It was not without parallels; you just had to look at all the incidents in America, where someone who had been fired or humiliated in some other way returned to their place of work and shot their colleagues. Omar Thornton killed eight of them at a distribution warehouse after being let go for stealing beer; Wesley Neal Higdon killed five after being told off by his boss; Jennifer San Marco fired six fatal shots into the heads of colleagues at the post office after she had been dismissed for — what else? — being insane.
The difference here was the degree of planning involved and the ability to execute the plans. So how crazy was Truls Berntsen? Was he crazy enough for the police to reject his claims that Harry Hole had killed someone in a bar?
No.
Not if he had proof. Proof couldn’t be declared insane.
Truls Berntsen.
Harry let his mind run.
Everything fitted. But did the essential ingredient fit? The motive. What was it Mikael Bellman had said? If a woman fantasises about rape, it doesn’t mean she wants to be raped. If a man fantasises about violence it doesn’t mean. .
For Christ’s sake. Stop it!
But it wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t give him any peace until he had solved the problem. And there were only two ways it could be solved. There was the old way. The one that every fibre of his body was screaming for now. A drink. The drink that multiplied, expunged, veiled, numbed. That was the provisional way. The bad way. The other was the final way. The necessary way. The one that eradicated the problem. The devil’s alternative.
Harry jumped to his feet. There was no alcohol in the house, there hadn’t been since he moved in. He started pacing the floor. Then stopped. Eyed the old corner cupboard. It reminded him of something. A drinks cabinet he had once stood and stared at in just this way. What was holding him back? How many times before had he sold his soul for less reward than this? Perhaps that was precisely the point. That the other times it had been for small change, justified by moral indignation. While this time it was. . unclean. He wanted to save his own neck while he was at it.
But he could hear it inside him now, whispering to him. Take me out, use me. Use me in the way I should be used. And this time I’ll finish the job off. I won’t let a bulletproof vest fool me.
It would take him half an hour to drive from here to Truls Berntsen’s flat in Manglerud. With the arsenal in his bedroom that Harry had seen with his own eyes. Weapons, handcuffs, gas mask. Baton. So why was he putting it off? He knew what had to be done.
But was he right? Did Truls Berntsen really kill René Kalsnes on Mikael Bellman’s orders? There was no doubt Truls was off his trolley, but was Mikael Bellman as well?
Or was it just a construct his brain had assembled with the pieces he had at his disposal, forcing them to fit because it wanted, needed, demanded a picture, any picture which would give if not meaning then an answer, a feeling that the dots were joined up?
Harry took the phone from his pocket and selected A.
Ten seconds went by before he heard a grunt. ‘Yeah?’
‘Hi, Arnold, it’s me.’
‘Harry?’
‘Yes. Are you at work?’
‘It’s one in the morning, Harry. Like most normal people I’m in bed.’
‘Sorry. Do you want to go back to sleep?’
‘Since you ask, yes.’
‘OK, but now you’re awake. .’ He heard a groan at the other end. ‘I’m wondering about Mikael Bellman. You used to work at Kripos when he was there. Did you ever notice anything to suggest he might be sexually attracted to men?’
There followed a long silence in which Harry listened to Arnold’s regular breathing and a train rattling by. From the acoustics Harry deduced that Arnold had a window open, you could hear more outside the bedroom than inside. He must have got used to the noise, and it didn’t interfere with his sleep. And it suddenly struck him, not like a revelation, more like a stray thought, that this was perhaps how it was with the case. Perhaps it was the noises, the familiar noises they didn’t hear and which therefore didn’t wake them, they should be listening to?
‘Have you fallen asleep, Arnold?’
‘Not at all. The idea is so new to me that I have to let it sink in first. So. In retrospect, putting everything in a different light. . And even then I can’t make. . but it’s obvious. .’
‘What’s obvious?’
‘Well, it was Bellman and that dog of his with the boundless loyalty.’
‘Truls Berntsen.’
‘Exactly. The two of. .’ Another pause. Another train. ‘Well, Harry, I can’t see them as a couple, if you know what I mean.’
‘I see. Sorry to have woken you. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight. By the way. . just a mo. .’
‘Mm?’
‘There was a guy at Kripos. I’d forgotten all about it, but I went to the toilet once, and he and Bellman were over by the basins, both with very red faces. As though something had happened. Know what I mean? I remember the thought crossing my mind, but didn’t take too much notice of it. But the guy left Kripos soon afterwards.’
‘What was his name?’
‘No idea. I can find out, but not now.’
‘Thanks, Arnold. And sleep well.’
‘Thanks. What’s happening?’
‘Not a lot, Arnold,’ Harry said, rang off and slipped the phone into his pocket.
Opened his other hand.
Stared at the CD shelf. The key was under W.
‘Not a lot,’ he repeated.
He took off his T-shirt on the way to the bathroom. He knew the bedlinen was white, clean and cold. And the silence outside the open window would be total and the night air suitably crisp. And he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a second.
In bed, he lay listening to the wind. It was whistling. Whistling through the keyhole of a very old, black corner cupboard.
The duty officer on the switchboard received the message about a fire at 4.06 a.m. When she heard the fireman’s agitated voice she automatically assumed it had to be a major incident, one that might require the traffic to be redirected, personal possessions to be safeguarded or casualties and fatalities to be dealt with. She was therefore a little surprised when the fireman said that smoke had triggered an alarm in a bar in Oslo, which had been closed for the night, and that the fire had burnt itself out before they arrived. And even more surprised when the fireman told her to get some officers there right away. She could hear that what she had at first taken for agitation in the man’s voice was horror. The voice trembled, like the voice of someone who had probably seen a lot in his career but nothing that could have prepared him for what he was trying to communicate.
‘There’s a young girl. She must have been doused in something. There are empty bottles of spirits on the bar.’
‘Where are you?’
‘She’s. . she’s completely charred. And she’s been tied to a pipe.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Round the neck. Looks like a bike lock. You’ve got to come, I’m telling you.’
‘Yes, but where-?’
‘Kvadraturen. The place is called Come As You Are. Jesus Christ, she’s only a young girl. .’
40
Ståle Aune was woken at 6.28 by a ringing sound. For some reason, he thought at first it was the phone, before realising it was his alarm clock. Must have been something in his dream. But since he didn’t believe in interpreting dreams any more than he believed in psychotherapy he made no attempt to trace his train of thought back. He brought his hand down hard on the clock and closed his eyes to enjoy the two minutes before a second alarm clock went off. As a rule, this was when he heard Aurora’s bare feet hit the floor and make a sprint for the bathroom to get in first.
Silence.
‘Where’s Aurora?’
‘She’s got a sleepover at Emilie’s,’ Ingrid mumbled in a thick voice.
Ståle Aune got up. Showered, shaved, had breakfast with his wife in companionable silence while she read the newspaper. Ståle had become pretty good at reading upside down. He skipped the police murders, no news there, only new speculation.