Katrine nodded, and Rodsmoen left.

Katrine sat looking out of the window for a while, then got up and went towards the Hobbies Room. The ward sister’s voice reached her as she was about to cross the threshold.

‘What are you going to do, Katrine?’

Katrine answered without turning. ‘Play solitaire.’

33

Leipzig

Gunnar Hagen took the lift down to the basement.

Down. Downer. Downtrodden. Downsized.

He got out and set off through the culvert.

But Bellman had kept his promise, he hadn’t blabbed. And he had thrown him a line, a top-management post in the new, expanded Kripos. Harry’s report had been short and to the point. No results. Any idiot would have realised it was time to start swimming towards the lifebuoy.

Hagen opened the door at the end of the culvert without knocking.

Kaja Solness smiled sweetly while Harry Hole – sitting in front of the computer screen with a telephone to his ear – didn’t even turn round, just sang out ‘siddown-boss-want-some-crap-coffee?’ as though the unit head’s doppelganger had announced his forthcoming arrival.

Hagen stood in the doorway. ‘I received the message that you were unable to find Adele Vetlesen. Time to pack up. Time was up ages ago, and you’re needed for other cases. At least you are, Kaja Solness.’

‘Dankeschon, Gunther,’ Harry said on the telephone, put it down and swivelled round.

‘Dankeschon?’ Hagen repeated.

‘Leipzig Police,’ Harry said. ‘By the way, Katrine Bratt sends her regards, boss. Remember her?’

Hagen eyed his inspector with suspicion. ‘I thought Bratt was in a mental institution.’

‘No doubt about that,’ Harry said, getting up and making for the coffee machine. ‘But the woman’s a genius at searching the Net. Speaking of searches, boss…’

‘Searches?’

‘Could you see your way to giving us unlimited funds to mount a search?’

Hagen’s eyes almost popped out. Then he burst out laughing. ‘You’re bloody incredible, Harry, you are. You’ve just wasted half the travel budget on a fiasco in the Congo and now you want a police search operation? This investigation comes to a halt right now. Do you understand?’

‘I understand…’ Harry said, pouring coffee into two cups and passing one to Hagen, ‘… so much more. And soon you will too, boss. Grab my chair and listen to this.’

Hagen looked from Harry to Kaja. Stared sceptically at the coffee. Then he sat down. ‘You’ve got two minutes.’

‘It’s quite simple.’ Harry said. ‘According to Brussels Airlines passenger lists Adele Vetlesen travelled to Kigali on the 25th of November. But according to passport control no one of that name entered the country. What happened is that a woman with a false passport made out in Adele’s name travelled from Oslo. The false passport would have worked without a hitch until she reached her final destination in Kigali, because that’s where it’s computer-checked and the number’s matched, isn’t it? So this mysterious woman must have used her own passport, which was genuine. Passport control officials don’t ask to see the name on your ticket, so any mismatch between passport and ticket is not discovered. So long as no one looks, of course.’

‘But you did?’

‘Yup.’

‘Couldn’t it just be an administrative oversight? They forgot to register Adele’s arrival?’

‘Indeed. But then there’s the postcard…’

Harry nodded to Kaja, who held up a card. Hagen saw a picture of something akin to a smoking volcano.

‘This was posted in Kigali the same day she was supposed to have arrived,’ Harry said. ‘But first of all, this is a picture of Nyiragongo, a volcano situated in the Congo, not Rwanda. Secondly, we got Jean Hue to compare the handwriting on this card with the check-in card the alleged Adele Vetlesen filled in at the Gorilla Hotel.’

‘He established beyond doubt what even I can see,’ Kaja said. ‘It’s not the same person.’

‘Alright, alright,’ Hagen said. ‘But where are you going with all of this?’

‘Someone has gone to great effort to make it seem as if Adele Vetlesen went to Africa,’ Harry said. ‘My guess is that Adele was in Norway and was forced to write the card. Then it was taken to Africa by a second person who sent it back. All to give the impression that Adele had travelled there and written home about her dream guy and that she wouldn’t be back before March.’

‘Any idea who the impersonator might be?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’

‘The immigration authorities at Kigali Airport found a card made out in the name of Juliana Verni. But our friendly fruitcake in Bergen says this name was not registered on any airline passenger lists to Rwanda or at any hotels with modern, electronic booking equipment on the date in question. But she is on the Rwandan passenger list from Kigali three days later.’

‘Would I like to know how you acquired this information?’

‘No, boss. But you would like to know who and where Juliana Verni is.’

‘And that is?’

Harry looked at his watch. ‘According to the information on the landing card, she lives in Leipzig, Germany. Ever been to Leipzig, boss?’

‘No.’

‘Nor me. But I know it’s famous for being the home town of Goethe, Bach plus one of the waltz kings. What’s his name again?’

‘What has this got to do with…?’

‘Well, you see, Leipzig is also famous for holding the main archives of the Stasi, the security police. The town was in the old GDR. Did you know that over the forty years the GDR existed the German spoken in the East developed in such a way that a sensitive ear can hear the difference between East and West Germans?’

‘Harry…’

‘Sorry, boss. The point is that in late November a woman with an East German accent was in the town of Goma in the Congo, which is just a three-hour drive from Kigali. And I’m positive that, while there, she bought the murder weapon that took the lives of Borgny Stem-Myhre and Charlotte Lolles.’

‘We’ve been sent a copy of the form the police keep when passports are issued,’ Kaja said, passing Hagen a sheet of paper.

‘Matches Van Boorst’s description of the buyer,’ Harry said. ‘Juliana Verni had big rust-red curls.’

‘Brick red,’ Kaja said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Hagen said.

Kaja pointed to the sheet. ‘She’s got one of the old-fashioned passports with hair colour listed. They called it “brick red”. German thoroughness, you know.’

‘I’ve also asked the police in Leipzig to confiscate her passport and check it has a stamp from Kigali on the date in question.’

Gunnar Hagen stared blankly at the printout. He appeared to be trying to absorb what Harry and Kaja had said. At length he looked up with one raised bushy eyebrow. ‘Are you telling me… are you telling me that you may have the person who…’ The POB swallowed, struggled to find an indirect way of saying it, terrified that this miracle, this mirage might vanish if he said it aloud. But he gave up the attempt. ‘… is our serial killer?’

‘I’m not saying any more than what I’m saying,’ Harry said. ‘For the moment. My colleague in Leipzig is going through her personal data and criminal records now, so we’ll soon know a bit more about Fraulein Verni.’

‘But this is fantastic news,’ Hagen said, sending a gleam from Harry to Kaja, who gave him a nod of encouragement.

‘Not…’ Harry said, with a swig from his cup of coffee, ‘… for Adele Vetlesen’s family.’

Hagen’s smile faded. ‘True. Do you think there’s any hope for…?’

Harry shook his head. ‘She’s dead, boss.’

‘But…’

At that moment the telephone rang.

Harry took it. ‘Ja, Gunther!’ And repeated with a strained smile: ‘Ja, Dirty Harry. Genau.’

Gunnar Hagen and Kaja observed Harry as he listened in silence. Harry rounded off the conversation with a ‘Danke’ and cradled the receiver. Cleared his throat.