Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

obvious he didn’t need to delve very deep. The newspapers lying on Ståle’s desk since the autumn. They had always been open at the page describing the police murders.
    ‘It isn’t so easy to catch a serial killer, Paul,’ Ståle Aune said. ‘I know quite a bit about serial killers, in fact, it’s my speciality. Just like this is. But if you feel like stopping the therapy, or you’d like to try one of my colleagues, it’s up to you. I have a list of very capable psychologists and can help you—’
    ‘Are you washing your hands of me, Ståle?’ Paul had tilted his head to one side, the eyelids with the colourless lashes had closed and the smile was broader. Ståle was unable to decide whether this was a smirk at the homosexuality theory or Paul was showing a glimpse of his true self. Or both.
    ‘Please don’t misunderstand,’ Ståle said, knowing that he had not been misunderstood. He wanted to get rid of him, but professional therapists didn’t kick out tricky patients. They just gritted their teeth harder, didn’t they? He adjusted his bow tie. ‘I’d like to treat you, but it’s important that we trust each other. And right now it doesn’t seem—’
    ‘I’m just having a bad day, Ståle.’ Paul splayed his hands in defence. ‘Sorry. I know you’re good. You worked on the serial murders at Crime Squad, didn’t you? You helped to catch the guy who was drawing pentagrams at crime scenes. You and that inspector.’
    Ståle studied the patient as he got up and buttoned his jacket.
    ‘Yep, you’re more than good enough for me, Ståle. Next week. And I’ll think about whether I’m a homo in the meantime.’
    Ståle didn’t get up. He could hear Paul humming in the corridor while waiting for the lift. There was something familiar about the tune.
    As indeed there was about some of the things Paul had said. He had used the expression ‘serial murders’, a police preference, rather than the more common ‘serial killings’. He had called Harry Hole an inspector and most people had no idea about police ranks. Generally they remembered the gory details from the newspaper reports, not insignificant details such as a pentagram carved into a beam beside the body. But what had particularly caught his attention – because it could turn out to be significant for the therapy – was that Paul had compared him to ‘those detectives who can’t even nail a bloody serial killer and rapist . . .’
    Ståle heard the lift come and go. But he had remembered what the tune was now. In fact, he had listened to Dark Side of the Moon to find out if there were any hints to interpreting Paul Stavnes’s dream. The song was called ‘Brain Damage’. It was about lunatics. Lunatics who were on the grass, who were in the hall. Who end up inside.
    Rapist.
    The murdered policemen hadn’t been raped.
    Of course the case might have interested him so little that he had confused the murdered policemen with the earlier victims at the crime scene. Or he had assumed as a general rule that serial killers rape. Or he dreamt about raped policemen, which naturally would reinforce the theory about repressed homosexuality. Or . . .
    Ståle Aune froze mid-movement and stared in amazement at the hand poised to move towards his bow tie.
    Anton Mittet took a sip of coffee and looked down at the man sleeping in the hospital bed. Shouldn’t he also feel a certain pleasure? The same pleasure that Mona had expressed, which she had called ‘one of the small everyday miracles that make all the slog worthwhile’? Well, yes, of course it was good that a coma patient they assumed would die should suddenly change his mind and drag himself back to life and wake up. But the person in the bed, the pale, ravaged face on the pillow meant nothing to him. All it meant was that the job was coming to an end. It didn’t necessarily mean it was the end of his relationship with Mona, of course. They hadn’t spent their most intimate hours here anyway. On the contrary, now they didn’t need to worry if their colleagues noticed the tender gazes they sent each other whenever she went in and out of the patient’s room, or the conversations that were just a little too long, the chats that ended a little too abruptly when someone appeared. But Anton Mittet had a nagging feeling that precisely this had been the spark in their relationship. The secrecy. The illicit. The excitement of seeing but not being able to touch. Having to wait, having to sneak