“It’s right up this hill,” Harry said, looking at the phone screen, where a red teardrop-shaped symbol marked the coordinates Kaja had given him. They were parked by the side of the road and Bjørn had switched the engine and lights off. Harry leaned forward and peered out through the windshield, where light rain had started to fall. There were no lights anywhere on the black hillside. “Looks pretty sparsely populated.”
“We’d better take some beads for the natives,” Bjørn said, taking a flashlight and his service pistol from the glove compartment.
“I was thinking I’d go up there alone,” Harry said.
“And leave me here on my own when I’m scared of the dark?”
“You remember what I said about laser sights?” Harry put his index finger to his forehead. “I’m still marked after Smestaddammen. This is my project, and you’re on paternity leave.”
“You’ve seen those discussions in films where the woman nags the hero to let her join in something dangerous?”
“Yes...”
“I usually fast-forward those bits, because I know who’s going to win. Shall we go?”
28
“Sure it’s this cabin?” Bjørn asked.
“According to the GPS, yes,” said Harry, who was holding his coat over his phone. Partly to shield it from the rain that had replaced the snow showers, and partly to stop the glow from giving away their position if Bohr was looking out for them. Because if he was in the cabin, the darkness inside suggested that that was precisely what he was doing. Harry screwed his eyes up. They had found a trail that ran partially across bare ground, and the brown marks where there was snow indicated that it had been used recently. It hadn’t taken more than fifteen minutes to find. The snow on the ground reflected the light, but it was still too dark for them to be able to make out what colour the cabin was. Harry was putting his money on red. The rain had camouflaged the sound as they approached, but now it was also muffling any noises from inside the cabin.
“I’ll go in, you wait here,” Harry said.
“I need a bit more instruction, I’ve been in Forensics too long.”
“Shoot if you see someone who isn’t me shooting,” Harry said, then got out from under the low, dripping branches and strode towards the cabin.
There were regulations for how to enter a house if you thought you might encounter armed resistance. Harry knew some of them. Roar Bohr probably knew them all. So there was no point overthinking it. Harry walked up to the door and tried the handle. Locked. He moved to the side of the door and banged on it twice.
“Police!”
He leaned against the wall and listened. All he could hear was the persistent rain. And a twig snapping somewhere. He stared out into the darkness, but it was like a solid black wall. He counted to five, then hit the pane of glass beside the door with the butt of his pistol. The glass shattered. He reached inside and loosened the window catch. The frame had swollen, and he had to grab it hard and pull. He climbed inside. Inhaled the spice-like smell of fresh birch wood and ash. He turned on his flashlight, holding it away from his body in case anyone felt like using it as a target. He swept the beam around the room until it found a light switch by the door. Harry clicked it and the ceiling lamp came on, and he hurried to stand with his back against the wall between the windows. He looked around the room, from left to right, like he would at a crime scene. He was in the living room, from which two doors led to bedrooms containing bunk beds. No bathroom. A kitchen worktop with a sink and a radio at one end of the room. An open fireplace. Typical Norwegian cabin furniture — pine — a painted wooden chest, and a submachine gun and automatic rifle leaning against the wall. A table with a crocheted tablecloth and candlesticks, a sports magazine, two glinting hunting knives and a game of Yahtzee. Printed sheets of A4 were pinned to the walls all around the room. Harry stopped breathing when he saw Rakel beside the fireplace. The picture showed her standing behind a barred window. The kitchen window at Holmenkollveien. It must have been taken from right in front of the wildlife camera.
Harry forced himself to carry on looking round.
Above the dining table were photographs of more women, some with newspaper cuttings beneath them. And when Harry turned to look at the wall behind him he saw more pictures. Of men. Around a dozen, pinned in three columns, numbered according to some sort of ranking system. He recognised three of them at once. Number 1 was Anton Blix, who had been convicted of several rapes and a double murder ten years ago. Number 2 was Svein Finne. And further down, at number 6, Valentin Gjertsen. Now Harry thought he recognised some of the others as well. Well-known violent criminals, at least one of them dead and a couple more still in prison, as far as he was aware. He peered over at the newspaper cuttings on the other side of the room, and managed to make out one bold headline: Raped in Park. The print of the others was too small.
If he stepped closer, he would make himself a target from outside. But, of course, he could switch the lamp off and just use his flashlight. Harry’s eyes turned towards the switch, but found Rakel again.
He couldn’t see her face, but there was something about the way she was standing inside the window. Like a deer that had raised its head, pricked up its ears. That scented danger. Perhaps that was why she looked so alone. While she’s waiting for me, Harry thought. The way I waited for her. Two of us, waiting.
Harry realised he’d stepped out into the room, into the light, visible to anyone and everyone. What the hell was he doing? He closed his eyes.
And waited.
Roar Bohr had the crosshairs on the back of the person in the illuminated room. He had switched off the laser sight that had given him away when Pia and Hole were sitting on the bench beside Smestaddammen. The raindrops rustled in the trees above him, dripping from the brim of his cap. He waited.
Nothing happened.
Harry opened his eyes. Started breathing again.
And read the newspaper clippings.
Some of them had turned yellow, some were just a couple of years old. Reports of rapes. No names, just ages, locations, an outline of what happened. Oslo, Østlandet. One in Stavanger. God knows how Bohr had got hold of the photographs, but Harry had no doubt that they were the rape victims. So what about the pictures of the men? A sort of top-ten list of the worst — or possibly best — rapists in Norway? Something for Roar Bohr to aspire to, to measure himself against?
Harry unlocked the front door and opened it. “Bjørn! The coast’s clear!”
He looked at the picture that was pinned up beside the door. Sharp sunlight in squinting green eyes, a hand brushing aside a strand of honey-brown hair, a white vest with the Red Cross on it, desert landscape, Kaja smiling with those pointed teeth.
Harry looked down. Saw the same military boots he had seen in Bohr’s hallway.
The rocks in the desert. The Taliban waiting for number two to get out of the bulletproof car.
“No, Bjørn! No!”
“Kaja Solness,” the almost exaggeratedly deep voice from the black stone slab beside the stove.
“Officer in the Oslo Police,” Kaja said loudly as she scanned the shelves of the fridge in vain for something to eat.
“And how can I help you, Officer Solness?”
“We’re looking for a serial attacker.” She poured herself a glass of apple juice in the hope of getting her blood sugar up a bit. She checked the time. A relaxed local restaurant had opened on Vibes gate since she was last home. “Obviously I’m aware that as a psychiatrist you’re under an oath of confidentiality when it comes to patients who are still alive, but this concerns a deceased patient...”