Nemesis(28)

Over and above what was common knowledge, there were some matters no one knew as such, but a few had a gut feeling about nevertheless. It was more than a year ago now since Sverre Olsen–the only person who could have told them why Ellen Gjelten was murdered–was found lying on his bed with a warm gun in his hand and a bullet from Waaler's Smith & Wesson between his eyes.





'Be careful, Waaler.'





'I beg your pardon?'





Harry reached out and turned down the love-making groans. 'It's icy tonight.'





The engine purred like a sewing machine, but the sound was deceptive; as the car accelerated Harry experienced for himself how hard the back of the seat was. They raced up the hill by Stenspark along Suhms gate.





'Where are we going?' Harry asked.





'Here,' Waaler said, swinging abruptly to the left in front of an oncoming car. The window was still open and Harry could hear the sound of wet leaves sucking at the tyres.





'Welcome back to Crime Squad,' Harry said. 'Didn't they want you in POT?'





'Restructuring,' Waaler said. 'Besides, the Chief Super and Mřller wanted me back. I achieved some pretty useful results in Crime Squad, if you remember.'





'How could I forget.'





'Well, one hears so much about the long-term effects of drinking.'





Harry had just managed to put his arm against the dashboard before the sudden braking sent him into the windscreen. The glove compartment sprang open and something heavy hit Harry on the knee on its way to the floor.





'What the fuck was that?' he groaned.





'A Jericho 941, Israeli police issue,' Waaler said, switching off the engine. 'Not loaded. Leave it where it is. We've arrived.'





'Here?' Harry asked in amazement and bent down to look up at the yellow block of flats in front of him.





'Why not?' Waaler said, already halfway out of the car.





Harry felt his heart beginning to pound. As he searched for the door handle, out of all the thoughts racing through his mind one took hold: he should have made the call to Rakel.





* * *





The fog was back. It seeped in through the streets, from the cracks around the closed windows behind the trees in the avenue, out of the blue door which opened after they had heard Weber's abrupt bark over the intercom, and out through the keyholes in the doors they passed on the way upstairs. It lay like a duvet of cotton wool around Harry, and as they entered the flat, Harry had the sensation of walking on clouds. Everything around him–the people, the voices, the crackle of the walkie-talkies, the light from the camera flashes–had taken on a dreamlike sheen, a coating of detachment because this was not, could not be, real. But, standing in front of the bed where the deceased lay with a pistol in her right hand and a black hole in her temple, he found himself unable to look at the blood on the pillow or meet her vacant, accusatory gaze. Instead he focused on the bedhead, on the horse with the bitten-off head, hoping the fog would soon lift and he would wake up.





10

Sorgenfrigata





VOICES CAME AND WENT AROUND HIM.





'I'm Inspector Waaler. Can anyone give me a quick recap?'





'We got here three quarters of an hour ago. The electrician here found her.'





'When?'





'At five. He immediately rang the police. His name is…let me see…René Jensen. I've got his National Insurance number here and his address too.'





'Good. Ring in and check his record.'





'OK.'





'René Jensen?'





'That's me.'





'Can you come over here? My name's Waaler. How did you get in?'





'As I said to the other officer, with this spare key. She popped it down to my shop on Tuesday because she wasn't going to be at home when I came.'





'Because she was working?'





'No idea. Don't think she had a job. Well, not the normal kind. She said she was putting on an exhibition of some stuff.'





'She was an artist then. Anyone here heard of her?'





Silence.





'What were you doing in the bedroom, Jensen?'





'Looking for the bathroom.'





Another voice: 'The bathroom's behind that door.'





'OK. Anything suspicious strike you when you came into the flat, Jensen?'





'Er…how do you mean suspicious?'





'Was the door locked? Any windows left open? A particular smell or sound? Anything.'





'The door was locked. Didn't see windows open, but I wasn't looking. The only smell was that solvent…'





'Turpentine?'





Another voice: 'There are some painting materials in one of the bigger rooms.'





'Thanks. Anything else you noticed, Jensen?'





'What was the last one again?'





'Sound.'





'Sound, yeah! No, not a lot of sound, quiet as the grave it was. That is…ha ha…I didn't mean…'