Phantom (6 page)

“Who’s the third?”

“What?” Hagen was looking down at the keypad while tapping with a heavy finger.

“The third friend I have in the force?”

Gunnar Hagen put the receiver to his ear, sent Harry a weary look and said with a sigh: “Who do you think?” And: “Hello? Hagen here. I’d like a visitor’s permit … Yes?” Hagen laid a hand over the receiver. “No problem. They’re eating now, but get there around twelve.”

Harry smiled, mouthed a thank-you and closed the door quietly after him.

T
ORD
S
CHULTZ STOOD
in the booth, buttoning up his trousers and putting on his jacket. They had stopped short of examining orifices. The customs official who had stopped him was waiting outside. Standing there like a professor after an oral dissertation.

“Thank you for being so cooperative,” she said, indicating the exit.

Tord guessed they’d had long discussions about whether they would say, “We’re sorry,” whenever a drug-sniffing dog had identified someone, but no dope was found. The individual stopped, delayed, suspected and shamed would undoubtedly consider an apology appropriate. But should you complain about someone doing his or her job? Dogs identified innocent people all the time, and an apology would be a partial admission that there was a flaw in the procedure, a failure in the system. On the other hand, they could see by his stripes that he was a captain. Not a three-striper, not one of the failed fifty-year-olds who had stayed in the right-hand seat as a first officer because he had messed up his career. No, he had four stripes, which showed that he had order, control; he was a man who was a master of the situation and his own life. Showed that he belonged to the airport’s Brahmin caste. A captain was a person who ought to welcome a complaint from a customs official, whether it was appropriate or not.

“Not at all—it’s good to know someone is on the mark,” Tord said, looking for his bag. In the worst-case scenario they had searched it; the dog hadn’t detected anything there. And the metal plates around the space where the package was hidden were still impenetrable for existing X-rays.

“It’ll be here soon,” she said.

There were a couple of seconds when they silently regarded each other.

Divorced, Tord thought.

At that moment another official appeared.

“Your bag …” he said.

Tord looked at him. Saw it in his eyes. Felt a lump grow in his stomach, rise, nudge his esophagus. How? How?

“We took out everything and weighed it,” he said. “An empty twenty-six-inch Samsonite Aspire GRT weighs twelve-point-eight pounds. Yours weighs thirteen-point-nine. Would you mind explaining why?”

The official was too professional to smile overtly, but Tord Schultz still saw the triumph shining in his face. The official leaned forward a fraction, lowered his voice.

“Or shall we?”

H
ARRY WENT INTO
the street after eating at Olympen. The old, slightly dissipated hostelry he remembered had been renovated into an expensive west Oslo version of an east Oslo place, with large paintings of the town’s old working-class district. It wasn’t that it wasn’t attractive, with the chandeliers and everything. Even the mackerel had been good. It just wasn’t … Olympen.

He lit a cigarette and crossed Botsparken between Police HQ and the prison’s old gray walls. He passed a man putting a tatty red poster on a tree and banging a staple gun against the bark of the ancient, and protected, linden. He didn’t seem to be aware of the fact that he was committing a serious offense in full view of all the front windows of the building that contained the biggest collection of police officers in Norway. Harry paused for a moment. Not to stop the crime, but to see the poster. It advertised a concert with Russian Amcar Club at Sardines. Harry could remember the long-dissolved band and the derelict club. Olympen. Harry Hole. This was clearly the year for the resurrection of the dead. He was about to move on when he heard a tremulous voice behind him.

“Got ’ny violin?”

Harry turned. The man behind him was wearing a new, clean G-Star jacket. He stooped forward as though there were a strong wind at his back, and he had the unmistakable bowed heroin knees. Harry was going to reply when he realized G-Star was addressing the poster
man. But he kept on walking without answering. New wombos for units, new terms for dope. Old bands, old clubs.

The façade of Oslo District Prison—Botsen, in popular parlance—was built in the mid-1800s and consisted of an entrance squeezed between two larger wings, which always reminded Harry of a detainee between two policemen. He rang the bell, peered into the video camera, heard the low buzz and shoved the door open. Inside stood a uniformed prison officer, who escorted him up the stairs, through a door, past two other officers and into the rectangular, windowless visitors’ room. Harry had been there before. This was where the inmates met their nearest and dearest. A halfhearted attempt had been made to create a homey atmosphere. He avoided the sofa, sitting down on a chair instead, well aware of what went on during the few minutes the inmate was allowed to spend with a spouse or girlfriend.

He waited. Noticed he still had the Police HQ sticker on his lapel, pulled it off and put it in his pocket. The dream of the narrow corridor and the avalanche had been worse than usual last night—he had been buried and his mouth had been stuffed with snow. But that was not why his heart was beating now. Was it with expectation? Or terror?

The door opened before he had a chance to reach a conclusion.

“Twenty minutes,” the prison officer said, and left, slamming the door behind him.

The boy standing before him was so changed that for a second Harry had been on the point of shouting that this was the wrong person, was not him. This boy was wearing Diesel jeans and a black hoodie advertising Machine Head, which Harry realized was not a reference to the old Deep Purple record but—having calculated the time difference—a new heavy-metal band. Heavy metal was of course a clue, but the proof was the eyes and high cheekbones. To be precise: Rakel’s brown eyes and high cheekbones. It was almost a shock to see the resemblance. Granted, he had not inherited his mother’s beauty—his forehead was too prominent for that, lending the boy a bleak, almost aggressive appearance. Which was reinforced by the sleek bangs Harry had always assumed he had inherited from his father in Moscow. An alcoholic the boy had never really known properly—he was only a few years old when Rakel had brought him back to Oslo. Where later she was to meet Harry.

Rakel.

The great love of his life. As simple as that. And as complicated.

Oleg. Bright, serious Oleg. Oleg, who had been so introverted, who would not open up to anyone, apart from Harry. Harry had never told
Rakel, but he knew more about what Oleg thought, felt and wanted than she did. Oleg and him playing Tetris on his Game Boy, equally anxious to smash the record. Oleg and him skating at Valle Hovin. The time Oleg wanted to become a long-distance runner and in fact had the talent for it. Oleg, who smiled, patiently and indulgently, whenever Harry promised that in the autumn or spring they would go to London to see Tottenham playing at White Hart Lane. Oleg, who sometimes called him Dad when it was late, he was sleepy and had lost concentration. It was years since Harry had seen him, years since Rakel had taken him from Oslo, away from the grisly reminders of the Snowman, away from Harry’s world of violence and murder.

And now he was standing there by the door; he was eighteen years old, half grown up and looking at Harry without an expression, or at least one Harry could interpret.

“Hi,” Harry said. Shit, he hadn’t tested his voice; it came out as a hoarse rasp. The boy would think he was on the verge of tears or something. As if to distract himself, or Oleg, Harry pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes and poked one between his lips.

He peered up and saw the flush that had spread across Oleg’s face. And the anger. The explosive anger that appeared from nowhere, darkening his eyes and making the blood vessels on his neck and forehead bulge and quiver like guitar strings.

“Relax—I won’t light it,” Harry said, nodding to the
NO SMOKING
sign on the wall.

“It’s Mom, isn’t it?” The voice was also older. And thick with fury.

“What is?”

“She’s the one who sent for you.”

“No, she didn’t, I—”

“ ’Course she did.”

“No, Oleg, in fact she doesn’t even know I’m in the country.”

“You’re lying! You’re lying, as usual!”

Harry gaped at him. “As usual?”

“The way you lie that you’ll always be there for us and all that crap. But it’s too late now. So you can just go back to … Timbuktu!”

“Oleg! Listen to me—”

“No! I won’t listen to you. You’ve got no business here! You can’t come and play dad now—do you understand?” Harry saw the boy swallow hard. Saw the fury ebb, only for a new wave of blackness to engulf him. “You’re no one to us anymore. You were someone who drifted in, hung around for a few years and then …” Oleg made an
attempt to snap his fingers, but they slipped off each other without a sound. “Gone.”

“That’s not true, Oleg. And you know it.” Harry heard his own voice, which was firm and sure now, telling him that he was as calm and secure as an aircraft carrier. But the lump in his stomach told him otherwise. He was used to being yelled at during interrogations, and it made no difference to him—at best it made him even calmer and more analytical. But with this kid, with Oleg … against this he had no defense.

Oleg gave a bitter laugh. “Should we see if I can do it now?” He pressed his middle finger against his thumb. “Gone … there we are!”

Harry held up his palms. “Oleg …”

Oleg shook his head as he knocked on the door behind him, without taking his dark eyes off Harry. “Guard! Visit’s over. Lemme out!”

Harry remained in the chair for a few seconds after Oleg had gone.

Then he struggled to his feet and plodded out into a Botsparken bathed in sunshine.

Harry stood looking up at Police HQ. Pondering. Then he walked up to the custody block. But he stopped halfway, leaned back against a tree and pinched his eyes so hard he could feel he was squeezing out water. Fucking light. Fucking jet lag.

“I just want to see them. I won’t take anything,” Harry said.

The duty officer behind the counter at the custody block eyed Harry and wavered.

“Come on, Tore—you know me.”

Nilsen cleared his throat. “Yeah, but are you working here again, Harry?”

Harry shrugged.

Nilsen tilted his head and lowered his eyelids until his pupils were only half visible. As though he were filtering the optical impression. Filtering out what was unimportant. And what was left evidently fell in Harry’s favor.

Nilsen released a heavy sigh, disappeared and returned with a drawer. As Harry had assumed, the items found on Oleg when he was arrested were there. Only when it was decided prisoners would be in custody for longer than a couple of days were they moved down to Botsen, but personal effects weren’t always transferred.

Harry studied the contents. Coins. A ring with two keys, a skull and a Slayer badge. A Swiss Army knife with one blade and the rest screwdrivers and Allen keys. A throwaway lighter. And one more object.

It shook Harry, even though he already knew. The newspapers had called it “a drug showdown.”

It was a disposable syringe, still in its plastic wrapper.

“Is that all?” Harry asked, taking the key ring. He held it under the counter as he scrutinized the keys. Nilsen clearly did not like Harry holding anything out of his sight and leaned over.

“No wallet?” Harry asked. “No bank card or ID?”

“Doesn’t seem so.”

“Could you check the contents list for me?”

Nilsen picked up the folded list at the bottom of the drawer, fiddled around with his glasses and looked at the sheet. “There was a cell phone, but they took it. Probably wanted to see if he had called the victim.”

“Mm,” Harry said. “Anything else?”

“What else should there be?” Nilsen said, skimming the sheet. And concluded he had checked everything. “Nope.”

“Thanks, that was all. Thanks for your help, Nilsen.”

Nilsen nodded slowly. Still wearing his glasses. “Keys.”

“Yes, right.” Harry put them back in the drawer. Watched Nilsen making sure there were still two.

Harry left, crossed the parking lot and went onto Åkebergveien. Continued down to Tøyen and Urtegata. Little Karachi. Small greengrocers, hijabs and old men on plastic chairs outside their cafés. And to the Watchtower, the Salvation Army café for the town’s down-and-outs. Harry knew that on days like today it would be quiet, but as soon as winter and the cold came they would be flocking around the tables. Coffee and freshly made sandwiches. A set of clean clothes, the previous year’s fashion, blue sneakers from the army surplus store. In the sickroom on the first floor: attend to the latest wounds from the drug battlefields or—if the situation was dire—a vitamin B injection. Harry considered for a moment whether to drop in on Martine. Perhaps she was still working there. A poet had once written that after the great love there were minor ones. She had been one of the minor ones. But that was not the reason. Oslo was not big, and the heavy users gathered either here or at the Mission Café on Skippergata. It was not improbable that she had known Gusto Hanssen. And Oleg.