Mona Daa and the rest of the room seemed content with this, but Bellman could see that Hagen didn’t know what he was hiding.
‘It’s late, and all of us have work to do,’ Hagen said, looking at the time. ‘The next press conference will be at twelve noon, hopefully we’ll have more for you then. In the meantime, have a good night. We can all sleep a bit more soundly now.’
The blitz of flashlights intensified as Hagen and Bratt stood up. Some of the photographers turned their lenses on Bellman, and when some of the people standing up came between Bellman and the cameras, he took a step forward so the photographers could get an unimpeded view.
‘Hold on, Harry,’ Bellman said, without looking round or changing his Eisenhower expression. Once the cascade of flashes had stopped, he turned towards Harry Hole, who was standing there with his arms folded.
‘I’m not going to throw you to the wolves,’ Bellman said. ‘You did your job, you shot a dangerous serial killer.’ He put one hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘And we look after our own. OK?’
The taller policeman looked pointedly at the hand on his shoulder and Bellman removed it. Harry’s voice was hoarser than usual. ‘Enjoy your victory, Bellman. I’m being questioned first thing in the morning, so goodnight.’
Bellman watched Harry Hole as he made his way towards the exit, with his legs wide apart and his knees bent, like a sailor on deck in a rough sea.
Bellman had already conferred with Isabelle, and they had agreed that if this success wasn’t to leave a nasty aftertaste, it would be best if Internal Investigations concluded that there was little or nothing to criticise Hole for. Exactly how they were going to help Internal Investigations to reach this conclusion was as yet unclear, seeing as they couldn’t be bribed directly. But obviously any thinking person was receptive to a bit of common sense. And as far as the press and general public were concerned, Isabelle believed that it had become almost a matter of routine in recent years that mass murders ended with the perpetrator being killed by the police, and that the press and general public had more or less tacitly accepted that this was how society dealt with this sort of case – quickly and efficiently, in a way that appealed to ordinary people’s sense of justice and without the spiralling costs associated with court proceedings in big murder cases.
Bellman looked for Katrine Bratt, aware that the pair of them together would make a good subject for the photographers. But she was already gone.
‘Gunnar!’ he called, loudly enough for a couple of photographers to turn round. The head of Crime Squad stopped in the doorway and came over to him.
‘Look serious,’ Bellman whispered, and held out his hand. ‘Congratulations,’ he said loudly.
Harry was standing beneath one of the street lamps on Borggata, trying to light a cigarette in Emilia’s dying gasps. He was freezing, his teeth were chattering, and he could feel the cigarette bobbing up and down between his lips.
He glanced up at the entrance of Police HQ, where the reporters and journalists were still coming out. Perhaps they were just as tired as him and for that reason weren’t talking noisily among themselves the way they usually did, but were heading down the road towards Grønlandsleiret as a silent, sluggish mass. Or perhaps they could feel it too. The emptiness. The emptiness that comes when a case is solved, when you reach the end of the road and realise that there’s no road left. No more field to plough. But your wife is still in the house, with the doctor and midwife, and there’s still nothing you can do. Nowhere you can be useful.
‘What are you waiting for?’
Harry turned. It was Bjørn.
‘Katrine,’ Harry said. ‘She said she’d drive me home. She’s getting the car from the garage, so if you need a lift as well …’
Bjørn shook his head. ‘Have you spoken to Katrine about what we talked about?’
Harry nodded and made a fresh attempt to light his cigarette.
‘Is that a “Yes”?’ Bjørn wondered.
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘I haven’t asked her where you stand.’
‘You haven’t?’
Harry closed his eyes for a moment. Perhaps he had. Either way, he couldn’t remember the answer.
‘I’m just asking because I was thinking that if the two of you were together around midnight, somewhere that wasn’t Police HQ, then maybe you weren’t just talking about work.’
Harry cupped his hand round the cigarette and lighter as he looked at Bjørn. His childlike, pale blue eyes were bulging out more than usual.
‘I can’t remember anything but work stuff, Bjørn.’
Bjørn Holm looked at the ground and stamped his feet. As if to get his circulation going. As if he couldn’t move from the spot.
‘I’ll let you know, Bjørn.’
Bjørn Holm nodded without looking up, then turned and walked off.
Harry watched him go. With a feeling that Bjørn had seen something, something he himself hadn’t spotted. There! Lit, at last!
A car pulled up beside him.
Harry sighed, tossed the cigarette on the ground, opened the door and got in.
‘What were you two talking about?’ Katrine asked, looking at Bjørn as she drove towards the nocturnal calm of Grønlandsleiret.
‘Did we have sex?’ Harry asked.
‘What?’
‘I don’t remember a thing from earlier this evening. We didn’t fuck?’
Katrine didn’t answer, apparently concentrating on stopping exactly on the white line in front of a red traffic light. Harry waited.
The light turned green.
‘No,’ Katrine said, putting her foot down and easing off the clutch. ‘We didn’t have sex.’
‘Good,’ Harry said, and let out a low whistle.
‘You were too drunk.’
‘What?’
‘You were too drunk. You fell asleep.’
Harry closed his eyes. ‘Shit.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’
‘Not like that. Rakel’s in a coma. While I—’
‘While you’re doing your best to join her there. Forget it, Harry, worse things have happened.’
On the radio a dry voice announced that Valentin Gjertsen, the so-called vampirist, had been shot and killed at midnight. And that Oslo had experienced and survived its first tropical storm. Katrine and Harry drove in silence through Majorstua and Vinderen, towards Holmenkollen.
‘What are your thoughts about Bjørn these days?’ Harry asked. ‘Any possibility of you giving him another chance?’
‘Did he tell you to ask?’
Harry didn’t answer.
‘I thought he had something going on with what’s-her-name Lien.’
‘I don’t know anything about that. OK, fine. You can let me out here.’
‘Don’t you want me to drive you all the way to the house?’
‘You’d only wake Oleg. This is great. Thanks.’ Harry opened the door, but didn’t move.
‘Yes?’
‘Mm. Nothing.’ He got out.
Harry watched the rear lights of the car vanish, then walked up the drive towards the house.
It sat there, looming even darker than the darkness. No lights. No breathing.
He unlocked and opened the door.
Saw Oleg’s shoes but couldn’t hear anything.
He took his clothes off in the laundry room, put them in the basket. Went up to the bedroom, got out some clean clothes. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, so he went down to the kitchen. Put some coffee on and looked out of the window.
Thinking. Then he pushed his thoughts aside and poured the coffee, knowing he wasn’t going to drink it. He could go off to the Jealousy Bar, but he didn’t feel like drinking alcohol either. But he would do. Later.
His thoughts returned.
There were only two of them.
And they were the simplest and the loudest.
One said that if Rakel didn’t survive, he would follow her, walk the same path.
The other was that if she did survive, he would leave her. Because she deserved better and because she shouldn’t have to be the one to leave.