Phantom (56 page)

“And you answered?”

“I answered that I had no idea who it could be, which is the truth. If it’s a gang they’ve managed to sail under the radar.”

“Do you think the old man could have escaped?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I think his body’s rotting somewhere down there.” Truls saw a hand point into the starry sky. “Maybe we’ll find it very soon; maybe we’ll never find it.”

“Bodies always turn up, don’t they?”

No, Truls thought. He stood with his weight distributed evenly across both feet, felt them press against the cement of the terrace, and vice versa. They don’t.

“Nevertheless,” Mikael said, “someone has done it, and he’s new. We’ll soon see who is Oslo’s new king of the dope heap.”

“And what do you think that will mean for us?”

“Nothing, my love.” Truls could see Mikael Bellman place his hand behind Isabelle Skøyen’s neck. In silhouette, it looked as if he were about to strangle her. She lurched to the side. “We’re where we wanted to be. We jump off here. In fact, it couldn’t have had a better end than this. We didn’t need the old man anymore, and considering what he had on you and me in the course of … our cooperation, it’s …”

“It’s?”

“It’s …”

“Remove your hand, Mikael.”

Alcoholic laughter, as smooth as velvet. “If this new king hadn’t done the job for us I might have had to do it myself.”

“Let Beavis do it, you mean?”

Truls started at the sound of the hated nickname. Mikael had been the first person to use it. And it had stuck. People had caught on to the underbite and the grunted laugh. Mikael had even consoled him by saying he had been thinking more about the “anarchistic perception of reality” and the “nonconformist morality” of the cartoon character on MTV. Had made it sound as if he had awarded Truls a fucking honorary title.

“No, I would never have let Truls know about my role in this.”

“I still think it’s strange you don’t trust him. Aren’t you old friends? Didn’t he make this terrace for you?”

“He did. In the middle of the night on his own. See what I mean? We’re talking about a man who’s not a hundred percent predictable. He’s prone to all sorts of weird and wonderful ideas.”

“Yet you advised the old man to recruit Beavis as a burner?”

“That’s because I’ve known Truls since childhood, and I know he’s corrupt through and through and easily bought.”

Isabelle Skøyen screeched with laughter, and Mikael shushed her.

Truls had stopped breathing. His throat tightened, and it was as if he had an animal in his stomach. A small roving animal searching for a way out. It tickled and quivered. It tried an upward route. It pressed against his chest.

“By the way, you’ve never told me why you chose me as your business partner,” Mikael said.

“Because you’ve got such a great cock, of course.”

“No—be serious. If I hadn’t agreed to work with you and the old man, I would’ve had to arrest you.”

“Arrest?” She snorted. “Everything I’ve done has been for the good of the town. Legalizing marijuana, distributing methadone, financing a room for fixes. Or clearing the way for a drug that results in fewer ODs. What’s the difference? Drug policies are pragmatism, Mikael.”

“Relax—I agree, goes without saying. We’ve made Oslo a better place.
Skål
to that.”

She ignored his raised glass. “You would never have arrested me anyway. Because if you had, I would’ve told anyone who wanted to listen that I was fucking you behind your sweet little wife’s back.” She giggled. “
Right
behind her back. Do you remember the first time we met at that premiere and I said you could fuck me? Your wife was standing right behind you, barely out of earshot, but you didn’t even blink. Just asked me for fifteen minutes to send her home.”

“Shhh, you’re drunk,” Mikael said, placing a hand on her spine.

“That was when I knew you were a man after my own heart. So when the old man said I should find myself an ally with the same ambitions as me, I knew exactly who to approach.
Skål
, Mikael.”

“Speaking of which, we need to refresh our drinks. Perhaps we should go back and—”

“Delete what I said about after my own heart. There are no men after my heart—they’re after my …” Deep rumble of laughter. Hers.

“Come on—let’s go.”

“Harry Hole!”

“Shhh.”

“There’s a man after my own heart. A little stupid, of course, but … hm. Where do you think he is?”

“Having trawled the town for him for so long without success, I assume he’s left the country. He got Oleg acquitted—he won’t be back.”

Isabelle swayed, but Mikael caught her.

“You’re a bastard, Mikael, and we bastards deserve each other.”

“Maybe, but we should go back in,” Mikael said, glancing at his watch.

“Don’t look so stressed, big boy. I can handle a drink. See?”

“I see, but you go in first, then it won’t look so …”

“Mucky?”

“Something like that.”

Truls heard her hard laughter and watched her even harder heels hitting the cement.

She was gone and Mikael was left leaning against the railing.

Truls waited for a few seconds. Then he stepped forward.

“Hi, Mikael.”

His childhood pal turned. His eyes were glazed, his face a little bloated. Truls presumed from the time it took him to react with a cheery smile that this was due to the booze.

“There you are, Truls. I didn’t hear you come out here. Is there life inside?”

“Shit, yes.”

They looked at each other. And Truls asked himself exactly when and where they had forgotten how to talk to each other, what had happened to those carefree chats, the daydreaming they had done together, the days when it was OK to say anything and talk about everything. The days when the two of them had been as one. Like early in their careers, when they had smacked around the guy who had hit on Ulla. Or the queer who had worked in Kripos and made a move on Mikael, and whom they had taken to the boiler room in Bryn a few days later. The guy had blubbered and apologized, saying he had misinterpreted Mikael. They had avoided his face so that it wouldn’t be so obvious, but the fucking crybaby had made Truls so angry he had wielded the truncheon with more force than he had intended, and Mikael had only just been able to stop him. They weren’t what you might call good memories, but still, they were experiences that bound two people together.

“Well, I’m standing here and admiring the terrace,” Mikael said.

“Thanks.”

“There was something that occurred to me, though. The night you poured the cement …”

“Yes?”

“You said, I think, that you were restless and couldn’t sleep. But it struck me that was the night we arrested Odin and raided Alnabru afterward. And he disappeared—what was his name?”

“Tutu.”

“Tutu, yes. You were supposed to have been with us that night, but you were ill, you told me. And then you mixed concrete instead?”

Truls smirked. Looked at Mikael. At last he managed to catch his eye, and to keep it.

“Do you want to hear the truth?”

Mikael seemed to hesitate before answering. “Love to.”

“I was playing hooky.”

The terrace went quiet for a couple of seconds; all that could be heard was the distant rumble from the town.

“Playing hooky?” Mikael laughed. Skeptical but good-natured laughter. Truls liked his laugh. Everyone did, men and women alike. It was a laugh that said, You’re funny and nice and probably clever and well worth a friendly chuckle.

“
You
played hooky? You, who never shirks work and loves making an arrest?”

“Yes,” Truls said. “I’d gotten lucky.”

Silence again.

Then Mikael roared with laughter. He leaned back and laughed so much he was gasping for breath. Zero cavities. Bent forward again and smacked Truls on the shoulder. It was such happy, liberating laughter that for some seconds Truls simply couldn’t help himself. He joined in.

“Fucking and building a terrace,” Mikael Bellman gasped. “You’re quite a man, Truls. Quite a man.”

Truls could feel the praise making him grow back to his normal size. And for one moment it was almost like the old days. No, not almost—it
was
like the old days.

“You know,” he grunted, “now and then you have to do things all on your own. That’s the only way you get a decent job done.”

“True,” Mikael said, wrapping an arm around Truls’s shoulders and stamping both feet on the terrace. “But this, Truls, is a
lot
of cement for one man.”

Yes, Truls thought, feeling exultant laughter bubble up in his chest. It is a lot of cement for one man.

“I
SHOULD HAVE
kept the Game Boy when you brought it,” Oleg said.

“You should have,” Harry said, leaning against the doorframe. “Then you could have brushed up on your Tetris technique.”

“And you should have taken the magazine out of this gun before you left it here.”

“Maybe.” Harry tried not to look at the Odessa pointing half at the floor, half at him.

Oleg smiled wanly. “I guess we’ve made a number of mistakes, both of us.”

Harry nodded.

Oleg had got to his feet and was standing beside the stove. “But I didn’t only make mistakes, did I?”

“Not at all. You did a lot right as well.”

“Like what?”

Harry shrugged. “Like claiming you threw yourself at the gun of this fictional killer. Saying he wore a balaclava and didn’t say a word, only used gestures. You left it to me to draw the obvious conclusions: that it explained the gunshot residue on your skin, and that the killer didn’t speak because he was afraid you would recognize his voice, so he had some connection with the drug trade or the police. My guess is you used the balaclava because you noticed that the policeman with you at Alnabru had one. In your story you located him in the neighboring office because it was stripped bare, and it was open, so everyone could come and go from there to the river. You gave me the hints so that I could build my own convincing explanation of why you
hadn’t
killed Gusto. An explanation you knew my brain would manage. For our brains are always willing to let emotions make decisions. Always ready to find the consoling answers our hearts need.”

Oleg nodded slowly. “But now you have all the other answers. The correct ones.”

“Apart from one,” Harry said. “Why?”

Oleg didn’t reply. Harry held up his right hand while slowly putting his left in his trouser pocket and pulling out a crumpled pack and lighter.

“Why, Oleg?”

“What do you think?”

“I thought for a while it was all about Irene. Jealousy. Or you knew he had sold her to someone. But if he was the only person who knew where she was, you couldn’t kill him until he had told you. So it must have been about something else. Something as strong as love for a woman. Because you’re no killer, are you?”

“You tell me.”

“You’re a man with a classic motive that has driven men, good men, to perform terrible deeds, myself included. The investigation has gone around in circles. Getting nowhere. I’m back where we started. With a love affair. The worst kind.”

“What do you know about that?”

“Because I’ve been in love with the same woman. Or her sister. She’s drop-dead gorgeous at night, and as ugly as sin when you wake up the next morning.” Harry lit the black cigarette with the gold filter and the Russian imperial eagle. “But when night comes you’ve forgotten and you’re in love again. And nothing can compete with this love, not even Irene. Am I wrong?”

Harry took a drag and watched Oleg.

“What do you want me to say? You know everything anyway.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to hear yourself say it. So that you can hear how sick and meaningless it is.”

“What? That it’s sick to shoot someone because they try to steal your dope? The dope you’ve slogged your guts out to scrape together?”

“Can’t you hear how banal that sounds?”

“Says you!”

“Yes, says me. I lost the best woman in the world because I couldn’t resist. And you’ve killed your best friend, Oleg. Say his name.”

“Why?”

“Say his name.”

“I’ve got the gun.”

“Say his name.”

Oleg grinned. “Gusto. What’s—”

“Once more.”

Oleg tilted his head and looked at Harry. “Gusto.”

“Once more!” Harry yelled. “Gusto!” Oleg yelled back.

“Once m—”

“Gusto!” Oleg took a deep breath. “Gusto! Gusto …” His voice had begun to tremble. “Gusto!” It burst at the seams. “Gusto. Gus”—a sob intervened—“to.” Tears fell as he squeezed his eyes and whispered: “Gusto. Gusto Hanssen …”

Harry took a step forward, but Oleg raised the gun.

“You’re young, Oleg. You can still change.”

“And what about you, Harry? Can’t you change?”

“I wish I could, Oleg. I wish I had, then I would’ve taken better care of both of you. But it’s too late for me. I am the person I am.”

“Which is? Alkie? Traitor?”

“Policeman.”

Oleg laughed. “Is that it? Policeman? Not a person or anything?”

“Mostly a policeman.”

“Mostly a policeman,” Oleg repeated with a nod. “Isn’t that banal?”

“Banal and dull,” Harry said, taking the half-smoked cigarette and regarding it with disapproval, as if it weren’t working as it should. “Because that means I have no choice, Oleg.”

“Choice?”

“I have to make sure you take your punishment.”

“You don’t work for the police anymore, Harry. You’re unarmed. And no one else knows that you know or that you’re here. Think of Mom. Think about me! For once, think about us, all three of us.” His eyes were full of tears, and there was a shrill, metallic tone of desperation in his voice. “Why can’t you just go away now, and then we’ll forget everything, then we’ll say this hasn’t happened?”

“I wish I could,” Harry said. “But you’ve got me cornered. I know what happened, and I have to stop you.”

“So why did you let me take the gun?”

Harry shrugged. “I can’t arrest you. You have to give yourself up. It’s your race.”

“Give myself up? Why should I? I’ve just been released!”