“His wife says he was at home all evening and all night. What strikes me about those phone calls from Bohr is that he seems to have called her about three times for each call she made to him. That may not count as stalking, but wouldn’t a subordinate return their boss’s calls more often?”
“I don’t know. You’re suggesting that Bohr’s interest in Rakel could have been more than professional?”
“What do you think?”
Kaja rubbed her chin. Harry didn’t know why, but it struck him as a masculine gesture, possibly something to do with stubble.
“Bohr’s a conscientious boss,” Kaja said. “Which means that he can sometimes come across as a bit too engaged and impatient. I can well imagine him calling three times before you get around to returning the first call.”
“At one o’clock in the morning?”
Kaja grimaced. “Do you want me to argue, or…”
“Ideally.”
“Rakel was assistant director of the NHRI, if I’ve understood correctly?”
“Technical director. But yes.”
“And what did she do?”
“Reports for UN treaty organisations. Lectures. Advice to politicians.”
“So, in the NHRI you have to fit in with other people’s working hours and deadlines. UN Headquarters is six hours behind us. So it isn’t that remarkable for your boss to call you a bit late every now and then.”
“Where does…What’s Bohr’s address?”
“Somewhere in Smestad. I think it’s the house he grew up in.”
“Mm.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Random thoughts.”
“Come on.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Seeing as I’m suspended, I can’t call anyone to interview, request a search warrant or operate in any way that might attract attention from Kripos or Crime Squad. But wecando a bit of digging in the blind spot where they can’t see us.”
“Such as?”
“Here’s the hypothesis. Bohr killed Rakel. Then he went straight home, and got rid of the murder weapon on the way. In which case he probably drove the same way we did to get back here from Holmenkollen. If you wanted to get rid of a knife between Holmenkollveien and Smestad, where would you choose?”
“Holmendammen is literally a stone’s throw from the road.”
“Good,” Harry said. “But the files say they’ve already looked there, and the average depth is only three metres, so they would have found it.”
“So where else?”
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall of albums behind him and reconstructed the road he had driven so many times. Holmenkollen to Smestad. It couldn’t be more than three or four kilometres. But still offered endless opportunities to get rid of a small object. It was mostly gardens. A thicket just before Stasjonsveien was a possibility. He heard the metallic whine of a tram in the distance, and a plaintive shriek from one right outside. Caught a sudden glimpse of it. Green, this time. With a stench of death.
“Rubbish,” he said. “The container.”
“The container?”
“At the petrol station just below Stasjonsveien.”
Kaja laughed. “That’s one of a thousand possibilities, and you soundsocertain.”
