‘How precisely?’ Magnus Skarre called.
‘Down to a few square metres,’ Katrine said. ‘But the GPS is only two-dimensional, so we can’t see elevation. In other words, we don’t know what floor the phone is on.’
‘Is this actually legal?’ wondered Gina, one of the analysts. ‘I mean, privacy legislation—’
‘—is struggling to keep up with technology,’ Katrine interrupted. ‘I’ve spoken to our legal department, and they say it’s a grey area, but that it isn’t covered by existing legislation. And, as we know, if something isn’t illegal, then …’ She held her hands out, but no one in the room was willing to finish the sentence for her. ‘Go on, Tord.’
‘Once we received authorisation from our lawyers and financial authorisation from Gunnar Hagen, we bought a set of location data. The maps from the night of the murder give us GPS positions for ninety-one per cent of people who have previously been convicted of sex offences.’ Tord stopped, and seemed to think.
Katrine realised that he had reached the end of his script. She didn’t understand why a gasp of delight hadn’t gone round the room.
‘Don’t you understand how much work this has saved us? If we used the old method to write off this many potential suspects from a case—’
She heard a low cough. Wolff, the oldest of the detectives. Should have been pensioned off by now. ‘Seeing as you said “write off”, presumably that means the map didn’t show a match for Elise Hermansen’s address?’
‘Correct,’ Katrine said. She put her hands on her hips. ‘And it means that we only have to check the alibis of nine per cent.’
‘But the location of your phone doesn’t exactly give you an alibi,’ Skarre said, and looked round for support.
‘You know what I mean,’ Katrine said with a sigh. What was it with this lot? They were here to solve a murder, not suck all the energy out of each other.
‘Krimteknisk,’ she said, and sat down at the front so she wouldn’t have to look at them for a while.
‘Not much,’ Bjørn Holm said, getting to his feet. ‘The lab’s examined the paint left in the wound. It’s pretty specific stuff. We think it’s made of iron filings in a vinegar solution, with added vegetable-based tannic acid from tea. We’ve looked into it, and it could stem from an old Japanese tradition of dying teeth black.’
‘Ohaguro,’ Katrine said. ‘The darkness after the sun’s gone down.’
‘Correct,’ Bjørn said, giving her the same appreciative look that he used to when they were having breakfast at a cafe and she would get the better of him for once in the quiz in Aftenposten.
‘Thanks,’ Katrine said, and Bjørn sat down. ‘Then there’s the elephant in the room. What VG is calling “a source” and we call a leak.’
The already quiet room grew even more so.
‘One thing is the damage that’s already been done: now the murderer knows what we know, and can plan accordingly. But what’s worse is that we in this room no longer know if we can trust each other. Which is why I want to ask a very blunt question: who talked to VG?’
To her surprise she saw a hand in the air.
‘Yes, Truls?’
‘Müller and I spoke to Mona Daa right after the press conference yesterday.’
‘You mean Wyller?’
‘I mean the new guy. Neither of us said anything. But she gave you her card, didn’t she, Müller?’
All eyes turned to look at Wyller, whose face was glowing bright red beneath his blond fringe.
‘Yes … but …’
‘We all know that Mona Daa is VG’s crime reporter,’ Katrine said. ‘You don’t need a business card to call the paper and get hold of her.’
‘Was it you, Wyller?’ Magnus Skarre asked. ‘Look, all rookies are allowed a certain number of fuck-ups.’
‘I haven’t talked to VG,’ Wyller said, with desperation in his voice.
‘Berntsen just said that you did,’ Skarre replied. ‘Are you saying that Berntsen’s lying?’
‘No, but—’
‘Out with it!’
‘Look … she said she was allergic to cats, and I said I’ve got a cat.’
‘See, you did talk! What else?’
‘You could be the leak, Skarre.’ The calm, deep voice came from the very back of the room, and everyone turned round. No one had heard him come in. The tall man was more lying than sitting in a chair against the back wall.
‘Speaking of cats,’ Skarre said. ‘Look what it’s just dragged in. I haven’t talked to VG, Hole.’
‘You or anyone else in here could have unconsciously given away a bit too much information to a witness you were talking to. And they could have called the paper and said that they got it directly from the cops. Hence “a source in the police”. Happens all the time.’
‘Sorry, but no one believes that, Hole,’ Skarre snorted.
‘You should,’ Harry said. ‘Because no one here is going to admit to talking to VG, and if you end up thinking you’ve got a mole, your investigation isn’t going to go anywhere.’
‘What’s he doing here?’ Skarre wondered, turning to Katrine.
‘Harry is here to set up a group that’s going to work in parallel to us,’ Katrine said.
‘So far it’s a one-man group,’ Harry said. ‘And I’m here to order some materials. Those nine per cent whose location you don’t know for the time of the murder, can I have a list of them, in order of the length of their most recent sentence?’
‘I can do that,’ Tord said, then paused and looked questioningly at Katrine.
She nodded. ‘What else?’
‘A list of which sex offenders Elise Hermansen helped put away. That’s all.’
‘Noted,’ Katrine said. ‘But seeing as we’ve got you here, any initial thoughts?’
‘Well.’ Harry looked round. ‘I know the forensics officer has found lubricant which probably comes from the murderer, but we can’t rule out the possibility of revenge as the main motive, and anything sexual as a bonus. The fact that the murderer was probably already inside the flat when she got home doesn’t mean that she let him in or that they knew each other. I don’t think I’d have restricted the investigation at such an early stage. But I’m assuming that you’ve already thought of that yourselves.’
Katrine gave a crooked smile. ‘Good to have you back, Harry.’
Possibly the best, possibly the worst, but certainly the most mythologised murder detective in the Oslo Police managed to perform a perfectly acceptable bow from his almost prone position. ‘Thanks, boss.’
‘You meant that,’ Katrine said. She and Harry were standing in the lift.
‘What?’
‘You called me boss.’
‘Of course.’
They got out in the garage and Katrine pressed the key fob. There was a bleep and some lights flashed somewhere in the darkness. Harry had persuaded her that she ought to make use of the car that was automatically at her disposal during a murder case like this one. And then that she ought to drive him home, stopping for coffee at Schrøder’s Restaurant on the way.
‘What’s happened to your taxi driver?’ Katrine asked.
‘Øystein? He got fired.’
‘By you?’
‘Course not. By the taxi firm. There was an incident.’
Katrine nodded. And thought about Øystein Eikeland, the long-haired beanpole with teeth like a junkie’s, a voice like a whiskey drinker, who looked about seventy but was actually one of Harry’s childhood friends. One of only two, according to Harry. The other one was called Tresko, and he was, if possible, an even more bizarre character: an overweight, unpleasant office worker who turned into a Mr Hyde of a poker player at night.