Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

became the head of Krimteknisk. A well-liked boss. Harry swallowed.
    It sounded like notes for a funeral speech.
    Pack it in, she’s on her way! He took a deep breath. Heard the gate slam, the dustcart start churning.
    Then it came to him. The detail. That didn’t tally.
    He stared into the cupboard. A half-used roll of white bin bags.
    The bags in the dustbin had been black.
    Harry was out of the blocks.
    Sprinted through the hall, out of the door, down towards the gate. Ran as fast as he could, yet his heart was running ahead of him.
    ‘Stop!’
    One dustman looked up. He was standing with one leg on the rear platform of the lorry, which had already started moving towards the next house. The crunch of the steel jaws as they chewed seemed to come from inside Harry’s head.
    ‘Stop the butchery!’
    He jumped over the gate and landed on the tarmac with both feet. The dustman reacted at once, hit the red stop button and banged the side of the lorry, which pulled up with an angry snort.
    The crusher was quiet.
    The dustman stared.
    Harry walked slowly over to him, looking at the same place, the open iron jaws. There was a pungent stench, but Harry didn’t notice it. He saw only the half-crushed, split rubbish bags, leaking and seeping out liquid, and staining the metal red.
    ‘Folk are not right in the head,’ the dustman whispered.
    ‘What’s up?’ It was the driver; he had stuck his head out of the cab.
    ‘Looks like someone’s chucked their dog in again,’ his colleague shouted. And looked at Harry. ‘Is it yours?’
    Harry didn’t answer, just stepped up onto the platform and into the half-open hydraulic jaws.
    ‘Hey! You can’t do that! It’s danger—’
    Harry shook off the man’s hand. Slipped on the red mess, hitting his elbow and cheek on the slippery steel floor, noticed the familiar taste and smell of day-old blood. Struggled to his knees and tore open a bag.
    The contents poured out and slipped down the sloping flatbed.
    ‘Jesus Christ!’ the dustman behind him gasped.
    Harry tore open a second. And a third.
    Heard the dustman jump off and puke, the splash on the tarmac.
    In the fourth bag Harry found what he was looking for. The other parts of her body could have belonged to anyone. But not this. Not this blonde hair, not this pale face that would never blush again. Not these vacant, staring eyes that had recognised everyone she had ever seen. The face had been hacked to pieces, but Harry was in no doubt. He put a finger on the earring forged from a uniform button.
    It was so painful, so, so painful that he couldn’t breathe, so painful that he was doubled up, like a dying bee with its sting removed.
    And he heard a sound cross his lips, as though from a stranger, a long, drawn-out howl that echoed around the quiet neighbourhood.



27
    BEATE LØNN WAS buried in Gamlebyen Cemetery, beside her father. He hadn’t been buried there because it was his parish but because the cemetery was the closest one to Police HQ.
    Mikael Bellman adjusted his tie. Held Ulla’s hand. It had been the PR consultant’s suggestion that she went along. The situation for him as the most senior officer had become so precarious after the latest killing that he needed help. The consultant had explained that it was important for him as Chief of Police to show more personal commitment, empathy, that so far he had appeared slightly too professional. Ulla had stepped up. Of course she had. Stunningly beautiful in the mourning outfit she had chosen with such meticulous care. She was a good wife to him. He would not forget it. Not for a long time.
    The priest went on and on about what he called the big questions, about what happens when we die. But of course they weren’t the big questions; those were what had happened before Beate died and who had killed her. Her and three other officers in the course of the last six months.
    They were the big questions for the press, who had spent recent days paying homage to the brilliant head of Krimteknisk and criticising the new and shockingly inexperienced Chief of Police.
    They were the big questions for Oslo Council, who had summoned him to a meeting where he would have to account for his handling of the murders. They had indicated that they would not pull their punches.
    And they were the big questions for the investigation groups, both the large one and the small one Hagen had set up without telling him, but which Bellman had now accepted, as at least it had found a