The Snowman (17 page)

‘Are you saying he’s the kind who would go to great lengths to achieve his goals?’

Mathias mulled this over. ‘Idar has always searched for something that could bring him fame. Idar’s problem is not that he isn’t energetic, but that he’s never found his mission in life. The last time I spoke to him he sounded frustrated, depressed even.’

‘Can you imagine him finding a mission that would bring him fame? Something outside medicine perhaps?’

‘I haven’t thought about it, but maybe. He’s not exactly a born doctor.’

‘In what way?’

‘In the same way that Idar admires the successful and despises the weak and infirm. He’s not the only doctor to do so, but he’s the only one to say so outright.’ Mathias laughed. ‘In our circle, we all started as out-and-out idealists who at some point or other became more preoccupied with consultant positions, paying off the new garage and overtime rates. At least Idar didn’t betray any ideals; he was the same from the off.’

Idar Vetlesen laughed. ‘Did Mathias really say that? That I haven’t betrayed any ideals?’

He had a pleasant, almost feminine face, with eyebrows so narrow that one might have suspected him of plucking them, and teeth so white and regular that one might have suspected they were not his own. His complexion looked soft and touched up; his hair was thick and rippled with vitality. In short, he looked several years younger than his thirty-seven.

‘I don’t know what he meant by that,’ Harry lied.

They were each ensconced in a deep armchair in the library of a spacious white house, built according to the old, august Bygdøy style. His childhood home, Idar Vetlesen had explained as he guided Harry through the two vast, dark lounges and into a room whose walls were lined with books. Mikkjel Fønhus. Kjell Aukrust. Einar Gerhardsen’s
The Shop Steward.
A broad range of popular literature and political biographies. A whole shelf of yellowing issues of
The Reader’s Digest
. Harry hadn’t seen a single copy published since 1970.

‘Oh, I know what he meant,’ Idar chuckled.

Harry had an inkling what Mathias had implied by the two of them having a lot of fun at Marienlyst Clinic: they probably competed to see who could laugh the most.

‘Mathias, the saintly bugger. Lucky bugger, more like. No, by Christ, I mean both.’ Idar Vetlesen’s laughter pealed out. ‘They say they don’t believe in God, but my God-fearing colleagues are terrified moral strivers accumulating good deeds because deep down they’re petrified of burning in hell.’

‘And aren’t you?’ Harry asked.

Idar elevated one of his elegantly formed brows and eyed Harry with interest. Idar was wearing soft, light blue moccasins with loose laces, jeans and a white tennis shirt with a polo player on the left. Harry couldn’t remember which brand it was, only that for some reason he connected it with bores.

‘I come from a practical family, Inspector. My father was a taxi driver. We believe what we can see.’

‘Mm. Nice house for a taxi driver.’

‘He owned a taxi company, had three licences. But here in Bygdøy a taxi driver is, and always will be, a plebeian.’

Harry looked at the doctor and tried to determine whether he was on speed or anything else. Vetlesen was sitting back in his chair in an exaggeratedly casual fashion, as though keen to hide a restless or excited state. The same thought had gone through Harry’s mind when he had rung to explain that the police wanted answers to a few questions and Vetlesen had extended an almost effusive invitation to his home.

‘But you didn’t want to drive a taxi,’ Harry said. ‘You wanted . . . to make people look better?’

Vetlesen smiled. ‘You could say that I offer my services in the vanity market. Or that I repair people’s exteriors to soothe the pain inside. Take your pick. Actually I don’t give a damn.’ Anticipating a shocked reaction from Harry, Vetlesen laughed. When this did not materialise, Vetlesen’s expression took on a more serious aspect. ‘I see myself as a sculptor. I don’t have a vocation. I like to change appearances, to shape faces. I’ve always liked that. I’m good at it, and people pay me for it. That’s all.’

‘Mm.’

‘But that doesn’t mean that I’m without principles. And patient confidentiality is one of them.’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘I was talking to Borghild,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re after, Inspector. And I understand that this is a grave matter. But I can’t help you. I’m bound by my oath.’

‘Not any longer.’ Harry told the folded sheet of paper out of an inside pocket and placed it on the table between them. ‘This statement, signed by the father of the twins, exempts you.’

Idar shook his head. ‘That won’t make any difference.’

Harry frowned in surprise. ‘Oh?’

‘I can’t say who has been to see me or what they’ve said, but I can say in general that those who come to a doctor with their children are protected by the oath of client confidentiality, even with respect to their spouse if they so wish.’

‘Why would Sylvia Ottersen hide from her husband the fact that she’s been to see you with her twins?’

‘Our behaviour may seem rigid, but do remember that many of our clients are famous people who are exposed to idle gossip and unwanted press attention. Go to Kunstnernes Hus on a Friday evening and have a look around. You have no idea how many of them have had bits trimmed here and there at my clinic. They would swoon at the very idea that their visits here might become public knowledge. Our reputation is based on discretion. If it should ever come out that we are sloppy with client data, the consequences for the clinic would be catastrophic. I’m sure you understand.’

‘We have two murder victims and one single coincidence,’ Harry said. ‘They’ve both been to your clinic.’

‘That I neither will nor can confirm. But let us suppose for the sake of argument that they have.’ Vetlesen twirled a hand through the air. ‘So what? Norway is a country of few people and even fewer doctors. Do you know how few handshakes we all are from having met each other? The coincidence that they have been to the same doctor is no more dramatic than that they might have been on the same tram at some point. Ever met friends on a tram?’

Harry couldn’t think of a single occasion. First off, he didn’t take the tram that often.

‘It was a long trip to be told that you won’t tell me anything,’ Harry said.

‘My apologies. I invited you here because I assumed that the alternative was the police station. Where, right now, the press is scrutinising the comings and goings day and night. Yes, indeed, I know those people . . .’

‘You are aware that I can get a search warrant which would render your oath of confidentiality null and void?’

‘Fine by me,’ Vetlesen said. ‘In that case the clinic will be on the side of the angels. But until then . . .’ He closed an imaginary zip across his mouth.

Harry shifted in his seat. He knew that Idar knew he knew. To get the courts to waive the oath of confidentiality, even for a murder case, they would need clear evidence that the doctor’s information would be of significance. And what did they have? As Vetlesen himself put it, a chance meeting on a tram. Harry felt a strong need to do something. To drink. Or to pump iron. With a vengeance. He breathed in.

‘I’m still obliged to ask you where you were on the nights of the 2nd and the 4th of November.’

‘I was counting on that,’ Vetlesen smiled. ‘So I had a think. I was here with . . . yes, and here she is.’

An elderly woman with mousy hair hanging like a curtain around her head entered the room with mousy steps and a silver tray bearing two cups of coffee, which rattled ominously. The expression on her face suggested she was carrying a cross and a crown of thorns. She cast a glance at her son who jumped up in a flash and took the tray.

‘Thanks, Mother.’

‘Tie your shoelaces.’ She half turned to Harry. ‘Is anyone going to inform me who comes and goes in my house?’

‘This is Inspector Hole, Mother. He’d like to know where I was yesterday and three days ago.’

Harry stood up and stretched out his hand.

‘I remember, of course,’ she said, giving Harry a resigned look and a hand covered in liver spots. ‘We watched that discussion programme featuring your curling friend. And I didn’t like what he said about the royal family. What’s his name again?’

‘Arve Støp,’ Idar sighed.

The old lady leaned over towards Harry. ‘He said we should get rid of the royals. Can you imagine anything so dreadful? Where would we have been if it had not been for the royal family during the war?’

‘Right where we are now,’ Idar said. ‘Seldom has a head of state done so little during a war. And he also said that broad support for the monarchy was the final proof that most people believe in trolls and fairies.’

‘Isn’t that dreadful?’

‘Veritably, Mother.’ Idar smiled, placing a hand on her shoulder and catching sight of his watch at the same time, a Breitling, which seemed large and unwieldy on his thin wrist. ‘My goodness me! I have to go now, Hole. We’ll have to hurry this coffee along.’

Harry shook his head and smiled at fru Vetlesen. ‘I’m sure it’s delicious but I’ll have to save it for another day.’

She heaved a deep sigh, mumbled something inaudible, took the tray and shuffled out again.

When Idar and Harry were in the hall, Harry turned. ‘What did you mean by
lucky
?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You said Mathias Lund-Helgesen wasn’t just a saintly bugger, he was lucky, too.’

‘Oh that! It’s this bit of stuff he’s fixed himself up with. Mathias is generally pretty helpless in this area, but she must have been with a couple of bad’uns in her life. Must have needed a God-fearer like him. Well, don’t tell Mathias I said that. Or, by the way, even mention it.’

‘By the way, do you know what anti-Scl 70 is?’

‘It’s an antibody in the blood. May suggest the presence of scleroderma. Do you know someone who’s got it?’

‘I don’t even know what scleroderma is.’ Harry realised he should let it go. He
wanted
to let it go. But he couldn’t. ‘So Mathias said she had been with some bad’uns, did he?’

‘My interpretation. St Mathias doesn’t use expressions like
bad
about people. In his eyes, every human has the potential to become a better person.’ Idar Vetlesen’s laughter echoed through the dark rooms.

After Harry had said his thank-yous, put on his boots and was standing on the step outside, he turned and watched – as the door slid to – Idar sitting bent over, tying his shoelaces.

On the way back, Harry rang Skarre, asked him to print out the picture of Vetlesen from the clinic website and go over to the Narcotics Unit to see if any of the undercover guys had seen him buying speed.

‘In the street?’ Skarre asked. ‘Don’t all doctors have that kind of thing in their medicine cabinets?’

‘Yes, but the rules governing the declaration of drug supplies are now so strict that a doctor would rather buy his amphetamines off a dealer in Skippergata.’

They rang off, and Harry called Katrine in the office.

‘Nothing for the moment,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving now. You on your way home?’

‘Yes.’ Harry hesitated. ‘What do you think the chances are of the court ruling that Vetlesen can waive his Hippocratic oath?’

‘With what we’ve got? Of course, I could put on an extra short skirt, pop over to the courthouse and find a judge of the right age. But, to be frank, I think we can forget it.’

‘Agreed.’

Harry headed for Bislett. Thinking about his flat, stripped bare. He looked at his watch. Changed his mind and turned down Pilestredet towards Police HQ.

It was two o’clock in the morning as once again Harry had Katrine, drowsy with sleep, on the phone.

‘What’s up now?’ she said.

‘I’m in the office and have had a look at what you’ve found. You said all the missing women were married with children. I think there could be something in that.’

‘What?’

‘I have no idea. I just needed to hear myself say that to someone. So that I could decide if it sounded idiotic.’

‘And how does it sound?’

‘Idiotic. Goodnight.’

Eli Kvale lay with her eyes wide open. Beside her, Andreas was breathing heavily without a care in the world. A stripe of moonlight fell between the curtains across the wall, on the crucifix she had bought during her honeymoon in Rome. What had woken her? Was it Trygve? Was he up? The dinner and the evening had gone just as she had hoped. She had seen happy, shiny faces in the candlelight, and they had all talked at the same time, they had so much to tell! Mostly Trygve. And when he talked about Montana, about his studies and friends there, she had stayed quiet just looking at this boy, this young man who was maturing into an adult, becoming whatever he would become, making his own life. That was what made her happiest: that he could choose. Openly and freely. Not like her. Not on the quiet, in secret.

She heard the house creaking, heard the walls talking to each other.

But there had been a different sound, an alien sound. A sound from outside.

She got out of bed, went over to the window and opened the curtains a crack. It had snowed. The apple trees had woollen branches and the moonlight was reflected on the thin white ground covering, emphasising every detail in the garden. Her gaze swept from the gate to the garage, unsure what it was she was looking for. Then it stopped. She gave a gasp of surprise and terror. Don’t start this again, she told herself. It must have been Trygve. He’s got jet lag, hasn’t been able to sleep and has gone out. The footprints went from the gate to right under the window where she was standing. Like a line of black dots in the thin coating of snow. A dramatic pause in the text.

There were no footprints leading back.

12

DAY 7.

The Conversation.

‘O
NE OF THE
N
ARC BOYS RECOGNISED HIM
,’ S
KARRE SAID
. ‘When I showed him the picture of Vetlesen, the detective said he’d seen him several times on the crossroads between Skippergata and Tollbugata.’