‘What?’
‘What did Wyller tell you to forget?’
‘The connection.’
‘Between what?’
‘Between the strand of hair and one of the DNA profiles from the vampirist case.’
‘Really? Which one?’
‘I don’t know, like I said, we only have the numbers. We don’t even know if they’re suspects or police officers working at the scene.’
Harry said nothing for a few moments. ‘Have you got the number?’ he eventually asked.
‘Good evening,’ the older paramedic said as he came into the staffroom in A&E.
‘Good evening, Hansen,’ said the only other person in the room as he pumped black coffee from the flask into his cup.
‘Your police friend just called.’
Senior Consultant John Doyle Steffens turned round and raised an eyebrow. ‘Have I got friends in the police?’
‘He mentioned you, anyway. A Harry Hole.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He sent us a picture of a pool of blood and asked us to estimate how much it was. He said you’d done that based on a picture of a crime scene, and assumed that those of us who attend accidents are trained to do the same. I had to disappoint him.’
‘Interesting,’ Steffens said, and picked a hair off his shoulder. He didn’t regard his increasing hair loss as a sign that he was fading, but rather the reverse, that he was blossoming, mobilising, getting rid of things he had no use for. ‘Why didn’t he get in touch with me directly?’
‘Probably didn’t think a senior consultant would be working in the middle of the night. And it sounded urgent.’
‘I see. Did he say what it was about?’
‘Just something he was working on, he said.’
‘Have you got the picture?’
‘Here.’ The paramedic pulled out his phone and showed the doctor the message. Steffens glanced at the picture of a pool of blood on a wooden floor. There was a ruler beside the pool.
‘One and a half litres,’ Steffens said. ‘Fairly precisely. You can call and tell him.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘A lecturer working in the middle of the night, what is the world coming to?’
The paramedic chuckled. ‘The same could be said of you, Steffens.’
‘What?’ the senior consultant said, making way for the other man in front of the flask.
‘Every other night, Steffens. What are you really doing here?’
‘Taking care of patients who are badly injured.’
‘I know that, but why? You’ve got a full-time job as senior consultant of haematology, but you still take extra shifts here in A&E. That’s not exactly common.’
‘Who wants common? It’s mostly a desire to be where you can be most useful, isn’t it?’
‘So you’ve got no family who’d rather you stayed at home?’
‘No, but I’ve got colleagues whose families would rather they didn’t stay at home.’
‘Ha! But you’re wearing a wedding ring.’
‘And you’ve got blood on your sleeve, Hansen. Have you just brought in someone who was bleeding?’
‘Yes. Divorced?’
‘Widowed.’ Steffens drank some more coffee. ‘Who’s the patient? Woman, man, young, old?’
‘Woman in her thirties. Why?’
‘Just wondered. Where is she now?’
‘Yes?’ Bjørn Holm whispered.
‘Harry. Had you gone to bed?’
‘It’s two o’clock in the morning, what do you think?’
‘There was around a litre and a half of Valentin’s blood on the office floor.’
‘What?’
‘It’s basic mathematics. He weighed too much.’
Harry heard the bed creak, then bedclothes brushing the phone before he heard Bjørn’s whispered voice again. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You can see it on the scales in the security camera footage when Valentin is leaving. He only weighs one and a half kilos less than when he arrived.’
‘One and a half litres of blood weighs one and a half kilos, Harry.’
‘I know that. Even so, we’re still short of evidence. Once we’ve got it I’ll explain. And you’re not to tell a soul about this, OK? Not even the person lying next to you.’
‘She’s asleep.’
‘So I can hear.’
Bjørn laughed. ‘She’s snoring for two.’
‘Can we meet at eight o’clock, in the boiler room?’
‘I guess. Are Smith and Wyller coming too?’
‘We’ll be seeing Smith at his disputation on Friday.’
‘And Wyller?’
‘Just you and me, Bjørn. And I want you to bring Hell’s computer and Valentin’s revolver.’
38
THURSDAY MORNING
‘UP AND ABOUT early, Bjørn,’ said the older officer behind the counter of the evidence store.
‘Morning, Jens. I’d like to sign out something from the vampirist case.’
‘Yes, that’s back under the spotlight, isn’t it? Crime Squad was here getting stuff yesterday, I’m pretty sure it’s on shelf G. But let’s see what the bastard machine thinks …’ He tapped at the keyboard as if it were red hot, and looked across the screen. ‘… let’s see … bloody thing’s frozen again …’ He looked up at Bjørn with a resigned and rather helpless expression. ‘What do you say, Bjørn, wasn’t it better when we could just look in a folder and find out exactly wh—?’
‘Who was here from Crime Squad?’ Bjørn Holm asked, trying to hide his impatience.
‘What’s his name again? The one with the teeth.’
‘Truls Berntsen?’
‘No, no, the one with the nice teeth. The new guy.’
‘Anders Wyller,’ Bjørn said.
‘Mm,’ Harry said, leaning back in his chair in the boiler room. ‘And he signed out Valentin’s Redhawk?’
‘Plus the iron teeth and handcuffs.’
‘And Jens didn’t say what Wyller wanted them for?’
‘No, he didn’t know. I’ve tried calling Wyller in the office, but they said he’s taken some time owing so I called his mobile.’
‘And?’
‘No answer. Probably asleep, but I can try again now.’
‘No,’ Harry said.
‘No?’
Harry closed his eyes. ‘We all get fooled in the end,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Let’s go and wake Wyller. Can you call the unit and find out where he lives?’
Thirty seconds later Bjørn put the phone back on the desk and repeated the name of the street in a clear voice.
‘You’re kidding,’ Harry said.
Bjørn Holm turned the Volvo Amazon into the quiet street and drove down between the banks of snow where the cars seemed to have gone into hibernation for the winter.
‘Here it is,’ Harry said, leaning forward and looking up at the four-storey building. There was some graffiti on the pale blue wall between the second and third floors.
‘Sofies gate 5,’ Bjørn said. ‘Not exactly Holmenkollen …’
‘Another life,’ Harry said. ‘Wait here.’
Harry got out, went up the two steps to the door and looked at the names beside the doorbells. Some of the old names had changed. Wyller’s name was further down than where his had once stood. He pressed the buzzer. Waited. Pressed again. Nothing. He was about to press it a third time when the door opened and a young woman hurried out. Harry caught the door before it closed and slipped inside.
The stairwell smelt the same as it used to. A mixture of Norwegian and Pakistani food, and the cloying smell of old fru Sennheim on the first floor. Harry listened. Silence. Then he crept up the stairs, instinctively avoiding the sixth step, which he knew creaked.
He stopped outside the door on the first landing.
There was no light behind the frosted glass.
Harry knocked. Looked at the lock. Knew it wouldn’t take much to break in. A plastic card and a hard shove. He thought about it. Being the person who broke in. And felt his heart beat faster, and his breath misted the glass in front of him. That tantalising excitement, was that what Valentin had felt when he opened the doors of his victims’ flats?