There was a crunch inside Harry’s head as Krongli increased the pressure. A yellow and then a green horse banged against Harry’s forehead and nose respectively as he brought up his right foot and stamped. Hard. He heard Krongli scream, twisted out of the half nelson, turned and struck. Not with his fist – he had destroyed enough bones with that nonsense – but with his elbow. It hit Krongli where Harry had learned the effect was greatest – not on the point of the chin, but slightly to the side. Krongli staggered backwards, fell over a low swivel chair and landed on the floor with his feet pointing north. Harry noticed that the material of Krongli’s Converse shoe on his right foot was torn and bloodstained after its meeting with an iron plate under a boot that definitely should have been thrown away. He also noticed that his cigarette was still hanging from his lips. And – out of the corner of his eye – that the red horse in the first track rode in as the clear winner.
Harry bent down, grabbed Krongli’s collar, pulled him up and dumped him in the chair. Took a deep drag, felt it burn and warm his lungs.
‘I agree this rape case of mine doesn’t have a lot going for it,’ he said. ‘At least since neither Charlotte Lolles nor your wife reported you. That’s why, as a detective, I have to try and dig a bit deeper, isn’t it. And that’s why I come back to the Håvass cabin.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Krongli sounded as if he had caught a bad chill.
‘There’s this girl in Stavanger who Elias Skog confided in the same evening he was murdered. They were on a bus and Elias told her about the night at Håvass when he’d witnessed what he subsequently thought might have been a rape.’
‘Elias?’
‘Elias, yes. I suppose he must have been a light sleeper. He was woken in the night by sounds outside the bedroom window and looked out. The moon was up and he saw two people in the shadow under the ridge of the outside toilet roof. The woman was facing him with the man behind her, hiding his face. Elias’s impression was that they were screwing, the woman seemed to be performing a belly dance and the man had his hand over her mouth, obviously so that they wouldn’t disturb anyone. And when the man had dragged her into the toilet, Elias – disappointed not to see a full live show – had gone back to bed. It was only when he read about the murders that he’d started to wonder. Perhaps the woman had been wriggling to get away. The hand over her mouth might have been to suffocate calls for help.’ Harry took another drag. ‘Was it you, Krongli? Were you there?’
Krongli rubbed his chin.
‘Alibi?’ Harry asked airily.
‘I was at home, in bed, alone. Did Elias Skog say who the woman was?’
‘No. Nor the man, as I said.’
‘It wasn’t me. And you’re living dangerously, Hole.’
‘Shall I take that as a threat or a compliment?’
Krongli didn’t answer. But there was a gleam in his eyes, yellow and cold.
Harry stubbed out his cigarette and got up. ‘By the way, your ex didn’t show me anything. We were in the staffroom. Something tells me she’s afraid of being alone in the same room as a man. So you achieved something, didn’t you, Krongli.’
‘Don’t forget to look over your shoulder, Hole.’
Harry turned. The croupier appeared completely unruffled by the scene and had already set up the horses for another race.
‘Wan’ a bet?’ he asked in pidgin Norwegian with a smile.
Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry, got nothing to bet with.’
‘All the more to win,’ the croupier said.
Harry allowed that to sink in and concluded that either it was a linguistic error or his logic didn’t carry that far. Or it was just another terrible Oriental proverb.
50
Corruption
MIKAEL BELLMAN WAITED.
This was the best. The seconds waiting for her to open up. Wondering with excitement whether – and yet at the same time sure – she would again exceed his expectations. For every time he saw her he realised that he had forgotten how beautiful she was. Every time the door opened, it was as if he needed a moment to assimilate all her beauty. To let the confirmation sink in. Confirmation that from the selection of men who wanted her – in practice, any heterosexual man with good eyesight – she had chosen him. Confirmation that he was the leader of the pack, the alpha male, the male with the first claim to mate with the females. Yes, it could be articulated in such banal and vulgar terms. Being an alpha male was not something you aspired to, you were born to it. Not necessarily the easiest or the most comfortable life for a man, but if you were called, you could not resist.