Rakel blinked. Had to rewind a couple of seconds to be sure she had heard correctly. Didn’t rape.
‘I threatened to report him for rape because. .’ The girl used the knuckle of her first finger to take the tears from her eyes that had filled up again. ‘. . because he wanted to report me to the board of governors for behaving inappropriately towards him. Which he had every right to do. But I was desperate. I tried to thwart him by accusing him of rape. I’ve been wanting to tell him I’ve had a change of heart and I regret what I’ve done. Tell him it. . yes, what I did was a crime. Wrongful accusation. Paragraph 168 of the Penal Code. Recommended sentence: eight years.’
‘Correct,’ Rakel said.
‘Ah, yes.’ Silje smiled through the tears. ‘I forgot you were a lawyer.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Oh,’ Silje said with a sniffle, ‘I know a lot about Harry’s life. I’ve studied him, you might say. He was my idol, and I was just a stupid girl. I even investigated the police murders for him, thought I could give him a helping hand. Me, a student who knows nothing. I started with a short lecture to explain to him how it all fitted. I wanted to tell Harry Hole how to catch the cop killer.’ Silje produced another forced smile while shaking her head.
Rakel grabbed the kitchen roll behind her and passed it to Silje. ‘And you came here to tell him this?’
Silje nodded slowly. ‘I knew he wouldn’t answer a call from me. So I came out here on my run to see if he was at home. I saw the car was gone and was about to continue on my way when I saw you in the kitchen window. And decided it would be even better to say it straight to your face. It would be the best proof that I meant it, that I had no ulterior motives for coming here.’
‘I saw you standing outside,’ Rakel said.
‘Yes. I had to think it through. Then man up.’
Rakel could feel how her anger for the confused, lovelorn girl with the much too open eyes had shifted to Harry. He hadn’t said a word! Why not?
‘It was good that you came, Silje. But now perhaps you should go.’
Silje nodded. Got up. ‘There’s some schizophrenia in our family,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ Rakel said.
‘Yes. I may not be completely normal.’ And added in a grown-up tone: ‘But that’s fine too.’
Rakel accompanied her to the door.
‘You won’t see me again,’ the girl said, standing on the doorstep.
‘Good luck, Silje.’
Rakel stood on the steps with her arms crossed, watching her run across the drive. Had Harry omitted to say something because he thought she wouldn’t believe him? That there would always be a shadow of doubt?
The next thought came in its wake. Would there be a shadow of doubt? How well did they know each other? How well could one person know another?
The black-clad figure with the blonde, bouncing ponytail was gone long before the sound of trainers crunching on gravel.
‘He’d dug her up,’ Bjørn Holm said.
Roar Midtstuen sat with bowed head. Scratching his neck where the short bristles stuck up like a brush. The night stole in, without a sound, as they sat there in the beams of Midtstuen’s car headlamps. When Midtstuen did finally say something Bjørn had to lean forward to hear what it was.
‘My only child.’ Then a short nod. ‘I suppose he was only doing what he had to do.’
At first Bjørn thought he had heard wrong. Then he thought Midtstuen must have said it wrong. He didn’t say what he meant, a word had been moved, omitted or put in the wrong place in the sentence. And yet the sentence was so correct and clear it sounded natural. It sounded like the truth. The cop killer was only doing what he had to do.
‘I’ll get the rest of the flowers,’ Midtstuen said, rising to his feet.
‘OK,’ Bjørn said, staring at the small bouquet lying there as the other man went round the car into the darkness. He heard the boot lid being opened while he mused about what Midtstuen had said. My only child. It reminded him of his confirmation and what Aune had said about the killer being God. An avenging God. But God had also made a sacrifice. He had sacrificed his only son. Hung him on a cross. Displayed him for all to see. To see and imagine the suffering. The son’s and the father’s.
Bjørn visualised Fia Midtstuen on the chair. My only child. The two of them. Or the three of them. There had been three of them. What was it the priest had called it again?
Bjørn heard a clink coming from the boot and thought the box of flowers must be under something metallic.
The trinity. That was it. The third had been the Holy Spirit. The ghost. The demon. The one they never saw, who popped up here and there in the Bible and was gone again. Fia Midtstuen’s head had been attached to the pipe in such a way that she wouldn’t collapse, that the body would be displayed. Like the crucifixion.
Bjørn Holm heard footsteps behind him.
Who was sacrificed, crucified by his own father. Because that was how the story had to be. What were the words he used?
‘He was only doing what he had to do.’
Harry stared at Megan Fox. Her beautiful contours were trembling, but her gaze was constant. The smile didn’t fade. The invitation her body offered stood. He lifted the remote control and switched off the television. Megan Fox both disappeared and stayed. The silhouette of the film star was burned into the plasma screen.
Both gone and still here.
Harry looked around Truls Berntsen’s bedroom. Then he went to the cabinet where he knew Berntsen kept his goodies. In theory a person could fit in there. Harry held the Odessa ready. Tiptoed over to the cabinet, hugged the wall and opened the door with his left hand. Saw the light inside come on automatically.
Otherwise nothing happened.
Harry poked his head forward and withdrew it as quickly. But he had seen what he wanted. No one there. So he stood in the doorway.
Truls had replaced what Harry had taken the last time he was here, the bulletproof vest, the gas mask, the MP5, the riot gun. He still had the same guns as far as he could see. Apart from in the middle of the board where an outline of a gun had been drawn around one of the hooks.
Had Truls Berntsen found out Harry was on his way, taken a gun and fled from his flat? Without bothering to lock the door or switch off the television? If so, why hadn’t he just set an ambush for him inside?
Harry had searched the whole flat now and knew there wasn’t a living soul around. He sat down on the leather sofa with the Odessa’s safety catch off, ready, with a view of the bedroom door but out of sight of the keyhole.
If Truls was in there, the first person to make an appearance would be the loser. The stage was set for a duel. So he waited. Unmoving, breathing calmly, deeply, inaudibly, with the patience of a leopard.
After forty minutes had passed and nothing had happened he went into the bedroom.
Harry sat down on the bed. Should he ring Berntsen? It would warn him, but, as it was, he already seemed to be aware that Harry was after him.
Harry took out his phone and switched it on. Waited until it was connected and keyed in the number he had memorised before leaving Holmenkollen almost two hours ago.
After it had rung three times and no one had answered he gave up.
Then he called his contact at the telephone company. And got an answer in two seconds.
‘What do you want, Hole?’
‘I need you to track down a phone signal. For one Truls Berntsen. He’s got a police line, so he must be one of your customers.’
‘We can’t keep meeting like this.’
‘This is official police business.’
‘Follow the procedures then. Contact the police lawyer, send the case to the Crime Squad boss and call us back when you’ve got permission.’
‘This is urgent.’
‘Listen, I can’t keep giving you-’
‘This is about the police murders.’
‘It should only take a few seconds to get permission from the boss, Harry.’