Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

at his subordinate and childhood friend. At the higgledy-piggledy jumble of teeth his parents had never seen fit to have checked, at the red gums. Everything was apparently as before, yet something had changed. Perhaps it was just the recent haircut. Or was it the suspension? That kind of thing had a tendency to affect people you hadn’t thought were so sensitive. Perhaps especially them, those who were not in the habit of venting their emotions, who kept them hidden, hoping they would pass with time. Those were the ones who could crack. Put a bullet through their temples.
    But Truls seemed content. He was laughing. Mikael had once told Truls that his laughter made people panic. He should try to change it. Practise to find a more normal, more pleasant laugh. Truls had only laughed even louder. And pointed at Mikael. Pointed a finger at him without saying a word, only this eerie snorted laugh.
    ‘Aren’t you going to ask?’ Truls enquired, pushing cartridges into the magazine of his gun.
    ‘What about?’
    ‘About the money in my account.’
    Mikael shifted his weight. ‘Was that why you invited me here? For me to ask you?’
    ‘Do you want to know how the money got there?’
    ‘Why should I harass you now?’
    ‘You’re the Chief of Police.’
    ‘And you took the decision not to say anything. I thought it was stupid of you, but I respect it.’
    ‘Do you?’ Truls clicked the magazine into place. ‘Or are you leaving me alone because you already know where it came from, Mikael?’
    Bellman eyed his childhood friend. He could see it now. See what had changed. It was the sick gleam. The one from their childhood, the one he got when he was angry, when the older kids in Manglerud were threatening to beat up the loudmouth with the girlie good looks who had taken Ulla, and Mikael had had to push Truls in front of him. Set the hyena on them. The mangy, whipped hyena who had already had to take so many beatings. So many that one more didn’t make much difference. And when Truls had that gleam in his eye, the hyena gleam, it meant he was willing to die, and if he got his teeth into you, he would never, ever let go. He would lock his jaws and stay there until you went down on your knees or he was pulled off. But Mikael had seen the gleam only rarely as time went on. More recently there had of course been the time when they had dealt with the homo in the boiler room, and also, when Mikael had told him about the suspension. What had changed now, though, was that the gleam didn’t go. It was there all the time, as if he had some kind of fever.
    Mikael slowly shook his head in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about, Truls?’
    ‘Maybe the money came indirectly from you. Maybe you were paying me the whole time. Maybe you led Asayev to me.’
    ‘I think you’ve inhaled too much gun smoke, Truls. I never had anything to do with Asayev.’
    ‘Maybe we should ask him about that?’
    ‘Rudolf Asayev’s dead, Truls.’
    ‘Bloody convenient, eh? Everyone who could talk happens to have snuffed it.’
    Everyone, Mikael Bellman thought. Except you.
    ‘Except me,’ Truls grinned.
    ‘I’ve got to go,’ Mikael said, pulling down his target and folding it.
    ‘Oh yes,’ Truls said. ‘The Wednesday date.’
    Mikael froze. ‘What?’
    ‘I remember you always used to leave the office at this time on Wednesdays.’
    Mikael studied him. It was odd – even after knowing Truls Berntsen for thirty years Mikael still wasn’t sure how stupid or smart he was. ‘Right. But let me just say you’d better keep that kind of speculation to yourself. As things stand, it can only hurt you, Truls. And it might be best not to say too much. It could put me in a tricky spot if I’m summoned as a witness. Understand?’
    But Truls had already put the protectors over his ears and turned to the target. Staring eyes behind the glasses. One flash. Two. Three. The gun seemed to try to detach itself, but Truls’s grip was too tight. The hyena grip.
    In the car park Mikael felt the phone vibrate in his trouser pocket.
    It was Ulla.
    ‘Did you manage to talk to pest control?’
    ‘Yes,’ Mikael said, who hadn’t given it a thought, let alone spoken to anyone.
    ‘What did they say?’
    ‘They said the smell you think is coming from the terrace could well be a dead mouse or a rat somewhere in there. But since it’s concrete we can’t do much. Whatever it is will rot and the smell will go of its own accord. They advised us not to