Prim cast one last glance around him. Then set off for home.
36
Wednesday
‘And what’s he doing here?’ Markus Røed sputtered, pointing at Harry. ‘A guy I’ve paid a million dollars to send me to jail when I’m innocent to boot!’
‘Like I told you,’ Krohn said, ‘he’s here because he doesn’t actually think you’re guilty, he thinks you were—’
‘I heard what he thinks! But I haven’t been to any bloody... gay club.’
He spat the last two words out. Harry felt a drop hit the back of his hand, shrugged and looked at Johan Krohn. The room the three of them had been allocated for their meeting was actually a visiting room for the inmates’ families. It had a window where the morning sun shone in behind rose-patterned curtains and iron bars, a table with an embroidered tablecloth, four chairs and a sofa. Harry had avoided the sofa and noticed Krohn did the same. He probably knew it was marinated in the juices from desperate and fast sex.
‘Could you explain?’ Harry said.
‘Yes,’ Krohn said. ‘Filip Kessler is saying that on the two Tuesdays Susanne and Bertine were murdered, he was with a person wearing the mask you see here.’
Krohn pointed at the cat mask lying on the table next to the membership card.
‘This person had the nickname Catman. Both items were in your suit, Markus. And the rest of the physical description matches you as well.’
‘Really? Which distinguishing features did he tell you about, then? Tattoos or scars? Birthmarks? Any peculiar abnormalities?’ Røed looked from one to the other.
Harry shook his head.
‘What?’ Røed laughed angrily. ‘Nothing?’
‘He doesn’t remember anything like that,’ Harry said. ‘But he’s pretty sure he’d recognise you if he was to touch you.’
‘Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,’ Røed said, looking like he was going to retch.
‘Markus,’ Krohn said, ‘this is an alibi. An alibi we can use to get you released immediately, and that we can enter as evidence to have you acquitted should they still decide to prosecute. I understand that you’re worried what this alibi would mean to people’s image of you, but—’
‘You understand?’ Røed roared. ‘Understand? No, you don’t fucking understand what it’s like to sit here suspected of killing your own wife. And then be accused of this filth on top of it. I haven’t seen that mask before. You want to know what I think? I think Helene got that mask and the membership card from some queer who looks like me and gave it to you so she could use it against me in the divorce. As for this Filip guy, he’s got nothing on me, he just sees the opportunity to make a quick buck. So find out how much he wants, pay him and make sure he keeps his mouth shut. That isn’t a suggestion, Johan, it’s an order.’ Røed sneezed hard before continuing. ‘And the two of you are contractually bound by confidentiality clauses. If either of you say a single word about this to anybody, I’ll sue the shit out of you.’
Harry cleared his throat. ‘This isn’t about you, Røed.’
‘What was that?’
‘There’s a killer out there who can and will, in all likelihood, strike again. That will be made all the easier for him as long as the police are convinced they already have the guilty party, as in you, in custody. If we withhold information about you being at Villa Dante, it makes us complicit when he kills his next victim.’
‘We? You can’t honestly believe you still work for me, Hole?’
‘I intend to honour the contract and I don’t regard the case as solved.’
‘Really? Then give me back my money!’
‘Not as long as three police lawyers are of the opinion you face conviction. What’s important now is to get the police to refocus their attention, and that means we have to give them this alibi.’
‘I wasn’t at that place, I’m telling you! It’s not my fucking responsibility if the police aren’t able to do their job. I’m innocent, and they’ll find that out in a straightforward fashion, not with these... gay lies. There’s no reason for panic or rash actions here.’
‘You idiot,’ Harry said with a sigh, as though it were a sad fact he was merely stating. ‘There’s every reason to panic.’ He got to his feet.
‘Where are you going?’ Krohn asked.
‘To inform the police,’ Harry said.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Røed snarled. ‘You do that and I’ll make sure you and everyone you care about rot in hell. Don’t think I’m not capable of it. And another thing. You might be under the impression I can’t reverse a wire transfer to the Cayman Islands two days after I’ve instructed my bank to pay it. Wrong.’
Something snapped in Harry, a familiar feeling of free fall. He took a step towards Røed’s chair, and before he knew it, his hand was round the property mogul’s throat and he was squeezing. Røed jerked back in his chair, gripped Harry’s forearm with both hands and tried to pull it away as his face turned red from lack of blood flow.
‘You do that, and I’ll kill you,’ Harry whispered. ‘Kill. You.’
‘Harry!’ Krohn had also risen to his feet.
‘Sit down, I’ll let go,’ Harry hissed, staring into the bulging, imploring eyes of Markus Røed.
‘Now, Harry!’
Røed gurgled and kicked, but Harry held him down in the chair. He squeezed even harder and felt the power, the thrill, that he could squeeze the juice out of this anti-human. Yes, thrill, and that same feeling of free fall as when he lifted the glass of his first drink after months of sobriety. But he could already feel the thrill subside, the power in his grip ebb. Because there was no reward for this free fall either, other than it was free for the briefest of moments, and only led one way. Down.
Harry let go, and Røed drew in air in a drawn-out wheeze before leaning forward in a fit of coughing.
Harry turned to Krohn. ‘I’m guessing that now I am fired?’
Krohn nodded. Harry smoothed his tie and left.
Mikael Bellman stood by the window gazing longingly down towards the city centre, where he could make out the high-rise in the government quarter. Closer, down by Gullhaug Bridge, he could see the treetops waving. The wind speed was supposed to increase even further; there had been talk of strong gales overnight. Something else had been forecast too, something about a lunar eclipse on Friday; apparently the events weren’t connected. He raised his arm and looked at his classic Omega Seamaster watch. One minute to two. He had spent much of the day discussing in his own mind the dilemma the Chief of Police had presented to him. In principle, an individual case like this had of course no business being on the desk of the Minster of Justice, but Bellman had made it his business by getting involved earlier, and now he couldn’t just drop it. He cursed.
Vivian tapped gently on the door and opened it. When he hired her as his personal assistant, it wasn’t just because she had a master’s in political science, spoke French after two years as a model in Paris and was willing to do everything from making coffee to greeting visitors and transcribing his speeches. She was pretty. There was much to be said about the function of physical appearance in today’s world, and much was said. So much that one thing was certain: it was as important as it had always been. He himself was a handsome man and was under no illusions as to it having played a part in his career advancement. Despite the modelling career, Vivian was not taller than him, and was therefore someone he could take into meetings and to dinners. She had a live-in boyfriend, but he saw that as more of a challenge than a drawback. Actually, it was an advantage. A visit to a couple of South American countries was planned for winter; the main issue on the agenda was human rights, a pure pleasure trip, in other words. And like he told himself, there’re a lot less flashbulbs and shepherding of a Minister of Justice than a Prime Minister.