‘Aha,’ Beate said. ‘Does that mean. .?’
‘Yes, it means you’ll be working in total secrecy.’
‘Secrecy from whom?’ Bjørn Holm asked.
‘Everyone,’ Hagen said. ‘Absolutely everyone except me.’
Ståle Aune coughed. ‘And who in particular?’
Hagen rolled a bit of skin on his neck between his thumb and first finger. His eyelids had lowered, making him look like a lizard basking in hot sun.
‘Bellman,’ Beate articulated. ‘The Chief of Police.’
Hagen splayed his palms. ‘I just want results. We were successful with a small, independent group when Harry was with us. But the Chief of Police has put his foot down. He wants one big unit. But the one big unit has run out of ideas, and we have to catch this police killer. If we don’t, all hell will be let loose. Were it to come to a confrontation with the Chief of Police, I would naturally take full and complete responsibility. I would say I hadn’t told you he was unaware of this unit. But I appreciate the position I’m putting you in, so it’s up to you whether you want to be in on this or not.’
Katrine noticed how her eyes — like everyone else’s — turned towards Beate Lønn. They knew the real decision lay with her. If she threw her hat in the ring, they all would. If not. .
‘The demon face on his chest,’ Beate said. She had picked up the photograph from the table and was studying it. ‘Looks like someone who wants out. Out of prison. Out of his own body. Or his own brain. Like the Snowman. Perhaps he’s one of them.’ She looked up. Fleeting smile. ‘Count me in.’
Hagen looked at the others. And received brief nods of confirmation.
‘Good,’ Hagen said. ‘I’ll be leading the investigative unit as before while Katrine will be the official leader of this one. As she comes under the Bergen and Hordaland Police District, technically you as a group don’t have to report to Oslo Chief of Police.’
‘We’re working for Bergen,’ Beate said. ‘Well, why not? Skål to Bergen, folks!’
They raised their glasses.
As they stood on the pavement outside Justisen, light drizzle was falling, emphasising the smell of rock salt, oil and tarmac.
‘Let me take this opportunity to thank you for having me back,’ said Ståle Aune, buttoning up his Burberry.
‘The untouchables ride again,’ Katrine smiled.
‘Just like the old days,’ Bjørn said, contentedly patting his stomach.
‘Almost,’ Beate said. ‘There’s one person missing.’
‘Hey!’ Hagen said. ‘We agreed we wouldn’t talk about him again. He’s gone and that’s that.’
‘He’ll never be completely gone, Gunnar.’
Hagen sighed. Peered up at the sky. Shrugged.
‘Maybe not. There was a PHS student doing a shift at the Rikshospital. She asked me if Harry Hole had ever not managed to solve a case. I thought at first she was just being nosy because she had studied one of his cases. I answered that the Gusto Hanssen case was never really solved. And today I heard that my secretary had received a call from PHS requesting copies of that very case file.’ Hagen smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps he’s becoming a legend, after all.’
‘Harry will always be remembered,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘Unsurpassed and unparalleled.’
‘Maybe,’ Beate said. ‘But we’ve got four people here who are close on his heels. Aren’t we?’
They looked at each other. Nodded. Took their leave with brief, firm handshakes and headed off in three different directions.
12
Mikael Bellman saw the figure above his gunsights. He scrunched up one eye, slowly pulled the trigger, listening to his heartbeat. Calm but heavy. He felt the blood being pumped to his fingertips. The figure wasn’t moving, he just had a sense it was. He let go of the trigger, took a deep breath and focused once more. Got the figure in the sights again. Pulled. Saw the figure twitch. Twitch in the right way. Dead. Mikael Bellman knew he had hit the head.
‘Bring the body over and we’ll do a post-mortem,’ he shouted, lowering his Heckler amp; Koch P30L. Tore off his ear and eye protectors. Heard the electric hum and the wires singing and saw the figure dance towards them. It came to a halt half a metre in front of him.
‘Good,’ said Truls Berntsen, letting go of the switch. The humming stopped.
‘Not bad,’ Mikael said, studying the paper target with the holes over half the torso and the head. Nodded to the target with the severed head in the lane beside his. ‘But not as good as yours.’
‘Good enough to pass the test. I heard ten point two per cent failed this year.’ With practised hands, Truls changed his paper target, pressed the switch and a new figure sang its way back. It stopped at the flecked green metal plate twenty metres away. Mikael heard high-pitched laughter coming from a few lanes to the left. Saw two young women huddle together and glance over at them. Probably PHS students who had recognised him. All the sounds here had their own frequencies, so that even over the gunfire Mikael could hear the thwack of paper and the clunk of lead on metal. Followed by the tiny click as the bullet fell into the box for collecting the compressed shells beneath the target.
‘In practice, more than ten per cent of the force are incapable of defending themselves or anyone else. What does the Chief of Police say to that?’
‘Not all officers can train as much as you do, Truls.’
‘Have so much time to spare, you mean?’
Truls laughed his irritating grunted laugh as Mikael looked at his subordinate and childhood friend. At the higgledy-piggledy jumble of teeth his parents had never seen fit to have checked, at the red gums. Everything was apparently as before, yet something had changed. Perhaps it was just the recent haircut. Or was it the suspension? That kind of thing had a tendency to affect people you hadn’t thought were so sensitive. Perhaps especially them, those who were not in the habit of venting their emotions, who kept them hidden, hoping they would pass with time. Those were the ones who could crack. Put a bullet through their temples.
But Truls seemed content. He was laughing. Mikael had once told Truls that his laughter made people panic. He should try to change it. Practise to find a more normal, more pleasant laugh. Truls had only laughed even louder. And pointed at Mikael. Pointed a finger at him without saying a word, only this eerie snorted laugh.
‘Aren’t you going to ask?’ Truls enquired, pushing cartridges into the magazine of his gun.
‘What about?’
‘About the money in my account.’
Mikael shifted his weight. ‘Was that why you invited me here? For me to ask you?’
‘Do you want to know how the money got there?’
‘Why should I harass you now?’
‘You’re the Chief of Police.’
‘And you took the decision not to say anything. I thought it was stupid of you, but I respect it.’
‘Do you?’ Truls clicked the magazine into place. ‘Or are you leaving me alone because you already know where it came from, Mikael?’
Bellman eyed his childhood friend. He could see it now. See what had changed. It was the sick gleam. The one from their childhood, the one he got when he was angry, when the older kids in Manglerud were threatening to beat up the loudmouth with the girlie good looks who had taken Ulla, and Mikael had had to push Truls in front of him. Set the hyena on them. The mangy, whipped hyena who had already had to take so many beatings. So many that one more didn’t make much difference. And when Truls had that gleam in his eye, the hyena gleam, it meant he was willing to die, and if he got his teeth into you, he would never, ever let go. He would lock his jaws and stay there until you went down on your knees or he was pulled off. But Mikael had seen the gleam only rarely as time went on. More recently there had of course been the time when they had dealt with the homo in the boiler room, and also, when Mikael had told him about the suspension. What had changed now, though, was that the gleam didn’t go. It was there all the time, as if he had some kind of fever.