Mikael felt the irritation rise again. Lax use of first names and invitations like ‘go for it’ ought to be the prerogative of the Minister of Justice. Especially as the six-year term of the Chief of Police was soon up and it was no longer the National Police Commissioner but the King in Council — in effect, the Minister of Justice — who decided who would continue and who would not, and Bellman had little to lose politically by giving the keys to Bodil Melling. Firstly because she was a woman, and secondly because she understood politics, understood who was in charge.
Bellman took a deep breath. ‘Just so we understand each other. What you’re seeking my advice on is whether you should release Markus Røed from custody or not. And you also feel sure that both options are open to you.’
‘Yes,’ the Chief of Police said. ‘Hole has a witness who says he was with Røed the nights the first two girls were killed.’
‘A credible witness?’
‘Credible in that, as opposed to Helene Røed, the person concerned has no obvious motive in providing Røed with an alibi. Less credible because according to the Drug Squad, the person in question is on their list of people selling cocaine in Oslo.’
‘But not convicted?’
‘A small-time dealer, one who would be replaced overnight.’
Bellman nodded. They let those they had control over continue their activities. Better the devil you know.
‘But?’ Bellman said, glancing at his Omega watch. It was impractical and bulky but sent the right signals. At the moment, the signal was for the Chief of Police to hurry up, he wasn’t the only one with a busy day.
‘On the other hand, Susanne Andersen had saliva from Markus Røed on her breast.’
‘That’s a pretty overwhelming argument for continuing to keep him in custody, I should imagine.’
‘Yes. It is of course a possibility he and Susanne met earlier that day and had sex — it hasn’t been possible to retrace all her movements. But if they did, it’s odd Røed made no mention of it in interviews. Instead he denies ever having been intimate with her and claims he never saw her after the party.’
‘In other words, he’s lying.’
‘Yes.’
Bellman drummed his fingers on the desk. Prime ministers were only re-elected if the harvest has been good, figuratively speaking. His advisers emphasised repeatedly that as Minister of Justice, he would always share some measure of blame or credit for what happened further down the system, no matter if the mistake or good decision was made by people who were in the same job under the previous government. If the voters felt that a wealthy, privileged slimeball like Røed was let off the hook easily it would indirectly affect Bellman no matter what. He made up his mind.
‘We have more than enough to keep him in custody with the semen.’
‘Saliva.’
‘Yeah. And I’m sure you agree that it wouldn’t look good if Harry Hole got to decide when Røed is to be arrested and when he’s to be released.’
‘I don’t disagree, no.’
‘Good. Then I think you have my advice...’ Bellman waited for the name of the Chief of Police to come to him, but when for some reason it did not, and the intonation of the sentence he had begun required an ending, he inserted a ‘...don’t you?’
‘Yeah, sure do. Thanks very much, Mikael.’
‘Thank you, Chief of Police,’ Bellman said, fumbling for a moment with the mouse before he managed to disconnect the link, leaned back in his chair and whispered: ‘
Prim looked at Fredric Steiner sitting on the bed. His eyes were childlike in their clarity, but his stare was vacant, as though a curtain were drawn within.
‘Uncle,’ Prim said, ‘can you hear me?’
No response.
He could say anything to him, it wouldn’t go in. Ergo nothing would come out either. Not in a way anyone would believe, at any rate.
Prim closed the door to the corridor and sat down by the bed again. ‘You’re going to die very soon,’ he said, relishing the sound of the words. His uncle’s expression didn’t change, he was gazing at something only he could see that seemed a long way off.
‘You’re going to die, and I suppose in a sense I should be sad. I mean, after all, I am your—’ he glanced at the door just in case — ‘biological son.’
The only sound to be heard was the low whistle of the wind in one of the gutters of the nursing home.
‘But I’m not sad. Because I hate you. Not in the way I hate him. The man who took over your problems, who took over Mum and me. I hate you because you knew what my stepfather was up to, what he was doing to me. I know you confronted him about it, I heard you that night. Heard you threaten to expose him. And how he threatened to then expose you. The two of you left it at that. You sacrificed me to save yourself. Save yourself, Mum and the family name. What was left of it — you didn’t even use it yourself any longer, after all.’
Prim reached into the bag, took out a biscuit and let it crunch between his teeth.
