Nemesis (41 page)

Waaler placed one man at the back of the house by the fire escape. After looking at the drawings of the apartment block on the Intranet,
he had memorised where Harry’s flat was and discovered there was no back staircase to worry about.

Each armed with an MP5 across their shoulders, Waaler and two men crept up the worn, wooden stairs. On the second floor, Waaler stopped and pointed to the door that didn’t have – and had hardly ever needed – a nameplate. He eyed the two others. Their chests heaved under their uniforms. And not because of the stairs.

They put on balaclavas. The keywords were speed, efficiency and resolve. The latter actually meant the resolve to be brutal, and if necessary, to kill. That was seldom necessary. On the whole, even hardened criminals were totally paralysed when masked, armed men entered without warning. In short, they used the same tactics as bank robbers.

Waaler steadied himself and nodded to one of the others, who gently touched the door with two knuckles. That was in order to be able to write in the report that they had knocked first. Waaler smashed the glass panel with the barrel of his machine gun, reached a hand through and opened the door in one movement. He yelled as they stormed the apartment. A vowel or the first letter of a word, he wasn’t sure. He just knew it was the same thing he used to yell when he and Joakim switched on their torches. That was the best bit.

‘Potato dumpling,’ Maja said, taking his plate and giving Harry a reproachful look. ‘You haven’t touched it.’

‘Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘No appetite. Pay my respects to the chef and tell him it wasn’t his fault. This time.’

Maja laughed out loud and headed for the kitchen.

‘Maja . . .’

She turned round slowly. There was something in Harry’s voice, in his intonation which presaged what was coming.

‘Bring me a beer, would you?’

She continued towards the kitchen. It’s none of my business, she thought. I just serve customers. Nothing to do with me.

‘What’s up, Maja?’ the cook asked as she emptied the plate into the bin.

‘It’s not my life,’ she said. ‘It’s his. The fool.’

The telephone in Beate’s office gave a reedy squeak and she took the receiver. She heard the sound of voices, laughter and the clink of glasses. Then came the voice.

‘Am I disturbing?’

For a second she was uncertain. His voice sounded alien. But it couldn’t be anyone else. ‘Harry?’

‘What are you up to?’

‘I . . . I’m checking the Net for clues. Harry—’

‘So you’ve put the video of the Grensen bank job on the Net?’

‘Yes, but you—’

‘There are a couple of things I have to tell you, Beate. Arne Albu—’

‘Fine, but listen to me now.’

‘You sound a bit stressed, Beate.’

‘I am!’ Her shout crackled over the telephone. Then – calmer: ‘They’re after you, Harry. I tried to ring and warn you after they had left, but no one was at home.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Tom Waaler. He’s got a warrant out on you.’

‘Eh? Am I going to be arrested?’

Now Beate knew what was different about Harry’s voice. He had been drinking. She gulped. ‘Tell me where you are, Harry, and I’ll come and get you. Then we can say you gave yourself up. I don’t know what this is all about yet, but I’ll help you, Harry. I promise. Harry? Don’t do anything stupid, OK? Hello?’

She sat listening to voices, laughter and clinking glasses, then footsteps and a woman’s hoarse voice: ‘This is Maja at Schrøder’s.’

‘Where . . . ?’

‘He’s gone.’

V
IGDIS
A
LBU WOKE UP TO
G
REGOR BARKING OUTSIDE.
T
HE
rain was drumming on the roof. She looked at her watch. Half past seven. She must have dropped off. The glass in front of her was empty, the house was empty, everything was empty. That wasn’t how she had planned things.

She got up, went over to the patio door and watched Gregor. He was facing the gate with his ears and tail pointing directly upwards. What should she do? Give him away? Have him put to sleep? Not even the children had any strong feelings for this over-active, nervous creature. The plan, yes. She glanced at the half-empty gin bottle on the glass table. It was time to devise a new one.

Gregor’s barking rent the air.
Woof, woof!
Arne had said he found the irritating noise reassuring; it gave you a vague sense that someone was alert. He said dogs could smell enemies because ill-wishers gave off a different scent from friends. She decided she would ring a vet tomorrow; she was sick of paying upkeep for a dog which barked every time she came into the room.

She inched open the patio door and listened. Through the baying of the dog and the rain she could hear the gravel crunching. She just
managed to throw a brush through her hair and wipe away a streak of mascara under her left eye before the doorbell rang its three notes from Handel’s
Messiah
, a house-warming present from her in-laws. She had an inkling who it might be. She was right. Almost.

‘Constable?’ she said, genuinely astonished. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

The man on the step was soaked. Drops of water were hanging from his eyebrows. He leaned one arm against the door frame and looked at her without answering. Vigdis Albu opened the door completely and half-closed her eyes again: ‘Won’t you come in?’

She led the way and heard his shoes squelch behind her. She knew he liked what he saw. He sat down in an armchair without taking off his coat. She noticed the material darken as the water soaked in.

‘Gin, Constable?’

‘Got any Jim Beam?’

‘No.’

‘Gin’s fine.’

She fetched the crystal glasses – a wedding present from the in-laws – and poured them both a drink. ‘My condolences,’ the policeman said, eyeing her with shiny, red eyes which told her this wasn’t his first drink today.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘
Skål
.’

When she set down her glass she saw he had drunk half the contents of his. He sat fidgeting with it and suddenly said: ‘I killed him.’

Vigdis instinctively put her hand to the necklace around her neck. The morning gift.

‘I didn’t want it to end like that,’ he said. ‘But I was stupid and careless. I led the murderers right to him.’

Vigdis pressed the glass to her mouth so he wouldn’t see she was about to burst into laughter.

‘So now you know,’ he said.

‘Now I know, Harry,’ she whispered. She thought she saw a hint of surprise in his eyes.

‘You’ve been talking to Tom Waaler.’ It sounded more like a statement than a question.

‘You mean the detective who thinks he’s God’s gift to . . . hm. I talked to him. Told him everything I knew, of course. Shouldn’t I have done, Harry?’

He shrugged.

‘Have I put you in a tight spot, Harry?’ She had tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa and regarded him with a concerned expression from behind her glass.

He didn’t answer.

‘Another drink?’

He nodded. ‘At least, I have one piece of good news for you.’ He followed her hand carefully as she filled his glass. ‘I received an e-mail this evening from someone confessing to the murder of Anna Bethsen. The person in question lured me into thinking it was Arne.’

‘That’s great,’ she said. She spluttered gin onto the table. ‘Oh dear, must be a bit too strong.’

‘You don’t seem exactly surprised.’

‘Nothing surprises me any longer. To be honest, I didn’t think Arne had the guts to kill anyone.’

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Nevertheless. Now I have proof Anna Bethsen was murdered. I sent the confession to a colleague of mine before leaving home this evening. As well as all the other e-mails I’ve received. That means I’ve laid all my cards on the table as far as my own role is concerned. Anna was an ex-girlfriend of mine. My problem is that I was with her the evening she was killed. I should have turned down her invitation right away, but I was stupid and careless and thought I could solve the case on my own and at the same time make sure I wasn’t dragged into it. I was . . .’

‘Stupid and careless. You’ve said that.’ She observed him pensively as he stroked the sofa cushion beside him. ‘Of course, that explains a great deal. However, I still can’t see why it should be a crime to spend time with a woman you would like to . . . spend time with. You had better explain yourself, Harry.’

‘Well.’ He gulped down the shiny liquor. ‘I woke up the next day and couldn’t remember a thing.’

‘I see.’ She rose from the sofa, went over to him and stood opposite him. ‘Do you know who he is?’

He rested his head against the back of the sofa and looked up at her. ‘Who said it’s a “he”?’ His words were slightly slurred.

She stretched out a slim hand. He shot her a quizzical look.

‘The coat,’ she said. ‘Then go straight into the bathroom and take a hot bath. I’ll make coffee and find some dry clothes for you in the meantime. I don’t think he would have objected. He was a reasonable man in many ways.’

‘I . . .’

‘Come on. Now.’

The hot embrace sent shivers of pleasure running through him. The caresses continued up over his thighs to his hips and covered him in gooseflesh. He groaned. Then he lowered the rest of his body into the boiling water and leaned back.

He could hear the rain outside and listened to catch Vigdis Albu’s movements, but she had put a record on. Police. Greatest Hits, to cap it all. He closed his eyes.

Sting was sending out an SOS. Speaking of which, he reckoned Beate must have read the e-mail by now. She would have passed on the message and the fox hunt would have been called off. The alcohol had made his eyelids heavy, but every time he closed his eyes he saw two legs and hand-sewn Italian shoes sticking out of the steaming-hot bathwater. He fumbled behind his head for the glass he had placed at the edge of the bath. When he rang Beate from Schrøder’s he had only had two large beers, and that was nowhere near the anaesthetisation he required. But where was the damn glass? He wondered if Tom Waaler was hunting him down anyway. Harry knew he was desperate to make this arrest. But Harry was not going to give himself up until he had all the details safely in place. From now on, he
couldn’t afford to trust anyone. He would sort it out. Just some time out first. Another drink. Borrow the sofa here tonight. A clear head. Tomorrow.

His hand hit the heavy crystal glass and it landed on the tiled floor with a dull crunch.

Harry swore and stood up. He almost fell but caught the wall at the last moment. He tied a thick, plush towel around his waist and went into the living room. The gin bottle was still on the coffee table. He found a glass in the bar cabinet and filled it to the brim. He could hear the coffee machine. And Vigdis’s voice from the hall. He went back into the bathroom and carefully placed the glass beside the clothes Vigdis had laid out for him, a complete Bjørn Borg collection in light blue and black. He cleaned the mirror with the towel and confronted his eyes in the condensation-free strip.

‘You idiot,’ he whispered.

He sat on the floor. A red rivulet crept down the grout between the tiles to the drain. He followed the rivulet back to his right foot where fresh blood was trickling between his toes. He stood up in the middle of the broken glass; he hadn’t even noticed it. Hadn’t noticed a thing. He looked in the mirror again and laughed.

Vigdis put down the receiver. She had been forced to improvise, although she hated improvising. It made her feel physically ill when things didn’t go according to plan. Right from the time she was small, she had realised that nothing happened of its own accord. Planning was everything. She could still remember the family moving to Slemdal from Skien when she had been in the third class. In front of her new class, she had stood and introduced herself while they sat staring at her, her clothes and the strange plastic bag which had made a couple of the girls giggle and point. In the last lesson she had written a list detailing the girls in the class who would be her best friends, those who would be given the cold shoulder, which boys would fall in love with her and which teachers would choose her as
their favourite pupil. She had hung the list over her bed when she came home and didn’t take it down until Christmas, by which time there was a tick by every name.

But now it was different. Now she was at the mercy of others for life to slot into place.

She looked at her watch. Twenty to ten. Tom Waaler said they would be there within twelve minutes. He had promised to switch off the sirens well before Slemdal so she didn’t need to worry about neighbours. She hadn’t even mentioned it.

She sat in the hallway waiting. Hole had gone to sleep in the bath, she hoped. Another look at her watch. Listened to the music. Fortunately the stressful Police songs were finished and now Sting was singing songs off his solo album with his wonderful, soothing voice. About rain . . . like tears from a star. It was so beautiful she almost wanted to cry.

Then she heard Gregor’s hoarse barking. Finally.

She opened the door and went out onto the step as arranged. She saw a figure running across the garden towards the patio and another going around the back of the house. Two masked men in black uniforms carrying small, snub pistols stopped in front of her.

‘Still in the bath?’ whispered one from behind the black balaclava. ‘Left after the stairs?’

‘Yes, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘And thanks for coming so—’

But they were already inside.

She closed her eyes and listened. Feet running up the stairs, Gregor’s fierce snarls from the patio, Sting’s gentle ‘How Fragile We Are’, the crash of the bathroom door being kicked in.

She turned and went inside. Up the stairs. Towards the shouting. Needed a drink. She saw Tom at the top of the stairs. He had taken off his balaclava, but his face was so distorted she hardly recognised him. He was pointing to something. On the carpet. She looked down. A trail of blood. Her eyes followed it across the living room to the open patio door. She couldn’t hear what the idiot dressed in black was shouting at her.
The plan
was all she could think.
This isn’t the plan
.