Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

anything that—’
    ‘—shouldn’t have been there?’ She smiled. Young, white teeth. Two of them crooked. ‘That’s from your lecture.’ Back arched more than necessary.
    ‘Well?’ Harry said.
    ‘You think the patient was killed and that Mittet was in on it, don’t you?’ She had angled her head, boosted her cleavage, and Harry wondered if she was acting, or she was really so sure of herself. Or if she was just a deeply disturbed person trying to imitate what she considered normal behaviour, but kept getting it slightly wrong. ‘Yes, you do,’ she said. ‘And so you think Mittet was killed afterwards because he knew too much. And that the murderer disguised it as one of the police murders?’
    ‘No,’ Harry said. ‘If he’d been killed by people like that his body would have been dumped in the sea with weights in the pockets. Please think carefully, Silje. Concentrate.’
    She took a deep breath, and Harry avoided looking at her heaving chest. She tried to catch his eye, but he lowered his head and scratched his neck. Waiting.
    ‘No, there was no one,’ she said at length. ‘Same routine all the time. A new anaesthetic nurse came, but he stopped after one or two visits.’
    ‘OK,’ Harry said, putting his hand in his jacket pocket. ‘What about him on the left?’
    He placed a printout on the table in front of her. He had found the picture online, Google Images. It showed a young Truls Berntsen on the left of Mikael Bellman by Stovner Police Station.
    Silje studied the picture. ‘No, I never saw him at the hospital, but the one on the right—’
    ‘You saw him there?’ Harry interrupted.
    ‘No, no, I was just wondering if it was—’
    ‘Yes, it is, it’s the Chief of Police,’ Harry said, wanting to take the picture back, but Silje placed her hand on his.
    ‘Harry?’
    He could feel the heat from her soft palm on his hand. Waiting.
    ‘I’ve seen them before. Together. What’s the other man’s name?’
    ‘Truls Berntsen. Where?’
    ‘They were together on the firing range in Økern not so long ago.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Harry said, pulling his hand away with the picture. ‘Then I don’t want to take up any more of your time.’
    ‘As far as time goes, you’ve made sure I’ve got more than enough, Harry.’
    He didn’t answer.
    She sniggered. Leaned forward. ‘You didn’t ask me to come here just for that, did you?’ The light from the little table lamp danced in her eyes. ‘Do you know what wild idea struck me, Harry? You had me kicked out of the college so that you could be with me without getting into any trouble with management. So why don’t you tell me what you really want?’
    ‘What I really want, Silje—’
    ‘Shame your colleague turned up last time we met, right when we—’
    ‘—is to ask you about the hospital—’
    ‘I live in Josefines gate, but you’ve probably already googled that—’
    ‘—The last time was very wrong of me, I messed up, I—’
    ‘It takes eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds to walk. Exactly. I timed myself on the way here.’
    ‘—can’t. I don’t want to. I—’
    ‘Let’s—’ She made as if to get up.
    ‘—I’m getting married this summer.’
    She slumped back down on the chair. Staring at him. ‘You’re . . . getting married?’ Her voice was barely audible in the noisy room.
    ‘Yes,’ Harry said.
    Her pupils contracted. Like a starfish someone had poked with a stick, Harry thought.
    ‘To her?’ she whispered. ‘To Rakel Fauke?’
    ‘That’s her name, yes. But married or not, student or not, something happening between us is out of the question. So I apologise for . . . the situation that arose.’
    ‘Getting married . . .’ She repeated it in a somnambulistic voice, staring right through him.
    Harry nodded. And felt something vibrate against his chest. For an instant he thought it was his heart, then realised it was the phone in his jacket pocket.
    He took it out. ‘Harry.’
    Listened to the voice. Then he held the phone in front of him, looking at it as if there was something wrong with it.
    ‘Repeat,’ he said, putting the phone to his ear.
    ‘I said I’ve found the gun,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘And, yes, it’s his.’
    ‘How many people know?’
    ‘No one.’
    ‘See how long you can keep it quiet.’
    Harry broke the connection and dialled another number. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said to Silje and shoved a banknote under her glass. Saw her painted mouth open, but stood up