“Because I want to understand,” Harry said.
“You want to understand why a man kills his wife because she’s been having an affair behind his back?”
“Usually a husband only kills if he thinks other people’s opinion of him has been damaged. And when he was questioned, the lover said they had kept the affair strictly secret, and that it was in the process of winding down anyway.”
“Maybe she didn’t have time to tell her husband that before he stabbed her, then?”
“She did, but he says he didn’t believe her, and that she had still betrayed their family.”
“There you go. And to a man who has always put his family above everything else, that betrayal would feel even worse. He’s a humiliated man, and when that humiliation cuts deeply enough it can make anyone capable of killing.”
“Anyone?”
Aune squinted at the bookcases next to the picture of Manhattan. “Fiction.”
“Yes, so I saw,” Harry said. Aune had a theory that killers didn’t read, or, if they did, only non-fiction.
“Have you ever heard of Paul Mattiuzzi?” Aune asked.
“Hmm.”
“Psychologist, an expert in violence and murder. He divides murderers into eight main groups. You and I aren’t in any of the first seven. But there’s room for all of us in the eighth group, which he calls the ‘traumatised.’ We become murderers as a reaction to a simple but massive assault on our identity. We experience the attack as insulting, literally unbearable. It renders us helpless, impotent, and we would be left without any right to exist, emasculated, if we didn’t respond. And obviously being betrayed by your wife can feel like that.”
“Anyone, though?”
“A traumatised murderer doesn’t have defined personality traits like the other seven groups. And it’s there—and only there—that you find murderers who read Dickens and Balzac.” Aune took a deep breath and tugged at the sleeves of his tweed jacket. “What are you really wondering about, Harry?”
“Really?”
“You know more about murderers than anyone I know. None of what I’m saying about humiliation and categories is new to you.”
Harry shrugged. “Maybe I just need to hear someone say it out loud one more time to make me believe it.”
“What is it you don’t believe?”
Harry scratched his short, stubbornly unruly hair—there were now streaks of grey among the blond. Rakel had said he was starting to look like a hedgehog. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s just your ego, Harry.”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You were given the case after someone else had already solved it. So you want to find something that throws doubt on it. Something that proves Harry Hole can see things no one else has spotted.”
“What if I am?” Harry said, studying the glowing tip of his cigarette. “What if I was born with a magnificent talent for detective work and have developed instincts that not evenI’mcapable of analysing?”
“I hope you’re joking.”
“Barely. I’ve read the interviews. The husband certainly seemed pretty traumatised from what he said. But then I listened to the recordings.” Harry was staring in front of him.
“And?”
“He sounded more frightened than resigned. A confession is a form of resignation. There shouldn’t be anything to be frightened of after that.”
“Punishment, of course.”
“He’s already had his punishment. Humiliation. Pain. Seeing his beloved wife dead. Prison is isolation. Calm. Routine. Peace. That can’t be anything but a relief. Maybe it’s the daughter, him worrying about what’s going to happen to her.”
“And then there’s the fact that he’s going to burn in hell.”
