Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

Boiler Room at twelve, and there were three patients before that.
    He switched on the radio.
    Listened to the news and heard his phone ring at the same time, knowing instinctively there was a connection.
    It was Harry. ‘We have to postpone the meeting. There’s been another murder.’
    ‘The girl they’re talking about on the radio?’
    ‘Yes. At least we’re pretty sure it’s a girl.’
    ‘You don’t know who it is?’
    ‘No. No one’s been reported missing.’
    ‘How old is she?’
    ‘Impossible to say, but from the size and shape of the body I would guess somewhere between ten and fourteen.’
    ‘And you think this has something to do with our case?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because she was found on the site of an unsolved murder. A bar called Come As You Are. And because . . .’ Harry cleared his throat. ‘. . . she has a cycle lock around her neck, attaching her to a pipe.’
    ‘Sweet Jesus!’
    He heard Harry cough again.
    ‘Harry?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Are you OK?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Is there . . . is there something wrong?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Apart from the cycle lock? I appreciate it’s . . .’
    ‘He doused her in alcohol before striking a match. The empty bottles are on the bar here. Three, all the same brand. Even though there are many other bottles he could have taken.’
    ‘It’s . . .’
    ‘Yes, Jim Beam.’
    ‘. . . your brand.’
    Ståle heard Harry shout at someone not to touch anything. Then he was back. ‘Do you want to come and see the crime scene?’
    ‘I’ve got some patients. Afterwards perhaps.’
    ‘OK, it’s up to you. We’ll be here for quite a while.’
    They rang off.
    Ståle tried to concentrate on driving. He could feel his breathing was laboured, his nostrils were flaring and his chest was heaving. Today, he knew, he was going to be an even worse therapist than usual.
    Harry went out of the door into the busy street where people, bicycles, cars and trams were hurrying past. Blinked into the light after all the darkness, watched the meaningless hustle and bustle of life which was unaware that a few metres behind him there was an equally meaningless death, sitting on a chair with a melted plastic seat, in the form of the blackened corpse of a girl. They had no idea who she was. Well, Harry had an idea , but he didn’t dare think it through. He took several deep breaths and thought it through anyway. Then he rang Katrine, whom he had sent back to the Boiler Room to sit by her computer.
    ‘Still no one reported missing?’ he asked.
    ‘No.’
    ‘OK. Check which detectives have daughters aged between eight and sixteen. Start with those on the Kalsnes case. If there is anyone, ring them and ask if they’ve seen their daughter today. Tread warily.’
    ‘Will do.’
    Harry broke the connection.
    Bjørn came out and stood beside him. His voice was low, soft, as if they were in church.
    ‘Harry?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘That’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.’
    Harry nodded. He was aware of some of the things Bjørn had seen, but knew this was true.
    ‘The person who did this . . .’ Bjørn raised his hands, took a quick breath, sighed in desperation and dropped his hands again. ‘He should be plugged with lead.’
    Harry clenched his fists in his jacket pockets. Knowing this was true as well. He should be shot. Using a bullet or three from an Odessa in a cupboard in Holmenkollveien. Not now, he should have been shot last night. When a very cowardly ex-cop went to bed because he couldn’t be the executioner as long as he didn’t have his own motives clear. Was he doing it for the potential victims’ sakes, for Rakel and Oleg’s sakes or just for his own? Well. The girl inside wouldn’t be asking him about his motive. For her and for her parents it was too late. Shit, shit, shit!
    He looked at his watch.
    Truls Berntsen knew Harry was after him now and he would be ready. He had invited him, tempted him by committing the murder on this former crime scene, humiliated him by using the drunk’s regular poison, Jim Beam, and the lock half the force had heard about. The great Harry Hole had been attached to a No Parking sign in Sporveisgata like a dog on a lead.
    Harry inhaled. He could throw in his cards, tell all, about Gusto, Oleg and the dead Russian and afterwards raid Truls Berntsen’s flat with Delta, and if Berntsen escaped he could spread a net from Interpol to every rural police station in the country. Or . . .
    Harry went to pull out the creased