The Devil's Star (13 page)

Vibeke smiled, went over to him, and Harry breathed in her fragrance as she kissed him on the cheek.

‘In another life, who knows?’ she whispered.

The gate closed after her with a smooth, well-oiled click. Harry stood there trying to orientate himself when something in the showroom window in front of him caught his attention. It wasn’t the range of headstones, but something in the reflection. A red car parked by the kerb on the other side of the road. If Harry had been in the slightest bit interested in cars, he would perhaps have known that this exclusive toy was a Tommykaira ZZR.

‘Fuck you,’ Harry muttered under his breath and stepped out to cross the road. A taxi shot past him with a blaring horn. He crossed over to the sports car and stood by the driver’s door. A blackened window was lowered without a sound.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Harry wheezed. ‘Are you spying on me?’

‘Good evening, Harry,’ Tom Waaler yawned. ‘I’m keeping Camilla Loen’s flat under surveillance, watching who comes and goes. You know, it’s not just a hollow phrase that criminals go back to the scene of the crime.’

‘Yes, it is. That’s exactly what it is,’ Harry said.

‘But, as you have perhaps realised, it’s all we have. The murderer hasn’t left us a lot to go on.’

‘We don’t know that the man . . .’ Harry said.

‘Or woman,’ Waaler interrupted.

Harry shrugged his shoulders and steadied himself. The door on the passenger side flew open.

‘Hop in, Harry. I’d like a chat with you.’

Harry squinted at the open door. He wavered. He took another stabilising sidestep. Then he walked round the car and got in.

‘Have you had a think?’ Waaler asked, turning down the music.

‘Yes, I’ve had a think,’ Harry said, squirming in the narrow bucket seat.

‘And did you come to the correct conclusion?’

‘You obviously like red, Japanese sports cars.’ Harry raised his hand and slapped the dashboard with some force. ‘Solid stuff. Tell me . . .’ Harry concentrated on his diction. ‘Was this how you and Sverre Olsen sat in the car and chatted in Grünerløkka the night Ellen was killed?’

Waaler eyed Harry for a long time before he opened his mouth and answered: ‘Harry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘No? You knew that Ellen had named you as the ringleader behind the arms smuggling, didn’t you? It was you who made sure that Sverre Olsen killed her before she could tell anyone else. And when you were told that I was on Sverre Olsen’s trail you hurriedly arranged it so that it looked as if he had drawn a gun while you were trying to arrest him. Just like with the other guy in Havnelageret. It’s a sort of speciality of yours, executing troublesome prisoners.’

‘You’re drunk, Harry.’

‘I’ve spent two years trying to get something on you, Waaler. Did you know that?’

Waaler didn’t answer.

Harry laughed and struck out again. The dashboard gave an ominous cracking sound.

‘Of course you knew! The Prince and heir apparent knows everything. How do you do it? Tell me.’

Through the side window Waaler caught sight of a man coming out of Kebabgården; he stopped and looked in both directions before walking down towards Trinity Church. Neither of them said a word until the man had turned into the road between the cemetery and Our Lady’s Hospital.

‘Fine,’ Waaler growled. ‘I can easily make a confession if that’s what you want. But just remember that when you hear a confession you can quickly get caught up in unpleasant dilemmas.’

‘Unpleasantness is fine by me.’

‘I gave Sverre Olsen the punishment he deserved.’

Harry turned his head slowly towards Waaler who was reclining against the headrest with his eyes half closed.

‘But not because I was afraid he would reveal that he and I were in league with each other. That part of your theory is incorrect.’

‘Yeah?’

Waaler sighed.

‘Do you wonder what it is that makes people like us do what we do?’

‘I never do anything else.’

‘What’s your earliest memory, Harry?’

‘When?’

‘My earliest memory is of night and of my father bending over me in bed.’

Waaler stroked the steering wheel.

‘I must have been four or five. He smelled of tobacco and security. You know, how fathers should smell. He used to come home after I’d gone to bed. And I knew that he would have gone to work long before I woke up in the morning. I knew that if I opened my eyes, he would smile, pat me on the head and go again. So I pretended that I was sleeping so he would stay there a little longer. Just sometimes, when I was having nightmares about the woman with the pig’s head going round the streets in search of children’s blood, I would open my eyes when he got up to go and ask him to sit with me for a little longer. And he sat down while I lay there wide-eyed, staring at him. Was it the same with your father, Harry?’

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

‘My father was a teacher. He was always at home.’

‘Middleclass home then.’

‘Something like that.’

Waaler nodded.

‘My father was a workman. Just like the fathers of my two best pals, Geir and Solo. They lived right above us in the block of flats in Oslo Old Town where I grew up. East End of Oslo, grey, but it was a good, well-kept block of flats owned by the union. We didn’t see ourselves as working class, we were all entrepreneurs. Solo’s father even owned a shop and everyone in the family played their part. All the men in our neighbour-hood worked hard, but no-one worked as hard as my father did – dawn to dusk, day and night. He was like a machine that was only switched off on Sundays. Neither of my parents was particularly Christian. My father studied theology for half a year at evening school because Grandfather wanted him to become a priest, but when Grandfather died he gave it up. All the same we went to Vålerenga church every Sunday and afterwards Father went with us to Ekeberg or Østmarka. At five o’clock we changed clothes and had our Sunday meal in the sitting room. This might sound boring, but I’ll tell you what, I looked forward all week to Sundays.

‘Then it was Monday and he was off again. There was always some building job that needed him to do overtime. “Some money was whiter than white, some grey and some black,” he used to say. It was the only way you could save up anything in his line of work. When I was thirteen we moved west to a house with an apple orchard. Father said it was better there. I was the only person in the class whose parents were not lawyers, economists, doctors or other professionals. The neighbour was a judge and he had a son of my age. Father hoped that I would turn out like him. He said that if I ever wanted to take up one of those professions it was important to have friends in the trade, to learn the codes, the language and the unwritten rules. However, I never saw anything of the son, just their dog, a German shepherd that stood barking on the veranda all night. After school I took the train to Oslo Old Town and met Geir and Solo there instead. Mother and Father invited all the neighbours to a barbecue party, but they all made excuses and politely turned down our invitation, except for one person. I can remember the smell of the smoke from the barbecue and the raucous laughter from the other gardens that summer. There was never a return invitation.’

Harry concentrated on his diction. ‘Does this story have a point to it?’

‘You’ll have to decide that. Shall I stop?’

‘No, do go on, there’s nothing particular I want to watch on TV tonight.’

‘One Sunday we were going to church as usual. I was waiting out in the street for Father and Mother and watching the German shepherd going wild in the garden snarling and barking at me from the other side of the fence. I don’t know why I did it, but I went and opened the gate. I may have thought it was angry because it was all alone. The dog jumped on me, knocked me to the ground and bit right through my cheek. I still have the scar.’

Waaler pointed, but Harry couldn’t see anything.

‘The judge called the dog from the veranda. It let go, then he told me to get the hell out of his garden. Mother cried and Father hardly said a word as we drove to casualty. On our return I had a thick black line of stitches running from my chin to right up to underneath my ear. My father went over to see the judge. When he came back his eyes were dark with fury and he said even less than before. We ate our Sunday joint in total silence. That night I woke up and lay awake wondering what had woken me. It was quiet everywhere. Then I realised. The German shepherd. It had stopped barking. I heard the front door close, and I knew instinctively that we would never hear that dog barking again. When the bedroom door was gently opened I closed my eyes tight, but still caught a glimpse of the hammer. He smelled of tobacco and security. And I pretended I was asleep.’

Waaler wiped an invisible speck of dust off the steering column.

‘I did what I did because we knew that Sverre Olsen had taken the life of one of our colleagues. I did it for Ellen, Harry. For us. Now you know I have killed a man. Are you going to report me or not?’

Harry simply stared. Waaler closed his eyes.

‘We only had circumstantial evidence against Olsen, Harry. He had got away with it. We couldn’t allow that to happen. Would you have allowed it to happen, Harry?’

Waaler turned his head and met Harry’s unrelenting stare.

‘Would you?’

Harry swallowed.

‘There was someone who saw you and Sverre Olsen together in a car, someone who was willing to testify to that effect, but you probably knew that, didn’t you.’

Waaler shrugged his shoulders.

‘I spoke to Olsen on several occasions. He was a neo-Nazi and a criminal. It’s our job to keep tabs on that sort, Harry.’

‘The person who saw you suddenly does not want to talk any more. You’ve had a chat with him, haven’t you. You’ve intimidated him into silence.’

Waaler shook his head.

‘I can’t answer that kind of thing, Harry. Even if you decide to join our team it’s a hard and fast rule that you only get to know what is absolutely necessary in order for you to perform your role. It may sound rigid, but it works. It works for us.’

‘Did you talk to Kvinsvik?’ Harry slurred.

‘Kvinsvik is just one of your windmills, Harry. Forget him. You’d be better off thinking about yourself.’

He leaned closer to Harry and lowered his voice.

‘What have you got to lose? Have a good look in the mirror . . .’

Harry blinked.

‘Right,’ Waaler said. ‘You’re a man of almost forty with an alcohol problem and no job, no family and no money.’

‘For the last time!’ Harry tried to shout but was too drunk. ‘Did you talk to . . . to Kvinsvik?’

Waaler sat up in his seat again.

‘Go home, Harry. And think about who you really owe something to here. Is it the force? Who feed on you, don’t like the taste and then spit you out? Your bosses who scurry off like frightened mice as soon as they smell trouble? Or do you perhaps owe yourself something? You’ve slogged away year in, year out to keep the streets of Oslo moderately safe in a country which protects its criminals better than it does its own civil servants. You are in fact one of the best at what you do, Harry. Unlike the others, you’ve got talent. And yet you earn a pittance. I can offer you five times what you’re earning today, but that’s not the most important bit. I can offer you a touch of dignity, Harry. Dignity. Think about it.’

Harry struggled to focus his eyes on Waaler, but his face kept drifting off. He fumbled around looking for the door handle, but couldn’t find it. Bloody Jap cars. Waaler leaned across him and pushed the door open.

‘I know you’ve been trying to find Kvinsvik,’ Waaler said. ‘Let me save you the bother. Yes, I talked to Olsen in Grünerløkka that evening, but that does not mean that I had anything to do with Ellen’s murder. I kept my mouth shut so that I didn’t complicate matters. You can do what you like, but believe me: Roy Kvinsvik has nothing to say that’s worth hearing.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Would it make any difference if I told you? Would you believe me then?’

‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘Who knows?’

Waaler sighed.

‘Sognsvannveien 32. He is staying in his ex-stepfather’s basement sitting room.’

Harry turned round and hailed a taxi coming towards him with its sign lit up.

‘But this evening he’s at choir practice with the Menna choir,’ Waaler said. ‘Walking distance. They practise in Gamle Aker church hall.’

‘Gamle Aker?’

‘He converted from Philadelphia to Bethlehem.’

The unoccupied taxi braked, hesitated, then accelerated again and drove off in the direction of the city centre. Waaler gave a wry smile.

‘You don’t have to lose your convictions to convert, Harry.’

12

Sunday. Bethlehem.

It was 8 p.m. on Sunday. Bjarne Møller yawned, locked the desk drawer and put his arm out to turn off his work lamp. He was tired but pleased with himself. The worst onslaught from the media after the shooting and the disappearance had let up and he had been able to work all weekend unbothered. The pile of papers that had towered on his desk when the holiday period began was soon halved. Now he could go home and enjoy a smooth Jameson whisky and the repeat on television of
Beat for Beat
. His finger was on the switch; he cast a final look at the now tidy desk top. That was when he noticed the brown padded envelope. He vaguely remembered taking it from his pigeonhole on Friday. Obviously it had been hidden behind the pile of papers.

He hesitated. It could wait until tomorrow. He squeezed the envelope. He could feel an object inside, something he couldn’t immediately identify. He opened it with the letter knife. There was no letter. He turned the envelope upside down, but nothing fell out. He shook it hard and heard something detach itself from the bubble-wrap lining. It hit the desk, bounced across to the telephone and landed on the blotting pad, on top of the duty roster.