‘If you and your great big brain have solved the case …’
‘That’s just it.’ He appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a thin woollen sweater and leaning against the door frame as he pulled on a pair of thin woollen socks. She had teased him about that, saying that only old men insisted on wearing wool all year round. He had replied that the best survival strategy was always to copy old men, because they, after all, were the winners, the survivors. ‘I didn’t solve anything. He chose to reveal himself.’ Harry straightened up. Patted his pockets. ‘Keys,’ he said, and vanished into the bedroom again. ‘I met Dr Steffens at Ullevål,’ he called. ‘He said he’s treating you.’
‘Really? Darling, I think you should try to get a few hours’ sleep – your keys are still in the door down here.’
‘All you said was that they’d examined you?’
‘What’s the difference?’
Harry came out, ran down the stairs, and hugged her. ‘Examined is past tense,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Treating is present tense. And, as far as I know, treatment is what happens after an examination comes up with something.’
Rakel laughed. ‘I came up with the headaches myself, and that’s what needs treating, Harry. And the treatment’s called paracetamol.’
He held her out in front of him and looked at her intently. ‘You wouldn’t hide anything from me, would you?’
‘So you’ve got time for this sort of nonsense, have you?’ Rakel leaned into him, forced the pain away, bit him on the ear and pushed him towards the door. ‘Go and get the job finished, then come straight home to Mummy. If not, I’ll 3D-print myself a home-loving man made out of white plastic.’
Harry smiled and walked over to the door. Pulled his keys out of the lock. Stopped and looked at them.
‘What is it?’ Rakel said.
‘He had the key to Elise Hermansen’s flat,’ Harry said, slamming the passenger door behind him. ‘And presumably also to Ewa Dolmen’s.’
‘Really?’ Wyller said, taking the handbrake off and rolling down the drive. ‘We definitely checked every key-cutter in the city, and none of them has made any new keys to any of the buildings.’
‘That’s because he made them himself. Out of white plastic.’
‘White plastic?’
‘Using an ordinary 3D printer costing fifteen thousand kroner which you can keep on your desk. All he needed was access to the original key for a few seconds. He could have taken a photograph of it, or made a wax impression of it, and used that to produce a 3D data file. So when Elise Hermansen came home, he had already locked himself inside her flat. That’s why she put the security chain on, she thought she was alone.’
‘And how do you think he got hold of the keys? None of the buildings the victims lived in used a security company, they each had their own caretaker. And they’ve all got alibis, and they all swear they haven’t lent any keys to anyone.’
‘I know. I don’t know how it happened, just that it did happen.’
Harry didn’t have to look at his young colleague to see how sceptical he was. There were hundreds of other explanations as to why Elise Hermansen’s safety chain had been on. Harry’s deduction didn’t rule out a single one of them. Tresko, Harry’s poker-playing friend, claimed that probability theory and how to play your cards according to the rulebook was the easiest thing in the world. But that what separated smart players from the not-so-smart was the ability to understand how their opponent was thinking, and that meant dealing with so much information that it felt like listening for a whispered answer in a howling storm. Maybe it was. Because through the storm of everything Harry knew about Valentin Gjertsen, all the reports, all his experience of other serial murders, all the ghosts of previous murder victims he hadn’t managed to save over the years, a voice was whispering. Valentin Gjertsen’s voice. That he had taken them from inside. That he had been inside their field of vision.
Harry pulled out his phone. Katrine answered on the second ring.
‘I’m sitting in make-up,’ she said.
‘I think Valentin has a 3D printer. And that could lead us to him.’
‘How?’
‘Shops selling electronic equipment register their customers’ names and addresses if the price is above a certain amount. There’ve only been a couple of thousand 3D printers sold in Norway. If everyone in the team drops what they’re doing, we might be able to get a good overview within a day, and have checked ninety-five per cent of the buyers within two. Which would mean we were left with a list of twenty buyers. Fake names or aliases, we’d find out if we couldn’t see them in the population register at the stated address, or called people to find that they denied buying a 3D printer. Most shops selling electronic equipment have security cameras, so we can check anyone suspicious using the time of the purchase. There’s no reason why he wouldn’t have gone to the shop closest to where he lives, so that would give us an area to search. And by releasing with the security camera images, we can get the public to point us in the right direction.’
‘How did you come up with the idea of the 3D printer, Harry?’
‘I was talking to Oleg about printers and guns and—’
‘Drop everything else, Harry? To focus on something that occurred to you when you were talking to Oleg?’
‘Yep.’
‘This is precisely the sort of alternative angle you’re supposed to be exploring with your guerrilla team, Harry.’
‘Which still only consists of me, and I need your resources.’
Harry heard Katrine burst into laughter. ‘If you weren’t Harry Hole, I’d already have hung up.’
‘Good job I am, then. Listen, we’ve been trying to find Valentin Gjertsen for four years without succeeding. This is the only new lead we’ve got.’
‘Let me think about it after the programme. It’s going out live and my head’s full of things I need to remember to say and not say. And my stomach’s full of butterflies, if I’m honest.’
‘Mm.’
‘Any tips for a television debutante?’
‘Lean back and be relaxed, genial and witty.’
He heard her chuckle. ‘The way you used to be?’
‘I was none of those. Oh yeah – be sober.’
Harry put his phone in his jacket pocket. They were getting close to the place. Where Slemdalsveien crossed Rasmus Winderens vei in Vinderen. And the lights turned red. They stopped. And Harry couldn’t help looking. He could never help it. He glanced at the platform on the other side of the metro track. The place where, half a lifetime ago, he’d lost control of his police car during a chase, sailed across the track and hit the concrete. The officer who had been sitting in the passenger seat died. How drunk had he been? Harry was never made to take a breath test, and the official report said he’d been in the passenger seat rather than driving. Anything, for the good of the force.
‘Did you do it to save lives?’
‘What?’ Harry asked.
‘Working at Crime Squad,’ Wyller said. ‘Or did you do it to catch murderers?’
‘Hm. Are you thinking about what the Fiancé said?’
‘I remember your lectures. I thought you were a murder detective simply because you loved the job.’
‘Really?’
Harry shrugged as the lights turned green. They carried on towards Majorstua and the evening darkness that seemed to be rolling towards them from the cauldron of Oslo.
‘Let me out at the bar,’ Harry said. ‘The one the first victim went to.’
Katrine was in the wings looking at the little desert island in the middle of the circle of light. The island was a black platform holding three chairs and a table. In one of these chairs sat the presenter of The Sunday Magazine, who was about to bring her on as the first guest. Katrine tried not to think about the sea of eyes. Not think about how hard her heart was beating. Nor think about the fact that Valentin was out there right now, and that there was nothing they could do about that, even though they knew full well that it was him. Instead she kept repeating to herself what Bellman had told her: to be credible and reassuring when she said the case had been solved, but that the perpetrator was still at large, and that there was a possibility he had fled the country.