Nemesis(21)

'Good,' Aune said. 'It's not your fault Ellen was killed. Keep that uppermost in your mind. And don't forget: all your colleagues consider that the right man was arrested.'





'Maybe, maybe not. He's dead and can't answer.'





'Don't let it become an idée fixe, Harry.' Aune poked two fingers into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat, pulled out a silver pocket watch and cast a rapid glance at it. 'But I scarcely imagine you wanted to speak about guilt?'





'No, I didn't.' Harry took a wad of photographs from his inside pocket. 'I'd like to know what you think about these.'





Aune held out his hand and began to leaf through the pile. 'Looks like a bank raid. My understanding is this is not a Crime Squad matter.'





'You'll understand when you see the next picture.'





'Indeed? He's holding up one finger to the camera.'





'Sorry, the next one.'





'Ooh. Does she…?'





'Yes, you can hardly see the flame as it's an AG3, but he has just fired. Look there, the bullet has just entered the woman's forehead. In the next picture it exits the back of her head and bores into the woodwork beside the glass partition.'





Aune put down the photos. 'Why do you always have to show me grisly pictures, Harry?'





'So that you know what we're talking about. Look at the next one.'





Aune sighed.





'The robber's got his money there,' Harry said, pointing. 'All he has to do now is escape. He's a pro, calm, precise, and there's no reason to intimidate anyone or force anyone to do anything. Yet he opts to delay his escape for a few seconds to shoot the bank cashier. Simply because the branch manager was six seconds too slow emptying the ATM.'





Aune formed slow figures of eight in his tea with the spoon. 'And now you're wondering what his motive is?'





'Well, there's always a motive, but it's difficult to know which side of rationality to look. First reactions?'





'Serious personality disorder.'





'But everything else he does seems so rational.'





'A personality disorder doesn't mean he is stupid. Sufferers are just as good, frequently better, at achieving their aims. What distinguishes them from us is that they want different things.'





'What about drugs? Is there a drug which can make an otherwise normal person so aggressive that he wants to kill?'





Aune shook his head. 'Drugs will only emphasise or weaken latent tendencies. A drunk who kills his wife also has a propensity to beat her when sober. Wilful murders like this one are almost always committed by people with a particular predisposition.'





'So what you're saying is that this guy is barking?'





'Or pre-programmed.'





'Pre-programmed?'





Aune nodded in assent. 'Do you remember the robber who was never caught, Raskol Baxhet?'





Harry shook his head.





'Gypsy,' Aune said. 'There were rumours going round about this mysterious figure for a number of years. He was supposed to be the real brains behind all the major robberies of security vans and financial institutions in Oslo in the eighties. It took a number of years for the police to accept that he actually existed and even then they never managed to produce any evidence against him.'





'Now I have a vague recollection,' Harry said. 'But I thought he'd been arrested.'





'False. The closest they got was two robbers who pledged they would give evidence against Raskol, but they disappeared under curious circumstances.'





'Not unusual,' Harry said, taking out a packet of Camel cigarettes.





'It's unusual when they're in prison.'





Harry gave a low whistle. 'I still think that's where he ended up.'





'That is true,' Aune said. 'But he wasn't arrested. Raskol gave himself up. One day he appears at the Police HQ reception desk, saying he wants to confess to a string of old bank robberies. Naturally, this creates a tremendous commotion. No one understands a thing, and Raskol refuses to explain why he is giving himself up. Before the case comes to court, they ring me up to check he is of sound mind and that his confessions will stand up. Raskol agrees to talk to me on two conditions. One, that we play a game of chess–don't ask me how he knew I was an active player. And, two, that I take a French translation of The Art of War with me, an ancient Chinese book about military strategy.'





Aune opened a box of Nobel Petit cigarillos.





'I had the book sent from Paris and took a chess set along. I was let into his cell and greeted a man with all the outward appearance of a monk. He asked if he could borrow my pen, flicked through the book and with a jerk of his head indicated that I could set out the board. I put the pieces in position and led with Réti's opening–you don't attack your opponent until you control the centre, frequently effective against medium-calibre players. Now it's impossible to see from a single move that this is what I'm thinking, but this gypsy peers over the book at the board, strokes his goatee, looks at me with a knowing smile, makes a note in the book…'