Silje was out running. Training. As she had done to pass the entry requirements for PHS. To get in and do whatever she could do. Harry had said the motive for the murders was love, not hatred. Love for a brother, for instance.
It was the name that had brought a reaction. Runar Gravseng. And after further investigation a lot had come to light. Among other things, the names of Bellman and Berntsen. Runar Gravseng had in conversation with the head of the detox clinic claimed that he had been beaten up by a masked man while working at Stovner Police Station. That had been the reason for the doctor’s certificate, his resignation and his increased drug consumption. Gravseng maintained the perp was one Truls Berntsen and the motive for the violence was a slightly too cosy dance with Mikael Bellman’s wife at the police station’s Christmas dinner. The Chief of Police had refused to take the wild accusations of an out-and-out drug addict any further, and the head of the detox clinic had supported this. He had only wanted to pass on information, he’d said.
Katrine heard the lift go in the corridor as her gaze fell on something protruding from under the desk, which she’d missed. She bent down. A black baton.
The door opened.
‘Electricians doing their job?’
‘Yes,’ said Leif Rødbekk. ‘You look as if you intend to use that.’
Katrine smacked the baton against her palm. ‘Interesting object to have lying around in your room, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. I said the same when I was changing the washer on the bathroom tap last week. She said it was for training, for an exam. And in case the cop killer turned up.’ Leif Rødbekk closed the door behind him. ‘Find anything?’
‘This. Ever seen her take it out?’
‘A couple of times, yes.’
‘Really?’ Katrine pushed herself backwards on the chair. ‘What time of day?’
‘At night of course. Dolled up, high heels, blow-dried hair and the baton.’ He chuckled.
‘Why on-?’
‘She said it was protection against rapists.’
‘She’d lug a baton into town for that?’ Katrine weighed the baton in her hand. (It reminded her of the top of an IKEA hat stand.) ‘It would have been easier to avoid the parks.’
‘Not her. She went straight to the parks.’
‘What?’
‘She went to Vaterlandsparken. She wanted to practise hand-to-hand combat.’
‘She wanted perverts to try it on and then. .’
‘And then beat them black and blue, yes.’ Leif Rødbekk put on his wolfish grin again, sending Katrine such a direct look that she wasn’t sure who he meant when he said: ‘Quite a girl.’
‘Yes,’ Katrine said, getting up. ‘And now I have to find her.’
‘Busy?’
If Katrine felt any unease at this question, it didn’t reach her consciousness until she was past him and out of the door. But on the stairs, going down, she thought, no, she wasn’t that desperate. Even if the slowcoach she was waiting for never pulled his finger out.
Harry drove through Svartdalstunnel. The lights shone across the bonnet and windscreen. He didn’t go any faster than was necessary, no need to arrive any sooner than he had to. The gun was on the seat next to him. It was loaded and had twelve Makarov 9x18mm bullets in the magazine. More than enough to do what he was going to do. It was just a question of having the stomach for it.
He had the heart for it.
He had never shot anyone in cold blood before. But this was a job that had to be done. Simple as that.
He shifted his grip on the steering wheel. Changed down as he came out of the tunnel, into the fading light, into the hills towards the Ryen intersection. Felt his mobile ring and pulled it out with one hand. Glanced at the display. It was Rakel. It was an unusual time for her to ring. They had an unspoken agreement that their phone time was after ten in the evening. He couldn’t talk to her now. He was too nervous. She would notice and ask. And he didn’t want to lie. Didn’t want to lie any more.
He let the phone finish ringing, then he switched it off and put it beside the gun. For there was nothing to think about any more, the thinking was over, letting his doubts surface would mean starting again, only to take the same long route and end up exactly where he was already. The decision was taken, that he wanted to back out was understandable, but it was out of the question. Shit! He smacked his hand against the wheel. Thought about Oleg. About Rakel. It helped.
He went round the roundabout and took the turning to Manglerud. To the block of flats where Truls Berntsen lived. Felt the calm descending. At last. It always did when he knew he had crossed the threshold, where it was too late, where he was in the wonderful free fall, where conscious thought stopped and everything was automatic, targeted action and well-oiled routine. But it had been so long ago, and he felt that now. He had been unsure whether he still had it in him. Well. He had it in him.
He drove slowly down the streets. Leaned forward and looked up at the blue-grey clouds streaming in, like an unannounced armada with unknown objectives. Sat back in the seat. Saw the high-rise buildings above the lower rooftops.
Didn’t need to look down at the gun to know it was there.
Didn’t need to think through the order of events to be sure he would remember.
Didn’t need to count his heartbeats to know his pulse was at rest.
And for a moment he closed his eyes and visualised what would happen. And then it came, the feeling he’d had a couple of times earlier in his life as a policeman. The fear. The same fear he could sometimes sense in those he was chasing. The murderer’s fear of his own reflection.
42
Truls Berntsen raised his hips and forced his head back against the pillow. He closed his eyes, emitted low grunts, and came. Felt the spasms shake his body. Afterwards he lay still, drifting in and out of dreamland. In the distance — he assumed it must have been from the big car park — an alarm had started to wail. Otherwise a resounding silence reigned outside. Odd, really, that in a peaceful place where so many mammals lived above one another it was quieter than in even the most dangerous forests where the slightest sound could mean you had become the prey. He raised his head and met Megan Fox’s eyes.
‘Was it good for you too?’ he whispered.
She didn’t answer. But her eyes didn’t flinch, her smile didn’t wither, the invitation of her body language was the same. Megan Fox, the only person in his life who was constant, loyal and reliable.
He leaned over to the bedside table and grabbed the toilet roll. Cleaned himself up and found the remote control for the DVD player. Pointed it at Megan, who quivered in the freeze-frame on the fifty-inch flat-screen TV, a Pioneer in the series they had to stop making because it was too expensive, too good for the price they commanded. Truls had got the last one, bought with money he had earned by burning evidence against a pilot who had been smuggling heroin for Asayev. Taking the rest of the money to the bank and putting it straight into his account had been idiocy of course. Asayev had been dangerous for Truls. And when Truls had heard Asayev was dead his first thought was that now he was free. The slate had been wiped clean, no one could get him.
Megan Fox’s green eyes glinted at him. Emerald green.
It had been on his mind for a while that he should buy emeralds for her. Ulla dressed in green. Like the green sweater she took off when she was on the sofa reading. He had even dropped by a jeweller’s. The owner had quickly sized Truls up, estimated the carat and value and then explained to him that emeralds of the finest water were even more expensive than diamonds, perhaps he ought to consider something else, what about an elegant opal if it absolutely had to be green? Or perhaps a stone with chrome in, it was the chrome that lent the emerald the green colour, that was all there was to the mystery.
That was all there was to the mystery.