‘Blood on my hands?’ Altman shrieked, in a sudden burst of anger. ‘I broke into Tony’s house and rang Elias Skog so you would find the trail at Telenor. It’s you who have blood on your hands! Whores like Adele and Mia, murderers like Tony. If not—’
‘Stop now, Sigurd.’ Johan Krohn had got to his feet. ‘Let’s have a break, shall we?’
Altman closed his eyes, raised his hands and shook his head. ‘I’m OK, I’m OK. Let’s get this over and done with.’
Johan Krohn eyed his client, glanced at Bellman and sat down.
Altman took a deep, tremulous breath. Then he continued. ‘After the third murder or so, Tony knew, of course, that the next letter was not necessarily from the person it purported to be from. Nonetheless, he went on killing them, in increasingly violent ways. It was as if he wanted to frighten me, make me pull back, to show that he could kill everyone and everything and in the end would kill me, too.’
‘Or he wanted to get rid of potential witnesses who had seen him and Adele,’ Bellman said. ‘He knew there had been seven other people at Håvass, he just didn’t have the means to establish who they were.’
Altman laughed. ‘Imagine! I swear he went up to the cabin to look at the guest book. Only to find the stub of a torn-out sheet. Tony Pony!’
‘What about your motive for continuing?’
‘What do you mean?’ Altman asked, on the alert now.
‘You could have given the police an anonymous tip-off much earlier in the case. Perhaps you wanted to get rid of all the witnesses as well?’
Altman tilted his head, so that his ear almost touched his shoulder.
‘As I said, it’s difficult to keep tabs on all the reasons for doing what you do. Your subconscious is controlled by your survival instinct and is therefore often more rational than conscious thought. Perhaps my subconscious realised it would also be safer for me if Tony eliminated all the witnesses. Then no one would be able to say I was there, or suddenly recognise me one day in the street. But we will never get an answer to that, will we.’
The wood burner crackled and spat.
‘But why on earth would Tony Leike chop off his own finger?’ Bjørn Holm asked.
He had settled down on the sofa while Harry went through the firstaid kit he had found at the back of a kitchen drawer. It contained several rolls of bandages. And an astringent ointment that made blood coagulate faster. The date on the tube showed it was only two months old.
‘Altman forced him,’ Harry said, revolving a tiny unlabelled brown bottle. ‘Leike had to be humiliated.’
‘You don’t sound as if you believe that yourself.’
‘I damn well do believe it,’ Harry said, unscrewing the lid and sniffing the contents.
‘Oh? There’s not a single fingerprint here that isn’t Leike’s, not a hair that isn’t Leike’s raven-black hair, not a shoe print that isn’t size forty-five, Leike’s. Sigurd Altman is ash blond and takes size forty-two, Harry.’
‘He made a good job of clearing up afterwards. Remind me to have this analysed.’ Harry slipped the brown bottle into his jacket pocket.
‘A good job of clearing up? In what probably isn’t even a crime scene? The same man who didn’t care about leaving big fat fingerprints on Leike’s desk in Holmenveien? Who you said yourself didn’t clear up very well at the cabin where he killed Utmo? I don’t think so, Harry. And you don’t, either.’
‘Fuck!’ Harry shouted. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ He rested his forehead on his hands and stared at the table.
Bjørn Holm held one of the small bits of wire from under the drainpipe in the air and scraped off the gold coating with his fingernail. ‘By the way, I think I know what this is.’
‘Oh?’ Harry said, without lifting his head.
‘Iron, chrome, nickel and titanium.’
‘What?’
‘I had a dental brace when I was a kid. The wires had to be bent and clipped on.’
Harry suddenly looked up and stared at the map of Africa. He studied the countries that slotted into each other like jigsaw pieces. Except Madagascar, which was separate, like a bit that didn’t fit.
‘At the dentist’s—’
‘Shh!’ Harry said, holding up a hand. Now he had it. Something had just clicked into place. All that could be heard was the wood burner and the gusting wind that was closer outside now. Two jigsaw pieces that had been far apart, each on their own side of the puzzle. A maternal grandfather by Lake Lyseren. Father of his mother. And the photograph in the drawer at the cabin. The family photograph. The picture didn’t belong to Tony Leike, but to Odd Utmo. Arthritis. What was it that Tony had told him? Not contagious, but hereditary. The boy with the large, bared teeth. And the man with the hard, pinched mouth, as if he were hiding a dark secret. Hiding his rotten teeth and a brace.