Everything had been set in motion. She had used the expression. Set in motion. All he had to do was wait. It should have made him feel calmer, better disposed to the world around him. So why had he plunged the knife into Hagen and turned it? To watch him wriggle? Just to see another tormented face, as tormented as the one reflected in the desk? But soon it would be over. Everything was in her hands now. And when what had to be done was done, they could carry on as before. They could forget Asayev, Gusto and definitely the man no one could stop talking about, Harry Hole. Sooner or later it would all be forgotten, even these police murders, in time.
Mikael Bellman wanted to test if that was what he wanted. But decided against it. He knew it was what he wanted.
7
Ståle Aune inhaled. this was one of the crossroads in the therapy, where he would have to take a decision. He decided.
‘There may be something unresolved about your sexuality.’
The patient eyed him. Tight-lipped smile. Narrow eyes. The slender hands with the almost abnormally long fingers rose, appeared to be about to straighten the knot of his tie above the pinstriped jacket, but didn’t. Ståle had noticed this movement a few times before, and it reminded him of patients who have succeeded in breaking a specific compulsive habit but who can’t shake the initial gesture, the hand poised to do something, an uncompleted action, an involuntary though definitely interpretable action. Like a scar, a limp. An echo. A reminder that nothing disappears in its entirety, everything leaves a trace in some way, somewhere. Like childhood. People you have known. Something you ate and couldn’t tolerate. A passion you had. Cellular memory.
The patient’s hand fell back into his lap. He cleared his throat, and his voice sounded tight and metallic. ‘What the hell do you mean? Are we starting on that Freud shit now?’
Ståle looked at the man. He had caught a glimpse of a TV crime series recently in which the police interpreted people’s emotional lives: the body language was fine, but it was their voices that gave them away. The muscles in the vocal cords and throat are so finely tuned that they can create sound waves in the form of identifiable words. When Ståle had lectured at PHS he had always emphasised to students what a miracle this was in itself. And he had said there was an even more sensitive instrument — the human ear. Which could not only decode the sound waves as vowels and consonants but also expose the speaker’s body temperature, level of tension and feelings. In interviews it was more important to listen than to watch. A tiny rise in key, or an almost imperceptible quiver, was a more significant signal than crossed arms, clenched fists, the size of the pupils and all the factors on which the new wave of psychologists conferred such importance, but which in Ståle’s experience more often confused and misled a detective. It was true this patient swore in front of him, but it was still primarily the pattern of pressure on Ståle’s eardrums that told him this patient was on his guard and angry. Normally that wouldn’t worry the experienced psychologist. On the contrary, strong emotions often meant a breakthrough was imminent. But the problem with this patient was that things came in the wrong sequence. Even after several months of regular sessions Ståle hadn’t made contact, there was no closeness, no trust. In fact it had been so unproductive that Ståle had considered recommending they broke off the treatment and perhaps referring the patient to a colleague. Anger in an otherwise secure atmosphere was good, but in this case it could mean the patient was closing himself off further, digging an even deeper trench.
Ståle sighed. He had obviously made the wrong decision, but it was too late, and he decided to plough on.
‘Paul,’ he said. The carefully plucked eyebrows and the two small scars under the chin, suggesting a facelift, had allowed Ståle to categorise him within ten minutes of the first therapy session. ‘Repressed homosexuality is very normal even in our apparently tolerant society.’ Aune followed the patient closely to detect a reaction. ‘I’m often consulted by the police, and one officer told me he was open about his homosexuality in his private life, but he couldn’t be open in his job because he would be frozen out. I asked if he was really so sure of that. Oppression often turns out to be the expectations we impose on ourselves and the expectations we interpret those around us as having. Especially those closest, friends and colleagues.’
He stopped.
There was no widening of the patient’s pupils, no colouring of the complexion, no resistance to eye contact, no evasive body language. On the contrary, a little contemptuous smile had appeared on his thin lips. But, to his surprise, Ståle Aune noticed that the temperature in his own cheeks had risen. My God, how he hated this patient! How he hated this job.
‘And the policeman,’ Paul said, ‘did he follow your advice?’
‘Our time’s up,’ Ståle said without checking the clock.
‘I’m curious, Aune.’
‘And I’ve taken an oath of confidentiality.’
‘So let’s call him X then. And I can see from your face that you didn’t like the question.’ Paul smiled. ‘He followed your advice, and there was an unhappy outcome, wasn’t there?’
Aune sighed. ‘X went too far, misunderstood a situation and tried to kiss a colleague in the toilets. And was frozen out. The point is that it might have gone well. Would you at least give the matter some thought for next time?’
‘But I’m not a homo.’ Paul raised a hand towards his throat, then lowered it again.
Ståle Aune nodded briefly. ‘Same time next week?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not getting better, am I?’
‘It’s going slowly, but we’re making progress,’ Ståle said. The answer came as automatically as the patient’s hand moving towards his tie.
‘Yes, you’ve said that a few times,’ Paul said. ‘But I have a feeling I’m paying for nothing. And that you’re just as useless as those detectives who can’t even nail a bloody serial killer and rapist. .’ Ståle registered with some astonishment that the patient’s voice had gone lower. Quieter. His voice and body language communicated something quite different from what he actually said. Ståle’s brain had, as if on autopilot, begun to analyse why the patient had used precisely this example, but the answer was so obvious he didn’t need to delve very deep. The newspapers lying on Ståle’s desk since the autumn. They had always been open at the page describing the police murders.
‘It isn’t so easy to catch a serial killer, Paul,’ Ståle Aune said. ‘I know quite a bit about serial killers, in fact, it’s my speciality. Just like this is. But if you feel like stopping the therapy, or you’d like to try one of my colleagues, it’s up to you. I have a list of very capable psychologists and can help you-’
‘Are you washing your hands of me, Ståle?’ Paul had tilted his head to one side, the eyelids with the colourless lashes had closed and the smile was broader. Ståle was unable to decide whether this was a smirk at the homosexuality theory or Paul was showing a glimpse of his true self. Or both.
‘Please don’t misunderstand,’ Ståle said, knowing that he had not been misunderstood. He wanted to get rid of him, but professional therapists didn’t kick out tricky patients. They just gritted their teeth harder, didn’t they? He adjusted his bow tie. ‘I’d like to treat you, but it’s important that we trust each other. And right now it doesn’t seem-’
‘I’m just having a bad day, Ståle.’ Paul splayed his hands in defence. ‘Sorry. I know you’re good. You worked on the serial murders at Crime Squad, didn’t you? You helped to catch the guy who was drawing pentagrams at crime scenes. You and that inspector.’