‘. . you start drinking when the world around you is dependent on you and because you can’t take the responsibility, you want things to go down the pan. It’s like when a house of cards is almost finished and the pressure’s so great you can’t cope, so instead of persisting you knock it down. To get the defeat over with. And I think that’s what you’re doing now. You want to fail Rakel as quickly as possible because you’re convinced it’s going to happen anyway. You can’t bear the long-drawn-out torment, so you’re proactive; you knock down the damned house of cards, which is how you see your relationship with Rakel.’
Harry wanted to say something. But the lump had reached his throat and blocked the way for words, so he made do with one: ‘Destructive.’
‘Your basic attitude is constructive, Harry. You’re just scared. Scared it will hurt too much. You and her.’
‘I’m a coward. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’
Ståle eyed Harry, took a breath, as though on the point of correcting him, then seemed to change his mind.
‘Yes, you’re a coward. You’re a coward because I think you want this. You want Rakel, you want to be in the same boat, you want to tie her to the mast, to sail in this boat or go down in the process. That’s how it is with you, Harry, on those rare occasions when you make a promise. How does that song go again?’
Harry mumbled something about not retreating or surrendering.
‘There you have it, that’s you.’
‘That’s me,’ Harry repeated softly.
‘Give it some thought. We can talk again after the meeting in the Boiler Room this afternoon.’
Harry nodded and got up.
In the corridor sat a man impatiently shuffling his feet and sweating in training gear. He looked at his watch and glared at Harry.
Harry set off down Sporveisgata. He hadn’t slept all night, and he hadn’t had breakfast either. He needed something. He took stock. He needed a drink. He dismissed the thought and went into the cafe just before Bogstadveien. Asked for a triple espresso. Tossed it back at the counter and asked for another. Heard low laughter behind him, but didn’t turn. Drank number two slowly. Picked up the newspaper lying there. Saw the front-page teaser and leafed through.
Roger Gjendem was speculating that the City Council, in light of the police murders, was going to have a reshuffle at Police HQ.
After letting in Paul Stavnes, Ståle resumed his position behind the desk while Stavnes went into the corner to change into a dry T-shirt. Ståle took the opportunity to yawn without inhibition, pull out the top drawer and position his mobile so that he could see it easily. Then he looked up. Gazed at his patient’s naked back. After Stavnes had started cycling to the sessions it had become a fixed routine that he would change his T-shirt in the office. Always with his back turned. The only change was that the window where Harry had been smoking was still open. The light fell in such a way that Ståle Aune could see Paul Stavnes’s bare chest in the reflection.
Stavnes quickly pulled down his T-shirt and turned.
‘Your timing needs-’
‘-tightening up,’ Ståle said. ‘I agree. It won’t happen again.’
Stavnes looked up. ‘Is there something the matter?’
‘Not at all. Just got up a bit earlier than normal. Could you leave the window open so there’s a bit of air in here?’
‘There’s a lot of air in here.’
‘As you wish.’
Stavnes was about to close the window. Then held back. Stood staring at it. Turned slowly towards Ståle. A little smile appeared on his face.
‘Finding it hard to breathe, Aune?’
Ståle Aune was aware of pains in his chest and arms. All of which were familiar symptoms of a heart attack. Except that this wasn’t a heart attack. It was pure, unmitigated fear.
Ståle Aune forced himself to speak calmly, in a low key.
‘Last time we talked again about you playing Dark Side of the Moon. Your father came into the room and switched off the amplifier and you watched the red light die as the girl you were thinking about also died.’
‘I said she went mute,’ Paul Stavnes said, annoyed. ‘I didn’t say she died. That’s different.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Ståle Aune said, reaching carefully for the phone in his drawer. ‘Did you wish she could speak?’
‘I don’t know. You’re sweating. Are you unwell, Doctor?’
Again this jeering tone, this small, repugnant smile.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
Ståle’s fingers rested on the phone. He had to get the patient speaking so that he wouldn’t hear him texting.
‘We haven’t talked about your marriage. What can you say about your wife?’
‘Not much. Why do you want to talk about her?’
‘A close relative. You seem to dislike people who are close. Despise was the word you used.’
‘So you have been paying some attention after all?’ Brief, sullen laugh. ‘I despise people because most of them are weak, stupid and down on their luck.’ More laughter. ‘Zero out of three. Tell me, did you sort out X?’
‘What?’
‘The policeman. The homo who tried to kiss another cop on the toilet. Did he recover?’
‘Not really.’ Ståle Aune pressed the keys, cursing his fat sausage-fingers, which felt as if they had swollen even more with the tension.
‘So if you think I’m like him, why do you reckon you can sort me out?’
‘X was schizophrenic. He heard voices.’
‘And you think I’m in better shape?’ The patient laughed bitterly as Ståle texted. Trying to write while the patient continued to talk, trying to camouflage the clicks by scraping his shoes against the floor. One letter. One more. Bastard fingers. There we are. He realised the patient had stopped talking. The patient, Paul Stavnes. Wherever he got that name from. You could always find a new name. Or get rid of the old one. It wasn’t so easy with tattoos. Especially if they were big and covered your whole chest.
‘I know why you’re sweating, Aune,’ the patient said. ‘You happened to see the reflection in the window when I was changing, didn’t you?’
Ståle Aune felt the pains in his chest increase, as though his heart couldn’t make up its mind whether to beat faster or not at all, and he hoped the expression he put on looked as uncomprehending as he intended.
‘What?’ he said in a loud voice to drown the click as he pressed the Send button.
The patient pulled his T-shirt up to his throat.
A mute, screaming face stared at Aune from the man’s chest.
The face of a demon.
‘OK, shoot,’ Harry said, holding the phone to his ear as he drained the second cup of coffee.
‘The jigsaw has got Valentin Gjertsen’s fingerprints on,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘And the cutting surface of the blade matches. It’s the same blade that was used in Bergslia.’
‘So Valentin Gjertsen is the Saw Man,’ Harry said.
‘Looks like it,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘What surprises me is that Valentin Gjertsen would hide a murder weapon at home instead of dumping it.’
‘He was planning to use it again,’ Harry said.
Harry felt his phone vibrate. A text. He looked at the display. The sender was S, so Ståle Aune. Harry read it. And read it again.
valentin is here sos
‘Bjørn, send a patrol car to Ståle’s office in Sporveisgata. Valentin’s there.’
‘Hello? Harry? Hello?’
But Harry was already running.
31
‘Being exposed is always an awkward business,’ the patient said. ‘But sometimes it’s worse for the exposer.’
‘Exposing what?’ Ståle said with a gulp. ‘It’s a tattoo. So? It’s not a crime. Lots of people have. .’ He nodded towards the demon face. ‘. . tattoos like that.’
‘Do they?’ the patient said, pulling his T-shirt down. ‘Was that why you looked as if you were going to drop dead when you saw it?’