waiting. The service had beendiscontinued as soon as the first tourists who had dismounted onto the popular mountain top that morning had sounded the alarm.
‘Out and about,’ one of the crime scene officers let slip.
The town’s tourism slogan had become such a parody of Bergen Norwegian that Bergensians had almost stopped using it. But in situations where fear prevails, your innermost lexicon takes over.
‘Yes, out and about,’ Rafto repeated sarcastically, his eyes shining from behind the pancake batter of skin folds.
The body lying in the snow had been cut into so many pieces that it was only thanks to a naked breast that they had been able to determine the gender. The rest reminded Rafto of a traffic accident in Eidsvågneset the year before, when a lorry coming round a bend too fast had lost its load of aluminium sheeting and had literally sliced up an oncoming car.
‘The killer has murdered her and carved her up right here,’ one of the officers said.
The information seemed somewhat superfluous to Rafto since the snow around the body was bespattered with blood and the thick streaks to the side suggested that at least one artery had been cut while the heart was still beating. He made a mental note to find out when it had stopped snowing last night. The last cable car had left at five in the afternoon. Of course, the victim and the killer may have taken the path that wound up beneath the cable cars, though. Or they could have taken the Fløyen funicular up to Fjelltoppen beside it and walked from there. But they were demanding walks and his gut instinct told him: cable car.
There were two sets of footprints in the snow. The small prints were undoubtedly the woman’s, even though there was no sign of her shoes. And the others had to be the killer’s. They led to the path.
‘Big boots,’ said the young technician, a hollow-cheeked coastal man from Sotra. ‘At least size 48. Guy must have been pretty beefy.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Rafto said, sniffing the air. ‘The print is uneven and yet the ground here is flat. That suggests the man’s foot is smaller than his boot. Perhaps he was trying to fool us.’
Rafto felt everyone’s eyes on him. He knew what they were thinking.There he went again, trying to dazzle, the star of bygone times, the man the media had adored: big gob, hard face and driving energy to match. In short, a man made for headlines. But at some point he had become too grand for them, for all of them, the press and his colleagues. Indirect jibes had begun to circulate that Gert Rafto was only thinking about himself and his place in the limelight, that in his egotism he was treading on a few too many toes and over a few too many dead bodies. But he hadn’t taken any notice. They didn’t have anything on him. Not much anyway. The odd trinket had disappeared from the crime scenes. A piece of jewellery or a watch belonging to the deceased, things you assumed no one would miss. But one day one of Rafto’s colleagues had been searching for a pen and had opened a drawer in his desk. At least that was what he said. And found three rings. Rafto had been summoned to the POB and had explained himself, and had been told to keep his mouth shut and his fingers to himself. That was all. But the rumours had started. Even the media had picked up on it. So perhaps it was not so surprising that when charges of police brutality were levelled against the station, there was one man against whom concrete evidence was soon found. The man who was made for headlines.
Gert Rafto was guilty of the accusations; no one was in any doubt about that. But everyone knew that the inspector had been made a scapegoat for a culture that had permeated Bergen police for many years. Just because he had signed a number of reports on prisoners – most of them child molesters and dope dealers – who had fallen down the ancient iron stairs to the remand cells and bruised themselves here and there.
The newspapers had been
‘Out and about,’ one of the crime scene officers let slip.
The town’s tourism slogan had become such a parody of Bergen Norwegian that Bergensians had almost stopped using it. But in situations where fear prevails, your innermost lexicon takes over.
‘Yes, out and about,’ Rafto repeated sarcastically, his eyes shining from behind the pancake batter of skin folds.
The body lying in the snow had been cut into so many pieces that it was only thanks to a naked breast that they had been able to determine the gender. The rest reminded Rafto of a traffic accident in Eidsvågneset the year before, when a lorry coming round a bend too fast had lost its load of aluminium sheeting and had literally sliced up an oncoming car.
‘The killer has murdered her and carved her up right here,’ one of the officers said.
The information seemed somewhat superfluous to Rafto since the snow around the body was bespattered with blood and the thick streaks to the side suggested that at least one artery had been cut while the heart was still beating. He made a mental note to find out when it had stopped snowing last night. The last cable car had left at five in the afternoon. Of course, the victim and the killer may have taken the path that wound up beneath the cable cars, though. Or they could have taken the Fløyen funicular up to Fjelltoppen beside it and walked from there. But they were demanding walks and his gut instinct told him: cable car.
There were two sets of footprints in the snow. The small prints were undoubtedly the woman’s, even though there was no sign of her shoes. And the others had to be the killer’s. They led to the path.
‘Big boots,’ said the young technician, a hollow-cheeked coastal man from Sotra. ‘At least size 48. Guy must have been pretty beefy.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Rafto said, sniffing the air. ‘The print is uneven and yet the ground here is flat. That suggests the man’s foot is smaller than his boot. Perhaps he was trying to fool us.’
Rafto felt everyone’s eyes on him. He knew what they were thinking.There he went again, trying to dazzle, the star of bygone times, the man the media had adored: big gob, hard face and driving energy to match. In short, a man made for headlines. But at some point he had become too grand for them, for all of them, the press and his colleagues. Indirect jibes had begun to circulate that Gert Rafto was only thinking about himself and his place in the limelight, that in his egotism he was treading on a few too many toes and over a few too many dead bodies. But he hadn’t taken any notice. They didn’t have anything on him. Not much anyway. The odd trinket had disappeared from the crime scenes. A piece of jewellery or a watch belonging to the deceased, things you assumed no one would miss. But one day one of Rafto’s colleagues had been searching for a pen and had opened a drawer in his desk. At least that was what he said. And found three rings. Rafto had been summoned to the POB and had explained himself, and had been told to keep his mouth shut and his fingers to himself. That was all. But the rumours had started. Even the media had picked up on it. So perhaps it was not so surprising that when charges of police brutality were levelled against the station, there was one man against whom concrete evidence was soon found. The man who was made for headlines.
Gert Rafto was guilty of the accusations; no one was in any doubt about that. But everyone knew that the inspector had been made a scapegoat for a culture that had permeated Bergen police for many years. Just because he had signed a number of reports on prisoners – most of them child molesters and dope dealers – who had fallen down the ancient iron stairs to the remand cells and bruised themselves here and there.
The newspapers had been
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