Phantom(94)
‘You’ve got that voice again.’
‘Which voice?’
‘The hyped-up one. The boy’s voice.’
Like a hostile armada, the ominous steel-grey clouds came rolling over Oslo fjord at four o’clock. Harry turned from Skøyen towards Frogner Park and parked on Thorvald Erichsens Vei. After ringing Bellman’s mobile three times without any luck he had called Police HQ and been told that Bellman had left early to do some training with his son at Oslo Tennis Club.
Harry watched the clouds. Then he went in and surveyed OTC’s facilities.
A superb clubhouse, shale courts, hard courts, even a centre court with stands. Yet only two of the twelve courts were in use. In Norway you played football and skied. Declaring yourself a tennis player attracted whispers and suspicious glances.
Harry found Bellman on a shale court. He was plucking balls out of a basket and hitting them gently at a boy who might have been practising backhand cross-court shots; it was hard to say, because the balls were going all over the place.
Harry went through the gate behind Bellman, onto the court and stood beside him. ‘Looks like he’s struggling,’ Harry said, taking out his pack of cigarettes.
‘Harry,’ Mikael Bellman said, without stopping or taking his eyes off the boy. ‘He’s getting there.’
‘There’s a certain similarity. Is he …?’
‘My son. Filip. Ten.’
‘Time flies. Talented?’
‘He’s got a bit of his father in him, but I have faith. He just needs to be pushed.’
‘I didn’t think that was legal any more.’
‘We want the best for our children, Harry, but may do them a disservice. Move your feet, Filip!’
‘Did you find out about Martin Pran?’
‘Pran?’
‘The hunchback weirdo at the Radium Hospital.’
‘Oh, yes, the gut instinct. Yes and no. That is, yes, I checked. And no, we’ve got nothing on him. Nothing at all.’
‘Mm. I was thinking about asking for something else.’
‘Down on your knees! What would that be?’
‘A warrant to dig up Gusto Hanssen to see if there was any blood under his nails for a new test.’
Bellman took his eyes off his son, evidently to check whether Harry was serious.
‘There’s a very plausible confession, Harry. I think I can say with some confidence that warrant would be rejected.’
‘Gusto did have blood under his nails. The sample went missing before it was tested.’
‘That sort of thing happens.’
‘Very rarely.’
‘And whose blood is it, in your opinion?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. But if the first sample was sabotaged that means it spells danger for someone.’
‘This dealer who confessed, for example. Adidas?’
‘Real name: Chris Reddy.’
‘Anyway, aren’t you done with this case now that Oleg Fauke has been released?’
‘Anyway, shouldn’t he have both hands on the racket for backhand?’
‘Do you know anything about tennis?’
‘Seen a bit on TV.’
‘One-handed backhands develop character.’
‘I don’t even know if the blood has anything to do with the killing. Perhaps someone’s frightened of being linked with Gusto?’
‘Such as?’
‘Dubai maybe. Besides, I don’t think Adidas killed Gusto.’
‘Why not?’
‘A hardened dealer suddenly confessing out of the blue?’
‘See your point,’ Bellman said. ‘But it is a confession. And a good one.’
‘And it’s just a drugs killing,’ Harry continued, ducking a stray ball. ‘And you’ve got enough cases to crack.’
Bellman sighed. ‘It’s the same as it’s always been, Harry. Our resources are under too much pressure for us to be able to prioritise cases for which we already have a solution.’
‘A solution? What about the solution?’
‘As boss one is obliged to acquire slippery formulations.’
‘OK, so let me offer you two case solutions. In exchange for help with finding a house.’
Bellman stopped hitting balls. ‘What?’
‘A killing in Alnabru. A biker called Tutu. A source informed me he got a drill through his head.’
‘And the source is willing to testify?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And the second?’
‘The undercover guy who washed up by the Opera House. Same source saw him dead on Dubai’s cellar floor.’
Bellman scrunched up one eye. The pigment stains flared up and Harry was reminded of a tiger.
‘Dad!’
‘Go and fill the water bottle in the dressing room, Filip.’