park, a container, a cheap down sleeping bag under a bridge or a white wooden resting place beneath a gravestone.
“Of course we had to do quite a lot of clearing up here,” Beate said in answer to a question he had not needed to ask. “There was garbage everywhere.”
“Dope?”
“A plastic bag containing unboiled pieces of cotton gauze.”
Harry nodded. The most tortured or destitute junkies would save the cotton gauze they used to cleanse the impurities from the dope as they drew it into the syringe. Then, on rainy days, the gauze could be boiled and the brew injected. “Plus a condom filled with semen and heroin.”
“Oh?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Any good?”
Harry saw her blush, an echo of the shy policewoman fresh out of college he still remembered.
“Remains of heroin, to be precise. We assume the condom was used to store it, and then after it was consumed, the condom was used for its primary purpose.”
“Mm,” Harry said. “Junkies who worry about contraception. Not bad. Did you find out who …?”
“The DNA from inside and outside the condom match two old acquaintances. A Swedish girl and Ivar Torsteinsen, better known to undercover men as Hivar.”
“Hivar?”
“Used to threaten police with infected needles, claimed he had HIV.”
“Mm, explains the condom. Any violence on his record?”
“No. Just hundreds of burglaries, possession and dealing. Plus some smuggling.”
“But attempted murder with a syringe?”
Beate sighed and stepped into the sitting room, her back to him. “Sorry, Harry, but there are no loose threads in this case.”
“Oleg has never hurt a fly, Beate. He simply doesn’t have it in him. While this Hivar—”
“Hivar and the Swedish girl are … well, they have been eliminated from the investigation, you might say.”
Harry looked at her back. “Dead?”
“OD’d. A week before the murder. Impure heroin mixed with fentanyl. I suppose they couldn’t afford violin.”
Harry let his gaze run around the walls. Most serious addicts without a fixed abode had a stash or two, a secret place where they could hide or lock up a reserve supply of drugs. Sometimes money. Possibly other priceless possessions. Carrying these things around with youwas out of the question; a homeless junkie had to shoot up in public places and the moment the dope kicked in, he was prey to vultures. For that reason stashes were sacred. An otherwise lifeless addict could invest so much energy and imagination in hiding his gear that even veteran searchers and drug-sniffing dogs failed to find it. Addicts never revealed hiding places to anyone, not even to best friends. Because they knew, knew from experience, that no one could ever be closer than codeine, morphine or heroin.
“Did you look for a stash here?”
Beate shook her head.
“Why not?” Harry asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
“Because I presume we would have had to rip the flat apart to find anything, and it wouldn’t have been relevant to the investigation anyway,” Beate said patiently. “Because we have to prioritize limited resources. And because we had the evidence we needed.”
Harry nodded. The answer he deserved.
“And the evidence?” he asked in a soft voice.
“We believe the killer fired from where I’m standing now.” It was a custom among forensics officers not to use names. She stretched out her arm in front of her. “At close quarters. Less than a yard. Soot in and around the entry wounds.”
“Plural?”
“Two shots.”
She eyed him with a sympathetic expression that said she knew what he was thinking: There went the defense counsel’s chance to maintain the gun had gone off by accident.
“Both shots entered his chest.” Beate spread the first and middle fingers of her right hand and placed them against the left side of her blouse, as though using sign language. “Assuming that both victim and killer were standing and the killer fired the weapon on instinct, the first
“Of course we had to do quite a lot of clearing up here,” Beate said in answer to a question he had not needed to ask. “There was garbage everywhere.”
“Dope?”
“A plastic bag containing unboiled pieces of cotton gauze.”
Harry nodded. The most tortured or destitute junkies would save the cotton gauze they used to cleanse the impurities from the dope as they drew it into the syringe. Then, on rainy days, the gauze could be boiled and the brew injected. “Plus a condom filled with semen and heroin.”
“Oh?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Any good?”
Harry saw her blush, an echo of the shy policewoman fresh out of college he still remembered.
“Remains of heroin, to be precise. We assume the condom was used to store it, and then after it was consumed, the condom was used for its primary purpose.”
“Mm,” Harry said. “Junkies who worry about contraception. Not bad. Did you find out who …?”
“The DNA from inside and outside the condom match two old acquaintances. A Swedish girl and Ivar Torsteinsen, better known to undercover men as Hivar.”
“Hivar?”
“Used to threaten police with infected needles, claimed he had HIV.”
“Mm, explains the condom. Any violence on his record?”
“No. Just hundreds of burglaries, possession and dealing. Plus some smuggling.”
“But attempted murder with a syringe?”
Beate sighed and stepped into the sitting room, her back to him. “Sorry, Harry, but there are no loose threads in this case.”
“Oleg has never hurt a fly, Beate. He simply doesn’t have it in him. While this Hivar—”
“Hivar and the Swedish girl are … well, they have been eliminated from the investigation, you might say.”
Harry looked at her back. “Dead?”
“OD’d. A week before the murder. Impure heroin mixed with fentanyl. I suppose they couldn’t afford violin.”
Harry let his gaze run around the walls. Most serious addicts without a fixed abode had a stash or two, a secret place where they could hide or lock up a reserve supply of drugs. Sometimes money. Possibly other priceless possessions. Carrying these things around with youwas out of the question; a homeless junkie had to shoot up in public places and the moment the dope kicked in, he was prey to vultures. For that reason stashes were sacred. An otherwise lifeless addict could invest so much energy and imagination in hiding his gear that even veteran searchers and drug-sniffing dogs failed to find it. Addicts never revealed hiding places to anyone, not even to best friends. Because they knew, knew from experience, that no one could ever be closer than codeine, morphine or heroin.
“Did you look for a stash here?”
Beate shook her head.
“Why not?” Harry asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
“Because I presume we would have had to rip the flat apart to find anything, and it wouldn’t have been relevant to the investigation anyway,” Beate said patiently. “Because we have to prioritize limited resources. And because we had the evidence we needed.”
Harry nodded. The answer he deserved.
“And the evidence?” he asked in a soft voice.
“We believe the killer fired from where I’m standing now.” It was a custom among forensics officers not to use names. She stretched out her arm in front of her. “At close quarters. Less than a yard. Soot in and around the entry wounds.”
“Plural?”
“Two shots.”
She eyed him with a sympathetic expression that said she knew what he was thinking: There went the defense counsel’s chance to maintain the gun had gone off by accident.
“Both shots entered his chest.” Beate spread the first and middle fingers of her right hand and placed them against the left side of her blouse, as though using sign language. “Assuming that both victim and killer were standing and the killer fired the weapon on instinct, the first
Similar Books
