And that was why it was not unusual for Beate Lønn’s brain to be whirring already, trying to place the face of the man in the other tram.
What was unusual was that she couldn’t place it straight away.
Only a metre and a half separated them, and her attention had been drawn to him because he was writing in the condensation on the window and therefore had his face turned to her. She had seen him before, but the name, the numbers of the DNA code markers that linked the face to the name, was concealed.
Perhaps it was the reflection on the glass, perhaps a shadow covering his eyes. She was about to give up when her tram lurched into motion, the light fell differently and he raised his gaze and met hers.
An electric shock went through Beate Lønn.
His gaze was that of a reptile.
The cold gaze of a murderer who knew who she was.
Valentin Gjertsen.
And she also knew why she hadn’t recognised him at once. How he had managed to stay hidden.
Beate Lønn got up from her seat. Tried to get out, but the girl beside her had her eyes closed and was nodding her head. Beate nudged her and the girl looked up with annoyance.
‘Out,’ Beate mouthed.
The girl raised a pencilled eyebrow, but didn’t stir.
Beate grabbed her headphones.
‘Police. I’m getting off.’
‘We’re moving,’ the girl said.
‘Shift your fat arse now!’
The other passengers turned towards Beate Lønn. But she didn’t blush. She wasn’t that quiet girl any longer. Her figure was as petite, her skin pale to the point of transparency, her hair colourless and dry like uncooked spaghetti. But that Beate Lønn no longer existed.
‘Stop the tram! Police! Stop!’
She ploughed her way through to the driver and the exit. Heard the thin scream of brakes. She was there, had flashed her ID at the driver, waited impatiently. They came to a halt with a final jerk, the standing passengers lunged forward and hung onto the straps as the doors banged open. Beate was outside in one leap, and running up the tramway that divided the road. Felt the dew on the grass through the thin fabric of her shoes. The other tram was moving, she heard the low, rising song of the rails, and she ran as fast as she could. There was no reason to assume that Valentin was armed, and he would never escape from a packed tram with her waving police ID, shouting that he was under arrest. If she could only catch the tram. Running wasn’t her strong suit. That was what the doctor who’d thought she had Asperger’s had said. People like her tended to be physically uncoordinated.
She slipped on the wet grass, but managed to stay on her feet. Just a few more metres. She caught up with the end of the tram. Slapped her hand against it. Screamed, waved her ID, hoping the driver would see her in the mirror. And perhaps he did. Saw a commuter who had overslept desperately waving her monthly ticket. The song of the rails rose another quarter of a tone and the tram left her standing.
Beate stopped and watched the tram disappear up Majorstuen. She turned and saw her tram heading for Frogner plass.
Cursing quietly, she took out her mobile, crossed the road, leaned against the wire fence of the tennis courts and tapped in a number.
‘Holm.’
‘It’s me. I’ve just seen Valentin.’
‘Eh? Are you sure?’
‘Bjørn. .’
‘Sorry. Where?’
‘On the tram passing Frogner Park up towards Majorstuen. Are you at work?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a number 12. Find out where it goes and have it cut off. He mustn’t get away.’
‘Fine. I’ll find the stops and send a description of Valentin to all the patrol cars.’
‘That’s no good.’
‘What’s no good?’
‘The description. He’s changed.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Plastic surgery. Radically enough to be able to move around undetected in Oslo, for example. Tell me where the tram has been stopped and I’ll make my way there and point him out.’
‘Received and out.’
Beate put the phone back in her pocket. It was only now that she noticed how out of breath she was. In front of her the morning rush-hour traffic inched past as if nothing had happened. As if the fact that a murderer had just been exposed made no difference one way or the other.
‘What’s happened to them?’
Beate pushed herself off the fence and turned to the creaky voice.
The old man looked at her with enquiring eyes.
‘Where are they all?’ he reiterated.
And when Beate saw the pain there she quickly had to swallow the lump in her throat.
‘Do you think. .’ he said, attempting a tentative swing of the racket, ‘they’re on the other court?’
Beate nodded slowly.
‘Yes, they probably are,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be here. They’re on the other court. They’re waiting for me there.’
Beate watched his narrow back as he tottered towards the gate.
Then she hurried off to Majorstuen. And even as her mind raced, wondering where Valentin could be going, where he was coming from and how close they might be to arresting him, she still couldn’t shake off the echo of the old man’s whisper.
They’re waiting for me there.
Mia Hartvigsen watched Harry Hole.
She had crossed her arms and half turned her shoulder to him. Around the pathologist lay blue plastic tubs of severed body parts. The students had left the room at the Institute of Forensic Medicine on the ground floor of the Rikshospital, and then this blast from the past had marched in with the pathology report on Asayev under his arm.
The dismissive body language was not because Mia Hartvigsen disliked Hole, but that he spelt trouble. When he’d worked as a detective Hole had always meant extra work, tighter deadlines and an increased chance of being pilloried for blunders for which they were hardly responsible.
‘We’ve done a post-mortem on Rudolf Asayev,’ Mia said. ‘A thorough one.’
‘Not thorough enough,’ Harry said, putting the report down on one of the shiny metal tables where the students had just been cutting into human flesh. A muscular arm, severed at the shoulder, hung out from under a blanket. Harry read the letters of the faded tattoo on the upper arm. Too young to die. Well. Maybe one of the Los Lobos bikers, a rival gang Asayev was determined to eliminate.
‘And what makes you think we haven’t been thorough enough, Hole?’
‘First of all, you couldn’t show any cause of death.’
‘Sometimes the body simply doesn’t give us any clues. You know that. It doesn’t necessarily mean there isn’t a perfectly natural cause.’
‘And the most natural cause in this case would be that someone murdered him.’
‘I know he was a potential Crown witness, but a post-mortem follows certain fixed routines which are not influenced by such circumstances. We find what we find, and nothing else. Pathology isn’t a hunch science.’
‘With regard to the science,’ Hole said, sitting on her desk. ‘It’s based on hypothesis testing, isn’t it? You form a theory and then you test it, true or false. Right?’
Mia Hartvigsen shook her head. Not because it wasn’t right, but because she didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking.
‘My theory,’ Hole continued with an innocent smile, making him look like a boy trying to persuade his mother he should have an atomic bomb for Christmas, ‘is that Asayev was killed by someone who knows exactly how you work and what is required to ensure you don’t find anything.’
Mia shifted feet, turning the other shoulder to him. ‘So?’
‘So how would you have done that, Mia?’
‘Me?’
‘You know all the tricks. How would you have fooled yourself?’
‘Am I a suspect?’
‘Until further notice.’
She stopped herself reacting when she saw him smiling.