‘I’m not talking about me, Altman. I can live with it.’
‘And I’m not talking about you, either, Bellman. I’m talking about the person who can’t live with it.’
Bellman nodded. For his part, he certainly could live with the situation. There had been telephone calls from the Ministry. Not from the minister himself, of course, but the feedback could be interpreted in only one way. That they were happy. That this would have positive consequences, both for Kripos and for him personally.
They went up the stairs and into the daylight.
Johan Krohn stepped out of his blue Audi and extended a hand to Sigurd Altman as they crossed the road.
Bellman stood watching the released man and his counsel until the Audi disappeared round the bend to Tøyen.
‘Don’t you say hi when you come to see us, Bellman?’
Bellman turned. It was Gunnar Hagen. He was on the pavement across the road, no jacket, arms folded.
Bellman went over, and they shook hands.
‘Anyone spreading gossip about me?’ Bellman asked.
‘Here at Crime Squad everything is brought to light,’ Hagen said with a broad smile, shivering and rubbing his hands for warmth. ‘By the way, I have a meeting with the Ministry of Justice at the back end of next month.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Bellman said, unconcerned. He knew very well what the meeting would be about. Restructuring. Downsizing. Transfer of responsibility for murder cases. What he didn’t know was what Hagen meant with his allusion to everything coming to light.
‘But you know all about the meeting, don’t you.’ Hagen said. ‘We’ve both been requested to forward a recommendation for the future organisation of murder investigations. The deadline’s approaching.’
‘I hardly think they’ll lay much weight on our one-sided presentations,’ Bellman said, looking at Hagen and trying to interpret where he was going. ‘I suppose we just have to give our opinions, in the name of tolerance.’
‘Unless we both believe that the present structure is preferable to all the investigations being placed under one roof,’ Hagen said through chattering teeth.
Bellman chortled. ‘You’re not wearing enough clothes, Hagen.’
‘You could be right. But I also know what I would think about a new murder unit being led by a policeman who had used his position to let his future wife go free after she had been smuggling drugs. Even though witnesses had pointed her out.’
Bellman stopped breathing. Felt his grip slacken. Felt gravity taking hold of him, his hair rising, his stomach falling. This was the nightmare he had been having. Nerve-jangling in sleep, brutal in reality; the fall without any rope. The solo climber’s fall.
‘Looks like you’re feeling the cold, too, Bellman.’
‘Fuck you, Hagen.’
‘Me?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Want? Long term, I want the force to be spared yet another public scandal calling into doubt the integrity of the regular policeman. As far as restructuring is concerned . . .’ Hagen’s head receded between his shoulders and he stamped his feet on the ground. ‘Now, the Ministry of Justice might want murder investigation resources all in the same pot, quite irrespective of the leadership question. If I were to be asked to lead such a unit I would, of course, consider the offer. But, in general, I think things are functioning well as they are. By and large, murderers receive their punishment, don’t they. So if my counterpart in this matter shares that view, I will be prepared to continue with investigations both in Bryn and here at Police HQ. What do you think, Bellman?’
Mikael Bellman felt the jerk as the rope caught him after all. Felt the harness tighten, felt himself being torn into two, felt his back unable to cope with the strain and it broke, the mixture of pain and paralysis. He dangled, helpless and dizzy, somewhere between heaven and earth. But he was alive.
‘Let me think about it, Hagen.’
‘Think away. But don’t take too much time. Deadline, you know. We have to coordinate.’
Bellman stood watching Hagen’s back as he loped to the entrance of Police HQ. Then turned and stared over the rooftops of Grønland. Studied the town. His town.
93
The Answer
HARRY WAS STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LIVING-ROOM floor, looking around, when the phone rang.
‘Rakel here. What are you doing?’
‘Examining what’s left,’ he said. ‘After a person dies.’
‘And?’
‘There’s a lot. And yet not much. Sis has said what she wants, and tomorrow some guy’s coming to buy up the goods and chattels. He intimated he would pay fifty thousand to buy the lot, lock, stock and barrel. And he’ll clean up after him. That’s … er . . .’ Harry couldn’t find the word.