Beate Lønn might have been cut up on the coffee table as it was made of glass and could be cleaned effectively afterwards. The killer had probably taken ammonia with him and black bin bags as none of these had been found at the crime scene.
In the dustcart they had also found the remains of a rug drenched in blood.
What they didn’t find were fingerprints, footprints, fabric, hairs or other DNA material that didn’t belong to the house.
Or any signs of a break-in.
Katrine Bratt had explained that Beate Lønn had finished the call because the doorbell had rung.
It seemed very unlikely that Beate Lønn would have voluntarily let in a stranger, and definitely not in the middle of an operation. So the theory they were working on was that the killer had forced his way in, threatening her with a weapon.
And then, of course, there was the second theory. That it wasn’t a stranger. Because Beate Lønn had a chain on the solid door. And there were plenty of scratch marks, suggesting that it was used regularly.
Bellman looked down the rows. Gunnar Hagen. Bjørn Holm and Katrine Bratt. An elderly lady with a small boy he assumed was Lønn’s son, at any rate the similarity was striking.
Another ghost, Harry Hole. Rakel Fauke. Brunette, with these dark, glinting eyes, almost as beautiful as Ulla, incomprehensible that a guy like Hole could have got his paws on her.
And a bit further back, Isabelle Skøyen. Oslo City Council had to be represented, of course, the press would make a point of it if not. Before they entered the church she had taken him aside, ignoring the fact that Ulla was there, and asked how long he was intending to avoid her phone calls. And he had repeated it was over. And she had regarded him in the way you regard an insect before you tread on it and said she was a leaver, not a leavee. Which he would soon find out. He had felt her eyes on his back as he had walked over to Ulla and offered her his arm.
Otherwise the rows were filled with what he assumed was a mixture of relatives, friends and colleagues, most of them in uniform. He had overheard them consoling one another as best they could: there were no signs of torture and loss of blood had hopefully meant she would have been unconscious in no time.
For a fraction of a second his eyes met someone else’s. And moved on as if he hadn’t seen him. Truls Berntsen. What the hell was he doing here? He hadn’t exactly been on Beate Lønn’s Christmas card list. Ulla pressed his hand lightly, looked at him enquiringly, and he flashed her a quick smile. Fair enough; in death we are all colleagues, he supposed.
Katrine had been wrong. She wasn’t all cried out.
A few times since Beate had been found she had thought there were no tears left. But there were. And she had squeezed them out of a body that was already sore from long bouts of weeping.
She had cried until her body refused and she had thrown up. Cried until she fell asleep from pure exhaustion. And cried from the moment she awoke. And she was crying again now.
And in the hours she slept she was plagued by nightmares, haunted by her own devilish pact. The one where she was willing to sacrifice a colleague in return for the arrest of Valentin. The one she had ratified with her incantation: one more time, you bastard. Strike one more time.
Katrine sobbed aloud.
The loud sob jolted Truls Berntsen upright. He had been falling asleep. The cheap suit was so damned slippery on the worn church pew there was a good chance he would slide right off.
He fixed his eyes on the altarpiece. Jesus with rays of sun coming out of his head. A headlight. Forgiveness of sins. It was a stroke of genius what they had done. Religion hadn’t been selling so well; it was so hard to obey all the commandments once you had the money to succumb to more temptations. So they had come up with this idea that was good enough to believe. A sales idea that did as much for turnover as credit, it almost felt like redemption was free. But, just like with credit, things got out of control, people didn’t care, they sinned for their dear lives, because all you had to do was believe. So around the Middle Ages they had to tighten up, implement debt collection. So they thought up hell and the stuff about the soul burning. And hey presto — you frightened the punters back into the church and this time they settled their accounts. The church became very wealthy, and good for them, they had done such a fantastic job. That was Truls’s genuine opinion on the matter. Even though he believed he would die and that would be that, no forgiveness of sins, no hell. But if he was mistaken, he was in deep trouble, that much was obvious. There had to be limits to what you could forgive, and Jesus would hardly have the imagination to conjure up a couple of the things Truls had done.
Harry was staring straight ahead. Was somewhere else. In the House of Pain with Beate pointing and explaining. He didn’t come to until he heard Rakel’s whisper.
‘You have to help Gunnar and the others, Harry.’
He recoiled. Looked at her in surprise.
She nodded to the altar where the others had already taken up positions by the coffin. Gunnar Hagen, Bjørn Holm, Katrine Bratt, Ståle Aune and Jack Halvorsen’s brother. Hagen had said Harry had to carry the coffin alongside the brother-in-law, who was the second tallest.
Harry got up and walked quickly down the aisle.
You have to help Gunnar and the others.
It was like an echo of what she had said the night before.
Harry exchanged imperceptible nods with the others. Took up the unoccupied position.
‘On the count of three,’ Hagen said softly.
The organ tones intensified, swelled.
Then they carried Beate Lønn outside into the light.
Justisen was packed with people from the funeral.
Over the loudspeakers blared a song Harry had heard there before. ‘I Fought the Law’ by the Bobby Fuller Four. With the optimistic continuation. . ‘and the law won’.
He had accompanied Rakel to the airport express, and in the meantime several of his former colleagues had managed to get very drunk. As a sober outsider Harry was able to observe the almost frantic drinking, as if they were sitting on a sinking ship. At many of the tables they were howling along with Bobby Fuller that the law won.
Harry signalled to the table where Katrine Bratt and the other coffin-bearers sat that he would be back soon and went to the toilet. He had started peeing when a man appeared at his side. He heard him unzip.
‘This is a place for police officers,’ a voice snuffled. ‘So what the hell are you doing here?’
‘Pissing,’ Harry said, without looking up. ‘And you? Burning?’
‘Don’t you try it with me, Hole.’
‘If I did, you wouldn’t be walking around a free man, Berntsen.’
‘Mind your own business,’ groaned Truls Berntsen, leaning against the wall above the urinal with his unoccupied hand. ‘I can stick a murder on you, and you know it. The Russian in Come As You Are. Everyone in the police knows it was you, but I’m the only one who can prove it. And that’s why you don’t dare to mix with me.’
‘What I know, Berntsen, is that the Russian was a dope dealer who tried to dispatch me into the beyond. But if you think your chances are better than his, go ahead. You’ve beaten up policemen before.’
‘Eh?’
‘You and Bellman. A gay officer, wasn’t it?’
Harry could hear the head of steam Berntsen had worked up fizzle and fade.
‘Are you on the booze again, Hole?’
‘Mm,’ Harry said, buttoning up. ‘This must be the season for police haters.’ He went to the sink. Saw in the mirror that Berntsen still hadn’t got the tap flowing again. Harry washed his hands and dried them. Went to the door. Heard Berntsen hiss: