‘Or have you been doing a little more than just following the case, Al?’
‘What?’ Al’s eyes appeared to grow bigger. The whites were now visible all the way round.
‘He met the girls at the party, or maybe he provided them with cocaine before,’ Harry said to the headstone. ‘I suppose he liked them. Or hated them, who knows. Maybe the three girls liked him too, he is a good-looking kid and has a charisma about him. The charisma of loneliness, Øystein calls it. So, yeah, perhaps that was how he lured them in. Or he lured them with cocaine. He wasn’t at home during the raid on his apartment this morning — according to Øystein he keeps regular working hours at Jernbanetorget. Single, apparently, but the bed was neatly made up. They found a lot of interesting stuff. All kinds of knives. Hard porn. A car Forensics are going over as we speak. A poster of Charles Manson above the bed. And a gold snuff bullet with the initials B.B. on it, which I’m guessing someone who knew Bertine Bertilsen will identify as hers. It contained green cocaine. You liked that, huh? But listen to this. There were eight kilos of white cocaine underneath the bed which they said seemed pretty pure. Eight kilos, mind. Stepped on a little and you’re talking a street value of over ten million kroner. He doesn’t have any convictions but has been arrested twice. One was a gang-rape case. Seems he wasn’t even there, but that was how his DNA ended up in the database. We haven’t had time to dig around in his past yet, or his childhood, but you wouldn’t get high odds betting on it being of the shitty kind. So there you have it.’ Harry checked the time. ‘They’re taking him into custody around now, I imagine. He’s known to be vigilant bordering on paranoid, and the combo of the collection of knives together with how crowded with people it gets down there means they’re using Øystein as a distraction. Bad idea involving amateurs, if you ask me, but they were the orders from above apparently.’
‘What the fuck do you mean?’ Al said.
‘Nothing,’ Øystein said, keeping an eye on Al’s hands, buried deep in the pockets of his parka.
It occurred to him that he was possibly in danger now. So why was he standing here dragging this out? He looked at Al’s hands. What did he have in those pockets? At that moment he realised what it was he liked. That finally for once he was the centre of attention, that at this very moment radio communications were probably squawking: ‘Why is he still standing there?’, ‘He’s got some bottle’, ‘Fuck me, talk about cool!’
Øystein saw two dancing red dots of light appear on the chest of Al’s parka.
His moment in the limelight was over.
‘Have an all right day, Al.’
Øystein turned and walked towards the road and the bus stops.
A red bus passed right in front of him, and in the reflection flickering across the windows he saw three people in the square start to move simultaneously as they each slipped a hand inside their clothing.
He heard Al’s screams and just had time to catch sight of them wrestling him to the ground, two of them with pistols pointed at Al’s back, the third with handcuffs which he clamped around Al’s wrists. Then the bus drove past, and he looked up Karl Johans gate towards the Palace, watched the people streaming towards him and away from him, and he thought for a second about all the people he had met and left behind in his life.
Harry rose on stiff knees and looked down at the pink-tinged flower. Which was cabbage. Raised his gaze to the name on the headstone. Bjørn Holm.
‘So now you know, Bjørn. And I know where you lie. Maybe I’ll be back some day. They miss you at the Jealousy Bar as well, by the way.’
Harry turned and walked in the direction of the gate he had entered by.
Took out his phone and rang Lucille’s number again.
No answer this time either.
Mikael Bellman was standing by the window as Vivian handed him a short report on the successful arrest at Jernbanetorget.
‘Thanks,’ he said, his gaze as usual seeking out the centre of things. ‘I’d actually like to issue a statement. A press release praising the tireless work of the police, their work ethic and professionalism in dealing with difficult cases. Could you work up a draft?’
‘Of course,’ she said, and he heard the enthusiasm in her voice. It was the first time she had been entrusted with writing anything from scratch. Still, he sensed trepidation.
‘What is it, Vivian?’
‘You’re not concerned that it might be perceived as presumption of guilt?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
Bellman turned to face her. She was so pretty. So smart. But so young. Was he beginning to prefer them a little older? Wise rather than bright?
‘Write it as a general tribute to the police all across the country,’ he said. ‘A Minister of Justice doesn’t comment on individual cases. Then those who want to link it to the solving of this specific case can do so if they wish.’
‘But this case is what everyone is talking about so most people will make that connection?’
‘I hope so.’ Bellman smiled.
