Free Phantom by Jo Nesbø

didn’t need to. Harry knew she knew what he was doing, grasping at straws.
    “And Oleg’s blood and urine samples,” Harry said, straightening his jacket sleeves, as if it were important, here and now, that they didn’t ride up. “What did they reveal?”
    “Violin was an active ingredient. Being high might be seen as a mitigating circumstance, of course.”
    “Mm. That presupposes he was high before he shot Gusto Hanssen. But what about the motive, then?”
    Beate sent Harry a vacant stare. “The motive?”
    He knew what she was thinking: Is it possible to imagine one addict killing another for anything other than dope? “If Oleg was already high why would he kill anyone?” he asked. “Drug-related murders like this one are as a rule a spontaneous, desperate act, motivated by a craving for drugs or the start of withdrawal symptoms.”
    “Motive’s your department,” Beate said. “I’m in forensics.”
    Harry breathed in. “OK. Anything else?”
    “I imagine you would like to see the photos,” Beate said, opening a slim leather case.
    Harry took the pile of photographs. The first thing to strike him was Gusto’s beauty. There was no other expression for it. Handsome or attractive didn’t cover it. Even dead, with closed eyes and his shirtsoaked in blood, Gusto Hanssen still had the indefinable but evident beauty of a young Elvis Presley, the kind of looks that appeal to both men and women, like the androgynous beautification of idols you find in every religion. He thumbed through. After several full-length shots the photographer had taken close-ups of the face and the bullet wounds.
    “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a picture of Gusto’s right hand.
    “He had blood under his fingernails. We took swabs, but I’m afraid they were destroyed.”
    “Destroyed?”
    “It can happen, Harry.”
    “Not in your department.”
    “The blood was destroyed on the way to DNA testing in the Pathology Unit. In fact, we weren’t that upset. The blood was quite fresh, but still congealed enough for it not to be relevant to the time of the murder. And, inasmuch as the victim was a needle addict, it was highly probable it was his own. But …”
    “But if not, it’s always interesting to know who he had been fighting with that day. Look at his shoes.” He showed Beate one of the full-length shots. “Aren’t they Alberto Fascianis?”
    “Had no idea you knew so much about shoes, Harry.”
    “One of my clients in Hong Kong manufactures them.”
    “Client, eh? And to my knowledge original Fasciani shoes are manufactured only in Italy.”
    Harry shrugged. “Impossible to see the difference. But if they are Fascianis they don’t exactly match the rest of his clothes. Looks like an outfit doled out by the Watchtower.”
    “The shoes could have been stolen,” Beate said. “Gusto Hanssen’s nickname was ‘the Thief.’ He was famous for stealing anything he came across, not least dope. There’s a story going around that he stole a retired drug-sniffing dog in Sweden and used it to sniff out drug stashes.”
    “Perhaps he found Oleg’s,” Harry said. “Has Oleg said anything under questioning?”
    “Still as silent as a clam. The only thing he says is it’s all a black void. He doesn’t even remember being in the flat.”
    “Perhaps he wasn’t.”
    “We found his DNA, Harry. Hair, sweat.”
    “He did live and sleep here.”
    “On the body, Harry.”
    Harry fell silent, stared into the distance.
    Beate raised a hand, perhaps to put on his shoulder, but changed her mind and let it drop. “Have you talked to him?”
    Harry shook his head. “He threw me out.”
    “He’s ashamed.”
    “Guess so.”
    “I mean it. You’re his idol. It’s humiliating for him to be seen in this state.”
    “Humiliating? I’ve dried the boy’s tears, I’ve blown on his scrapes. Chased away trolls and left the light on.”
    “That boy no longer exists, Harry. The present Oleg doesn’t want to be helped