impression that he has any systematic access to what we’re doing. He could have caught a sniff of your return in lots of places.’
‘I know Magnus Skarre has a habit of talking anywhere and anyhow.’
‘Don’t ask me any more questions, Harry.’
‘OK. Where should we set up shop?’
‘Right. Right.’ Gunnar Hagen nodded several times as if that were something they had already discussed. ‘As far as an office is concerned . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘As I said, the place is full to bursting, so we’ll have to find somewhere outside, but not too far away.’
‘Fine. Where then?’
Hagen looked out of the window. At the grey walls of Botsen.
‘You’re kidding,’ Harry said.
14
Recruitment
B JØRN H OLM ENTERED THE CONFERENCE ROOM AT K RIMTEKNISK in the Bryn district of Oslo. Outside the windows, the sun was relinquishing its grip on the house fronts and casting the town into afternoon gloom. The car park was packed, and in front of the entrance to Kripos, across the road, there was a white bus with a soup dish on the roof and the Norwegian Broadcasting Company logo on its side.
The only person in the room was his boss, Beate Lønn, an unusually pale, petite and quiet-mannered woman. Had one not known any better, one might have thought a person like this would have problems leading a group of experienced, professional, self-aware, always quirky and seldom conflict-shy forensics officers. Had one known better, one would have realised she was the only person who could deal with them. Not primarily because they respected the fact that she stood erect and proud despite losing two policemen to the eternity shift, first her father and later the father of her child. But because, in their group, she was the best, and radiated such unimpeachability, integrity and gravity that when Beate Lønn whispered an order with downcast gaze and flushed cheeks, it was carried out on the spot. So Bjørn Holm had come as soon as he was informed.
She was sitting in a chair drawn up close to the TV monitor.
‘They’re recording live from the press conference,’ she said without turning. ‘Take a seat.’
Holm immediately recognised the people on the screen. How strange it was, it struck him, to be watching signals that had travelled thousands of kilometres out into space and back, just to show him what was happening right now on the opposite side of the street.
Beate Lønn turned up the volume.
‘You have understood correctly,’ said Mikael Bellman, leaning towards the microphone on the table in front of him. ‘For the present we have neither leads nor suspects. And to repeat myself once again: we have not ruled out the possibility of suicide.’
‘But you said—’ began a voice from the body of journalists present.
Bellman cut her off. ‘I said we regard the death as suspicious . I am sure you’re familiar with the terminology. If not, you should . . .’ He left the end of the sentence hanging in the air and pointed to a person behind the camera.
‘ Stavanger Aftenblad ,’ came the slow bleat of the Rogaland dialect. ‘Do the police see a connection between this death and the two in—?’
‘No! If you’d been following, you would have heard me say that we do not rule out a connection.’
‘I caught that,’ continued the slow, imperturbable dialect. ‘But those of us here are more interested in what you think rather than what you don’t rule out .’
Bjørn Holm could see Bellman giving the man the evil eye as impatience strained at the corners of his mouth. A uniformed woman officer at Bellman’s side placed her hand over the microphone, leaned in to him and whispered something. The POB’s face darkened.
‘Mikael Bellman is getting a crash course in how to deal with the media,’ said Bjørn Holm. ‘Lesson one, stroke the ones with hair, especially the provincial newspapers.’
‘He’s new to the job,’ Beate Lønn said. ‘He’ll learn.’
‘Think so?’
‘Yes. Bellman’s the type
‘I know Magnus Skarre has a habit of talking anywhere and anyhow.’
‘Don’t ask me any more questions, Harry.’
‘OK. Where should we set up shop?’
‘Right. Right.’ Gunnar Hagen nodded several times as if that were something they had already discussed. ‘As far as an office is concerned . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘As I said, the place is full to bursting, so we’ll have to find somewhere outside, but not too far away.’
‘Fine. Where then?’
Hagen looked out of the window. At the grey walls of Botsen.
‘You’re kidding,’ Harry said.
14
Recruitment
B JØRN H OLM ENTERED THE CONFERENCE ROOM AT K RIMTEKNISK in the Bryn district of Oslo. Outside the windows, the sun was relinquishing its grip on the house fronts and casting the town into afternoon gloom. The car park was packed, and in front of the entrance to Kripos, across the road, there was a white bus with a soup dish on the roof and the Norwegian Broadcasting Company logo on its side.
The only person in the room was his boss, Beate Lønn, an unusually pale, petite and quiet-mannered woman. Had one not known any better, one might have thought a person like this would have problems leading a group of experienced, professional, self-aware, always quirky and seldom conflict-shy forensics officers. Had one known better, one would have realised she was the only person who could deal with them. Not primarily because they respected the fact that she stood erect and proud despite losing two policemen to the eternity shift, first her father and later the father of her child. But because, in their group, she was the best, and radiated such unimpeachability, integrity and gravity that when Beate Lønn whispered an order with downcast gaze and flushed cheeks, it was carried out on the spot. So Bjørn Holm had come as soon as he was informed.
She was sitting in a chair drawn up close to the TV monitor.
‘They’re recording live from the press conference,’ she said without turning. ‘Take a seat.’
Holm immediately recognised the people on the screen. How strange it was, it struck him, to be watching signals that had travelled thousands of kilometres out into space and back, just to show him what was happening right now on the opposite side of the street.
Beate Lønn turned up the volume.
‘You have understood correctly,’ said Mikael Bellman, leaning towards the microphone on the table in front of him. ‘For the present we have neither leads nor suspects. And to repeat myself once again: we have not ruled out the possibility of suicide.’
‘But you said—’ began a voice from the body of journalists present.
Bellman cut her off. ‘I said we regard the death as suspicious . I am sure you’re familiar with the terminology. If not, you should . . .’ He left the end of the sentence hanging in the air and pointed to a person behind the camera.
‘ Stavanger Aftenblad ,’ came the slow bleat of the Rogaland dialect. ‘Do the police see a connection between this death and the two in—?’
‘No! If you’d been following, you would have heard me say that we do not rule out a connection.’
‘I caught that,’ continued the slow, imperturbable dialect. ‘But those of us here are more interested in what you think rather than what you don’t rule out .’
Bjørn Holm could see Bellman giving the man the evil eye as impatience strained at the corners of his mouth. A uniformed woman officer at Bellman’s side placed her hand over the microphone, leaned in to him and whispered something. The POB’s face darkened.
‘Mikael Bellman is getting a crash course in how to deal with the media,’ said Bjørn Holm. ‘Lesson one, stroke the ones with hair, especially the provincial newspapers.’
‘He’s new to the job,’ Beate Lønn said. ‘He’ll learn.’
‘Think so?’
‘Yes. Bellman’s the type
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