Then he bit.
Elise Hermansen tried to scream into his hand as she saw the blood spraying from her own throat.
He raised his head again. Looked into the mirror. Her blood was running from his eyebrows, from his hair and down over his chin.
‘I’d call that a m-match, baby,’ he whispered. Then he bit again.
She felt dizzy. He wasn’t holding her so tightly now, he didn’t need to, because a paralysing chill, an alien darkness was moving slowly over her, into her. She pulled one hand free and reached towards the photograph on the side of the mirror. Tried to touch it, but her fingertips couldn’t reach.
2
THURSDAY MORNING
THE SHARP AFTERNOON light reached through the living-room windows and out into the hallway.
Detective Inspector Katrine Bratt was standing in front of the mirror, silent and thoughtful, looking at the photograph that was stuck to the frame. It showed a woman and a young girl sitting on a rock hugging each other, both with wet hair and wrapped in big towels. As if they had just gone swimming in a rather too chilly Norwegian summer and were trying to keep warm by clinging to one another. But now there was something separating them. A dark streak of blood had run down the mirror and across the photograph, right between the two smiling faces. Katrine Bratt didn’t have children. She may have wished that she had in the past, but not now. Now she was a newly single career woman, and she was happy with that. Wasn’t she?
She heard a low cough and looked up. Met the gaze of a deeply scarred face with a prominent brow and a remarkably high hairline. Truls Berntsen.
‘What is it, Constable?’ she said. Saw his face cloud over at her deliberate reminder that he was still a constable after fifteen years in the force, and for that and several other reasons would never have been allowed to apply to become a detective with Crime Squad if it hadn’t been for the fact that Truls Berntsen had been transferred there by his childhood friend, Police Chief Mikael Bellman.
Berntsen shrugged. ‘Nothing much, you’re in charge of the investigation.’ He looked at her with a cold, doggy look that was simultaneously submissive and hostile.
‘Talk to the neighbours,’ Bratt said. ‘Start with the floor below. We’re especially interested in anything they heard or saw yesterday and last night. But seeing as Elise Hermansen lived alone, we also want to know what sort of men she used to hang out with.’
‘So you think it was a man, and that they already knew each other?’ Only now did she see the young man, the lad standing next to Berntsen. An open face. Fair hair. Handsome. ‘Anders Wyller. This is my first day.’ His voice was high, and he was smiling with his eyes, which Katrine took to mean that he was confident of charming those around him. His references from his boss at Tromsø Police Station had looked pretty much like a declaration of love. But, to be fair, he had the CV to match. Top grades from Police College two years ago, and good results as a detective constable in Tromsø.
‘Go and make a start, Berntsen,’ Katrine said.
She took his shuffling feet to be a passive protest at being ordered about by a younger, female boss.
‘Welcome,’ she said, holding her hand out toWyller. ‘Sorry we weren’t there to say hello on your first day.’
‘The dead take priority over the living,’ the young man said. Katrine recognised the quote as one of Harry Hole’s, saw that Wyller was looking at her hand, and realised that she was still wearing a pair of latex gloves.
‘I haven’t touched anything disgusting,’ she said.
He smiled. White teeth. Ten bonus points.
‘I’m allergic to latex,’ he said
Twenty penalty points.
‘OK, Wyller,’ Katrine Bratt said, still holding her hand out. ‘These gloves are powder-free and low in allergens and endotoxins, and if you’re going to work in Crime Squad, you’re going to be wearing them pretty often. But obviously we could always get you a transfer to Financial Crime or …’
‘I’d rather not,’ he laughed and grasped her hand. She could feel the warmth through the latex.
‘My name’s Katrine Bratt, and I’m lead detective on this case.’
‘I know. You worked in the Harry Hole group.’
‘The Harry Hole group?’
‘The boiler room.’
Katrine nodded. She had never thought of it as the Harry Hole group, the little gang of three detectives who had been thrown together to work on the cop murder cases … But the name was fitting enough. Since then Harry had withdrawn to lecture at Police College, Bjørn had moved to work in Forensics out at Bryn, and she had come to Crime Squad where she was now a detective inspector.
Wyller’s eyes were shining, and he was still smiling. ‘Shame Harry Hole isn’t—’
‘Shame we haven’t got time to talk right now, Wyller, but we’ve got a murder to investigate. Go with Berntsen, and listen and learn.’
Anders Wyller gave her a wry smile. ‘You’re saying Constable Berntsen has a lot to teach me?’
Bratt raised an eyebrow. Young, self-assured, fearless. All good, but she hoped to God that he wasn’t another Harry Hole wannabe.
Truls Berntsen pressed the doorbell with his thumb and heard it ring inside the flat, noted that he ought to stop biting his nails, and let go.
When he had gone to see Mikael and asked to be transferred to Crime Squad, Mikael had asked why. And Truls had given an honest answer: he wanted to sit a bit higher up the food chain, but without having to wear himself out making an effort. Any other police chief would have thrown Truls out on his ear, but this one couldn’t. They had too much dirt on each other. When they were young they were connected by something approaching friendship, then a sort of symbiotic relationship, like a suckerfish and a shark. But now they were bound together by their sins and a mutual assurance of silence. That meant Truls Berntsen didn’t even have to try to pretend when he presented his request.
But he had started to wonder how sensible that request had been. Crime Squad had two categories of job: detectives and analysts. And when the head of Crime Squad, Gunnar Hagen, had told Truls he could choose for himself what he wanted to be, Truls had realised that he was hardly going to be expected to shoulder much responsibility. Which in and of itself suited him fine. But he had to admit that it had stung when Detective Inspector Katrine Bratt had shown him round the unit, all the time addressing him as ‘Constable’, and taking extra care to explain to him how the coffee machine worked.
The door opened. Three young girls were standing there looking at him with horrified expressions on their faces. They had evidently heard what had happened.
‘Police,’ he said, holding up his ID. ‘I’ve got some questions. Did you hear anything between—’
‘—questions we wondered if you could help us with,’ a voice said behind him. The new guy. Wyller. Truls saw some of the horror fall away from the girls’ faces, and they almost brightened up.
‘Of course,’ the one who had opened the door said. ‘Do you know who … who did … it?’
‘Obviously we can’t say anything about that,’ Truls said.
‘But what we can say,’ Wyller said, ‘is that there are no grounds for you to be scared. Am I right in thinking that you’re students sharing this flat?’
‘Yes,’ they replied in chorus, as if they all wanted to be first.
‘May we come in?’ Wyller said, with a smile as white as Mikael Bellman’s, Truls noted.
The girls led them into the living room, and two of them began quickly clearing beer bottles and glasses from the table and left the room.
‘We had a bit of a party here last night,’ the door-opener said sheepishly. ‘It’s terrible.’
Truls wasn’t sure if she meant the fact that their neighbour had been murdered, or that they had been having a party when it happened.