The Devil's Star (6 page)

‘You’ve been hurt,’ she said. ‘And you’ve let everything else go so that you can get your revenge.’

As Harry fumed out of the house he caught a glimpse of Oleg’s pyjamas and red eyes behind the stair rails.

After that he stopped doing anything that did not have a direct connection with his pursuit of those guilty of Ellen’s murder. He read e-mails under the low light of table lamps, stared at the dark windows of detached houses and blocks of flats waiting for people who never came out, and snatched a few hours’ sleep in his flat in Sofies gate.

The days grew longer and lighter, but he had made absolutely no progress. One night, out of the blue, a nightmare from his childhood returned: Sis, her long hair trapped, the expression of horror on her face. He was rigid with fear. It returned the following night. And the night after.

Øystein Eikeland, a childhood friend who drank at Malik’s when he wasn’t driving his taxi, told Harry that he looked shattered and offered him some cheap speed. Harry refused. Exhausted and angry, he continued with the relentless search.

It was just a question of time before it all unravelled. Something as prosaic as an unpaid bill was all it took to trigger it. It was the end of May and he hadn’t spoken to Rakel for several days. He was woken in his office chair by the phone ringing. Rakel said that the travel company had reminded her that they hadn’t paid for the farm in Normandy. They had a week’s grace, after that the travel company would rent the farm out to someone else.

‘Friday is the deadline,’ were Rakel’s last words before ringing off.

Harry went to the lavatory, splashed some cold water over his face and confronted his reflection in the mirror. Beneath his wet, closely cropped fair hair he saw a pair of bloodshot eyes with dark bags under them and drawn, hollow cheeks. He tried a smile. Yellowing teeth grinned back at him. He didn’t recognise himself. And he knew that Rakel was right, it was a deadline. For him and Ellen. For him and Tom Waaler.

The same day he went to his closest superior officer, Bjarne Møller, who was the only person at Police HQ he trusted 100 per cent. Møller had alternately nodded and shaken his head as Harry told him what he wanted. Fortunately, he had said, that was not his pigeon and Harry would have to take it up directly with the Chief Superintendent. Nevertheless, he thought that Harry should think twice before he went to see him. Harry went straight from Møller’s square office to the oval office of the head of
Kripos
. He knocked, went in and presented what he had to say, about the witness who had seen Tom Waaler together with Sverre Olsen, and the fact that it was none other than Tom Waaler who had shot Olsen while arresting him. That was it. That was all he had after five months’ slog, five months’ shadowing, five months on the verge of madness.

The head of
Kripos
asked Harry what he thought Tom Waaler’s motive might be in killing Ellen Gjelten.

Harry answered that Ellen was in possession of dangerous information. The same evening she was killed she left a message on Harry’s answerphone that she knew who Prince was. She knew the name of the ringleader behind the illegal importing of weapons and the person responsible for arming Oslo’s criminal community to the teeth with service handguns.

‘Unfortunately it was too late when I rang back,’ Harry said, trying to read the Chief Superintendent’s expression.

‘And Sverre Olsen?’ the Superintendent asked.

‘When we picked up Sverre Olsen’s trail, Prince killed him so that he wouldn’t be able to reveal the name of Ellen’s killer.’

‘And this Prince, you said, is . . . ?’

Harry repeated Tom Waaler’s name and the head of
Kripos
nodded in silence and said: ‘One of our own then. One of our most respected detective inspectors.’

For the next ten seconds Harry felt as if he was sitting in a vacuum, with no air and no sound. He knew that his police career could finish right there on the spot.

‘Alright, Hole. I’ll meet this witness of yours before I make up my mind what our next step should be.’

The Superintendent stood up.

‘I assume that you understand, until further notice, this is a matter which must remain between you and me.’

‘How long are we supposed to stay here?’

Harry gave a start at the sound of the taxi driver’s voice. He had been asleep.

‘Go back,’ he said, taking a last look at the timber house.

As they went back down Kirkeveien his mobile phone rang. It was Beate.

‘We think we’ve found the weapon,’ she said. ‘And you were right. It is a handgun.’

‘In that case, congratulations to us both.’

‘Well, it wasn’t so difficult to find. It was in the rubbish bin under the sink.’

‘Make and number?’

‘A Glock 23. The number has been filed off.’

‘File marks?’

‘If you’re wondering whether they’re the same as the ones we find on most confiscated small arms in Oslo at the moment, the answer is yes.’

‘I see.’ Harry switched his mobile to his left hand. ‘What I don’t see is why you’re ringing to tell me all this. It’s not my case.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Harry. Møller said . . .’

‘Møller and the whole fucking Oslo Police Force can go to hell!’

Harry was taken aback by his own screeching voice. He saw the taxi driver’s V-shaped eyebrows loom up in the rear-view mirror.

‘Sorry, Beate. I . . . Are you still there?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’m just not quite myself at the moment.’

‘It can wait.’

‘What can?’

‘There’s no hurry.’

‘Come on.’

She sighed.

‘Did you notice the swelling Camilla Loen had on her eyelid?’

‘Indeed I did.’

‘I thought the murderer may have hit her, or that she got it when she fell, but it turned out it wasn’t a swelling.’

‘Oh?’

‘The pathologist pressed the lump. It was rock hard. So he pulled up her eyelid and do you know what he found on the top of her eyeball?’

‘Well, no,’ Harry said.

‘A small, reddish precious stone cut in the shape of a star. We think it’s a diamond. What do you think about that?’

Harry breathed in and checked the time. There were still three hours to go before they stopped serving at Sofie.

‘That it’s not my case,’ he said, switching off his phone.

6

Friday. Water.

7

Tuesday. Dismissal

Harry went to the back of the shop, opened the glass door of the milk refrigerator and leaned in. He pulled up his sweaty T-shirt, closed his eyes and felt the cool air against his skin.

The forecast was for a tropical night and the few customers there were in the shop wanted grilled food, beer or mineral water.

Harry recognised her by the colour of her hair. She was standing with her back to him at the meat counter. Her broad backside filled her jeans to perfection. When she turned round he saw that she was wearing a zebra-striped top which was just as tight as her leopard-pattern top. Then Vibeke Knutsen changed her mind, put back the ready-cooked pieces of beef, pushed her shopping trolley to the freezer counter and picked out two packets of cod fillets.

Harry pulled down his T-shirt and closed the glass door. He didn’t want any milk. Nor did he want any meat or cod. Basically, he wanted as little as possible, just something he could eat, not because he was hungry, but for his stomach’s sake. His stomach had started to give him some trouble the night before. And he knew from experience that if he didn’t get some solid food down him now, he would not be able to keep down a drop of alcohol. In his trolley there was a loaf of wholemeal bread and a brown paper bag containing a bottle from the Vinmonopol over the road. He added half a chicken, a six-pack of Hansa and fidgeted around at the fruit counter before joining the checkout queue right behind Vibeke Knutsen. It wasn’t intentional, but then again perhaps it wasn’t quite by chance either.

She half turned without seeing him and wrinkled her nose as if there was a potent smell coming from somewhere, which was a possibility that Harry could not completely exclude. She asked the checkout girl for a pack of 20 Prince Mild cigarettes.

‘Thought you were trying to give them up.’

Vibeke turned round in surprise, scrutinised him and gave him three different smiles. The first one, fleeting, automatic. Then one of recognition. Then, after she had paid, one of curiosity.

‘And you’re going to have a party, I see.’

She put her purchases into a plastic bag.

‘Something like that,’ Harry mumbled, reciprocating her smile.

She tilted her head to the side. The zebra stripes moved.

‘Many guests?’

‘A few. All uninvited.’

The checkout girl handed him his change, but he nodded towards the collection box for the Salvation Army.

‘You could show them the door, couldn’t you?’ Her smile had reached her eyes now.

‘Course. But these particular guests are not so easy to get rid of.’

The bottle of Jim Beam clinked joyfully against the six-pack as he lifted his bags.

‘Oh? Old drinking pals?’

Harry threw a lingering look in her direction. She seemed to know what she was talking about. This struck him as even stranger because she was living with the type of person who gave the impression of being fairly austere. Or to be more precise: it was strange that such an austere person would be living with her.

‘I haven’t got any pals,’ he said.

‘Must be the ladies then. The type that doesn’t let go easily.’

He intended to hold the door open for her, but it turned out it was automatic. He had only been shopping there a few hundred times. They stood opposite each other on the pavement outside.

Harry didn’t know what to say. Perhaps this was why he came out with:

‘Three ladies. Perhaps they’ll go away if I drink enough.’

‘Eh?’

She shaded her eyes from the sun.

‘Nothing. Sorry. I’m just thinking aloud. That is, I’m not thinking . . . but I’m doing it aloud anyway. Prattling away, I suppose. I . . .’

He couldn’t understand why she was still there.

‘They’ve been running up and down our stairs all weekend,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘The police, I suppose.’

Harry slowly absorbed the information that a weekend had passed since he had stood in Camilla Loen’s flat. He tried to catch a glimpse of himself in the shop window. A whole weekend? What did he look like now?

‘They won’t tell us anything,’ she said. ‘And the papers only say they haven’t got any leads. Is that true?’

‘It’s not my case,’ he said.

‘Right.’ Vibeke Knutsen nodded her head. Then she began to smile. ‘And do you know what?’

‘What?’

‘Actually, it’s probably a good thing too.’

It took a couple of seconds before Harry realised what she meant. He laughed. The laugh developed into a hacking cough.

‘Funny that I’ve never seen you in this shop before,’ he said when he had regained his composure.

Vibeke shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who knows? Perhaps we’ll see each other here again soon?’

She beamed at him and began to walk away. The plastic bags and her backside swung from side to side.

Yes, you and me and a flying pig.

Harry was thinking furiously and for a moment he was afraid that he had thought out loud.

A man with his jacket slung over one shoulder and a hand pressed against his stomach was sitting on the steps outside the entrance to the apartment block in Sofies gate. His shirt had dark, sweaty patches on the front and under the armpits. On seeing Harry, he stood up.

Harry breathed in and steeled himself. It was Bjarne Møller.

‘My God, Harry.’

‘My God to you too, boss.’

‘Have you seen what you look like?’

Harry took out his keys. ‘Not quite peak of fitness?’

‘You were told to assist with the murder case at the weekend and no-one has seen hide nor hair of you. Today you didn’t even turn up for work.’

‘Overslept, boss. And that’s not as bloody far from the truth as you might think.’

‘Perhaps you overslept during those weeks when you only came in on Fridays as well?’

‘Probably. I picked up a bit after the first week. So I rang into work and was told that someone had put my name up on the staff leave list. I reckoned it was you.’

Harry trudged into the hallway with Møller hard on his heels.

‘I had absolutely no choice,’ Møller said, groaning and holding his hand against his stomach. ‘Four weeks, Harry!’

‘Well, just a nanosecond in the universe . . .’

‘And not one single word about where you were!’

Harry guided the key into the lock with some difficulty. ‘It’s coming now, boss.’

‘What is?’

‘A single word about where I was. Here.’

Harry shoved open the door to his flat and an acrid stench of beer, cigarette ends and stale refuse rose up to meet them.

‘Would you have felt better if you’d known?’

Harry went in, and hesitantly Møller stepped in after him.