Not then.
‘That do you, pal?’
Truls looked at the back of his head in the round plastic mirror the poof was holding.
Terrorist cut. Suicide bomber cut. He grunted. Got up, chucked a 200-krone note on the newspaper to avoid hand-to-hand contact. Went out into the March day that was still no more than a rumour that spring was on its way. Glanced up at Police HQ. Started walking towards the metro in Grønland. The haircut had taken nine and a half minutes. He lifted his head, walked faster. He had no deadlines. Nothing to do. Oh, yes, he did have something. But it didn’t require much work, and he had his usual resources: time to plan, hatred, the determination to lose everything. He glanced at the shop window in one of the district’s Asian food outlets. And confirmed he finally looked like what he was.
Gunnar Hagen sat gazing at the wallpaper above the Chief of Police’s desk and empty chair. Focused on the darker patches from the photos that had hung there for as long as anyone could remember. There had been pictures of former police chiefs, probably meant as sources of inspiration, but Mikael Bellman was clearly able to do without them. Without the inquisitorial stares at their successor.
Hagen wanted to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair, but there weren’t any arms. Bellman had changed the chairs as well. For hard, low wooden ones.
Hagen had been summoned, and the assistant in the anteroom had shown him in and said the Chief of Police would be along soon.
The door opened.
‘There you are!’ Bellman rushed round the desk and slumped into the chair. Interlaced his hands behind his head.
‘Anything new?’
Hagen coughed. He knew Bellman was aware that there was nothing new, as Hagen had standing orders to pass on the smallest development in the two murder cases. But he did as he was asked, explained that they still didn’t have any clues in the cases viewed in isolation, or a connection between the murders, beyond the obvious, that the victims were two policemen who had been found at scenes of earlier unsolved murders they themselves had investigated.
Bellman got up in the middle of Hagen’s account and stood by the window with his back to him. Rocked on his heels. Pretended to listen for a while before breaking in.
‘You’ve got to fix this, Hagen.’
Gunnar Hagen stopped. Waited for him to continue.
Bellman turned. There was a redness around the white patches on his face.
‘And I have to query your judgement prioritising the twenty-four-hour guard at the Rikshospital when honest policemen are being killed. Shouldn’t it be all hands on deck for this investigation?’
Hagen looked at Bellman in amazement. ‘It isn’t my officers doing it; it’s the City Centre Police Station and PHS students doing their practicals. I don’t think the investigation is suffering, Mikael.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Bellman said. ‘I’d still like you to reconsider your decision. I can’t see any impending danger of someone killing the patient after all the time that’s passed. They know he’ll never be able to testify anyway.’
‘The doctors say there are signs of improvement.’
‘The case no longer has priority.’ The Police Chief’s answer came in a hurried, almost angry tone. Then he took a deep breath and turned on the charm. ‘But mounting a guard is of course your decision. I don’t want to be involved. Understood?’ he smiled.
It was on the tip of Hagen’s tongue to answer no, but he managed to restrain himself and nodded briefly while trying to grasp what Mikael Bellman was after.
‘Good,’ Bellman said, clapping his hands to signal the meeting was over. Hagen was about to get up, as nonplussed as when he arrived, but instead stayed seated.
‘We were thinking of trying a different procedure.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes,’ Hagen said. ‘Dividing the investigative unit into several smaller ones.’
‘How come?’
‘To allow more space for alternative ideas. Big groups have the competence, but are not suitable for thinking outside the box in the same way.’
‘And we have to think outside. . the box?’
Hagen ignored the sarcasm. ‘We’re going round in circles and we can’t see the wood for the trees.’
He eyed the Police Chief. As a former detective Bellman knew the scenario well of course; a group could get stuck in a rut, assumptions hardened into facts and you’re unable to see alternative hypotheses. Nevertheless, Bellman shook his head.
‘In small groups you lose the ability to see a case through, Hagen. The responsibility is atomised, you get in each other’s way and the same job is repeated. One big, well-coordinated group is always best. At least as long as it has a strong, decisive leader. .’
Hagen felt the uneven surface of his molars as he ground his teeth and hoped the effect of Bellman’s insinuation could not be seen in his facial expression.
‘But-’
‘When a leader starts changing tactics it can easily be interpreted as desperation and an admission that he’s failed.’
‘But we have failed, Mikael. It’s March now, which means it’s six months since the first murder.’
‘No one will follow a leader who’s failed, Hagen.’
‘My colleagues are neither blind nor stupid. They know we’re in a rut. And they also know that good leaders must have the ability to change tack.’
‘Good leaders know how to inspire their teams.’
Hagen swallowed. Swallowed what he wanted to say. That he was lecturing on leadership at the military academy while Bellman was running around with a catapult. That if Bellman was so bloody good at inspiring his subordinates, how about inspiring him — Gunnar Hagen? But he was too tired, too frustrated to swallow the words he knew would irritate Mikael Bellman most.
‘We were successful with the independent group Harry Hole led, do you remember? The Ustaoset murders would never have been solved if-’
‘I think you heard me, Hagen. I’d prefer to consider changes to the management of the investigation. Management is responsible for the culture among its employees, and now it seems it’s not result-orientated enough. If there’s nothing else, I have a meeting in a few minutes.’
Hagen couldn’t believe his ears. He staggered to his feet, as though the blood in his legs hadn’t circulated during the short time he had been sitting on the low, narrow chair. Stumbled towards the door.
‘By the way,’ Bellman said behind him and Hagen heard him stifle a yawn, ‘anything new in the Gusto Hanssen case?’
‘As you yourself said,’ Hagen answered, without turning so as not to show Bellman his face, where — in contrast to his legs — the blood vessels felt as if they were under immense pressure, his voice trembling with fury, ‘the case no longer has priority.’
Mikael Bellman waited until the door closed and he heard Hagen say goodbye to the secretary in the anteroom. Then he slumped into the high-backed leather chair and crumpled. He hadn’t summoned Hagen to question him about the police murders, and he had a suspicion Hagen had realised that. The telephone call he had received from Isabelle Skøyen an hour ago had been the cause. She, of course, had rabbited on about how these unsolved murders were making them both look incompetent and impotent. And how, unlike him, she was dependent on the electorate’s approval. He had been interspersing the monologue with mms and ohs, waiting for her to finish so that he could put the phone down, when she dropped the bombshell.
‘He’s coming out of the coma.’
Bellman sat with his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. Staring down at the desk’s shiny varnish in which he could see the blurred contours of himself. Women thought he was good-looking. Isabelle had told him straight out that was why she had chosen him, she liked attractive men. That was why she’d had sex with Gusto. The Elvis lookalike. People often misunderstood when men were good-looking. Mikael thought of the Kripos officer, the one who had tried it on with him, who had wanted to kiss him. He thought of Isabelle. And Gusto. Imagined them together. The three of them together. He got up from the chair abruptly. Went back to the window.