Cockroaches(5)
The others around the table nodded. This was clearly part of the core curriculum.
“Now, Ambassador Molnes and our current Prime Minister were closely connected, through friendship as well as their political careers. They studied together, rose up through the party ranks together, battled through the modernization of the youth movement and even shared a flat when they were both elected to Storting at a very young age. Molnes voluntarily stepped out of the limelight when they were joint heirs apparent in the party. He gave the Prime Minister his full support and hence we were spared an agonizing party duel. All this obviously means that the Prime Minister owed Molnes a debt of gratitude.”
Askildsen moistened his lips and looked out of the window.
“In other words, Ambassador Molnes didn’t have any diplomatic training and wouldn’t have got to Bangkok if the Prime Minister hadn’t pulled strings. Perhaps this sounds like cronyism, but it’s an acceptable form of it, introduced and given general currency by the Socialist Party. Reiulf Steen didn’t have any Foreign Office experience when he was made ambassador in Chile.”
The eyes refocused on Møller, a playful glint dancing inside somewhere.
“I’m sure I don’t need to emphasize how this could damage trust in the Prime Minister if it comes out that a friend and party comrade, whom he appointed himself, was caught in flagrante in a brothel. And murdered into the bargain.”
The Secretary of State motioned to the Police Commissioner to continue, but Møller couldn’t restrain himself.
“Who hasn’t got a pal who’s been to a brothel?”
Askildsen’s smile curled at the edges.
The Foreign Office Director with the steel glasses coughed. “You’ve been told what you need to know, Møller. Please leave the judgments to us. What we need is someone to ensure that the investigation of this matter does not take … an unfortunate turn. Naturally, we all want the murderer, or murderers, to be apprehended, but the circumstances surrounding the murder should remain under wraps until further notice. For the good of the country. Do you understand?”
Møller looked down at his hands. For the good of the country. Bloody hell. They had never been much good at doing what they were told in his family. His father had never risen through the police ranks.
“Experience tells us that the truth tends to be hard to conceal, herr Torhus.”
“Indeed. I’ll take responsibility for this operation on behalf of the Foreign Office. As you appreciate, this is a somewhat delicate matter which will demand close cooperation with the Thai police. As the embassy is involved we have some leeway—diplomatic immunity and all that—but we’re walking a tightrope here. Therefore, we wish to send someone with honed investigative skills and experience of international police work and who can produce results.”
He stopped and looked at Møller, who was wondering why he felt an instinctive lack of goodwill toward the diplomat with the aggressive chin.
“We could put together a team with—”
“No team, Møller. Too conspicuous. Besides, your Commissioner thinks that a whole division would hardly be conducive to good relations with the local police. One man.”
“One man?”
“The Commissioner has already suggested a name, and we consider it a good suggestion. Now we’d like to hear your opinion of him. According to conversations the Police Commissioner has had with his colleague in Sydney, he did remarkable work down there last winter in connection with the Inger Holter murder.”
“I read the story in the papers,” Askildsen said. “Impressive stuff. Surely he has to be our man?”
Bjarne Møller swallowed. So the Police Commissioner had suggested they should send Harry Hole to Bangkok. He had been summoned to assure them that Hole was the best the force had to offer, the perfect man for the job.
He glanced around the table. Politics, power and influence. This was a game he couldn’t begin to understand, but he realized that in some way or other it would work out in his favor, that whatever he said now would have consequences for his career. The Police Commissioner had stuck her neck out by suggesting a name. Probably one of the others had then asked to have Hole’s qualifications endorsed by his immediate superiors. He looked at his boss and tried to interpret her expression. Of course, everything might turn out fine with Hole. And if he advised them not to send him, would that not cast the Commissioner in an unfortunate light? He would be asked to suggest an alternative and then his head would be the one on the block if the officer concerned messed up.
Møller looked at the painting above the Police Commissioner: Trygve Lie, the UN Secretary General, gazed down at him imperiously. A politician as well. Through the windows he saw the roofs of the apartment buildings in the low winter light, Akershus fortress and a weathercock shivering in the icy gusts on top of the Continental Hotel.