Nemesis(128)
He found the light switch. The hall definitely needed a facelift, the sitting room replastering. The kitchen should have been condemned. The interior of the flat explained the poor security measures. Or to be precise–the lack of interior. Alf Gunnerud had nothing, not even a stereo Harry could have asked him to turn down. The only evidence that someone lived here was two camping chairs, a green coffee table, clothes scattered everywhere and a bed with a duvet but no cover.
Harry put on the washing-up gloves Řystein had brought along and carried one of the chairs into the hall. He put it in front of the row of wall cupboards reaching up to the three-metre-high ceiling, emptied his head of preconceived ideas and cautiously put one foot on the arm. At that moment, the telephone rang. Harry took a step to the side, the camping chair snapped shut and he fell to the floor with a crash.
* * *
Tom Waaler had a bad feeling. The situation lacked the clear structure he strove for at all times. Since his career and future prospects did not lie in his own hands, but in the hands of those he allied himself with, the human factor was always a risk he had to take into account. The bad feeling came from the fact that he didn't know if he could rely on Beate Lřnn, Rune Ivarsson or–and this was crucial–the man who was his most important source of income: the Knave.
When it came to Tom's ears that the City Council had begun to put pressure on the Chief of Police to catch the Expeditor after the Grřnlandsleiret bank hold-up, he had instructed the Knave to go into hiding. They had agreed on a place the Knave knew from the past. Pattaya had the biggest collection of wanted western criminals in the eastern hemisphere and was only a couple of hours' drive south of Bangkok. As a white tourist the Knave would melt into the crowds. The Knave had called Pattaya 'Asia's Sodom', so Waaler couldn't understand why he had suddenly shown up in Oslo, saying he couldn't stand it any longer.
Waaler stopped at the lights in Uelands gate and indicated left. Bad feeling. The Knave had carried out the latest bank job without clearing it with him first, and that was a serious breach of rules. Something would have to be done about it.
He had just tried to ring the Knave, but there was no answer. That might mean anything at all. It might mean, for example, that he was in his chalet in Tryvann working on the details of the heist of a security van they had talked about. Or going over the equipment–clothes, weapons, police radio, drawings. But it might also mean that he had had a relapse and was sitting in the corner nodding, with a syringe hanging from his forearm.
Waaler drove slowly along the dark, filthy little street where the Knave lived. A waiting taxi was parked opposite. Waaler looked up at the windows of the flat. Odd, the lights were on. If the Knave was on junk again, all hell would be let loose. It would be simple enough to get into the flat. There was a naff lock on his door. He looked at his watch. The visit to Beate had excited him, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep yet. He would have to cruise around for a bit, make a couple of calls and see what happened.
Waaler put Prince on louder, accelerated and drove up Ullevĺlsveien.
* * *
Harry sat in the camping chair with his head in his hands, an aching hip and not a shred of evidence that Alf Gunnerud was the man. It had only taken ten minutes to go through the few possessions in the flat, so few that the suspicion lingered that he lived somewhere else. Harry had found a toothbrush in the bathroom, an almost empty tube of toothpaste and a piece of unidentifiable soap stuck to a soap dish. Plus a towel which might once have been white. That was it. That was his chance.
Harry felt like laughing. Banging his head against the wall. Smashing the top off a bottle of Jim Beam and drinking the whiskey with the shards of glass. Because it had to be–had to be–Gunnerud. Of all incriminating evidence, statistically, one piece was head and shoulders above the others–previous charges and convictions. The case simply screamed out Gunnerud's name. He had narco and guns on his record, he worked for a locksmith, could order whatever system keys he needed, say, to Anna's flat. Or to Harry's.
He went over to the window. Wondering how he could have gone in a circle following an insane man's script down to the last letter. But now there were no more instructions, no more lines in the dialogue. The moon peeped through a break in the clouds and resembled a half-chewed fluoride tablet, but not even that could jog his memory.
He closed his eyes. Concentrated. What had he seen in the flat which might give him the next line? What had he missed? He went through the flat in his mind, piece by piece.
After three minutes he gave up. It was all over. There was nothing here.