The Leopard(46)

‘And you, Olsen, have you been unfaithful?’

Same reaction. Plus a certain flush to the forehead under the receding hairline. The answer was brief and resolute. ‘No, in fact I haven’t.’

Bellman angled his head. He didn’t suspect Rasmus Olsen. So why torment the man with this type of question? The answer was as simple as it was exasperating. Because he had no one else to question, no other leads to follow. He was merely taking out his frustration on this poor man.

‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’ Bellman, said, stifling a yawn.

‘Are you unfaithful?’

‘My wife is too beautiful,’ Bellman smiled. ‘Furthermore, we have two children. You and your wife were childless, and that encourages a little more … fun. I was talking to a source who said that you and your wife were having problems a while ago.’

‘I assume that’s the next-door neighbour. Marit chatted quite a bit with her, yes. There was a jealous patch some months ago. I had recruited a young girl to the party on a shop-steward course. That was how I met Marit, so she . . .’

Rasmus Olsen’s voice disintegrated, and Bellman saw that tears were welling up in his eyes.

‘It was nothing. But Marit went to the mountains for a couple of days to think things over. Afterwards everything was fine again.’

Bellman’s phone rang. He took it out, saw the name on the display and answered with a curt ‘yes’. And felt his pulse and fury increase as he listened to the voice.

‘Rope?’ he repeated. ‘Lyseren? That’s … Ytre Enebakk? Thanks.’

He stuffed the phone in his coat pocket. ‘I have to be off, Olsen. Thank you for your time.’

On his way out Bellman briefly stopped and looked around the room Terboven, the German Nazi, had occupied.

It was one o’clock in the morning and Harry was sitting in the living room listening to Martha Wainwright singing ‘Far Away’, ‘… Whatever remains is yet to be found’.

He was exhausted. In front of him on the coffee table was his mobile phone, the lighter and the silver foil containing the brown clump. He hadn’t touched it. But he had to sleep soon, find a rhythm, have a break. In his hand he was holding a photo of Rakel. Blue dress. He closed his eyes. Smelt her scent. Heard her voice. ‘Look!’ Her hand exerted a light squeeze. The water around them was black and deep, and she floated, white, soundless, weightless on the surface. The wind raised her veil and showed the white feathers beneath. Her long, slim neck formed a question mark. Where? She stepped ashore, a black iron skeleton with chafing, wailing wheels. She entered the house and vanished from sight. And reappeared on the first floor. She had a noose around her neck and there was a man by her side wearing a black suit with a white flower on his lapel. In front, with his back to them, stood a priest in a white cloak. He was reading slowly. Then he turned. His face and hands were white. Made of snow.

Harry awoke with a start.

Blinked in the dark. Sound. But not Martha Wainwright. Harry grabbed the luminous, vibrating phone on the coffee table.

‘Yes,’ he said with a voice like sludge.

‘I’ve got it.’

He sat up. ‘You’ve got what?’

‘The link. And there aren’t three dead. There are four.’





22


Search Engine


‘FIRST OF ALL, I TRIED THE THREE NAMES YOU GAVE ME,’ said Katrine Bratt. ‘Borgny Stem-Myhre, Charlotte Lolles and Marit Olsen. But the search didn’t produce anything sensible. So I put in all the missing persons in Norway over the last twelve months as well. And then I had something to work with.’

‘Wait,’ Harry said. He was wide awake now. ‘Where the hell did you get the missing persons from?’

‘Intranet at Missing Persons Unit, Oslo Police District. What did you think?’

Harry groaned, and Katrine went on.

‘There was one name that in fact linked the other three. Are you ready?’

‘Well . . .’

‘The missing woman is called Adele Vetlesen, twenty-three years old, living in Drammen. She was reported missing by her partner in November. A connection appeared on the NSB ticketing system. On the 7th of November Adele Vetlesen booked a train ticket online from Drammen to Ustaoset. The same day Borgny Stem-Myhre bought a train ticket from Kongsberg to the same place.’

‘Ustaoset’s not exactly the centre of the universe,’ Harry said.

‘It’s not a place, it’s a chunk of mountain. Where Bergen families have built their mountain cabins with old money and the Tourist Association has built cabins on the peaks, so that Norwegians can preserve Amundsen and Nansen’s heritage and trudge from cabin to cabin with skis on their feet, twenty-five kilos on their backs and a taste of mortal fear in the hinterland of the mind. Adds spice to life, you know.’