Nemesis(124)

'I remember faces,' she had said with a triumphant smile when she saw his reaction. 'Fusiform gyrus. It's the part of your brain which recognises the shape of faces. Mine is abnormal. I should be doing turns at a fair.'





'I see,' he said. 'What else can you remember?'





'You were talking to someone.'





He had supported himself on his elbows, leaned over her and stroked her larynx with his thumb. Felt the throb of her pulse; she was like a startled leveret. Or was it his own pulse he had felt?





'I suppose you can remember the other face, too, can you?' he had asked, his brain already in overdrive. Did anyone know she was here tonight? Had she kept her mouth shut about their relationship, as he had asked? Did he have any bin bags under the sink?





She had turned to him with a puzzled smile: 'What do you mean?'





'Would you recognise the other person if you saw a photograph?'





She had given him a long look. Kissed him circumspectly.





'Well?' he had said, bringing his other hand up from under the duvet.





'Mm. Mm, no. He had his back to me.'





'But you could remember the clothes he was wearing? If you were asked to identify him, I mean?'





She had shaken her head. 'The fusiform gyrus only recognises faces. The rest of my brain is absolutely normal.'





'But you remember the colour of the car I was in?'





She had laughed and snuggled up to him. 'That must mean I liked what I saw, didn't I?'





He had surreptitiously removed his hand from her neck.





Two evenings later he had let her have the whole show. And she hadn't liked what she had been forced to see. Or hear. Or feel.





The opening lines of 'When Doves Cry' blasted from the speakers.





She turned down the volume.





'What do you want?' she asked, sitting down in the armchair.





'As I said. To apologise.'





'You've done that now. So let's draw a line under that, shall we?' She made a show of yawning. 'I was on my way to bed, Tom.'





He could feel his anger mounting. Not the red mist which distorted and obscured, but the white heat which glowed and brought clarity and energy. 'OK, let's get down to business. Where's Harry Hole?'





Beate laughed. Prince let out a falsetto scream.





Tom closed his eyes, felt himself feeling stronger and stronger from the fury streaming through his veins like assuaging glacial water. 'Harry rang you the evening he disappeared. He forwarded e-mails to you. You're his contact, the only person he can trust for the moment. Where is he?'





'I'm exhausted, Tom.' She stood up. 'If you have any more questions I'm unable to answer, I suggest we deal with them tomorrow.'





Tom Waaler didn't move. 'I had an interesting chat with a prison officer in Botsen today. Harry was there last night, right under our noses, while we and half of the uniformed division were out looking for him. Did you know Harry was in league with Raskol?'





'I have no idea what you're talking about or what it has to do with the case.'





'Me neither, but I suggest you take a seat, Beate. And listen to a little story I think will change your mind about Harry and his friends.'





'The answer's no, Tom. Out.'





'Not even if your father's in the story?'





He caught the twitch of her mouth and knew he had hit the mark.





'I have sources which are–how shall I put it?–inaccessible to the regular police officer, meaning I know what happened to your father when he was shot that time in Ryen. And I know who shot him.'





She stared open-mouthed.





Waaler laughed. 'You weren't ready for that, were you.'





'You're lying.'





'Your father was shot with an Uzi, six bullets in the chest. According to the report he went inside the bank to negotiate, even though he was alone, unarmed and thus had nothing to bargain with. All he could hope to achieve was to make the robbers nervous and aggressive. A huge blunder. Incomprehensible. Especially as your father was legendary for his professionalism. In fact, he had a colleague with him, a promising young officer of whom great things were expected, a prospective rising star. But he'd never experienced a live bank raid before and certainly not bank raiders with decent shooters.





'He's keen to keep in with his superior officers and that day he's supposed to drive your father home after work. So your father arrives in Ryen in a car which the report fails to mention is not your father's. Because it's in the garage, at home with you, Beate, and Mummy, when you receive the news, isn't it.'





He could see the veins on her neck engorging, becoming thick and blue.





'Fuck you, Tom.'





'Come here now and listen to Daddy's little story,' he said, patting the sofa cushion beside him. 'Because I'm going to speak in a very soft voice and I honestly think you should hear this.'