Bjørn Holm woke up. He lay still in bed, listening.
It wasn’t the baby. It wasn’t Katrine, who had come to bed and lain down behind him without wanting to talk. He opened his eyes. Saw faint light on the white bedroom ceiling. He reached out to the bedside table and saw who was calling on the screen of his mobile. Hesitated. Then he crept quietly out of bed and into the hallway. Pressed Answer.
“It’s the middle of the night,” he whispered.
“Thanks, I wasn’t sure,” Harry said drily.
“Don’t mention it. Goodnight.”
“Don’t hang up. I can’t access the files in Rakel’s case. Looks like my access code’s been blocked.”
“You’d have to talk to Katrine about that.”
“Katrine’s the boss, she has to go by the book, we both know that. But I’ve got your code, and I suppose I might be able to guess your password. Obviously you couldn’tgiveit to me, because that would be against regulations.”
Pause.
“But?” Bjørn sighed.
“But you could always give me a clue.”
“Harry…”
“I need this, Bjørn. I need it so fucking bad. The fact that it isn’t Finne just means that it’s someone else. Come on, Katrine needs this too, because I know that neither you nor Kripos have got a damn thing.”
“So why you, then?”
“You know why.”
“Do I?”
“Because in a world full of blind people, I’ve got the only eye.”
Another pause.
“Two letters, four numbers,” Bjørn said. “If I had to choose, I’d like to die like him. In a car, right at the start of the new year.”
He hung up.
25
“According to Professor Paul Mattiuzzi, most murderers fit into one of eight categories,” Harry said. “One: chronically aggressive individuals. People with poor impulse control who get easily frustrated, who resent authority, who convince themselves that violence is a legitimate response, and who deep down enjoy finding a way to express their anger. This is the type where you can see it coming.”
Harry put a cigarette between his lips.
“Two: controlled hostility. People who rarely give in to anger, who are emotionally rigid and appear polite and serious. They abide by rules and see themselves as upholders of justice. They can be kind in a way that people take advantage of. They’re simmering pressure cookers where you can’t see anything coming until they explode. The sort where the neighbours say he always seemed such a nice guy.”
Harry sparked his lighter, held it to his cigarette and inhaled.
“Three: the resentful. People who feel that others walk all over them, that they never get what they deserve, that it’s other people’s fault that they haven’t succeeded in life. They bear grudges, especially against people who have criticised or reprimanded them. They assume the role of victim, they’re psychologically impotent, and when they resort to violence because they can’t find other ways to control their violence, it’s usually directed towards people they hold grudges against. Four: the traumatised.”
Harry blew smoke from his mouth and nose.
“The murder is a response to a single assault on the killer’s identity that is so offensive and unbearable that it strips them of all sense of personal power. The murder is necessary if they are to protect the essence of the trauma victim’s existence or masculinity. If you’re aware of the circumstances, this type of murder can usually be both foreseen and prevented.”
Harry held the cigarette between the second knuckles of his index and middle fingers as he stood reflected in the small, half-dried-up puddle framed by brown earth and grey gravel.
“Then there are the rest. Five: obsessive and immature narcissists. Six: paranoid and jealous individuals on the verge of insanity. Seven: people well past the verge of insanity.”
