Free Phantom by Jo Nesbø Page B

as he left, fast, but not too fast. Don’t look anyone in the eye. Walk, and feel free.
    He stepped back a pace. Stood up straight, inhaled. Visualized the scene. Released his breath. Stepped forward. Angled the blade so that it had a wonderful glint, like a precious jewel.

Beate and Harry came out of Hausmanns Gate, turned left, rounded the corner of the block and crossed the site of the burned building, still with blackened glass shards and scorched bricks in the rubble. Behind it, an overgrown slope ran down to the river. Harry noted there were no doors at the back of Oleg’s building and that, in the absence of any other way out, there was a narrow fire escape descending from the top floor.
    “Who lives in the neighboring flat?” Harry asked.
    “No one,” Beate said. “Empty offices. It’s where
Anarkisten
, a little newspaper that—”
    “I know it. It wasn’t a bad fanzine. The writers of the culture section work on the big papers now. Were the rooms unlocked?”
    “Broken into. Probably were open for a long time.”
    Harry watched Beate, who with a resigned air nodded confirmation of what Harry didn’t need to say: Someone could have been in Oleg’s flat and escaped unseen. Straws.
    They walked down to the path along the Akerselva. Harry established that the river was narrow enough for a boy with a decent throwing arm to lob the gun over to the opposite bank.
    “If you haven’t found the gun yet—”
    “The prosecutor doesn’t need the gun, Harry.”
    He nodded. Gunshot residue on his hands. Witnesses who had seen him showing off with the gun. His DNA on the dead boy.
    Ahead of them, leaning against a green iron bench, two white boys in gray hoodies saw them, put their heads together and shuffled off down the path.
    “Looks like pushers can still smell the cop in you, Harry.”
    “Mm. Thought it was just Moroccans who sold hash here.”
    “Competition has moved in. Kosovar Albanians, Somalis, Eastern Europeans. Asylum seekers selling the whole spectrum. Speed, methamphetamine, Ecstasy, morphine.”
    “Heroin.”
    “Doubtful. There’s almost no standard heroin to be found in Oslo.Violin is what counts, and you can get that only around Plata. Unless you want to travel to Gothenburg or Copenhagen, where apparently violin has made a recent appearance.”
    “I keep hearing about this violin stuff. What is it?”
    “New synthetic dope. It doesn’t hinder breathing as much as standard heroin, so even if it ruins lives, there are fewer overdoses. Extremely addictive. Everyone who tries it wants more. But it’s so expensive not many can afford it.”
    “So they buy other dope instead?”
    “There’s a morphine bonanza.”
    “One step forward, two steps back.”
    Beate shook her head. “It’s the war on heroin that’s important. And he’s won that one.”
    “Bellman?”
    “So you’ve heard?”
    “Hagen said he’s busted most of the heroin gangs.”
    “The Pakistani gangs. The Vietnamese.
Dagbladet
called him General Rommel after he smashed a major network of North Africans. The motorcycle gang in Alnabru. They’re all in jail.”
    “The bikers? In my time biker boys sold speed and shot heroin like crazy.”
    “Los Lobos. Hells Angels wannabes. We figure they were one of only two networks dealing in violin. But they were caught in a mass arrest with a subsequent raid in Alnabru. You should have seen the smirk on Bellman’s chops in the papers. He was there when they carried out the operation.”
    “Let’s do some good?”
    Beate laughed. Another feature he liked about her: She was enough of a film buff to be on the ball when he quoted semi-good lines from semi-bad films. Harry offered her a cigarette, which she declined. He lit up.
    “Mm. How the hell did Bellman achieve what the Narc Unit wasn’t even close to achieving in all the years I was at HQ?”
    “I know you don’t like him, but in fact he’s a good leader. They loved him at Kripos, and they’re pissed off with the