Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

confession. Ah, there was one positive side to the Vennesla case: the murder of the policeman overshadowed that of the young beautiful drug dealer called Gusto Hanssen so completely that the press hadn’t written a word about the resumption of this investigation.
    Hagen glanced down at the sheet of paper on the lectern. There were two lines. That was all. Two lines for a morning meeting.
    Gunnar Hagen cleared his throat. ‘Morning, folks. As most of you are aware, we have received some calls after yesterday’s conference. Eighty-nine in all, of which several are being followed up now.’
    He didn’t need to say what everyone knew, that after close on three months they were now scraping the bottom; ninety-five per cent of all calls were a waste of time: the usual nutters who always rang in, drunks, people wanting to cast suspicion on someone who had run off with their other half, a neighbour shirking their cleaning duties, practical jokes or just people who wanted some attention, someone to talk to. By ‘several’ he meant four. Four tip-offs. And when he said they were being ‘followed up’ it was a lie, they had finished following them up. And they had led where they were now: nowhere.
    ‘We’ve got an illustrious visitor today,’ Hagen said, and immediately heard that this could be construed as sarcasm. ‘The Chief of Police would like to join us and say a few words. Mikael . . .’
    Hagen closed his folder, raised it and placed it on the table as though it contained a pile of new, interesting documents instead of the one sheet of paper, hoping he had smoothed over the ‘illustrious’ by using Bellman’s Christian name and nodding to the man standing by the door at the back of the room.
    The young Chief of Police was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, waiting for the brief moment when everyone turned round to look at him, then in one sleek, powerful movement he pulled himself away from the wall and strode to the rostrum. He was half smiling as though he was thinking about something amusing, and when he turned to the lectern with a casual swing of his heel, rested his forearms on it, leaned forward and looked straight at them as if to emphasise that he had no typed speech ready, it struck Hagen that Bellman had better deliver now what his entrance promised.
    ‘Some of you may know that I’m a climber,’ Mikael said. ‘And when I wake up in the morning on days like today, look out of the window and there’s zero visibility and more snow and gusting winds are forecast, I think about a mountain I once had plans to conquer.’
    Bellman paused, and Hagen could see the unexpected introduction was working; Bellman had caught their attention. For the moment. But Hagen knew that the overworked unit’s bullshit tolerance was at an all-time low, and they wouldn’t go out of their way to hide it. Bellman was too young, had taken up his post too recently and had arrived there with too much haste for them to allow him to test their patience.
    ‘Coincidentally, the mountain has the same name as this room. Which is the same name some of you have given the Vennesla case. K2. It’s a good name. The world’s second-highest mountain. The Savage Mountain. The hardest mountain in the world to conquer. One in four climbers dies. We’d planned to tackle the southern ascent, also known as the Magic Line. It’s only been done twice before and is considered by many to be ritual suicide. A slight change in weather and wind, and you and the mountain are enveloped in snow and temperatures none of us is made to survive, not with less oxygen per cubic metre than you have underwater. And, as this is the Himalayas, everyone knows there will be a change in the weather and wind.’
    Pause.
    ‘So why should I climb this mountain of all mountains?’
    Another pause. Longer, as though waiting for someone to answer. Still with the half-smile. The pause dragged on. Too long, Hagen thought. The police are not fans of theatrical effects.
    ‘Because . . .’ Bellman tapped a forefinger on the table beneath the lectern. ‘. . . because it’s the hardest in the world. Physically and mentally. There’s not a moment’s pleasure in the ascent, only anxiety, toil, fear, acrophobia, lack of oxygen, degrees of dangerous panic and even more dangerous apathy. And when you’re on top, it’s not about relishing the moment of triumph, just creating evidence that you have actually been there, a photo or two, not deluding