Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

a Jericho 941, shoved it into the waistband of his trousers. Stopped. He knew the plasma TV was prone to screen burn if it was paused for too long. But he’d be back shortly. Then he hurried into the corridor. Just as quiet here.
    The lift was on his floor, so he stepped in straight away, pressed the button for the ground floor, realised he hadn’t locked his front door, but didn’t stop the lift. It would only take a few minutes.
    Half a minute later he jogged into the clear, chilly evening towards the car park. It was surrounded by flats, but the cars were still frequently broken into. They should put up more lamp posts, the black tarmac swallowed all the light there was; it was too easy to sneak around between the cars after dark. He’d had problems sleeping after the suspension, that’s how it goes when you have the whole day to sleep, wank, sleep, wank, eat and wank. And on some nights he had sat on the balcony with night-vision goggles and the Märklin rifle in the hope of catching some of them in the car park. Sadly, no one had turned up. Or happily. No, not happily. But for Christ’s sake, he wasn’t a murderer.
    Of course there was the biker from Los Lobos he had drilled a hole in, but that had been a complete accident. And now he was part of the terrace up in Høyenhall.
    Then there was the trip he’d taken to Ila Prison when he’d spread the rumour that Valentin Gjertsen was behind the killings in Maridalen and Tryvann. Not that they were a hundred per cent sure he’d done it, but if he hadn’t there were enough other reasons for the bastard to get as long a sentence as possible. But he couldn’t know the nutters would kill the guy. If it was him they’d killed, that is. The communication on the police radio at the moment suggested not.
    The closest Truls had been to murder was of course the lady boy with the make-up in Drammen. But that was something that had to be done, he’d been asking for it. He really fucking had. Mikael had come to Truls and told him about the call he’d received. Some guy claimed he knew that Mikael and a colleague had beaten up the homo working at Kripos. And he had proof. And now he wanted money to stop him taking it further. A hundred thousand kroner. He wanted the money delivered to a deserted area outside Drammen. Mikael told Truls to sort it out, Truls was the one who had gone too far this time, who had caused the problem. And when Truls got in his car to go and meet the guy he knew he was on his own. Completely on his own. And he always had been.
    He had followed the signs up some deserted forest roads outside Drammen and stopped at a turnaround by a cliff plummeting down towards the river. Waited for five minutes. Then the car had arrived. It pulled up, with the engine running. And Truls had done as agreed, taken the brown envelope to the car. The side window slid down. The guy was wearing a woollen hat and had a silk scarf tied around the lower half of his face. Truls wondered if the guy was a retard; it was unlikely the car had been stolen, and the plates were fully visible. In addition, Mikael had already traced the conversation to a club in Drammen. There couldn’t be many employees so it wouldn’t be hard to track him down.
    The guy had opened the envelope and counted the money. Obviously he had lost count. He started again, frowned and looked up with annoyance. ‘This isn’t a hund—’
    The blow had hit him in the mouth, and Truls had felt the baton sink in as his teeth cracked. The second blow had smashed his nose. Easy. Cartilage and thin bones. The third made a soft crunch as it hit the forehead.
    Then Truls had walked round and got into the passenger seat. Waited until the guy regained consciousness. And when he did, a short conversation followed.
    ‘Who . . .?’
    ‘One of them. What proof have you got?’
    ‘I . . . I . . .’
    ‘This is a Heckler & Koch and it’s dying to speak. So which of you is going to do it first?’
    ‘Don’t—’
    ‘Come on then.’
    ‘The one you two beat up. He told me. Please, I only needed—’
    ‘Did he name us?’
    ‘What? No.’
    ‘So how do you know who we are?’
    ‘He only told me the story. Then I checked out the descriptions with someone at Kripos. And it had to be you two.’ When the guy saw his face in the mirror it had sounded like the whine a Hoover makes after you switch it off. ‘My God! You’ve destroyed my face!’
    ‘Shut up and sit still. Does the man you say we beat up know