Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

instrument perhaps?’
    ‘I don’t know anything about that, but he was definitely beaten until he was unrecognisable. The face was mincemeat. Had it not been for the terrible tattoo on his chest I don’t know that we would have been able to identify him. I’m not overly sensitive, but I had hellish nightmares about it afterwards.’
    ‘What sort of tattoo was it?’
    ‘What sort ?’
    ‘Yes, wh . . .’ Katrine noticed she was slipping out of the friendly police officer role and pulled herself together, so as not to reveal her irritation. ‘What was the tattoo of?’
    ‘Well, who knows? There was a face. Gruesome. Sort of drawn out at the sides. As if it was stuck and was struggling to break away.’
    Katrine nodded slowly. ‘Couldn’t get away from the body it was trapped in?’
    ‘Yes, that’s it, yes. Do you know—?’
    ‘No,’ Katrine said. But I know the feeling, she thought. ‘And you didn’t ever find this Judas again?’
    ‘ You didn’t ever find Judas again.’
    ‘No. Why didn’t we, do you think?’
    The warder shrugged. ‘How would I know? I do know, however, that Judas isn’t top priority for you. As I said, there were mitigating circumstances, and the risk of any repetition was minimal. He would soon have done his time, but the idiot must have got the fever.’
    Katrine nodded. Demob fever. The date approaches, the prisoner starts thinking about freedom and suddenly being locked up for another day is intolerable.
    ‘Is there anyone else here who can tell me about Valentin?’
    The warder shook his head. ‘Apart from Judas, no one wanted anything to do with him. Shit, he intimidated people. Something seemed to happen to the air when he came into a room.’
    Katrine stood asking more questions until she realised she was trying to justify the time and her plane ticket.
    ‘You started to tell me about what Valentin had done,’ she said.
    ‘Did I?’ he said quickly, looking at his watch. ‘Oops, I’ve got to . . .’
    On the way back through the recreation room Katrine saw only the thin man with the red scalp. He was standing straight, his arms at his side, staring at the empty dartboard. No darts anyway. He turned slowly, and Katrine couldn’t help but return his gaze. The grin was gone, and his eyes were matt and as grey as jellyfish.
    He shouted something. Four words which were repeated. Loud and piercing, like a bird warning others of danger. Then he laughed.
    ‘Don’t worry about him,’ the warder said.
    The laughter behind them faded as they hurried down the corridor.
    Then she was outside and breathing in the dank, rain-soaked air.
    She took out her phone, switched off the voice recorder, which had been on all the time she had been inside, and called Beate.
    ‘Finished at Ila,’ she said. ‘Got time now?’
    ‘I’ll put the coffee machine on.’
    ‘Agh, haven’t you—?’
    ‘You’re police, Katrine. You drink machine coffee, OK?’
    ‘Listen, I used to eat at Café Sara in Torggata, and you need to get out of your lab. Lunch. I’m paying.’
    ‘Yes, you are.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘I’ve found her.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Irja Jacobsen. She’s alive. At least if we hurry.’
    They agreed to meet in three-quarters of an hour and rang off. While Katrine was waiting for a taxi she played the recording, winding forward to the end and Red Scalp’s repeated warning cries.
    ‘Valentin’s alive. Valentin kills. Valentin’s alive. Valentin kills.’
    ‘He woke up this morning,’ Anton Mittet said as he and Gunnar Hagen rushed down the corridor.
    Silje got up from her chair when she saw them coming.
    ‘You can go now, Silje,’ Anton said. ‘I’ll take over.’
    ‘But your shift isn’t for another hour.’
    ‘You can go, I said. Take the time off.’
    She sent Anton an appraising look. Observed the other man.
    ‘Gunnar Hagen,’ he said, leaning forward with a hand outstretched. ‘Head of Crime Squad.’
    ‘I know who you are,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Silje Gravseng. I hope to work for you one day.’
    ‘Great,’ he said. ‘You can start by doing as Anton says.’
    She nodded to Hagen. ‘It’s your name on my orders, so of course . . .’
    Anton watched as she packed her things in her bag.
    ‘By the way, this is the last day of my practical training,’ she said. ‘Now I have to start thinking about exams.’
    ‘Silje’s a police trainee,’ Anton said.
    ‘Student at Politihøyskole, PHS, it’s called now,’ Silje said. ‘There was one