Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

with the tension.
    ‘So if you think I’m like him, why do you reckon you can sort me out?’
    ‘X was schizophrenic. He heard voices.’
    ‘And you think I’m in better shape?’ The patient laughed bitterly as Ståle texted. Trying to write while the patient continued to talk, trying to camouflage the clicks by scraping his shoes against the floor. One letter. One more. Bastard fingers. There we are. He realised the patient had stopped talking. The patient, Paul Stavnes. Wherever he got that name from. You could always find a new name. Or get rid of the old one. It wasn’t so easy with tattoos. Especially if they were big and covered your whole chest.
    ‘I know why you’re sweating, Aune,’ the patient said. ‘You happened to see the reflection in the window when I was changing, didn’t you?’
    Ståle Aune felt the pains in his chest increase, as though his heart couldn’t make up its mind whether to beat faster or not at all, and he hoped the expression he put on looked as uncomprehending as he intended.
    ‘What?’ he said in a loud voice to drown the click as he pressed the Send button.
    The patient pulled his T-shirt up to his throat.
    A mute, screaming face stared at Aune from the man’s chest.
    The face of a demon.
    ‘OK, shoot,’ Harry said, holding the phone to his ear as he drained the second cup of coffee.
    ‘The jigsaw has got Valentin Gjertsen’s fingerprints on,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘And the cutting surface of the blade matches. It’s the same blade that was used in Bergslia.’
    ‘So Valentin Gjertsen is the Saw Man,’ Harry said.
    ‘Looks like it,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘What surprises me is that Valentin Gjertsen would hide a murder weapon at home instead of dumping it.’
    ‘He was planning to use it again,’ Harry said.
    Harry felt his phone vibrate. A text. He looked at the display. The sender was S, so Ståle Aune. Harry read it. And read it again.
    valentin is here sos
    ‘Bjørn, send a patrol car to Ståle’s office in Sporveisgata. Valentin’s there.’
    ‘Hello? Harry? Hello?’
    But Harry was already running.

31
    ‘ BEING EXPOSED IS always an awkward business,’ the patient said. ‘But sometimes it’s worse for the exposer.’
    ‘Exposing what?’ Ståle said with a gulp. ‘It’s a tattoo. So? It’s not a crime. Lots of people have . . .’ He nodded towards the demon face. ‘. . . tattoos like that.’
    ‘Do they?’ the patient said, pulling his T-shirt down. ‘Was that why you looked as if you were going to drop dead when you saw it?’
    ‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ Ståle said in a tight voice. ‘Shall we talk about your father?’
    The patient laughed out loud. ‘Do you know what, Aune? When I first came here I couldn’t decide whether I was proud or disappointed you didn’t recognise me.’
    ‘Recognise?’
    ‘We’ve met before. I was charged with sex abuse, and it was your job to determine whether I was of sound mind or not. You must have had hundreds of cases like that. Well, it took you only forty-five minutes. Nevertheless, in a way, I wished I had made a greater impression on you.’
    Ståle stared at him. Had he done a psychological evaluation of the man sitting in front of him? It was impossible to remember them all; however, he usually remembered at least their faces.
    Ståle studied him. The two small scars under the chin. Of course. He had assumed his patient had had a facelift, but Beate had said that Valentin Gjertsen must have had major plastic surgery.
    ‘But you made an impression on me, Aune. You understood me. You weren’t put off by the details, you just continued drilling away. Asking about the right things. About the bad things. Like a good masseur knowing exactly where to find the knot. You found the pain, Aune. And that’s why I came back. I hoped you could find it again, the damned boil, lance it, get the crap out. Can you do that? Or have you lost the passion, Aune?’
    Ståle cleared his throat. ‘I can’t do it if you lie to me, Paul.’
    ‘But I’m not lying, Aune. Just about the job and the wife. Everything else is true. Oh yes, and the name. Otherwise . . .’
    ‘Pink Floyd. The girl?’
    The man in front of him splayed his palms and smiled.
    ‘And why are you telling me this now, Paul?’
    ‘You don’t need to call me that any more. You can say Valentin if you like.’
    ‘Val-what?’
    The patient chuckled. ‘Sorry, but you’re a lousy actor, Aune. You know who I am. You knew the