Leike shrugged. ‘I didn’t ring. I lost a mobile phone a while back. Maybe someone rang him using that?’
‘Don’t try to be smart, Leike. We’re talking about your landline.’
‘I didn’t ring him, I’m telling you.’
‘I heard. According to official records, you live alone.’
‘Yes, I do. That is—’
‘Your fiancée sleeps over now and then. And sometimes you get up earlier than her and go to work while she’s still in your apartment?’
‘That happens. But I’m at hers more often than not.’
‘Well, now. Has Galtung’s heiress daughter got a more luxurious pad than you, Leike?’
‘Maybe. Cosier, at any rate.’
Bellman crossed his arms and smiled. ‘Nonetheless, if you didn’t call Skog from your house, she must have done. I’m giving you five seconds to start talking sense to us, Leike. In five seconds, a patrol car on the streets of Oslo will receive orders to drive with sirens blaring to that cosy little pad of hers, cuff her, bring her here and allow her to phone her father to tell him you’re accusing her of ringing Skog. So that Anders Galtung can gather the meanest pack of hardbitten solicitors in Norway for his daughter, and you have got yourself a real adversary. Four seconds, three seconds.’
Leike shrugged again. ‘If you reckon that’s enough to issue an arrest warrant on a young woman with a perfect, unblemished record, go ahead. But I somehow doubt it would be me who gained an adversary.’
Bellman observed Leike. Had he underrated him after all? He was more difficult to read now. Anyway, that was step one over. Without a confession. Fine, there were eight left. Step two in the nine-step model was to sympathise with the suspect by normalising actions. But that presupposed he knew the motive or he was working with something he could normalise. A motive for killing all the guests who had happened to stay over at a skiing cabin was not self-evident, over and above the obvious truism that most serial killers’ motives are hidden in the psyche where the majority of us never go. In his preparations Bellman had therefore decided to tread lightly on the sympathy step before jumping straight into the motivation step: giving the suspect a reason to confess.
‘My point, Leike, is that I’m not your adversary. I’m just someone who wants to understand why you do what you do. What makes you tick. You’re clearly an able, intelligent person; you only have to look at what you’ve achieved in business. I’m fascinated by how people set themselves objectives and pursue them regardless of what others think. People who set themselves apart from the madding crowd of mediocrity. I may even say that I can recognise myself in that bracket. Maybe I understand you better than you think, Tony.’
Bellman had asked a detective to ring one of Leike’s stock exchange buddies to find out whether Leike preferred his first name pronounced as ‘Toeuny’, ‘Tony’ or ‘Tonny’. The answer was ‘Tony’. Bellman hit the right pronunciation, caught his eye and attempted to hold it.
‘Now I’m going to say something perhaps I shouldn’t, Tony. Because of a number of internal issues we can’t devote a lot of time to this case, and that is why I would like a confession. Normally we wouldn’t offer a deal to a suspect with such overwhelming evidence against him, but it would expedite procedures. And for a confession – which, in fact, we do not even need to obtain a conviction – I will offer you a reduced sentence, which will be considerable. I am afraid I’m restricted by the legal framework with regards to offering a specific figure, but let’s just say between you and me that it will be con-sid-er-able. Alright, Tony? It’s a promise. And now it’s on tape.’ He pointed to the red light on the table between them.
Leike subjected Bellman to a long, reflective look. Then he opened his mouth. ‘The two who brought me in told me your name was Bellman.’
‘Call me Mikael, Tony.’
‘They also said you were a very intelligent man. Tough, but trustworthy.’
‘I think you will discover that to be borne out, yes.’
‘You said considerable, didn’t you?’
‘You have my word.’ Bellman felt his pulse rising.
‘Alright,’ Leike said.
‘Good,’ said Mikael Bellman lightly, touching his lower lip with thumb and forefinger. ‘Shall we start at the beginning?’
‘Fine,’ Leike said, taking from his back pocket a piece of paper that Truls and Jussi must have let him keep. ‘I was given the dates and times by Harry Hole so this should be quick. Borgny Stem-Myhre died somewhere between 10 and 11 p.m. on the 16th of December in Oslo.’