There was the sweet stench of petrol in the car. A hole rusted through somewhere, Harry guessed. Waaler refused a cigarette.
‘Your first task is arranged,’ Waaler said. ‘It isn’t easy and it’s not without danger, but if you carry it off, we’ll agree to make you a full partner.’
‘What is it?’ Harry said, blowing smoke over the rear-view mirror.
Waaler ran the tips of his fingers along the wires coming out of the hole in the dashboard where the radio had once been.
‘What did Marius Veland look like?’ he asked.
‘After four weeks in a plastic bag, what do you think?’
‘He was twenty-four years old, Harry. Twenty-four years old. Can you remember what you dreamed of when you were twenty-four, what you expected from life?’
Harry remembered.
Waaler gave a rueful smile.
‘The summer I turned twenty-two I went inter-railing with Geir and Solo. We ended up at the Italian Riviera, but the hotels were so expensive that we couldn’t afford to stay anywhere. Even though Solo had brought with him the whole of the takings from the till in his father’s kiosk the day we left. So we pitched our tent on the beach at night and spent the days walking round staring at the women, the cars and the boats. The strange thing was that we felt wealthy. Because we were twenty-two. We thought everything was for us, presents lying under the Christmas tree just waiting for us. Camilla Loen, Barbara Svendsen, Lisbeth Barli, they were all young. Perhaps they hadn’t got to the stage of being disappointed yet, Harry. Perhaps they were still waiting for Christmas.’
Waaler ran his hand over the dashboard.
‘I’ve just interrogated Sven Sivertsen, Harry. You can read the report later, but all I can tell you now is what’s going to happen. He’s a cold, calculating devil. He’s going to play insane. He’s going to fool the jury and create so much doubt for the psychologists that they won’t dare to send him to prison. In short, he’ll end up in a psychiatric department where he’ll show such sensational progress that he’ll be released after a few years. That’s what it’s like now, Harry. That’s how we deal with the human detritus we’re surrounded by. We don’t clean it up, we don’t throw it away; we just move it around a little. And we don’t see that when the house is a stinking, rat-infested hole, it’s too late. Just look at other countries where criminality has a firm foothold. Unfortunately we live in a country that is so rich at the moment that the politicians compete with each other to be the most open-handed. We’ve become so soft and nice that no-one dares to take the responsibility for doing unpleasant things any more. Do you understand?’
‘So far.’
‘That’s where we come in, Harry. We take the responsibility. We see it as the sanitation job that society dare not take on.’
Harry sucked so hard that the cigarette paper crackled.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, inhaling.
‘Sven Sivertsen,’ Waaler said, keeping a lookout through the window. ‘Human detritus. You have to get rid of him.’
Harry bent double and coughed the smoke back out.
‘Is that what you do? What about the other stuff? Smuggling?’
‘All our activities are carried out to finance this.’
‘Your cathedral?’
Waaler nodded slowly. Then he leaned across to Harry and Harry felt him put something in his jacket pocket.
‘An ampoule,’ Waaler said. ‘It’s called “Joseph’s Blessing”. Developed by the KGB during the Afghan War for assassinations, but best known as a means of committing suicide for captured Chechen soldiers. It stops your breathing, but unlike Prussic acid there’s no taste and there’s no smell. The ampoule fits nicely up the rectum or under the tongue. If he drinks the contents dissolved in water, he’ll die in seconds. Have you understood the job?’
Harry straightened up. He wasn’t coughing any more, but the tears stood in his eyes.
‘So, it’s supposed to look like suicide?’
‘Witnesses in the custody block will confirm that they omitted to search the rectum when he was brought in. It’s all arranged. Don’t worry.’
Harry breathed in deeply. The fumes from the petrol were making him feel nauseous. The whine of a siren rose and died in the distance.
‘You thought about shooting him, didn’t you?’
Waaler didn’t answer. Harry saw a police car roll up in front of the entrance to the custody block.
‘You never intended to arrest him. You had two guns because you planned to put the other one in his hand after you had shot him to make it look as though he’d threatened you. You put Beate and the mother in the kitchen, then you shouted so that they could testify afterwards that they’d heard you shout and that you had acted in self-defence. But Beate came into the hall too early and your plan went down the drain.’
Waaler gave a deep sigh.
‘We’re cleaning up, Harry. The same way you got rid of the murderer in Sydney. The legal system doesn’t work; it was made for a different time, a more innocent time. And until it is changed we cannot allow Oslo to be taken over by criminals. But you must know all that since you see it at close quarters every day?’
Harry studied the glow of his cigarette in the dark. Then he nodded.
‘I just needed to have the whole picture,’ he said.
‘OK, Harry, listen. Sven Sivertsen will be in cell number nine in the custody block up to and including tomorrow night. Until Monday morning, in other words. Then he’ll be moved to a secure cell in Ullersmo where we will not be able to get at him. The key to cell number nine is on the reception desk on the left. You’ve got until midnight tomorrow, Harry. Then I’ll ring Custody to be told that the Courier Killer has received his deserved punishment. Understood?’
Harry nodded again.
Waaler smiled.
‘Do you know what, Harry? Even though I’m happy that we’re finally on the same team, there is a little part of me that is a tiny bit sad. Do you know why?’
Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Because you thought there were things that money couldn’t buy?’
Waaler laughed.
‘Nice one, Harry. It’s because I feel I’ve lost a good enemy. We’re similar. You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘“Isn’t it wonderful to have someone to hate?”’
‘What?’
‘Michael Krohn. Raga Rockers.’
‘Twenty-four hours, Harry. Good luck.’
Part Five
32
Sunday. The Swallows.
Rakel was in the bedroom studying herself in the mirror. The window was open so that she could listen out for the car and steps on the gravel leading up to the house. She looked at the photograph of her father on the dressing table in front of the mirror. It always struck her how young and innocent he seemed in the picture.
She had her hair held in place with a hairslide, as always. Should she do it differently? The dress was her mother’s, a red muslin dress she had had altered. She hoped she wasn’t overdressed. When she was small her father often used to tell her about the first time he saw her mother in this dress and Rakel never grew tired of hearing that it had been like in a fairy tale.
Rakel undid the hairslide and shook her head from side to side so that her dark hair fell over her face. The doorbell rang. She could hear Oleg’s footsteps as he ran down the hall. She could hear the enthusiasm in his voice and Harry’s deep laugh. Then she took a last look in the mirror. She could feel her heart beating faster. She went out the door.
‘Mummy, Harry’s…’
Oleg’s shout died when Rakel appeared at the top of the stairs. She placed one foot cautiously on the top stair – her high heels suddenly felt unsteady, wobbly – but then she found her balance and looked up. Oleg was standing at the foot of the stairs and staring at her open-mouthed. Harry was standing beside him. His eyes were shining so much that she could feel the heat from them burning in her own cheeks. He was holding a bunch of roses in his hand.