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Phantom
  • Текст добавлен: 6 октября 2016, 22:43

Текст книги "Phantom"


Автор книги: Jo Nesbo


Соавторы: Jo Nesbo,Jo Nesbo

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

‘How do you know?’

‘I know what loneliness is, OK? And he was full of self-loathing.’

‘Self-confidence and self-loathing?’

‘It’s not a contradiction. You know what you can achieve, but that doesn’t mean you see yourself as someone others can love.’

‘And what’s that down to?’

‘I told you, I’m not a psychologist.’

‘No, that’s right.’

Harry waited.

She cleared her throat.

‘His parents had given him away. What do you think that does to a boy? Behind all the gestures and the hard face he was someone who didn’t think he was worth much. Just as little as those who had given up on him. Isn’t it simple logic, herr Quasi Policeman?’

Harry looked at her. Nodded. Noticed his gaze made her uncomfortable. But he refrained from asking her the questions she obviously knew were on his lips: what was her story? How lonely, how self-loathing was she behind the facade?

‘How about Oleg? Did you meet him?’

‘The one who was arrested for the murder? Never. But Gusto mentioned an Oleg a couple of times, said he was his best friend. I think he was his only friend.’

‘What about Irene?’

‘He mentioned her too. She was like a sister.’

‘She was a sister.’

‘Not in blood, Harry. It’s never the same.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘People are naive and believe they are capable of selfless love. But it’s all about passing on genes that are as close as possible to your own. I see this in horse breeding every day, believe me. And, yes, people are like horses, we’re herd animals. A father will protect his biological son, a brother his biological sister. In any conflict we instinctively take the side of those who look most like us. Imagine you’re in the jungle and walk round a corner and suddenly see another white man, dressed like you, grappling with a semi-naked black man in warpaint. They’ve both got knives and are fighting to the death. You’ve got a gun. What’s your first instinct? To shoot the white man to save the black man? It’s not, is it.’

‘Mm. And what’s your proof?’

‘The proof is that our loyalty is biologically determined. Circles that spread out from the centre, which is ourselves and our genes.’

‘So you’d shoot one of them to protect your genes?’

‘Without a second thought.’

‘What about killing both to be on the safe side?’

She looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What were you doing the night Gusto was killed?’

‘What?’ She scrunched up one eye in the sun and beamed at him. ‘Do you suspect me of killing Gusto, Harry? And that I was after this… Oleg?’

‘Just answer me.’

‘I remember where I was because it was in my mind when I was reading about the murder in the paper. I was sitting in a meeting with representatives of the Police Narco Unit. They should be reliable witnesses. Do you want names?’

Harry shook his head.

‘Anything else?’

‘Well, this Dubai. What do you know about him?’

‘Dubai, hm. As little as everyone else. There’s talk, but the police aren’t making any headway. It’s typical; the professionals behind the scams always get away.’ Harry looked for a change in the size of pupils, the colour of her cheeks. If Isabelle Skoyen was lying, she was good.

‘I ask because you’ve cleared the streets of all the dope dealers apart from Dubai and a couple of minor gangs.’

‘Not me, Harry. I’m just a council secretary following the orders of the Social Services Committee and the council’s policies. And what you call clearing the streets, strictly speaking, is a police job.’

‘Mm. Norway is a little fairy-tale land. But I’ve spent the last few years in the real world, Skoyen. And the real world is driven by two types of people. Those who want power and those who want money. The first want a statue, the second enjoyment. And the currency they use when negotiating with each other to get what they want is called corruption.’

‘I’ve got things to do, Hole. Where do you want this to go?’

‘Where others have obviously lacked the courage or the imagination to go. If you live in a town for a long time you usually see the situation as a mosaic of details you know well. But someone who returns to the town and doesn’t know the details only sees the picture. And the picture is that the situation in Oslo is favourable for two groups: the dealers who have the market to themselves and the politicians who are credited with having cleared up.’

‘Are you saying I’m corrupt?’

‘Are you?’

He saw the fury flash into her eyes. Genuine, without a doubt. He wondered only whether it was the anger of the just or the ensnared. Then, out of the blue, she laughed. A trilled, surprisingly girlish laugh.

‘I like you, Harry.’ She got up. ‘I know men, and they’re wimps when it comes to the crunch. But I think you might be an exception.’

‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘at least you know where you are with me.’

‘Reality calls, my dear.’

Harry turned to see the roll of Isabelle Skoyen’s voluminous beam-end as she headed for the horses.

He followed. Got his feet in the stirrups. Mounted Balder. Looked up and met Isabelle’s eyes. There was a small provocative smile in the middle of that hard, handsomely chiselled face. She pouted a kiss. Made an obscene sucking sound and dug her heels into Medusa’s sides. And her back swayed as the great beast leapt forward.

Balder reacted without warning, but Harry managed to hold on tight.

Isabelle led again, and wet clods of earth from Medusa’s hooves rained down. Then the mare upped her pace, and Harry saw Isabelle’s ponytail standing upright as she disappeared round a bend. He gripped the reins further up, the way his grandfather had taught him, without tightening them. The path was so narrow that branches whipped at him, but he crouched down in the saddle and squeezed his knees hard against the horse. He knew he would not be able to stop, so he concentrated on keeping his feet in the stirrups and his head low. At the margins of his vision, trees flashed past in yellow and red stripes. Automatically he rose in the saddle and put his weight on his knees and the stirrups. Beneath him muscles rippled and undulated. He had the feeling he was sitting on a boa constrictor. And now they had slipped into a kind of rhythm, accompanied by the thunderous drumming of the hooves on the ground. A sense of horror competed with a sense of obsession. The path straightened, and fifty metres in front of them Harry saw Medusa and Isabelle. For a moment it was as if the image was freeze-framed, as if they had stopped, as if horse and rider were floating above the ground. Then Medusa resumed her gallop. Another second passed before Harry realised.

And it had been a valuable second.

At Police College he had read scientific reports showing that in catastrophes the human brain tries to process enormous quantities of data in seconds. For some officers this can lead to a paralysis; for others to a feeling that time is going slower, that life passes before them, and they manage to make an astonishing number of observations and evaluations of the situation. Such as that at a speed of almost seventy kilometres an hour they had covered twenty metres and there were only thirty metres and ninety seconds left to the chasm that Medusa had just crossed.

That it was impossible to see how wide it was.

That Medusa was a trained, fully grown dressage horse with an experienced dressage rider while Balder was younger and smaller and had a novice of close on ninety kilos on his back.

That Balder was a herd animal and of course Isabelle Skoyen knew that.

That it was too late to stop.

Harry relaxed his hands on the reins and dug his heels into Balder’s sides. Felt a last surge of pace. Then all went still. The drumming stopped. They were floating. Far beneath them he saw a treetop and a stream. Then he was thrust forward and banged his head against the horse’s neck. They fell.

23

Were you A thief as well, Dad? Because I’d always known I was going to be a millionaire. My motto has been to steal only when it’s worthwhile, so I had been patient and waited. And waited. Waited so long that when the opportunity finally offered itself I thought I bloody deserved it.

The plan was as simple as it was brilliant. While Odin’s biker gang was meeting the old boy at McDonald’s, Oleg and I would steal part of their heroin store in Alnabru. First of all, there would be no one in the clubhouse as Odin would take the muscle they had with them. Second, Odin would never find out that he had been robbed as he would be arrested at McDonald’s. When he was sitting in the witness box he would in fact thank Oleg and me for reducing the number of kilos the heavies had found in the raid. The only problem would be the cops and the old boy. If the cops realised that someone had been a step ahead of them and nabbed the stash, and this came to the old boy’s ears, we would be fucked. The problem solved itself in the way the old boy had taught me: castling, a strategic alliance. I went straight to the block of flats in Manglerud, and this time Truls Berntsen was at home.

He stared at me sceptically as I explained, but I wasn’t concerned. Because I had seen it in his eyes. The greed. Another of these people after payback, who believe that money can buy them medicine for despair, loneliness and bitterness. That there is not only something called justice, but that it’s a consumer product, sort of. I explained we needed his expertise to cover any clues we left for the police, and to burn anything they found. Perhaps even direct suspicion on others if necessary. I saw the glint in his eye when I said we would take five of the twenty kilos in the stash. Two for me and him, one for Oleg. I watched him doing the calculations, one point two mil times two, two point four for him.

‘And this Oleg is the only other person you’ve spoken to?’ he asked.

‘Cross my heart.’

‘Have you got any weapons?’

‘An Odessa between us.’

‘Eh?’

‘The H amp;M version of a Stechkin.’

‘OK. It’s unlikely the detectives will give the number of kilos a thought if there are no signs of a break-in, but I suppose you’re scared Odin will come after you?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t give a shit about Odin. It’s my boss I’m scared of. I have no idea how, but I just know he knows to the gram how much heroin they have stored there.’

‘I want half,’ he said. ‘You and Boris can share the rest.’

‘Oleg.’

‘Be happy I’ve got a bad memory. And it works both ways. It’ll take me half a day to find you and nothing to destroy you.’ He lovingly rolled the ‘r’ in destroy.

It was Oleg who worked out how we should camouflage the robbery. It was so simple and obvious I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it myself.

‘We swap what we pinch with potato flour. The police will report how many kilos they confiscate, not the purity of its content, right?’

The plan was, as I said, as brilliant as it was simple.

The same night that Odin and the old boy were having a birthday party at McDonald’s and discussing the price of violin in Drammen and Lillestrom, Berntsen, Oleg and I were standing in the darkness outside the fence round the bikers’ clubhouse in Alnabru. Berntsen had taken control, and we were wearing nylon stockings, black jackets and gloves. In our rucksacks we had shooters, a drill, a screwdriver, a jemmy and six kilos’ worth of plastic bags packed with potato flour. Oleg and I had explained where Los Lobos had placed their surveillance cameras, but by climbing over the fence and running to the wall on the left we stayed in the blind spot the whole time. We knew that we could make as much noise as we wanted as the heavy traffic on the E6 below would drown everything, so Berntsen drilled through the wall while Oleg kept lookout and I hummed ‘Been Caught Stealing’, which was on the soundtrack of Stein’s GTA game, and he said it was by a band called Jane’s Addiction, and I remembered because it was a cool name, cooler than the songs actually. Oleg and I were in familiar territory and the layout of the clubhouse was simple: it consisted of one large lounge area. But as all the windows had been cleverly covered with wooden shutters the plan was to drill a peephole, then we would be sure the clubhouse was unoccupied before we entered. Berntsen had insisted on this, he had refused to believe that Odin would leave twenty kilos of heroin, with a street value of twenty-five million, unguarded. We knew Odin better, but gave in. Safety first.

‘There we are,’ Berntsen said, holding the drill, which died with a snarl.

I put my eye to the hole. Couldn’t see fuck. Either someone had switched off the light or else we hadn’t drilled right through. I turned to Berntsen who was wiping the drill. ‘What kind of bloody insulation is this?’ he said, holding up a finger. It looked like egg yolk and fricking hair.

We walked a couple of metres further down and bored a new hole. I peered through. And there was the good old clubhouse. With the same old leather chairs, the same bar and the same picture of Karen McDougal, Playmate of the Year, arranged over some customised motorbike. I never found out what gave them the biggest hard-on: women or bikes.

‘All clear,’ I said.

The back door was festooned with hinges and locks.

‘I thought you said there was one lock!’ Berntsen said.

‘So there was,’ I said. ‘Odin’s obviously developing a bit of paranoia.’

The plan had been to drill the lock off and screw it back on before leaving, so that there would be no signs of a break-in. That was still possible but not in the time we had calculated. We got down to work.

After twenty minutes Oleg checked his watch and said we had to hurry. We didn’t know exactly when the raid was due, only that it would happen at some point after the arrests, and the arrests would have to take place pretty quickly as Odin wouldn’t want to hang around when he realised the old boy wasn’t coming.

We spent half an hour cleaning up the crap, three times as much as calculated. We took out our shooters, pulled the stockings down over our faces and went in, Berntsen first. We had hardly got inside the door when he fell onto one knee and held the shooter in front of him with both hands like a member of the fricking SWAT team.

A guy was sitting on a chair by the west wall. Odin had left Tutu as a watchdog. In his lap he had a sawn-off shotgun. But the watchdog was sitting with his eyes closed, gob open and head against the wall. Rumours were circulating that Tutu stammered even when he snored, but he was sleeping as sweetly as a baby now.

Berntsen got to his feet again and tiptoed towards Tutu, gun first. Oleg and I followed, also on tiptoe.

‘There’s only one hole,’ Oleg whispered to me.

‘What?’ I whispered back.

But then I realised.

I could see the last drill hole. And worked out where the first must have been.

‘Oh shit,’ I whispered. Even though I realised there was no longer any reason to whisper.

Berntsen had reached Tutu. He gave him a nudge. Tutu rolled sideways off the chair and fell to the floor. He lay face down on the concrete and we could see the circular entry into the back of his head.

‘Drill went right through, OK,’ Berntsen said. He poked his finger into the hole in the wall.

‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered to Oleg. ‘What are the chances of that happening, eh?’

But he didn’t answer. He was staring at the body as though he didn’t know whether to vomit or cry.

‘Gusto,’ he said finally, ‘what have we done?’

I don’t know what got into me, but I started laughing. It was impossible to hold back. The ubercool hip gyration from the cop with the massive underbite, the despair on Oleg’s face, flattened behind the stocking, and Tutu, who turned out to have a brain after all, with his mouth hanging open. I laughed so much I howled. Until I was slapped and saw sparks in front of my eyes.

‘Shape up unless you want another,’ Berntsen said, rubbing his palm.

‘Thank you,’ I said and meant it. ‘Let’s find the dope.’

‘First we have to figure out what to do with Drillo here,’ Berntsen said.

‘It’s too late,’ I said. ‘Now they’ll find out there’s been a break-in anyway.’

‘Not if we get Tutu into the car and screw the locks on again,’ Oleg whined in a reedy, tear-filled voice. ‘If they discover some of the dope’s gone they’ll think he ran off with it.’

Berntsen looked at Oleg and nodded. ‘Bright partner you’ve got there, Wussto. Let’s get going.’

‘Dope first,’ I said.

‘Drillo first,’ Berntsen said.

‘Dope,’ I repeated.

‘Drillo.’

‘I intend to become a millionaire this evening, you pelican.’

Berntsen raised a hand. ‘Drillo.’

‘Shut up!’ It was Oleg. We stared at him.

‘It’s simple logic. If Tutu isn’t in the boot before the police come we lose both the dope and our freedom. If Tutu, but not the dope, is in the boot we lose only the money.’

Berntsen turned to me. ‘Sounds like Boris agrees with me, Wussto. Two against one.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘You carry the body and I’ll search for the dope.’

‘Wrong,’ Berntsen said. ‘We carry the body and you wash up the gunge after us.’ He pointed to the sink on the wall beside the bar.

I poured water into a bucket while Oleg and Berntsen grabbed a leg each and dragged Tutu towards the door, leaving a thin trail of blood. Under Karen McDougal’s provocative gaze I scrubbed brain and blood off the wall and then the floor. I had just finished and was about to start searching for dope when I heard a sound from the door that opened onto the E6. A sound I tried to persuade myself was going somewhere else. The fact that the sound was getting louder and louder could be a figment of my imagination. Police sirens.

I checked the bar, the office and the toilet. It was a simple room, no second storey, no cellar, not many places to hide twenty kilos of horse. Then my eyes fell on the toolbox. On the padlock. Which had not been there before.

Oleg shouted something from the door.

‘Give me the jemmy,’ I shouted back.

‘We’ve got to get out now! They’re down the road!’

‘Jemmy!’

‘Now, Gusto!’

I knew it was in there. Twenty-five million kroner, right in front of me, in a shitty wooden box. I started kicking the lock.

‘I’ll shoot, Gusto!’

I turned to Oleg. He was pointing the bloody Odessa at me. Not that I thought he would hit me from that range, it was well over ten metres, but just the idea that he would train a weapon on me.

‘If they catch you, they’ll catch us!’ he shouted with tears in his throat.

‘Come on!’

I battered away at the lock again. The sirens were getting louder and louder. The thing about sirens, though, is that they always sound closer than they are.

I heard a crack like a whip above me on the wall. I looked back at the door, and my blood ran cold. It was Berntsen. He was standing there with a smoking police shooter in his hand.

‘Next one won’t miss,’ he said calmly.

I gave the box one last kick. Then I ran.

We had hardly clambered over the fence and removed the stockings when we found ourselves looking into the headlights of the police cars. We walked casually towards them.

Then they sped past us and turned in front of the clubhouse.

We continued up the hill to where Berntsen had parked his car. Got in and drove off. As we passed the clubhouse I turned and looked at Oleg on the rear seat. Blue light swept across his face, inflamed from the tears and the tight stocking. He looked completely drained, staring into the darkness as if ready to die.

Neither of us said anything until Berntsen pulled in at a bus stop in Sinsen.

‘You screwed up, Wussto,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t know about the locks,’ I said.

‘It’s called preparation,’ Berntsen said. ‘Casing the joint. Sound familiar? We’re going to find an open door with a lock that’s been unscrewed.’

I realised that by ‘we’ he meant the cops. Odd fish.

‘I took the lock and the hinges,’ Oleg sniffled. ‘It’s going to look as though Tutu ran hell for leather when he heard the sirens, didn’t even have time to lock up. And the screw marks could be after a break-in at any point over the last year, right?’

Berntsen looked at Oleg in the mirror. ‘Learn from your pal, Wussto. Actually, don’t. Oslo doesn’t need any more smart thieves.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘But perhaps it’s not such a bloody smart idea to park on double yellow lines at a bus stop with a body in the back, either.’

‘Agreed,’ Berntsen said. ‘Off you go then.’

‘The body…’

‘I’ll sort Drillo out.’

‘Where…?’

‘None of your business. Out!’

We got out and watched Berntsen’s Saab spin off.

‘From now on, we’ve got to keep away from that guy,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘He’s killed a man, Oleg. He has to remove all the physical evidence. First he’ll have to find a place to hide the body. But after that…’

‘He’ll have to remove the witnesses.’

I nodded. Felt as depressed as fuck. Then I ventured an optimistic thought: ‘Sounded like he had a great stash in mind for Tutu, didn’t it?’

‘I was going to spend the money on moving to Bergen with Irene,’ Oleg said.

I looked at him.

‘I’ve got a place to do law at uni there. Irene’s in Trondheim with Stein. I was thinking of going up there and persuading her to join me.’

We caught the bus to town. I couldn’t stand Oleg’s blank gaze any longer, it had to be filled with something.

‘Come on,’ I said.

While I fixed him a shot in the rehearsal room I saw him sending me impatient glances, as if he wanted to take over, as if he thought I was clumsy. And when he rolled up his sleeve I knew why. The boy had needle marks all over his forearm.

‘Just until Irene comes back,’ he said.

‘Have you got your own stash as well?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘It’s been stolen.’

That was the night I taught him where and how to make a proper stash.

Truls Berntsen had been waiting for more than an hour at the multi-storey car park when a vehicle finally turned into the vacant spot with a sign showing it was reserved for the firm of solicitors Bach amp; Simonsen. He had decided this was the right place; only two cars had come to this part of the car park in the hour he had been here, and there were no surveillance cameras. Truls checked the number plate was the same as he had found on AUTOSYS. Hans Christian Simonsen had long lie-ins. Or perhaps he wasn’t asleep, perhaps he had some woman or other. The man getting out had a blond, boyish fringe, the kind Oslo West prats used to have when he was growing up.

Truls Berntsen put on his sunglasses, stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and squeezed the grip of the gun, a Steyr, Austrian, semi-automatic. He had left behind the standard police revolver so that the solicitor wouldn’t have any unnecessary leads. He walked quickly to cut off Simonsen while he was still standing between the cars. A threat works best if it’s fast and aggressive. If the victim has no time to mobilise any other thoughts than fear of life and limb, you will get what you want straight away.

It was as if he had fizz powder in his blood – there was a hiss and a pounding in his ears, groin and throat. He visualised what was going to happen. The gun in Simonsen’s face, so close that the barrel would be all he remembered. ‘Where’s Oleg Fauke? Answer me, quick and precise, or else I’ll kill you right now.’ The reply. Then: ‘If you warn anyone or say this conversation has taken place we’ll be back to kill you. Got that?’ Yes. Or numb nods. Maybe involuntary urination. Truls smiled at the thought. Increased his pace. The pounding had spread to his stomach.

‘Simonsen!’

The solicitor looked up. And his face brightened. ‘Oh, hi there! Berntsen. Truls Berntsen, isn’t it?’

Truls’s right hand froze in his coat pocket. And he must have worn a crestfallen expression because Simonsen gave a hearty laugh. ‘I’ve got a good memory for faces, Berntsen. You and your boss, Mikael Bellman, investigated the embezzlement business at Heider Museum. I was the defence counsel. You won the case, I’m sorry to say.’

Simonsen laughed again. Jovial, naive West Oslo laughter. The laughter of people who have grown up with everyone wishing everyone else well, in a place with the wealth necessary for them to be able to do that. Truls hated all the Simonsens in this world.

‘Anything I can help you with, Berntsen?’

‘I…’ Truls Berntsen fumbled for words. But this was not his strong suit, deciding what to do face to face with… with what? People who were verbally quicker on their feet than he was? It had been fine that time in Alnabru, then it had been two boys and he had taken command. But Simonsen had a suit, education, a different way of speaking, superiority, he… oh shit!

‘I just wanted to say hello.’

‘Hello?’ Simonsen said with a question mark in his intonation and face.

‘Hello,’ Berntsen said, forcing a smile. ‘Shame about the case. You’ll beat us next time.’

Then he headed for the exit with an accelerated step. Feeling Simonsen’s eyes on his back. Digging muck, eating shit. Sod the lot of them.

Try the solicitor, and if that doesn’t work there’s a man called Chris Reddy whom everyone knows as Adidas.

The speed dealer. Truls hoped he would have a pretext for violence during the arrest.

Harry swam towards the light, towards the surface. The light became stronger and stronger. Then he broke through. Opened his eyes. And stared straight up at the sky. He was lying on his back. Something came into his field of vision. A horse’s head. And another.

He shaded his eyes. Someone was sitting on a horse, but he was dazzled by the light.

The voice came from far away.

‘I thought you said you’d ridden before, Harry.’

Harry groaned and struggled to his feet as he recalled what exactly had happened. Balder had sailed across the chasm and landed on the ground with his front legs, Harry had been thrown forward, banging into Balder’s neck, losing the stirrups and sliding down one side while holding on tightly to the reins. He vaguely remembered dragging Balder with him, but kicked out at him so as not to have half a ton of horse on top of him.

His back felt as if it was out, but otherwise he seemed to be in one piece.

‘Grandfather’s nag didn’t jump over canyons,’ Harry said.

‘Canyons?’ Isabelle Skoyen laughed, passing him Balder’s reins. ‘That’s no more than a little crevice of five metres. I can jump further without a horse. Didn’t know you were the jittery type, Harry. First back to the farm?’

‘Balder,’ Harry said, patting the horse’s muzzle as they watched Isabelle Skoyen and Medusa racing down towards the open field, ‘are you conversant with the equine gait “an amble”?’

Harry stopped at a petrol station on the E6 and bought a coffee. He got back into the car and looked in the mirror. Isabelle had given him a plaster for the graze on his forehead, the opportunity to join her at the premiere of Don Giovanni at the Opera House (‘… impossible to find a date taller than my chin when I wear heels… looks bad in the newspapers…’) and a firm departing hug. Harry took out his mobile and picked up the message.

‘Where have you been?’ Beate asked.

‘Bit of fieldwork,’ Harry said.

‘There wasn’t much to help us at the crime scene in Gardermoen. My people have hoovered the place. Nada. The only thing we found out is that the nails are a standard steel variety, with extra-large sixteen-millimetre aluminium heads, and that the brick probably comes from a property in Oslo built at the end of the 1800s.’

‘Oh?’

‘We found pig’s blood and horse hair in the mortar. There was a well-known Oslo bricklayer who used to mix it in, there’s loads of it in the city-centre apartment blocks. You can make mortar with anything.’

‘Mm.’

‘So, no lead there, either.’

‘Either?’

‘Yes, that visit you were talking about. It must have been to somewhere else, not Police HQ, because no Tord Schultz has been registered. The visitor’s pass only says Oslo Politidistrikt and there are similar ones in several police stations.’

‘OK. Thank you.’

Harry searched his pockets until he found what he was after. Tord Schultz’s visitor’s pass. And his, the one he’d been given when he visited Hagen at Crime Squad on the first day in Oslo. He placed them beside each other on the dashboard. Studied them. Drew his conclusions and stuffed them back in his pocket. Turned the ignition key, breathed in through his nostrils, confirmed he could still smell horse and decided to visit an old rival at Hoyenhall.


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