Smith pointed and Harry and Oleg leaned over his shoulders.
‘Here he is coming into the barn. You see, he’s not hesitating, he knows exactly where he’s going. How? The therapy sessions I had with Valentin weren’t here, but in a rented office in the city centre.’
‘You’re saying someone must have given him instructions in advance?’
‘I’m saying someone could have given Valentin Gjertsen instructions. That’s been the problem with this case right from the start. Vampirists don’t have the capacity for planning that these murders demonstrate.’
‘Hm. We didn’t find a 3D printer in Valentin’s flat. Someone else could have made the copies of the keys for him. Someone who had previously made copies of keys for himself, to let himself into the homes of women who had dumped him. Who had rejected him. Who had gone on to meet other men.’
‘Bigger men,’ Smith said.
‘Jealousy,’ Harry said. ‘Morbid jealousy. But in a man who’s never hurt a fly.’
‘And when a man isn’t capable of hurting anyone, he needs someone to act for him. Someone who can do the things he can’t.’
‘A murderer,’ Smith said, nodding slowly.
‘Someone who’s prepared to kill for the sake of killing. Valentin Gjertsen. So we have one man who plans, and another who acts. The agent and the artist.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Smith said, rubbing his cheeks with his hands. ‘Now my dissertation is actually starting to make sense.’
‘In what way?’
‘I was in Lyon recently, giving a lecture about the vampirist murders, and even if my colleagues have been enthusiastic as far as my pioneering work goes, I keep having to point out that there’s something missing that stops it from qualifying as truly groundbreaking, and that is that these murders don’t fit the general profile of a vampirist that I’ve come up with.’
‘Which is?’
‘An individual with schizophrenia and aspects of paranoia who, as a result of their overwhelming thirst for blood, kills whoever happens to be closest to them, an individual who can’t commit murders that require a lot of planning and patience. But this vampirist’s murders point more towards an engineering personality.’
‘A brain,’ Harry said. ‘Who approaches Valentin, who has had to put a stop to his activities because he can’t move freely without being caught by the police. The brain offers Valentin the keys to the flats of single women. Pictures, information about their routines, when they come and go, everything Valentin needs to get them without having to expose himself. How could he turn down an offer like that?’
‘A perfect symbiosis,’ Smith said.
Oleg cleared his throat.
‘Yes?’ Harry said.
‘The police spent years trying to find Valentin. How did Lenny find him?’
‘Good question,’ Harry said. ‘They didn’t get to know each other in prison, anyway. Lenny’s past is as clean as a priest’s dog collar.’
‘What did you say?’ Smith asked.
‘A dog collar.’
‘No, the name.’
‘Lenny Hell,’ Harry repeated. ‘What about it?’
Hallstein Smith didn’t answer, just stared at Harry with his mouth open.
‘Bloody hell,’ Harry said calmly.
‘Bloody hell, what?’ Oleg said.
‘Patients,’ Harry said. ‘With the same psychologist. Valentin Gjertsen and Lenny Hell met each other in the waiting room. Is that it, Hallstein? Come on, the risk of further murders outranks the oath of confidentiality.’
‘Yes, it’s true that Lenny Hell was a patient of mine a while ago. And he used to come here, and he knew about my habit of working in the barn at night. But he and Valentin couldn’t have met here, because Valentin’s sessions with me took place in the city.’
Harry pushed himself forward on his chair. ‘But is it possible that Lenny Hell is a morbidly jealous individual who worked with Valentin Gjertsen to kill women who had dumped him?’
Hallstein Smith rubbed his chin thoughtfully with two fingers. Nodded.
Harry leaned back in his chair. Looked at the computer screen, and the frozen image of the injured Valentin making his way out of the barn. The arrow on the scale, which had read 74.7 kilos when he arrived, now read 73.2 kilos. Which meant that he had left one and a half kilos of blood on the office floor. It was all just basic maths, and the calculation worked now. Valentin Gjertsen plus Lenny Hell. And the answer was two.
‘So the case has to be reopened,’ Oleg said.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Gunnar Hagen said, looking at his watch.
‘Why not?’ Harry said, signalling to Rita for the bill.
The head of Crime Squad sighed. ‘Because the case has been solved, Harry, and because what you’re presenting me with feels too much like a conspiracy theory. Random coincidences, such as this Lenny Hell being in touch with two of the victims, and psychological guesswork based on the fact that it looks like Valentin knows that he ought to turn right? That’s the sort of thing journalists and authors use to conclude that Kennedy was shot by the CIA and the real Paul McCartney is dead. The vampirist case is still high profile, and we’d be making high-profile clowns of ourselves if we reopened the case on that sort of evidence.’
‘Is that what’s worrying you, boss? Looking like a clown?’
Gunnar Hagen smiled. ‘You always used to call me “boss” in a way that made me feel like a clown, Harry. Because everyone knew that you were really the boss. But that was fine, I could accept that, you were given free rein to make fun of us because you got results. But the lid’s already on this case. And it’s been screwed down very tightly.’
‘Mikael Bellman,’ Harry said. ‘He doesn’t want anyone to spoil his image before he becomes Minister of Justice.’
Hagen shrugged. ‘Thanks for inviting me for coffee late on a Saturday evening, Harry. How’s everything at home?’
‘Fine,’ Harry said. ‘Rakel’s fit and strong. Oleg’s making dinner with his girlfriend. How about you?’
‘Oh, fine, too. Katrine and Bjørn have just bought themselves a house, but you probably know that.’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘They had that little break, of course, but now they’ve decided to go for it. Katrine’s pregnant.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, due in June. The world moves on.’
‘For some,’ Harry said, handing a 200-krone note to Rita, who started counting out his change. ‘Not for others. Here at Schrøder’s things are standing still.’
‘So I see,’ Gunnar Hagen said. ‘I didn’t think cash was legal tender any more.’
‘That’s not what I meant. Thanks, Rita.’
Hagen waited until the waitress had gone. ‘So that’s why you wanted to meet here? To remind me. Did you think I’d have forgotten?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Harry said. ‘But until we know what happened to Marte Ruud, this case isn’t solved. Not for her family, not for the people who work here, not for me. And not for you either, I can tell. And you know that if Mikael Bellman has screwed the lid on so tightly that it can’t be opened, then I’m going to smash the glass.’
‘Harry …’
‘Look, all I need is a search warrant and authorisation from you to investigate this single loose end. I promise to stop after that. Just this one favour, Gunnar. Then I’ll stop.’
Hagen raised one bushy eyebrow. ‘Gunnar?’
Harry shrugged. ‘You said it yourself, you’re not my boss any more. Come on, you’ve always been on the side of good, thorough police work, Gunnar.’
‘You know that sounds like flattery, Harry?’
‘So?’
Hagen let out a deep sigh. ‘I’m not making any promises, but I’ll think about it. OK?’ The head of Crime Squad stood up and buttoned his coat. ‘I remember some advice I was given when I first started working on cases, Harry. That if you want to survive, you have to learn when to let go.’