the school party, to the amusement of everyone else, as they discovered, holy shit, that Truls Berntsen did indeed look and sound like the MTV cartoon character! Had Ulla been there? Or was Mikael sitting with his arm round another girl? Ulla with the gentle eyes, with the white sweater, with the slender hand she had once placed on his neck and drawn his head closer, shouted in his ear to drown the roars of the Kawasakis one Sunday in Bryn. She only wanted to ask where Mikael was. But he could still remember the warmth of her hand, it had felt as if it would melt him, make his knees buckle under him on the bridge over the motorway, then and there in the morning sun. And with her breath in his ear and on his cheek, his senses had been working overtime. Even surrounded by the stench of petrol, exhaust and burnt rubber from motorbikes below he could identify her toothpaste, tell her lip gloss was strawberry flavour and that her sweater had been washed in Milo. That Mikael had kissed her. Had had her. Or had he been imagining it? He definitely remembered he had answered he didn’t know. Even though he did. Even though part of him had wanted to tell her. Had wanted to crush the gentleness, the purity, the innocence and the naivety in her eyes. To crush him, Mikael.
But of course he hadn’t.
Why would he? Mikael was his best friend. His only friend. And what would he have achieved by telling her Mikael was up at Angelica’s house. Ulla could get anyone she wanted, and she didn’t want him, Truls. As long as she was with Mikael he would at least have a chance to be in her presence. He’d had the opportunity, but not the motive.
Not then.
‘That do you, pal?’
Truls looked at the back of his head in the round plastic mirror the poof was holding.
Terrorist cut. Suicide bomber cut. He grunted. Got up, chucked a 200-krone note on the newspaper to avoid hand-to-hand contact. Went out into the March day that was still no more than a rumour that spring was on its way. Glanced up at Police HQ. Started walking towards the metro in Grønland. The haircut had taken nine and a half minutes. He lifted his head, walked faster. He had no deadlines. Nothing to do. Oh, yes, he did have something. But it didn’t require much work, and he had his usual resources: time to plan, hatred, the determination to lose everything. He glanced at the shop window in one of the district’s Asian food outlets. And confirmed he finally looked like what he was.
Gunnar Hagen sat gazing at the wallpaper above the Chief of Police’s desk and empty chair. Focused on the darker patches from the photos that had hung there for as long as anyone could remember. There had been pictures of former police chiefs, probably meant as sources of inspiration, but Mikael Bellman was clearly able to do without them. Without the inquisitorial stares at their successor.
Hagen wanted to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair, but there weren’t any arms. Bellman had changed the chairs as well. For hard, low wooden ones.
Hagen had been summoned, and the assistant in the anteroom had shown him in and said the Chief of Police would be along soon.
The door opened.
‘There you are!’ Bellman rushed round the desk and slumped into the chair. Interlaced his hands behind his head.
‘Anything new?’
Hagen coughed. He knew Bellman was aware that there was nothing new, as Hagen had standing orders to pass on the smallest development in the two murder cases. But he did as he was asked, explained that they still didn’t have any clues in the cases viewed in isolation, or a connection between the murders, beyond the obvious, that the victims were two policemen who had been found at scenes of earlier unsolved murders they themselves had investigated.
Bellman got up in the middle of Hagen’s account and stood by the window with his back to him. Rocked on his heels. Pretended to listen for a while before breaking in.
‘You’ve got to fix this, Hagen.’
Gunnar Hagen
But of course he hadn’t.
Why would he? Mikael was his best friend. His only friend. And what would he have achieved by telling her Mikael was up at Angelica’s house. Ulla could get anyone she wanted, and she didn’t want him, Truls. As long as she was with Mikael he would at least have a chance to be in her presence. He’d had the opportunity, but not the motive.
Not then.
‘That do you, pal?’
Truls looked at the back of his head in the round plastic mirror the poof was holding.
Terrorist cut. Suicide bomber cut. He grunted. Got up, chucked a 200-krone note on the newspaper to avoid hand-to-hand contact. Went out into the March day that was still no more than a rumour that spring was on its way. Glanced up at Police HQ. Started walking towards the metro in Grønland. The haircut had taken nine and a half minutes. He lifted his head, walked faster. He had no deadlines. Nothing to do. Oh, yes, he did have something. But it didn’t require much work, and he had his usual resources: time to plan, hatred, the determination to lose everything. He glanced at the shop window in one of the district’s Asian food outlets. And confirmed he finally looked like what he was.
Gunnar Hagen sat gazing at the wallpaper above the Chief of Police’s desk and empty chair. Focused on the darker patches from the photos that had hung there for as long as anyone could remember. There had been pictures of former police chiefs, probably meant as sources of inspiration, but Mikael Bellman was clearly able to do without them. Without the inquisitorial stares at their successor.
Hagen wanted to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair, but there weren’t any arms. Bellman had changed the chairs as well. For hard, low wooden ones.
Hagen had been summoned, and the assistant in the anteroom had shown him in and said the Chief of Police would be along soon.
The door opened.
‘There you are!’ Bellman rushed round the desk and slumped into the chair. Interlaced his hands behind his head.
‘Anything new?’
Hagen coughed. He knew Bellman was aware that there was nothing new, as Hagen had standing orders to pass on the smallest development in the two murder cases. But he did as he was asked, explained that they still didn’t have any clues in the cases viewed in isolation, or a connection between the murders, beyond the obvious, that the victims were two policemen who had been found at scenes of earlier unsolved murders they themselves had investigated.
Bellman got up in the middle of Hagen’s account and stood by the window with his back to him. Rocked on his heels. Pretended to listen for a while before breaking in.
‘You’ve got to fix this, Hagen.’
Gunnar Hagen
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