‘Ow!’ a muffled voice exclaimed.
‘Why would anyone build a set of stairs so that you have to hit your head on—?’
‘You don’t want to look at her,’ Harry said quietly.
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to either, Bjørn. I’ve been here almost an hour, and it doesn’t get any damn easier.’
‘So why are you sitting here?’
Harry stood up. ‘She’s been alone for so long. I thought …’ Harry heard the telltale vibrato in his voice. He walked quickly towards the stairs and nodded to the forensics officer who was standing there rubbing his forehead.
The sheriff was in the hall talking on his phone.
‘Smith?’ Harry asked.
The sheriff pointed upstairs.
Hallstein Smith was sitting in front of the computer reading the folder with Alexander Dreyer’s name on it when Harry walked in.
He looked up. ‘Down there, Harry, that’s Alexander Dreyer’s work.’
‘Let’s call him Valentin. Are you sure?’
‘It’s all in my own notes. The cuts. He described it to me, told me his fantasies about torturing and then killing a woman. He described it as if he were planning a work of art.’
‘And you still didn’t tell the police?’
‘I thought about it, of course, but if we were to report all the grotesque crimes our clients commit in their imaginations, then neither we nor the police would do much else, Harry.’ Smith put his head in his hands. ‘Just think of all the lives that could have been saved if I’d only …’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Hallstein, it isn’t even clear that the police would have done anything. Anyway, it’s possible that Lenny Hell used your stolen notes to copy Valentin’s fantasy.’
‘That’s not impossible. Not very likely, but not impossible.’ Smith scratched his head. ‘But I still don’t understand how Hell knew that by stealing my notes, he would find a murderer he could work with.’
‘You do talk quite a lot.’
‘What?’
‘Think about it, Smith. How likely is it that in your conversations with Lenny Hell about morbid jealousy you mentioned that you had other patients who fantasised about murder?’
‘I’m sure I did that, I always try to explain to my patients that they aren’t alone in their thoughts, in order to calm and normalise—’ Smith fell silent and put his hand to his mouth. ‘Dear God, you mean that I … that my big mouth is responsible?’
Harry shook his head. ‘We can find a hundred ways to blame ourselves, Hallstein. During my years as a detective, at least a dozen people have been killed because I haven’t managed to catch a serial killer as quickly as I should have. But if you’re going to survive, you have to learn to let go.’
‘You’re right.’ Smith laughed hollowly. ‘But I’m pretty sure the psychologist is supposed to say that, not the cop.’
‘Go home to your family, eat Sunday dinner and forget this for a while. Tord will be here soon to go through the computer, so we’ll see what he can find.’
‘OK.’ Smith stood up, pulled off the woolly hat and gave it to Harry.
‘Keep it,’ Harry said. ‘And if anyone asks, you’ll remember why we came out here today, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Smith said, pulling the hat back on. And it struck Harry that there was something unintentionally comic but also ominous about the St. Pauli skull above the psychologist’s jovial features.
‘Without a search warrant, Harry!’ Gunnar Hagen was shouting so loud that Harry had to hold the phone away from his ear, and Tord, who was sitting in front of Hell’s computer, looked up.
‘You went to the address and broke in without permission! I said no, loudly and clearly!’
‘I didn’t break in, boss.’ Harry looked out through the window at the valley. Darkness had started to fall and lights were going on. ‘The local sheriff did that. I just rang the doorbell.’
‘I’ve spoken to him, and he says he had a very clear impression that you had a warrant to search the house.’
‘I just said I had what I needed. And I did.’
‘Which was?’
‘Hallstein Smith is Lenny Hell’s psychologist. He was perfectly entitled to visit a patient he was concerned about. And in light of what has emerged regarding Hell’s connection to two murder victims, Smith believed there were grounds for concern. He asked me to accompany him, because of my police background, in case Lenny Hell turned violent.’
‘And Smith will back this up, I suppose?’
‘Of course, boss. We can’t mess about with this sort of psychologist–patient thing.’
Harry heard Gunnar Hagen manage the tricky feat of laughing while spitting with rage. ‘You deceived the sheriff, Harry. And you know that any evidence could be disregarded by a court if they find out—’
‘Stop going on about it and shut up, Gunnar.’
There was a brief pause. ‘What did you just say?’
‘I asked you, in a very friendly way, to shut up,’ Harry said. ‘Because there’s nothing to find out, the way we got in is perfectly correct. And there’s no one to stand trial. They’re all dead, Gunnar. The only thing that’s happened today is that we’ve found out what happened to Marte Ruud. And that Valentin Gjertsen wasn’t alone. I can’t see how either you or Bellman could come out of this badly.’
‘I don’t care about—’
‘Yes, you do, so here’s the text for the Police Chief’s next press release: The police have worked tirelessly to locate Marte Ruud, and that persistence has now paid off. And we damn well believe that Marte’s family and the whole of fucking Norway deserve that. Have you written that down? Lenny Hell in no way detracts from the Police Chief’s success with Valentin, boss. This is a bonus. So relax and enjoy your steak.’ Harry put his phone in his trouser pocket. Rubbed his face. ‘What have you got, Tord?’
The IT expert looked up. ‘Email correspondence. It confirms what you’re saying. When Lenny Hell first contacts Alexander Dreyer, he tells Dreyer that he’s got hold of his address from Smith’s patient archive, which he’s stolen. Then Hell gets straight to the point and suggests a collaboration.’
‘Does he use the word “murder”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Go on.’
‘A couple of days pass before Dreyer, or rather Valentin, replies. He writes that he had to check that the patient archive really had been stolen, and that this wasn’t just the police setting a trap for him. Then he goes on to say that he’s open to suggestions.’
Harry looked over Tord’s shoulder. Shivered when he saw the words on the screen.
My friend, I’m open to attractive suggestions.
Tord scrolled down and continued: ‘Lenny Hell writes that they should only ever contact each other by email, and that under no circumstances should Valentin try to find out who he is. He asks Valentin to suggest a place where Hell can supply him with keys to the women’s flats, as well as any additional instructions, but without the two of them meeting. Valentin suggests the changing room of the Cagaloglu Hamam …’
‘The Turkish bathhouse.’
‘Four days before Elise Hermansen is murdered, Hell writes that the key to her flat and some extra instructions are inside one of the lockers in the changing room, that there’s one padlock with a fleck of blue paint on it. And that the code to the lock is 0999.’
‘Hm. Hell wasn’t just directing Valentin, he was steering him by remote control. What else does it say?’
‘It’s similar for Ewa Dolmen and Penelope Rasch. But there are no instructions about killing Marte Ruud. Quite the contrary. Let’s see … Here it is. The day after Marte Ruud went missing Hell writes: I know it was you who took that girl from Harry Hole’s favourite haunt, Alexander. That’s not part of our plan. I’m guessing you still have her in your flat. The girl will lead the police to you, Alexander. We need to act quickly. Bring the girl and I’ll make sure she disappears. Drive to map reference 60.148083, 10.777245, it’s a desolate stretch of road with very little traffic at night. Be there at 01.00 tonight, stop at the sign saying Hadeland 1km. Walk exactly one hundred metres straight into the forest to your right, lay her down by the big burnt tree, and leave.’