‘She was with a guy who’s here a fair bit. What’s happened?’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’ her blond colleague asked in a high voice.
‘No, I prefer something with news in it,’ Mehmet said.
Bratt smiled. ‘She was found murdered this morning. Tell us about the man. What were they doing here?’
Mehmet felt as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice-cold water over him. Murdered? The woman who had been standing here right in front of him less than twenty-four hours ago was now a corpse? He pulled himself together. And felt ashamed of the next thought that automatically popped into his head: if the bar got mentioned in the papers, would that be good or bad for business? After all, there was a limit to how much worse it could get.
‘A Tinder date,’ he said. ‘He usually meets his dates here. Calls himself Geir.’
‘Calls himself?’
‘I’d say it’s his real name.’
‘Does he pay by card?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded towards the till. ‘Do you think you could find the receipt for his payment last night?’
‘That should be possible, yes.’ Mehmet smiled sadly.
‘Did they leave together?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That Geir had set his sights too high, as usual. He’d basically been dumped before I’d even had time to pour their drinks. Speaking of which, can I get you something …?’
‘No, thanks,’ Bratt said. ‘We’re on duty. So she left here alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t see anyone follow her?’
Mehmet shook his head, got two glasses out, and picked up a bottle of apple juice. ‘This is on the house, freshly pressed, local. Come back another night and have a beer, on the house. The first one’s free, you know. Same thing applies if you want to bring any police colleagues. Do you like the music?’
‘Yes,’ the blond policeman said. ‘U2 are—’
‘No,’ Bratt said. ‘Did you hear the woman say anything you think might be of interest to us?’
‘No. Actually, now you come to mention it, she did say something about someone stalking her.’ Mehmet looked up from pouring. ‘The music was on low and she was talking loudly.’
‘I see. Was anyone else here showing any interest in her?’
Mehmet shook his head. ‘It was a quiet night.’
‘Like tonight, then?’
Mehmet shrugged. ‘The other two customers who were here had gone by the time Geir left.’
‘So it might not be too difficult to get their card details as well?’
‘One of them paid cash, I remember. The other one didn’t buy anything.’
‘OK. And where were you between 10 p.m. and one o’clock this morning?’
‘Me? I was here. Then at home.’
‘Anyone who can confirm that? Just so we can get it out of the way at the start.’
‘Yes. Or no.’
‘Yes or no?’
Mehmet thought hard. Getting a loan shark with previous convictions mixed up in this could mean more trouble. He should hold on to that card in case he needed it later.
‘No. I live alone.’
‘Thanks.’ Bratt raised her glass, and Mehmet thought at first she was drinking a toast, until he realised she was gesturing towards the till with it. ‘We’ll sample these local apples while you look, OK?’
Truls had quickly worked his way through his bars and restaurants. Had shown the photograph to bartenders and waiters, and moved on as soon as he got the answer he expected, ‘No’ or ‘Don’t know’. If you don’t know, you don’t know, and the day had already been more than long enough. Besides, he had one final item on his agenda.
Truls typed the last sentence on the keyboard and looked at the brief but, in his opinion, concise report. ‘See attached list of licensed premises visited by the undersigned at the times specified. None of the staff reported having seen Elise Hermansen on the evening of the murder.’ He pressed Send and stood up.
He heard a low buzz and saw a light flash on the desk telephone. He could tell from the number on the screen that it was the duty officer. They dealt with any tip-offs and only forwarded the ones that seemed relevant. Damn, he didn’t have time for any more chat right now. He could pretend he hadn’t seen it. But, on the other hand, if it was a tip-off, he might end up with more to pass on than he had thought.
He picked up.
‘Berntsen.’
‘At last! No one’s answering, where is everyone?’
‘Out at bars.’
‘Haven’t you got a murder to—?’
‘What is it?’
‘We’ve got a guy who says he was with Elise Hermansen last night.’
‘Put him through.’
There was a click and Truls heard a man who was breathing so hard it could only mean he was frightened.
‘DC Berntsen, Crime Squad. What’s this about?’
‘My name is Geir Sølle. I saw the picture of Elise Hermansen on VG’s website. I’m phoning because I had a very short encounter yesterday with a lady who looked a lot like her. And she said her name was Elise.’
It took Geir Sølle five minutes to give an account of his date at the Jealousy Bar, and how he had gone straight home afterwards, and was home before midnight. Truls vaguely remembered that the pissing boys had seen Elise alive after 11.30.
‘Can anyone confirm when you got home?’
‘The log on my computer. And Kari.’
‘Kari?’
‘My wife.’
‘You’ve got family?’
‘Wife and dog.’ Truls heard him swallow audibly.
‘Why didn’t you call earlier?’
‘I’ve only just seen the picture.’
Truls made a note, swearing silently to himself. This wasn’t the murderer, just someone they needed to rule out, but it still meant writing a full report, and now it was going to be ten o’clock before he managed to get away.
Katrine was walking down Markveien. She had sent Anders Wyller home from his first day at work. She smiled at the thought that he was bound to remember it for the rest of his life. First the office, then straight to the scene of a murder – and a serious one at that. Not the sort of boring drug-related murder that people forgot the next day, but what Harry called a could-have-been-me murder. Which was the murder of a so-called ordinary person in ordinary circumstances, the sort that led to packed press conferences and guaranteed front pages. Because familiarity made it easier for the public to empathise. That was why a terrorist attack in Paris got more media coverage than one in Beirut. And the media was the media. That was why Police Chief Bellman was taking the effort to keep himself informed. He was going to have to deal with questions. Not right away, but if the murder of a young, well-educated, hard-working female citizen wasn’t cleared up within the next few days, he would have to make a statement.
It would take her half an hour to walk from here to her flat in Frogner, but that was fine, she needed to clear her head. And her body. She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket and opened the Tinder app. She walked on with one eye on the pavement and the other on the phone as she swiped to right and left.
They had guessed right. Elise Hermansen had got home from a Tinder date. The man the bartender had described to them sounded harmless enough, but she knew from experience that some men had the strange idea that a quick shag gave them the right to more. An old-fashioned attitude that the act itself constituted a form of female submission which could be taken as purely sexual, perhaps. But for all she knew, there might be just as many women out there with equally old-fashioned ideas that men were automatically under some sort of moral obligation the moment they kindly consented to penetrate them. But enough of that – she’d just got a match.
I’m 10 minutes from Nox on Solli plass, she tapped.
OK, I’ll be waiting, came the reply from Ulrich, who from his profile picture and description seemed to be a very straightforward man.