohn ended the call and stood for a moment, uncertain where to put his mobile.
“Here,” a voice said from the darkness over by the Chesterfield sofa. He walked over to her and took his trousers.
“Well?”
“They’ve taken the bait,” Krohn said, checking there were no stains on his trousers before putting them on.
“Is it bait? As in, they’re on the hook?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m just following my client’s instructions for the time being.”
“But you think there’s a hook there?”
Krohn shrugged his shoulders and looked around for his shoes. “From yourself shall you know others, I suppose.”
He sat down at the sturdy desk made of Quercus velutina, black oak, that he had inherited from his father. Called one of the numbers he had on speed dial.
“Mona Daa.” The energetic voice of VG’s crime reporter crackled across the room from the speaker.
“Good afternoon, Miss Daa. This is Johan Krohn. Ordinarily you call me, but I thought I’d be a bit proactive this time. I’ve got something I think might warrant an article in your paper.”
“Is it about Svein Finne?”
“Yes. I’ve just received confirmation from the Oslo Police that they’re dropping their investigation into the baseless accusations of rape that have been tossed about in the chaos surrounding the accusation of murder.”