22
DAY 18.
Match.
GUNNAR HAGEN WAS STANDING INSIDE THE DOOR AT Schrøder’s, scanning the room. He had set out from home exactly thirty-two minutes and three telephone conversations after the credits had rolled on Bosse. He hadn’t found Harry in his flat, at Kunstnernes Hus or in his office. Bjørn Holm had tipped him off that he might try Harry’s local, Schrøder’s. The contrast between the young, beautiful and almost-famous clientele at Kunstnernes Hus and Schrøder’s somewhat dissipated beer drinkers was striking. At the back, in the corner, by the window, alone at a table, sat Harry. With a large glass.
Hagen made his way to the table.
‘I’ve been trying to call you, Harry. Have you switched off your mobile?’
The inspector looked up, bleary-eyed. ‘There’s been so much hassle. Loads of bloody journos suddenly after me.’
‘At NRK they said the Bosse crew and guests usually went to Kunstnernes Hus after the programme.’
‘The press was standing outside waiting for me. So I cleared off. What do you want, boss?’
Hagen plumped down onto a chair and watched Harry raise the glass to his lips and the golden-brown liquid slip down into his mouth.
‘I’ve been talking to the Chief Super,’ Hagen said. ‘This is serious, Harry. Leaking that the Snowman is still at large is a direct breach of his orders.’
‘That’s right,’ Harry said, taking another swig.
‘Right? Is that all you’ve got to say? But in the name of all that’s sacred, Harry, why?’
‘The public has a right to know,’ Harry said. ‘Our democracy is built on openness, boss.’
Hagen banged his fist on the table and received a few encouraging looks from neighbouring tables and an admonitory glance from the waitress passing them with an armful of half-litre glasses.
‘Don’t mess with me, Harry. We’ve gone public and said the case was solved. You’ve put the force in a very bad light, are you aware of that?’
‘My job is to catch villains,’ Harry said. ‘Not to appear in a good light.’
‘It’s two sides of the same thing, Harry! Our working conditions are dependent on how the public perceives us. The press is crucial!’
Harry shook his head. ‘The press has never hindered or helped me in solving a single case. The press is crucial only for individuals who want to be in the limelight. The people you report to are just concerned with having concrete results that will give them a good press. Or prevent a bad press. I want to catch the Snowman, full stop.’
‘You’re a danger to your colleagues,’ Hagen said. ‘Do you know that?’
Harry seemed to be considering the statement, then nodded slowly, drained his glass and signalled to the waitress that he wanted another.
‘I’ve just been talking to the Chief Superintendent and the Chief Constable,’ Hagen said, bracing himself. ‘I was told to get hold of you instantly to muzzle you. From this very second. Understood?’
‘Fine, boss.’
Hagen blinked in amazement, but Harry’s face revealed nothing.
‘As of this moment, I’m going to be very hands-on, all the time,’ said the POB. ‘I want regular reports. I know that you won’t do that, so I’ve spoken to Katrine Bratt and given her the job. Any objections?’
‘None at all, boss.’
Hagen was thinking that Harry must have been drunker than he looked.
‘Bratt told me you’d asked her to go and see this assistant of Idar Vetlesen’s to check Arve Støp’s files. Without going through the public prosecutor. What the bloody hell are you two doing? Do you know what we would have been exposed to if Støp had found out?’
Harry’s head shot up like a watchful animal’s. ‘What do you mean by if he had found out?’
‘Fortunately there was no file on Støp. This secretary of Vetlesen’s said they never kept one.’
‘Oh? And why not?’
‘How should I know, Harry. I’m just relieved. We don’t want any more trouble now. Arve Støp, my God! Be that as it may, from now on Bratt will dog your every step so that she can report to me.’
‘Mm,’ Harry said, nodding to the waitress who set down another glass for him. ‘Hasn’t she already been informed?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When she started you told her I would be her . . .’ Harry stopped in his tracks.
‘Her what?’ Hagen snapped.
Harry shook his head.
‘What’s up? Something wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ Harry said, sinking half the glass in one big gulp and placing a hundred-krone note on the table. ‘Have a nice evening, boss.’
Hagen sat at the table until Harry had left the restaurant. Only then did he notice that there were no carbon dioxide bubbles rising in the half-empty glass. He stole a few sidelong glances and put the glass cautiously to his lips. It tasted tart. Non-alcoholic cider.
Harry walked home through silent streets. The windows of the old, low blocks shone like cats’ eyes in the night. He felt an urge to speak to Tresko to find out how things were going, but decided to let him have the night as agreed. He rounded the corner to Sofies gate. Deserted. He was heading for his block when he caught a movement and a tiny glint. Light reflecting off a pair of glasses. Someone standing by the line of vehicles parked along the pavement, apparently struggling to open a car door. Harry knew which cars generally parked at this end of the street. And this car, a blue Volvo C70, was not one of them.
It was too dark for Harry to see the face clearly, but he could tell from the way the person was holding his head that he was keeping an eye out for Harry. A journalist? Harry passed the car. In the wing mirror of another, he glimpsed a shadow flit between the cars and approach from behind. Without any undue haste Harry slipped his hand inside his coat. Heard the footsteps coming. And his anger. He counted to three, then turned round. The person behind him froze to the tarmac.
‘Is it me you’re after?’ Harry growled, stepping forward with gun raised. He collared the man, dragged him sideways, knocking him off balance, and launched himself at him, sending both of them over the bonnet of a car. Harry pressed his forearm against the man’s throat and thrust the barrel into one lens of his glasses.
‘Is it me you want?’ Harry hissed.
The man’s answer was drowned by the car alarm going off. The sound filled the whole street. The man tried to free himself, but Harry had him in a tight grip and he gave up. His head hit the bonnet with a soft thud and the light from the street lamp fell on the man’s face. Then Harry let go. The man doubled up, coughing.
‘Come on,’ Harry shouted over the relentless howl, grabbed the man under the arm and dragged him over the road. He unlocked the front door and shoved the man inside.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Harry said. ‘And how do you know where I live?’
‘I’ve been trying to ring the number you gave me all evening. In the end I rang directory enquiries and got your address.’
Harry observed the man. That is, he observed the ghost of the man. Even in the remand cell there had been more of Professor Filip Becker left.
‘I had to switch off my mobile,’ Harry said.
Harry walked ahead of Becker up to his flat, opened the door, kicked off his boots, went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle.
‘I saw you on Bosse this evening,’ Becker said. He had come into the kitchen, still wearing his coat and shoes. His face was ashen, lifeless. ‘You were brave. So I thought I should be brave too. I owe you that.’
‘Owe me?’
‘You believed me when no one else did. You saved me from public humiliation.’
‘Mm.’ Harry pulled up a chair for the professor, but he shook his head.
‘I’ll be off in a minute, but I’ll tell you something no one else must know. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the case, but it’s about Jonas.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘I took some blood from him the night I visited Camilla Lossius.’
Harry remembered the plaster on Jonas’s forearm.
‘Plus a mouth swab. Sent it to the paternity section of the Institute of Forensic Medicine for DNA testing.’
‘Uh-huh? I thought you had to go through a solicitor.’
‘You did before. Now anyone can buy the test. Two thousand eight hundred kroner per person. Bit more if you want a quick answer. Which I did. And the answer came today. Jonas . . .’ Becker paused and took a deep breath. ‘Jonas is not my son.’
Harry nodded slowly.
Becker rocked back on his heels as if about to start a run-up.
‘I asked them to match him against all the data in the data bank. They found a perfect match.’
‘Perfect? So Jonas was in the bank?’
‘Yes.’
Harry pondered. It was starting to dawn on him what he meant.
‘In other words, someone had already sent in a sample for Jonas’s DNA profile,’ Becker said. ‘I was informed that the previous sample was seven years old.’
‘And they confirmed it was Jonas?’
‘No, it was anonymous. But they had the name of the client who had ordered the test.’
‘And that was?’
‘A medical centre that no longer exists.’ Harry knew the answer before Becker said it. ‘Marienlyst Clinic.’
‘Idar Vetlesen,’ Harry said, angling his head as though studying a picture to see if it was hanging straight.
‘Right,’ Becker said, clapping his hands together and smiling weakly. ‘That was it. All I wanted to say was that . . . I have no son.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Actually I’ve had that feeling for a long time.’
‘Mm. Why the hurry to come here and tell me?’
‘I don’t know,’ Becker said.
Harry waited.
‘I . . . I had to do something tonight. Like this. If I hadn’t I don’t know what I would’ve done. I . . .’ The professor hesitated before going on. ‘I’m alone now. My life no longer has much meaning. If the gun had been real . . .’
‘Don’t,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t even think it. The thought will only become more tempting the more you caress it. And you’re forgetting one thing. Even if your life has no meaning for you, it has meaning for others. For Jonas, for example.’
‘Jonas?’ Becker snorted with a bitter laugh. ‘The cuckoo? “Don’t caress the thought” – is that what they teach you at Police College?’
‘No,’ Harry said.
They eyed each other.
‘Whatever,’ Becker said. ‘Now you know.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry said.
After Becker had left, Harry was still sitting there, trying to decide if the picture was hanging straight, not noticing that the water had boiled, the kettle had switched itself off and the little red eye under the on button was slowly dying.