‘Don’t you try anything, I’m telling you. If you take me down, I’ll take you with me.’
Harry went back into the bar. Bobby Fuller had almost finished. And it made Harry think of something. How full of coincidences our lives were. Bobby Fuller was found dead in his car in 1966, soaked in petrol, and some thought he had been killed by the police. He had been twenty-three years old. The same as René Kalsnes.
A new song started. Supergrass and ‘Caught by the Fuzz’. Harry smiled. Gaz Coombes singing about being caught by the fuzz, who want him to spill the beans, and twenty years later the police are playing the song as a tribute to themselves. Sorry, Gaz.
Harry looked around the room. Thought about the long conversation he and Rakel had had yesterday. About all the things you could evade, avoid, elude in life. And what you couldn’t escape. Because this was life, the meaning of existence. All the rest — love, peace, happiness — was what followed, for which this was a prerequisite. By and large, she had done the talking, had explained that he had to. The shadows of Beate’s death were already so long that they covered the June day, however hysterically the sun might shine. He had to. For them both. For them all.
Harry ploughed his way to the table of coffin-bearers.
Hagen got up and pulled out the chair that they had reserved for him. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘Count me in,’ Harry said.
Truls stood by the urinal, still semi-paralysed by what Harry had said. This must be the season for police haters. Did he know anything? Rubbish! Harry knew nothing. How could he? If he did, he wouldn’t have blurted it out like that, like a provocation. But he knew about the homo in Kripos, the one they had beaten up. And how could he know about that?
The guy had tried it on with Mikael, had tried to kiss him in the toilets. Mikael thought someone might have seen. They had pulled a hood over his head in the boiler room. Truls had hit him. Mikael had just watched. As usual. Had only intervened when it was on the point of going too far and told him to stop. No. It had already gone too far. The guy was still lying on the ground when they left.
Mikael had been afraid. The guy was badly hurt, he might get it into his head to report them. So that had been Truls’s first job as a burner. They had used the blue light to race down to Justisen where they had pushed their way through the queue at the bar and demanded to pay for the two Munkholms they’d had half an hour before. The bartender had nodded, said it was good there were honest folk about and Truls had given him such a hefty tip he was sure the guy would remember. Took the receipt displaying the time and date of purchase, drove with Mikael up to Krimteknisk where there was a newcomer Truls knew really wanted a job as a detective. Explained to him it was possible that someone would try to pin an assault on them and he would have to check they were clean. The newcomer had performed a quick, superficial examination of their clothes and hadn’t found any DNA or blood, he said. Then Truls had driven Mikael home and afterwards returned to the boiler room at Kripos. The fudge-packer wasn’t there any more, but the trail of blood indicated he had managed to crawl out under his own steam. So perhaps there wasn’t a problem. But Truls had removed any potential evidence and afterwards driven down to the Havnelager building and dropped the baton in the sea.
The next day a colleague rang Mikael and said the fudge-packer had contacted him from hospital and talked about reporting them for GBH. So Truls had gone up to the hospital, waited until the doctor had done his rounds and then told the guy there was no evidence and no career if he ever so much as breathed a word or turned up for work again.
They never saw or heard anything again from the guy at Kripos. Thanks to him, Truls Berntsen. So fuck Mikael Bellman. Truls had saved the bastard’s skin. At least until now. For now Harry knew about the little matter. And he was a loose cannon. He could be dangerous, Hole could. Too dangerous.
Truls Berntsen observed himself in the mirror. The terrorist. Dead right. He was.
And he had only just started.
He went out to join the others. In time to catch the last part of Mikael Bellman’s speech.
‘. . that Beate Lønn was made of the sterner stuff we hope is typical of our force. Now it is up to us to prove it. In the only way we can honour her memory as she would have wanted it honoured. By catching him. Skål!’
Truls stared at his childhood pal as they all raised their glasses to the ceiling, like warriors raising their spears at the chieftain’s command. Saw their faces glowing, serious, determined. Saw Bellman nod as though they were of one mind, saw that he was moved, moved by the moment, by his own words, by what motivated them, the power they had over others in the room.
Truls went back to the hall by the toilets, stood beside the fruit machine, pressed a coin into the slot of the phone and lifted the receiver. Dialled the switchboard number.
‘Police.’
‘I’ve got an anonymous tip-off. It’s about the bullet in the René Kalsnes case. I know which gun it was fried. . fl. .’ Truls had tried to speak clearly, knowing it would be recorded and played back afterwards. But his tongue wouldn’t obey his brain.
‘Then you should talk to the detectives in Crime Squad or Kripos,’ the operator said. ‘But they’re all at a funeral today.’
‘I know!’ Truls answered, hearing his voice was unnecessarily loud. ‘I just wanted to give you a tip-off.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes. Listen-’
‘I can see you’re ringing from Kafé Justisen. You should find them there.’
Truls glared at the phone. Realised that he was drunk. That he had made a huge blunder. That if this was followed up, and they knew the call came from Justisen, they could just summon the officers who had been there, play the tape and ask if anyone recognised the voice. And that would be too big a risk to take.
‘Just kidding,’ Truls said. ‘Sorry, we’ve had a bit too much beer here.’
He rang off and left. Straight through the room without looking to either side. But when he opened the front door and felt the cold blast of rain he stopped. Turned. Saw Mikael with his hand on a colleague’s shoulder. Saw a group standing round Harry Hole, the piss artist. One of them, a woman, was even hugging him. Truls turned back. Watched the rain.
Suspended. Excluded.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Looked round. The face blurred, as though he was peering through water. Was he really that drunk?
‘That’s fine,’ said the face with the gentle voice as the hand squeezed his shoulder. ‘Slip away. We all feel like that today.’
Truls reacted instinctively, flicked the hand off and headed into the night. Stomped down the street feeling the rain soak through the shoulders of his jacket. To hell with them. To hell with all of them.
28
Someone had stuck a piece of paper on the grey metal door. BOILER ROOM.
Inside, Gunnar Hagen saw from his watch that it had just gone 7 a.m. and confirmed that all four of them were present. The fifth person wasn’t going to come, and her chair was unoccupied. The new member had taken a chair from one of the conference rooms higher up in Police HQ.
Gunnar Hagen examined each of them in turn.
Bjørn Holm looked as though the previous day had hit him hard, ditto Katrine Bratt. Ståle Aune was as usual impeccably dressed in tweed and bow tie. Gunnar Hagen studied the new member extra carefully. The Crime Squad boss had left Justisen before Harry Hole, and at that point Harry had still been on the coffee and soft drinks wagon. But sitting there, slumped into his chair, pale, unshaven, eyes closed, Hagen wasn’t sure if Harry had gone the distance. What this group needed was Harry Hole the detective. What no one needed was the drinker.