Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

based on hypothesis testing, isn’t it? You form a theory and then you test it, true or false. Right?’
    Mia Hartvigsen shook her head. Not because it wasn’t right, but because she didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking.
    ‘My theory,’ Hole continued with an innocent smile, making him look like a boy trying to persuade his mother he should have an atomic bomb for Christmas, ‘is that Asayev was killed by someone who knows exactly how you work and what is required to ensure you don’t find anything.’
    Mia shifted feet, turning the other shoulder to him. ‘So?’
    ‘So how would you have done that, Mia?’
    ‘Me?’
    ‘You know all the tricks. How would you have fooled yourself?’
    ‘Am I a suspect?’
    ‘Until further notice.’
    She stopped herself reacting when she saw him smiling.
    ‘Murder weapon?’ she asked.
    ‘Syringe,’ Hole said.
    ‘Oh? Why’s that?’
    ‘Something to do with anaesthesia.’
    ‘I see. We can trace almost all drugs, especially when we have access as quickly as we did in this case. The only option I can see is . . .’
    ‘Yes?’ He smiled as though he had already got his way. Irritating man. The kind you can’t decide whether to slap or kiss.
    ‘An air injection.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘The oldest and still the best trick in the book. You fill a syringe with enough air to put air bubbles into the blood vessel and block it. If it’s blocked for long enough the blood doesn’t reach vital parts of the body such as the heart or the brain and you die. Fast and without any chemical residue. A blood clot can form inside the body without any external intervention. Case closed.’
    ‘But the needle mark would be visible.’
    ‘Not if you use a thin enough needle. You’d have to examine every centimetre of skin to reveal a mark.’
    Hole brightened up. The boy opened the present and thought it was an atomic bomb.
    Mia was happy.
    ‘Then you’ll have to examine—’
    ‘We did.’ Smack. ‘Every millimetre of it. We even checked the intravenous drip. It’s possible to inject air bubbles there as well, you see. There wasn’t so much as a mozzie bite anywhere.’ She watched the feverish light in his eyes die. ‘Sorry, Hole, but we were aware the death was suspicious.’ She stressed were .
    ‘Now I have to prepare the next lecture, so maybe—’
    ‘What about somewhere that wasn’t skin?’ Hole said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘What about if he injected the needle somewhere else? Orifices. Mouth, rectum, nostrils, ears.’
    ‘Interesting idea, but in the nose and ears there are very few blood vessels which would be suitable. The rectum is a possibility, but the odds of isolating vital organs in those regions are lower, and furthermore you have to know your way around extremely well to find a vein blind. The mouth may be feasible as it has veins with a short route to the brain and would have led to a quick, certain death, but we always check the mouth. And it’s full of mucous membranes where an injection would have caused swelling, and that would be easy to see.’
    She looked at him. Sensed his brain still churning round for a solution, but he gave a resigned nod.
    ‘Nice to see you again, Hole. Pop by if you fancy giving it another shot.’
    She turned and walked over to one of the tubs and pushed a pale, grey arm with outstretched fingers down into the alcohol.
    ‘Another . . . shot,’ she heard Harry muttering. She heaved a deep sigh. Very irritating man.
    ‘He could have tried another shot,’ Hole said.
    ‘Where exactly?’
    ‘You said a short route to the brain. From behind. He could have hidden the shot from behind.’
    ‘Behind what . . .?’ She stopped. Looked where he was pointing. Closed her eyes and sighed again.
    ‘Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘But FBI statistics show that in cases where a post-mortem has been performed on witnesses, the percentage of murders rises from seventy-eight to ninety-four with a second post-mortem.’
    Mia Hartvigsen shook her head. Harry Hole. Trouble. Extra work. An increased chance of being pilloried for blunders not of their own making.
    ‘Here,’ Beate Lønn said, and the taxi pulled into the kerb.
    The tram was at the Welhavens Café gate stop. There was one police car parked in front and two behind. Bjørn Holm and Katrine Bratt were leaning against the Amazon.
    Beate paid and jumped out.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Three officers are in the tram and no one has been allowed to leave. We were waiting for