The Devil's Star (2 page)

Most of the water, however, did not run into the wall, but down it, because water, like cowardice and lust, always finds the lowest level. At first the water was absorbed by the lumpy, granular insulation between the joists, but more followed and soon the insulation was saturated. The water went right through it and soaked up a newspaper dated July 11, 1898, in which it said the building industry’s boom time had probably reached its peak and the unscrupulous property speculators were sure to have harder times ahead. On page three it said that the police still had no leads regarding the murder of a young nurse who had been found dead from stab wounds in a bathroom the previous week. In May, a girl mutilated and killed in a similar way was found near the River Akerselva, but the police would not say whether the two cases could be connected.

The water ran off the newspaper, between the wooden boards underneath and along the inside of the painted ceiling fabric of the room below. Since this had been damaged during the repair of the leak in 1968, the water seeped through the holes, forming drops that hung on until they became heavy enough for gravity to defy the surface tension; they let go and fell three metres and eight centimetres. There the water landed and terminated its trajectory. Into water.

Vibeke Knutsen sucked hard on her cigarette and blew smoke out of the open window on the fourth floor of the apartment building. It was a warm afternoon and the air rose from the sun-baked asphalt in the back yard, taking the smoke up the light blue house front until it dispersed. On the other side of the roof you could hear the sound of a car in the usually busy Ullevålsveien. But now everyone was on holiday and the town was almost deserted. A fly lay on its back on the windowsill with its six feet in the air. It hadn’t had the sense to get out of the heat. It was cooler at the other end of the flat facing Ullevålsveien, but Vibeke didn’t like the view from there. Our Saviour’s Cemetery. Crowded with famous people. Famous dead people. On the ground floor there was a shop selling ‘monuments’, as the sign said, in other words, headstones. What one might call ‘staying close to the market’.

Vibeke rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window.

She had been happy when the warm weather came, but her happiness had soon worn off. Even now she was longing for cooler nights and people in the streets. Today there had been five customers in the gallery before lunch and three after. She had smoked one and a half packets of cigarettes out of sheer boredom. Her heart was pounding and she had a sore throat; in fact, she could hardly speak when the boss rang and asked how things were going. All the same, no sooner had she arrived home and put the potatoes on than she felt the craving in the pit of her stomach again.

Vibeke had stopped smoking when she met Anders two years before. He hadn’t asked her to. Quite the contrary. When they met on Gran Canaria he had even bummed a cigarette off her. Just for a laugh. When they moved in together, just one month after getting back to Oslo, one of the first things he had said was that their relationship would probably be able to stand a little passive smoking, and that cancer researchers were undoubtedly exaggerating. With a little time he would probably get used to the smell of cigarettes on their clothes. The next morning she made up her mind. When, some days later, he mentioned over lunch that it was a long time since he had seen her with a cigarette in her hand, she answered that she had never really been much of a smoker. Anders smiled, leaned over the table and stroked her cheek.

‘Do you know what, Vibeke? That’s what I always thought.’

She could hear the pan bubbling behind her and looked at the cigarette. Three more drags. She took the first. It didn’t taste of anything.

She could barely remember when it was that she had started smoking again. Perhaps it was last year, around the time he had started staying away for long periods on business trips. Or was it over New Year when she had begun working overtime almost every evening? Was that because she was unhappy? Was she unhappy? They never rowed. They almost never made love either, but that was because Anders worked so hard, he had said, putting an end to any discussion. Not that she missed it particularly. When, once in a blue moon, they did make a half-hearted attempt at love-making it was as if he wasn’t really there. So she realised she didn’t really need to be there, either.

But they didn’t actually row. Anders didn’t like raised voices.

Vibeke looked at the clock: 5.15. What had happened to him? Generally he told her if he was going to be late. She stubbed out the cigarette, dropped it into the back yard and turned towards the stove to check the potatoes. She put a fork into the biggest one. Almost done. Some small black lumps bobbled up and down on the surface of the boiling water. Funny. Were they from the potatoes or the pan?

She was just trying to remember what she had last used the pan for when she heard the front door being opened. From the corridor she could hear someone gasping for breath and shoes being kicked off. Anders came into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Rissoles.’

‘OK . . . ?’ His intonation rose at the end and formed a question mark. She knew roughly what it meant. Meat again? Shouldn’t we eat fish a little more often?

‘Fine,’ he said with flat intonation, leaning over the pan.

‘What have you been doing? You’re absolutely soaked with sweat.’

‘I didn’t do any training this evening, so I cycled up to Sognsvann and back again. What are the lumps in the water?’

‘I don’t know,’ Vibeke said. ‘I just noticed them.’

‘You don’t know? Didn’t you work as a sort of cook once upon a time?’

In one deft movement he took one of the lumps between his index finger and his thumb and put it in his mouth. She stared at the back of his head. At his thin brown hair that she had once thought was so attractive. Well groomed and just the right length. With a side parting. He had looked so smart. Like a man with a future. Enough future for two.

‘What does it taste of?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said, still bent over the cooker. ‘Egg.’

‘Egg? But I washed the pan . . .’

She suddenly paused.

He turned round. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘There’s . . . a drip.’ She pointed to his head.

He frowned and touched the back of his head. Then, in one movement, they both leaned backwards and stared up at the ceiling. There were two droplets hanging from the white ceiling fabric. Vibeke, who was a little short-sighted, wouldn’t have seen the drops if they had glistened. But they did not.

‘Looks like Camilla’s got a flood,’ Anders said. ‘If you go up and ring her bell, I’ll get hold of the caretaker.’

Vibeke peered up at the ceiling. And down at the lumps in the pan.

‘My God,’ she whispered and could feel her heart pounding again.

‘What’s the matter now?’ Anders asked.

‘Go and get the caretaker. Then go with him and ring Camilla’s doorbell. I’ll call the police.’

2

Friday. Staff Leave.

Oslo Police Headquarters in Grønland was situated at the top of the ridge between Grønland and Tøyen, and looked over the eastern part of the city centre. It was constructed of glass and steel and had been completed in 1978. There were no sloping surfaces; it stood in perfect symmetry and the architects Telje, Torp & Aasen had received an award for it. The electrician who installed the cables in the two long office wings on the seventh and ninth floors received social benefits and a good bollocking from his father when he fell from the scaffolding and broke his back.

‘For seven generations we were bricklayers, balancing between heaven and earth, before gravity brought us down. My grandfather tried to flee from the curse, but it followed him right across the North Sea. So the day you were born I swore to myself that you would not have to suffer the same fate. And I thought I had succeeded. An electrician . . . What the hell is an electrician doing six metres off the ground?’

The signal from the central control room ran through the copper in the exact same cables the son had laid, through the partition between the floors moulded with a factory-made cement mix, up to Crime Squad Chief Inspector Bjarne Møller’s office on the sixth floor. At this moment Møller was sitting and wondering whether he was looking forward to or dreading his impending family holiday in a mountain cabin in Os, outside Bergen. In all probability, Os in July meant dire weather. Now, Bjarne Møller had nothing against exchanging the heatwave that had been forecast for Oslo with a little drizzle, but to keep two highly energetic young boys busy with no resources other than a pack of cards minus its jack of hearts would be a challenge.

Bjarne Møller stretched his long legs and scratched behind his ear as he listened to the message.

‘How did they discover it?’ he asked.

‘There was a leak down to the flat below,’ the voice from the control room answered. ‘The caretaker and the man from downstairs rang the bell but no-one answered. The door wasn’t locked, so they went in.’

‘OK. I’ll send two of our people up.’

Møller put down the receiver, sighed and ran his finger down the plasticated duty roster which was on his desk. Half the division was on leave. That was the way it was at this time every year. Not that it meant that the population of Oslo was in any particular danger since the villains in the town also seemed to appreciate a little holiday in July. It was definitely low season as far as the law-breaking that fell to the Crime Squad was concerned.

Møller’s finger stopped by the name of Beate Lønn. He dialled the number for
Krimteknisk
, the forensics department in Kjølberggata. No answer. He waited for his call to go through the central switchboard.

‘Beate Lønn is in the lab,’ a bright voice said.

‘It’s Møller, Crime Squad. Could you get hold of her?’

He waited. It was Karl Weber, the recently retired head of
Krimteknisk
, who had recruited Beate Lønn from the Crime Squad. Møller saw this as further proof of the neo-Darwinist theory that man’s sole drive was to perpetuate his own genes. Weber clearly thought that Beate Lønn shared quite a few genes with him. At first sight, Karl Weber and Beate Lønn would probably have seemed quite different. Weber was grumpy and irascible; Lønn was a small, quiet grey mouse, who, after graduating from Police College, would blush every time you talked to her. But their police genes were identical. They were the passionate type who, when they smelled their prey, had the ability to exclude everything else and simply concentrate on a forensic lead, circumstantial evidence, a video recording, a vague description, until ultimately it began to make some kind of sense. Malicious tongues wagged that Weber and Lønn belonged in the laboratory and not in the community where an investigator’s knowledge of human behaviour was still more important than a footprint or a loose thread from a jacket.

Weber and Lønn would agree with what they said about the laboratory, but not about the footprints or the loose threads.

‘Lønn speaking.’

‘Hello, Beate. Bjarne Møller here. Am I disturbing you?’

‘Of course. What’s up?’

Møller explained briefly and gave her the address.

‘I’ll send a couple of my lads up with you,’ he said.

‘Which ones?’

‘I’ll have to have a look to see who I can find. Summer break, you know.’

Møller put down the phone and ran his finger further down the list.

It stopped at Tom Waaler.

The box for holiday dates was blank. That did not surprise Bjarne Møller. Now and then he wondered whether Inspector Tom Waaler took off any time at all or if he even had time to sleep. As a detective he was one of the department’s two star players. Always there, always on the ball and nearly always successful. In contrast with the other top-notch detective, Tom Waaler was reliable, had, an unblemished record and was respected by everyone. In short, a dream subordinate. With the indisputable leadership skills that Tom had, it was on the cards that he would take over Møller’s job as Chief Inspector when the time came.

Møller’s call crackled through the flimsy partitions.

‘Waaler here,’ a sonorous voice replied.

‘Møller. We –’

‘Just a moment, Bjarne. I’m on another call.’

Bjarne Møller drummed on the table while he was waiting. Tom Waaler could become the youngest ever Chief Inspector in the Crime Squad. Was it his age that made Bjarne Møller occasionally feel somewhat uneasy at the thought that he would be handing over his responsibilities to Tom? Or perhaps it was the two shooting incidents? The inspector had drawn his gun twice during arrests and, as one of the best marksmen in the police corps, he had hit the target both times with lethal results. Paradoxically enough, Møller also knew that one of the two episodes could ultimately push the appointment of the new Chief in Waaler’s favour.
SEFO
, the independent police investigation authority, had not uncovered anything to suggest that Tom had not fired in self-defence. In fact, it had concluded that in both cases he had shown good judgment and quick reactions in a tight situation. What better credentials could a candidate for the Chief’s job have?

‘Sorry, Bjarne. Call on the mobile. How can I help you?’

‘We’ve got a job.’

‘At last.’

The conversation was over in ten seconds. Now he just needed one more person.

Møller had thought of Halvorsen, but according to the list he was taking his leave at home in Steinkjer. His finger continued down the column. Leave, leave, sick leave. The Chief Inspector sighed when his finger stopped against the name he had been hoping to avoid.

Harry Hole.

The lone wolf, the drunk, the department’s enfant terrible and, apart from Tom Waaler, the best detective on the sixth floor. But for that and the fact that Bjarne Møller had over the years developed a sort of perverse penchant for putting his head on the block for this policeman with the serious drinking problem, Harry Hole would have been out years ago. Ordinarily Harry was the first person he would have rung and given the assignment to, but things were not ordinary.