Katrine looked at the director, who was standing between the cameras and the island wearing headphones and clutching a clipboard, shouting that there were ten seconds to go before they began the broadcast, then she started counting down. And suddenly a silly thing that had happened earlier in the day popped into her head. Possibly because she was exhausted and nervous, possibly because the brain takes refuge in silly things when it ought to be concentrating on things that are overwhelming and terrifying. She had called in to see Bjørn at Krimteknisk to ask him to fast-track analysis of the evidence they had found in the stairwell, so that she could use it on television to make herself more convincing. Naturally there hadn’t been many other people there on a Sunday: those who were there were all working on the vampirist murders. Perhaps this emptiness was the reason the situation had made such a strong impression on Katrine. When she walked straight into Bjørn’s office, as usual, a woman had been standing by his chair, almost leaning over him. And one of them must have said something funny, because both she and Bjørn were laughing. When they turned towards Katrine, she had realised that the woman was the recently appointed head of Krimteknisk something-or-other Lien. Katrine remembered Bjørn mentioning her appointment, and remembered thinking she was far too young and inexperienced, and that he should have got the job. Or rather: Bjørn should have taken the job, because he had actually been offered it. But his response had been classic Bjørn Holm: why lose a pretty decent criminal forensics expert to gain a pretty bad boss? Looked at that way, fru or frøken Lien had been a good choice, because Katrine had never heard of anyone called Lien who had excelled in any case. When Katrine had presented her request for quicker results, Bjørn had calmly replied that that was up to his boss, she was the one who decided what was a priority. And something-or-other Lien had given her an ambiguous smile and said she’d check with the other forensics officers and see when they might have the work finished. So Katrine had raised her voice and said that ‘checking’ wasn’t good enough, that the vampirist murders were the priority just now, that anyone with any experience could understand that. And that it would look bad on television if she was forced to say that she couldn’t answer because the new head of Krimteknisk didn’t think it was important enough.
And Berna Lien – yes, that was her name, and she did look a bit like Bernadette in The Big Bang Theory, short with glasses and breasts that were too big for her – had replied: ‘And if I prioritise this, do you promise not to tell anyone that I don’t think the child abuse case in Aker or the honour killings in Stovner are important enough?’ Katrine hadn’t realised that the pleading note in her voice was fake, until Lien went on in her normal, serious voice: ‘Naturally, I agree with you that it’s extremely urgent if it can prevent more murders, Bratt. And it’s that – and not the fact that you’re appearing on television – that weighs most heavily. I’ll get back to you within twenty minutes, OK?’
Katrine had merely nodded and walked away. She went straight to Police HQ, locked herself in the toilet and wiped off the make-up she had put on before heading off to Krimteknisk.
The theme music began to play, and the presenter – who was already sitting up – sat up even straighter as he warmed up his facial muscles with a couple of exaggeratedly wide smiles that he wasn’t likely to need given the subject matter of that evening’s programme.
Katrine felt her phone vibrate in her trouser pocket. As lead investigator, she needed to be accessible at all times, and had ignored the demand to switch her phone off altogether during the broadcast. It was a text from Bjørn.
Found a match for fingerprints on the front door of Penelope’s building. Valentin Gjertsen. Watching TV. Break a leg.
Katrine nodded to the girl beside her who was telling her again that she should walk towards the presenter as soon as she heard her name, and which chair she should sit in. Break a leg. As if she were about to go onstage. But Katrine realised that she was smiling inside anyway.
Harry stopped inside the door of the Jealousy Bar. And realised that the sound of a noisy crowd wasn’t real. Because, unless there were people hiding in the booths along one wall, he was the only customer. Then he caught sight of the football match on the television behind the bar. Harry sat down on one of the bar stools and watched.
‘Beşiktaş–Galatasaray,’ the bartender smiled.
‘Turkish teams,’ Harry said.
‘Yes,’ the bartender said. ‘Interested?’
‘Not really.’
‘That’s fine. It’s all crazy anyway. In Turkey, if you support the visitors and they win, you have to rush home at once so you don’t get shot.’
‘Hm. Religious differences or class?’
The bartender stopped polishing glasses and looked at Harry. ‘It’s about winning.’
Harry shrugged. ‘Of course. My name’s Harry Hole, I’m … I used to be a detective with Crime Squad. I’ve been brought back in to—’
‘Elise Hermansen.’
‘Precisely. I read in your witness statement that you had a customer who was wearing cowboy boots at the same time Elise and her date were here.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you tell me anything else about him?’
‘Not really. Because as I remember it, he came in just after Elise Hermansen and sat in that booth over there.’
‘Did you get a look at him?’
‘Yes, but not long enough or carefully enough to give much of a description. Look, you can’t see into the booths from here, and he didn’t order anything before he was suddenly gone again. That happens fairly often – presumably they think the place is a bit too quiet. That’s the way with bars – you need a crowd to attract a crowd. But I didn’t see when he left, so I haven’t really thought about it. Anyway, she was murdered inside her flat, wasn’t she?’
‘She was.’
‘You think he might have followed her home?’
‘It’s a possibility, at least.’ Harry looked at the bartender. ‘Mehmet, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
There was something about the guy that Harry liked instinctively, which made him decide to come straight out and say what he was thinking. ‘If I don’t like the look of a bar, I turn at the door, and if I go in, I order something. I don’t just sit in a booth. He might have followed her here, then – once he’d read the situation and realised she was likely to be going home without the guy soon – he may have gone to her flat and waited for her there.’
‘Seriously? Sick man. And poor girl. Speaking of poor sods, here comes her date from that night.’ Mehmet inclined his head towards the door and Harry turned round. The Galatasaray fans had drowned out the entrance of a bald, rather overweight man in a padded gilet and black shirt. He sat down at the bar and nodded to the bartender with a stiff expression on his face. ‘A large one.’
‘Geir Sølle?’ Harry asked.
‘Preferably not,’ the man said with a hollow laugh, without changing his expression. ‘Journalist?’
‘Police. I’d like to know if either of you recognise this man.’ Harry put a copy of the photofit picture of Valentin Gjertsen down on the bar. ‘He’s probably had extensive plastic surgery since this was produced, so use your imagination.’