Harry sat listening to the Duke. Then he grabbed the phone and looked up Kaja’s number. He was about to press the call button but hesitated. He was doing it again. Dragging people down with him. Harry tossed the phone aside. There were two options. The smart one, which was to ring Bellman. Or the stupid one, which was to go it alone.

Harry sighed. Who was he kidding? He had no choice. So he stuffed the lighter in his pocket, wrapped up the ball in silver foil, put it in the drinks cabinet, undressed, set the alarm for six and went to bed. No choice. A prisoner of his own behaviour patterns whereby in reality every action was a compulsive action. In that sense, he was neither better nor worse than those he pursued.

And with this thought he fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

The night is so blessedly still, it heals your sight, clears your mind. The new, old policeman. Hole. I’ll have to tell him that. I won’t show him everything, just enough for him to understand. Then he can stop it. So that I don’t have to do what I do. I spit and spit, but blood fills my mouth, over and over again.

39

Relational Search

Harry arrived at Police HQ AT a quarter to seven in the morning. Apart from the security guard on reception there was no one around in the large atrium inside the heavy front doors.

He nodded to the guard, swiped his card in the reader by the gate and took the lift down to the cellar. From there he loped through the culvert and unlocked the room. He lit the day’s first cigarette and rang the mobile number while the computer booted up. Katrine Bratt sounded sleepy.

‘I want you to run those relational searches of yours,’ Harry said. ‘Between a Tony Leike and each of the murder victims. Including Juliana Verni from Leipzig.’

‘The Hobbies Room’s free until half past eight,’ she said. ‘I’ll get going this minute. Anything else?’

Harry hesitated. ‘Could you check on a Jussi Kolkka for me? Policeman.’

‘What’s he about?’

‘That’s the point,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t know what he’s about.’

Harry put down the phone and set to work on the computer.

Tony Leike had one conviction, that was correct. And according to the register he had been in trouble with the police on two other occasions as well. As Colbjornsen had indicated, both were for physical violence. In the first instance the charge had been withdrawn, in the other the case had been dropped.

Harry googled Tony Leike and got a number of hits: minor newspaper mentions – most of which were connected with his fiancee Lene Galtung – but there were also some in the financial press where he was referred to alternately as an investor, a speculator and an ignorant sheep. This last, in Kapital, was a reference to Leike belonging to the flock that mimicked a lead sheep, the psychologist Einar Kringlen, in everything he did: from buying shares, mountain cabins and cars to his choice of the right restaurant, drink, woman, office, house and holiday destination.

Harry searched through the links until he stopped at an article in a financial newspaper.

‘Bingo,’ he mumbled.

Tony Leike was clearly able to stand on his own two feet. Or in his own two mining boots. At any rate the Finansavisen wrote about a mining project with Leike as the entrepreneur and enthusiast. He was photographed alongside with his colleagues, two young men with side partings. They were not wearing the standard designer suits, but overalls and work clothes, sitting on a pile of wood in front of a helicopter and smiling. Tony Leike wore the biggest smile of them all. He was broad-shouldered, long-limbed, dark, both his skin and his hair, and he had an impressive aquiline nose that in conjunction with his colouring made Harry think that he must have at least a dash of Arab blood in his veins. But the reason for Harry’s restrained outburst was the headline: KING OF THE CONGO?

Harry continued to follow the links.

The yellow press were more interested in the imminent wedding with Lene Galtung and the guest list.

Harry glanced at his watch. Five past seven. He rang the duty officer.

‘I need assistance for an arrest in Holmenveien.’

‘Detention?’

Harry knew very well that he didn’t have enough to ask the police solicitor for an arrest warrant.

‘To be brought in for questioning,’ Harry said.

‘I thought you said arrest? And why do you need assistance if it’s only-?’

‘Could you have two men and a car ready outside the garage in five minutes?’

Harry received a snort by way of response, which he interpreted as a yes. He took two puffs of his cigarette, stubbed it out, got up, locked the door and left. He was ten metres down the culvert when he heard a faint noise behind him which he knew was the landline ringing.

He had come out of the lift and was on his way to the door when he heard someone shout his name. He turned and saw the security guard waving to him. By the counter Harry saw the back of a mustard-yellow woollen coat.

‘This man was asking for you,’ the receptionist said.

The woollen coat turned. It was the type that is supposed to look as if it is cashmere, and on occasion it is. In this case, Harry assumed it was. Because it was filled out by a broad-shouldered, long-limbed man with dark eyes, dark hair and possibly a dash of Arab blood in his veins.

‘You’re taller than you appear in the photos,’ said Tony Leike, exhibiting a row of porcelain dental high-rises and an outstretched hand.

‘Good coffee,’ said Tony Leike, looking as if he meant it. Harry studied Leike’s long, distorted fingers wrapped around the coffee cup. It wasn’t contagious Leike had explained as he had proffered his hand to Harry, just good old-fashioned arthritis, an inherited affliction that – if nothing else – made him a reliable meteorologist. ‘But, to be frank, I thought they gave inspectors slightly better offices. Trifle warm?’

‘The prison boiler,’ Harry said, sipping his coffee. ‘So you read about the case in Aftenposten this morning?’

‘Yes, I was having breakfast. Almost choked on it, to be honest.’

‘Why’s that?’

Leike rocked in his chair, like a Formula One driver in a bucket seat before the start. ‘I trust what I say can remain between us.’

‘Who is us?’

‘The police and me. Preferably you and me.’

Harry hoped his voice was neutral and did not reveal his excitement. ‘The reason being?’

Leike took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want it to come out that I was in the Havass cabin at the same time as the MP, Marit Olsen. For the moment I have a very high media profile because of my impending wedding. It would be unfortunate if I were to be linked with a murder investigation right now. The press would be on to it and that might… things would emerge from my past that I would prefer to be dead and buried.’

‘I see,’ Harry said innocently. ‘Of course, I will have to weigh up a number of factors and for that reason cannot promise anything. But this is not an interview, just a conversation, and I don’t usually leak this kind of thing to the press.’

‘Nor to my… er, nearest and dearest?’

‘Not unless there is a reason for it. If you’re afraid it will be made public that you were here, why did you come?’

‘You asked people who were at the cabin to come forward, so it’s my civic duty, isn’t it?’ He sent Harry a questioning look. And then pulled a face. ‘Christ, I was frightened, wasn’t I. I knew that those who were there that night were next for the chop. Jumped in my car and drove straight here.’

‘Has anything happened recently to make you concerned?’

‘No.’ Tony Leike scented the air thoughtfully. ‘Apart from a break-in through the cellar door a few days ago. Christ, I should get an alarm, shouldn’t I.’

‘Did you report it to the police?’