Nemesis

19

The Shoes on the Wire

Elmer scampered down Grшnlandsleiret with a quick greeting and smile to customers and employees in neighbouring shops. He was annoyed with himself. Once again he had run out of change and been obliged to hang up a BACK SOON sign on the door while he nipped into the bank.

He pulled open the door, strode into the bank, sang out his usual 'Good morning' and hurried over to take a ticket. No one answered, but he was used to that by now-only white Norwegians worked here. There was a man who seemed to be repairing the ATM and the only customers he could see were standing by the window overlooking the street. It was unusually quiet. Was something going on he hadn't quite caught wind of?

'Twenty,' a woman's voice called out. Elmer looked at the number on his ticket. It said 51, but since all the positions were closed, he went to the till where the woman's voice came from.

'Hello, Catherine, my love,' he said, inquisitively peering through the window. 'Five rolls of fives and ones, please.'

'Twenty-one.' He looked at Catherine Schшyen in surprise and only then did he notice the man standing beside her. At first glance, he thought it was a black man, but then he saw it was a man wearing a black balaclava. The barrel of his AG3 swung away from her and stopped at Elmer.

'Twenty-two,' Catherine called out in a tin-can voice.

'Why here?' Halvorsen asked, peering down at Oslo fjord beneath them. The wind tossed his fringe hither and thither. It had taken them less than five minutes to drive up from the exhaust fumes of Grшnland to Ekeberg, which protruded like a green watchtower in the south-east corner of Oslo. They had found a bench under the trees with a view of the beautiful old brick building Harry still called the Seamen's School, even though it currently ran courses for business managers.

'First of all, because it's wonderful here,' Harry said. 'Second of all, to teach a foreigner a little about the history of Oslo. The "Os" of Oslo means "ridge", the hillside we're sitting on now. Ekeberg Ridge. And "lo" is the plain you can see down there.' He pointed. 'And third of all, we sit looking up at this ridge every single day and it is important to find out what's behind it, don't you think?'

Halvorsen didn't answer.

'I didn't want to do this at the office,' Harry said. 'Or at Elmer's. There is something I have to tell you.' Although they were high above the fjord, Harry thought he could still taste salt water in the wind. 'I knew Anna Bethsen.'

Halvorsen nodded.

'You don't exactly look gobsmacked,' Harry remarked.

'I reckoned it was something like that.'

'But there is more.'

'Oh, yes?'

Harry poked an unlit cigarette between his lips. 'Before I go on, I have to warn you. What I am going to say must remain between you and me, and that could pose a dilemma for you. Do you understand? So, if you don't want to be involved, I don't need to say any more and we'll stop there. Would you like to hear more or not?'

Halvorsen searched Harry's face. If he was reflecting, he didn't need long. He nodded.

'Someone has started sending me e-mails,' Harry said. 'About Anna's death.'

'Someone you know?'

'Haven't a clue. The address means nothing to me.'

'That's why you asked me about tracing e-mail addresses yesterday?'

'I'm not remotely computer-savvy. But you are.' Harry failed in an attempt to light his cigarette in the wind. 'I need help. I think Anna was murdered.'

As the north-west wind stripped the trees of their leaves on Ekeberg, Harry talked about the strange e-mails he had received from someone who seemed to know everything they knew, and probably more. He didn't mention that the e-mails placed Harry at the scene of the crime the night Anna died. But he did mention that the gun was in Anna's right hand even though her palette proved she was left-handed. The photograph in the shoe. And the conversation with Astrid Monsen.

'Astrid Monsen said she had never seen Vigdis Albu and the children in the photo. But when I showed her the newspaper photo of her husband, Arne Albu, she didn't need a second glance. She didn't know his name, but he visited Anna regularly. She had seen him when she went down to pick up her post. He came in the afternoon and left in the evening.'

'That's what's called working late.'

'I asked Monsen if the two of them only met during the week and she said he sometimes collected her in his car at the weekend.'

'Perhaps they liked a little variety and trips into the countryside.'

'Perhaps, apart from the trip stuff. Astrid Monsen is an observant, meticulous woman. She said he never took her out during the summer. That was what made me think.'

'Think about what? A hotel?'

'Possibly. But you can go to a hotel in the summer, too. Think, Halvorsen. Think of something nearby.'

Halvorsen stuck out his lower lip and grimaced to show he had no suggestions to make. Harry smiled and expelled a cloud of smoke: 'You were the one who found the place.'

Halvorsen, nonplussed, raised an eyebrow. 'The chalet! It's obvious!'

'Isn't it? A discreet, luxurious love nest when the family is home after the season and inquisitive neighbours have closed their shutters. Just an hour's drive from Oslo.'

'But so what?' Halvorsen said. 'That doesn't take us any further.'

'Don't say that. If we can prove that Anna has been to the chalet, at least Albu will be forced to respond. It won't take much. A little fingerprint. A hair. An observant tradesman who occasionally makes a delivery.'

Halvorsen rubbed the back of his neck. 'But why not go straight to the point and look for Albu's fingerprints in Anna's flat? It must be full of them?'

'I doubt they are still there. According to Astrid Monsen, he suddenly stopped seeing Anna a year ago. Until one Sunday last month. He came to pick her up in his car. Monsen remembers it clearly because Anna rang at her door and asked her to keep an ear open for burglars.'

'And you think they went to the chalet?'

'I think,' Harry said, throwing the smoking cigarette end into a puddle where it hissed and died, 'that's one reason Anna put the photograph in her shoe. Can you remember what you learned about forensics at Police College?'

'The little we had. Don't you?'

'No. There are metal cases with the basic equipment in three of the patrol cars. Powder, brush and plastic film for fingerprints. Measuring tape, torch, pliers, that sort of thing. I want you to book one of the cars for tomorrow.'

'Harry-'

'And call the grocer in advance to get precise directions. Try to sound honest and upright so that he doesn't suspect anything. Say you're building a chalet and the architect you're working with gave Albu's chalet as a reference point. You just want to see it.'

'Harry, we can't just-'

'Bring a crowbar, too.'

'Listen to me!'

Halvorsen's shout caused two gulls to take off for the fjord with hoarse screams. He counted on his fingers: 'We don't have a warrant. We don't have any proof which might justify one. We've got…nothing. And most important of all we-or should I say I?-don't have all the facts. You haven't told me everything, have you, Harry?'

'What makes you think-?'

'Simple. Your motive isn't strong enough. Knowing the woman is not a good enough motive for suddenly disregarding all the rules, breaking into chalets and risking your job. And mine. I know you can be a bit nuts, Harry, but you're no fool.'

'Harry watched the wet dog-end floating in the puddle. 'How long have we known each other, Halvorsen?'

'Soon be two years.'

'Have I ever lied to you in that time?'

'Two years isn't a long time.'

'Have I ever lied? I'm asking you.'

'Definitely.'

'Have I ever lied about anything that counts?'

'Not as far as I know.'

'OK. I'm not lying to you now, either. You're right, I haven't told you everything. And, yes, you're risking your job by helping me. All I can say is you would be in even more trouble if I told you the rest. As it is, you'll have to trust me. Or back out. You can still refuse.'

They sat looking across the fjord. The gulls were two small dots in the distance.

'What would you have done?' Halvorsen said.

'Backed out.'

The dots became bigger. The gulls were coming back.

When they returned to Police HQ there was a message from Mшller on the answerphone.

'Let's go for a walk,' he said when Harry called. 'Anywhere at all,' Mшller added when they were outside.

'Elmer's,' Harry said. 'I need some smokes.'

Mшller followed Harry down a muddy track across the grass between Police HQ and the cobbled drive up to Botsen prison. Harry had observed that planners never seemed to appreciate that people will always find the quickest route between two points irrespective of where the road is. At the end of the track was a sign which had been kicked over: DON'T WALK ON THE GRASS.

'Have you heard about the bank robbery in Grшnlandsleiret early this morning?' Mшller asked.

Harry nodded. 'Interesting that he chose to do it a hundred metres from the police station.'

'Coincidentally, the bank alarm was being repaired.'

'I don't believe in coincidences,' Harry said.

'Oh? You think it was an inside job?'

Harry shrugged. 'Or someone knew about the repairs.'

'Only the bank and the repairers knew. And us.'

'It wasn't the bank raid you wanted to talk about, was it, boss?'

'No,' Mшller said, skipping around a puddle. 'The Chief Superintendent has been in discussion with the Mayor. All these robberies are bothering him.'

On the path, they stopped for a woman with three children in tow. She was telling them off in an angry, drained voice, and avoided Harry's eyes. It was visiting time at Botsen.

'Ivarsson is efficient. No one doubts that,' Mшller said. 'However, this Expeditor seems to be of a different calibre from what we're used to. The Chief Superintendent thinks that conventional methods may not be enough this time.'

'Perhaps not, but then what? One "two" more or less is no scandal.'

'A "two"?'

'Away team wins. Unsolved case. Standard vernacular now, boss.'

'There's more at stake than that, Harry. The media have been on our backs all day, it's been a nightmare. They're calling him the new Martin Pedersen. And on the website of Verdens Gang it says they have found out we call him the Expeditor.'

'Always the same old story,' Harry said, crossing the road on red with a circumspect Mшller at his heels. 'The media determine what we prioritise.'

'Well, he did murder someone after all.'

'And murders which are no longer in the public eye are dropped.'

'No!' Mшller snapped. 'We're not starting all that again.'

Harry shrugged and stepped over a newspaper stand which had been blown down. In the street a newspaper was flicking through its own pages at a furious tempo.

'So what do you want?'

'The Chief is, naturally enough, preoccupied with the PR side of things. An isolated bank raid is forgotten by the general public long before the case is dropped. No one notices that the man hasn't been caught. On this occasion, however, everyone's eyes are on us. And the more talk there is about raids of this kind, the more the public's curiosity is aroused. Martin Pedersen was a normal person who did what many dream about; he was a modern Jesse James escaping from the law. That sort of case creates myths, heroes, and people identify with it. Hence, further recruitment for the bank-robbing industry. The number of bank raids soared right across the country while the press were writing about Martin Pedersen.'

'You're frightened of this spreading. Fair enough. What's that got to do with me?'

'As I said, no one doubts Ivarsson's efficiency. No one doubts that. He is a correct, traditional policeman who never oversteps the line. The Expeditor, however, is no traditional bank robber. The Chief is not happy with the results so far.' Mшller nodded towards the prison. 'The episode with Raskol has reached his ears.'

'Mm.'

'I was in the Chief's office before lunch and your name was mentioned. Several times, in fact.'

'My God, should I feel honoured?'

'You are, at any rate, an investigator who has achieved results using unconventional methods.'

Harry's smile stretched into a sneer. 'A kind definition of a kamikaze pilot…'

'In a nutshell, the message is this, Harry. Drop everything else you're doing and tell me if you need more people. Ivarsson will continue with his team, but we're relying on you. And one more thing…' Mшller had stepped closer to Harry. 'You have a free rein. We're willing to accept that rules can be bent. In return, this must stay within the force, of course.'

'Mm. I think I understand. And if it doesn't?'

'We'll back you up as far as we're able, but there's a limit. That goes without saying.'

Elmer turned when the bells above the door rang and nodded towards the little portable radio he was standing in front of: 'And there was me thinking Kandahar was a skiing club. Twenty Camel?'

Harry assented. Elmer turned down the volume of the radio and the news commentator's voice joined the buzz of sounds outside-cars, the wind catching the awning, the leaves being swept along the tarmac.

'Anything for your colleague?' Elmer motioned towards the door where Mшller was standing.

'He'd like a kamikaze pilot,' Harry said, opening the packet.

'Really?'

'But he's forgotten to ask the price,' Harry said and could sense Mшller's sweetly sardonic smile without needing to turn.

'And what is the going rate for kamikaze pilots nowadays?' the kiosk owner asked, handing over Harry's change.

'If he survives, he's allowed to take on the jobs he wants afterwards,' Harry said. 'That's the only condition he makes. And the only one he insists on.'

'Sounds reasonable,' Elmer says. 'Have a good day, gentlemen.'

On the way back Mшller said he would talk to the Chief Superintendent about the possibility of Harry working on the Ellen Gjelten case for three months. Provided the Expeditor was caught, that was. Harry agreed. Mшller hesitated in front of the DON'T WALK ON THE GRASS sign.

'It's the shortest route, boss.'

'Yes,' Mшller said. 'But my shoes will get dirty.'

'As you wish,' Harry said, walking up the track. 'Mine are filthy already.'

The traffic eased after the turn-off to Ulvшya. It had stopped raining and the Ljan road was already dry. Soon it widened into four carriageways and it was like a starting grid for cars to accelerate and race off. Harry looked over at Halvorsen and wondered when he, too, would hear the heart-stopping screams. But Halvorsen didn't hear anything as he had taken Travis's exhortation-they were on the radio-literally:

'Sing, sing, siiing!'

'Halvorsen…'

'For the love you bring…'

Harry turned down the radio and Halvorsen gave him an uncomprehending look.

'Windscreen wipers,' Harry said. 'You can switch them off now.'

'Oh, yes, sorry.'

They drove on in silence. Passed the exit for Drшbak.

'What did you say to the grocer guy?' Harry asked.

'You won't want to know.'

'But he had delivered food to Albu's chalet one Thursday five weeks ago?'

'That was what he said, yes.'

'Before Albu arrived?'

'He only said he used to let himself in.'

'So he has a key?'

'Harry, there were limits to what I could ask for with my paper-thin pretext.'

'What pretext did you give?'

Halvorsen sighed. 'County council surveyor.'

'County council sur-?'

'-veyor.'

'What's that?'

'Don't know.'

Larkollen was just off the motorway, thirteen slow kilometres and fourteen tight bends away.

'To the right by the red house after the petrol station,' Halvorsen recited from memory and turned up into a gravel driveway.

'A lot of shower mats,' Harry mumbled five minutes later when Halvorsen had pulled up and pointed to the enormous log construction between the trees. It looked like an overgrown mountain chalet which following a minor misunderstanding had ended up by the sea.

'Bit deserted here, isn't it,' Halvorsen said, looking at the neighbouring chalets. 'Just seagulls. Loads of seagulls. Perhaps there's a rubbish dump nearby.'

'Mm.' Harry checked his watch. 'Let's just park a little further up the road anyway.'

The road ended in a turning area. Halvorsen switched off the ignition and Harry opened the car door and got out. Stretched his back and listened to the screams of the gulls and the distant roar of waves beating against the rocks by the beach.

'Ah,' Halvorsen said, filling his lungs. 'This is a bit different from Oslo air, eh?'

'No doubt about that,' Harry said, searching for his packet of cigarettes. 'Will you take the metal case?'

On the path up to the chalet Harry noticed a large yellow-and-white gull on a fencepost. The head turned slowly round on its body as they passed. Harry felt he could sense the shiny bird's eyes on his back the whole way up.

'This won't be easy,' Halvorsen declared once they had taken a closer look at the solid lock on the outside door. He had hung his cap on a wrought-iron light above the heavy oak door.

'Mm. You'll just have to get stuck in.' Harry lit a cigarette. 'I'll go and have a quick recce in the meantime.'

'Why is it you're suddenly smoking so much more than before?' Halvorsen asked, opening the case.

Harry stood still for a moment and let his eyes drift towards the forest. 'To give you a chance to beat me at cycling one day.'

Pitch-black logs, solid windows. Everything about the chalet seemed sturdy and impenetrable. Harry wondered if it would be possible to get in through the impressive stone chimney, but rejected the idea. He walked down the path. The rain of recent days had churned it up, but he could easily imagine the small feet and bare legs of children running down a sun-baked path in the summer, on their way to the beach behind the sea-smoothed rocks. He stopped and closed his eyes. Until the sounds came. The buzz of insects, the swish of the tall grass rippling in the breeze, a distant radio and a song floating to and fro on the wind and children's gleeful shouts from the beach. He had been ten years old and gingerly making his way to the shop to buy milk and bread. The small stones had buried themselves in the soles of his feet, but he had clenched his teeth because he had made up his mind to harden his feet that summer so as to run barefoot with Шystein when he returned home. As he walked back, the heavy shopping bag had seemed to press him deeper into the gravel path; it felt as if he had been walking on glowing coals. He had focused his attention on something a little way ahead-a large stone or a leaf-and told himself he only had to get there, it wasn't that far. When he finally did arrive home, one and a half hours later, the milk was off and his mother angry. Harry opened his eyes. Grey clouds were scurrying across the sky.

He found car tracks in the brown grass beside the path. The deep, rough prints suggested it had been a heavy vehicle with off-road tyres, a Land Rover or something similar. With all the rain that had fallen in recent weeks, the tracks couldn't have been that old. A couple of days at most.

He scouted around, thinking there was nothing quite as desolate as summer resorts in autumn. On his way up to the chalet again, Harry nodded to the gull.

Halvorsen was bent over the front door with an electric picklock, groaning.

'How's it going?'

'Badly.' Halvorsen straightened up and wiped away his sweat. 'This is no amateur lock. It's the crowbar or give up.'

'No crowbar.' Harry scratched his chin. 'Have you checked under the doormat?'

Halvorsen sighed. 'No, and I'm not going to, either.'

'Why's that?'

'Because this is a new millennium and you don't put chalet keys under the doormat any longer. Especially not if it's a luxury chalet. So, unless you're willing to bet a hundred, I simply can't be bothered. Alright?'

Harry nodded.

'Fine,' Halvorsen said, crouching down to pack the case.

'I meant, you're on,' Harry said.

Halvorsen looked up. 'You're kidding?'

Harry shook his head.

Halvorsen grabbed the edge of the synthetic fibre mat.

'Come seven,' he mumbled and whipped the mat away. Three ants, two woodlice and an earwig came to life and wandered around the grey concrete. But no key.

'Now and then you're incredibly naive, Harry,' Halvorsen said, holding out his palm. 'Why would he leave a key?'

'Because,' said Harry, whose attention had been caught by the wrought-iron lamp beside the door and hadn't seen the extended hand. 'Milk goes off if it's left in the sun.' He went over to the lamp and unscrewed the top.

'What do you mean?'

'The groceries were delivered the day before Albu arrived, weren't they. They obviously had to be put in the house.'

'So? Perhaps the grocery man has a spare key?'

'I don't think so. I think Albu wanted to be absolutely sure no one came bursting in while he and Anna were here.' He whipped off the top and scoured the glass interior. 'And now I know so.'

Halvorsen withdrew his hand, muttering.

'Notice the smell,' Harry said when they entered the living room.

'Green soap,' Halvorsen said. 'Someone has thought fit to wash the floor.'

The heavy furniture, the rustic antiques and the large stone fireplace reinforced the Easter holidays impression. Harry went to a pine shelving system at the other end of the room. Old books on shelves. Harry's eyes ran across the titles on the worn spines, but still had the feeling they had never been read. Not here. They might have been bought as a job lot from one of the antiquarian bookshops in Majorstuen. Old photo albums. Drawers. In the drawers there were Cohiba and Bolivar cigar boxes. One of the drawers was locked.

'So much for the clean-up then,' Halvorsen said. Harry turned and saw his colleague pointing to wet, brown footprints running diagonally across the floor.

They took off their shoes in the hallway, found a floor cloth in the kitchen and after wiping the floor, agreed Halvorsen should take the living room while Harry took the bedrooms and the bathroom.

What Harry knew about house searches he had learned in a hot classroom at Police College one Friday after lunch when everyone was dying to go home, have a shower and hit the town. There was no manual, only a certain Inspector Rшkke. And on this Friday he had given Harry the one tip he had later used as his sole guide: 'Don't think about what you are searching for. Think about what you find. Why is that there? Should it be there? What does it mean? It's like reading-if you think about an "l" while looking at a "k", you won't see the words.'

The first thing Harry saw when he came into the first bedroom was the large double bed and the photograph of herr and fru Albu on the bedside table. It wasn't large, but it was conspicuous because it was the only photograph and faced the door.

Harry opened a wardrobe. The smell of another person's clothes hit him. There was no casual clothing, only evening dresses, blouses and a couple of suits. Plus a pair of studded golf shoes.

Harry went through all three wardrobes systematically. He had been a detective for too long to feel embarrassment at going through other people's personal effects.

He sat down on the bed and studied the photograph. The background was only sea and sky, but the way the light fell made Harry think it must have been taken in southern climes. Arne Albu was brown and there was the same boyish mischievousness in his expression Harry had seen in the restaurant in Aker Brygge. He had a firm grip around his wife's waist. So firm that Vigdis's upper body seemed to be leaning towards him.

Harry rolled the bedspread and duvet to the side. If Anna had been in this bed they would definitely find hair, fragments of skin, saliva or sexual secretions. All of them, probably. But it was as he thought. He ran a hand over the starched sheet and put his face to the pillow and breathed in. Just washed. Fuck.

He opened the drawer of the bedside table. A packet of Extra chewing gum, an unopened packet of Paralgin, a keyring with a key and a brass plate with the initials A.A. on, a photograph of a naked baby curled up like a larva on a changing table, and a Swiss army knife.

He was about to pick up the knife when he heard the single, chilling scream of a gull. Involuntarily he shivered and glanced through the window. The gull was gone. He went back to his search when he heard the sharp barking of a dog.

At that moment Halvorsen appeared in the doorway: 'Someone coming up the pathway.'

His heart pounded as if turbo-charged.

'I'll get the shoes,' Harry said. 'You bring the case with all the equipment in here.'

'But-'

'We'll jump out of the window when they're in. Quick!'

The barking outside increased in volume and intensity. Harry sprinted across the living room to the hall while Halvorsen knelt in front of the shelves and threw powder, brush and sticky paper into the case. The barking was now so close that Harry could hear the deep-throated growls between the barks. Footsteps outside. The door was not locked, it was too late to do anything, he would be caught red-handed! He breathed in and stood where he was. He might just as well face the music there and then. Perhaps Halvorsen would be able to escape. That way, he wouldn't have Halvorsen's dismissal on his conscience.

'Gregor!' came a man's shout from the other side of the door. 'Come back!'

The barking became more distant and he heard the man outside move off the doorstep.

'Gregor! Leave the deer alone!'

Harry took two steps forward and discreetly turned the lock. Then he picked up the two pairs of shoes and crept through the living room as keys were being jangled outside. He closed the bedroom door behind him as he heard the front door opening.

Halvorsen was sitting on the floor under the window and staring at Harry with dilated eyes.

'What is it?' Harry whispered.

'I was on my way out of the window when the mad dog came,' Halvorsen whispered. 'It's a large Rottweiler.'

Harry peered out of the window and down at snapping jaws. The dog had both front paws against the outside wall. The sight of Harry made it jump up the wall and bark as though possessed. Saliva dripped from its fangs. The sound of heavy footsteps in the living room. Harry slumped down on the floor next to Halvorsen.

'Seventy kilos max,' he whispered. 'No big deal.'

'Please. I've seen a Rottweiler attacking Victor, the dog handler.'

'Mm.'

'They lost control of the dog in training. The officer playing the villain had to have his hand sewn back on at Rikshospital.'

'I thought they wore thick padding.'

'They do.'

They sat listening to the barking outside. The footsteps in the living room had stopped.

'Shall we go in and say hello?' Halvorsen whispered. 'It's just a question of time before-'

'Shh.'

They heard more steps. Approaching the bedroom door. Halvorsen squeezed his eyes shut. As if to steel himself against the humiliation. On reopening them, he saw Harry holding an authoritative finger over his lips.

Then they heard a voice outside the bedroom window. 'Gregor! Come on! Let's go home!'

After a couple more barks, it was suddenly quiet. All Harry could hear was short, rapid breaths, but he didn't know if they were his or Halvorsen's.

'Really obedient, those Rottweilers,' Halvorsen whispered.

They waited until they heard the car start down on the road. Then they rushed into the living room and Harry just caught sight of the back of a navy blue Jeep Cherokee disappearing. Halvorsen fell onto the sofa and leaned back.

'My God,' he groaned. 'For a while there I imagined myself returning to Steinkjer with a dishonourable discharge. What the hell was he doing? He was barely here for two minutes.' He jumped up from the sofa again. 'Do you think he'll be back? Perhaps they were just going to the shop?'

Harry shook his head. 'They went home. People like that don't tell lies to their dogs.'

'Sure?'

'Yes, of course. One day he'll shout: "Come here, Gregor. We're going to the vet to have you put down." ' Harry scanned the room. Then he went over to the shelving and ran a finger down the spines of the books in front of him, from top to bottom shelf.

Halvorsen nodded grimly and stared into space: 'And Gregor will come wagging his tail. Really strange creatures, dogs.'

Harry stopped what he was doing and grinned. 'No regrets, Halvorsen?'

'Well, I don't regret this any more than anything else.'

'You're beginning to sound like me.'

'It is you. I'm quoting you. The time we bought the espresso machine. What are you after?'

'Don't know,' Harry said, pulling out a big, thick book and opening it. 'Look at this. A photo album. Interesting.'

'Oh, yes? Now you've lost me again.'

Harry pointed behind him and continued flicking through. Halvorsen stood up and saw. And understood. Wet bootprints leading from the front door via the hallway to the shelf where Harry was standing.

Harry slotted the album back in, pulled out another and began to flip through.

'Right,' he said after a while. He pressed the album to his face. 'Here we are.'

'What's that?'

Harry set the album on the table in front of Halvorsen and pointed to one of six photographs attached to the black page. A woman and three children smiled up at them from a beach.

'That's the same photo I found in Anna's shoe,' Harry said. 'Smell it.'

'I don't need to. I can smell the glue from here.'

'Right. He's just stuck the picture in. If you move the photo a little, you can feel the glue is still soft. Smell the photo.'

'OK.' Halvorsen put his nose against the smiles. 'It smells…of chemicals.'

'What sort of chemicals?'

'Photos always smell when they've just been developed.'

'Right again. And what can we conclude from that?'

'That, erm…he likes sticking in photos.'

Harry looked at his watch. If Albu drove straight home, he would be there in an hour.

'I'll explain in the car,' he said. 'We've got the evidence we need.'

It was raining when they drove out onto the E6. The lights from oncoming traffic reflected on the wet tarmac.

'Now we know where the photo Anna had in her shoe came from,' Harry said. 'At a guess, I'd say Anna saw her chance to take it out of the album when she was last at the chalet.'

'But what was she going to do with it?'

'God only knows. So that she could see what stood between her and Albu perhaps. To understand better. To have something to stick pins in.'

'And when you showed him the photo, did he know where it was from?'

'Naturally. The wheel marks of the Cherokee by the chalet are the same as those before. They show he was here a couple of days ago, possibly yesterday.'

'To wash the floor and wipe all the fingerprints?'

'And to check what he already suspected-that one photo was missing from the album. So when he got home, he found the negative and took it to a chemist.'

'Probably a shop where they develop photos in an hour. Then he went back to the chalet today to stick it where the old one had been.'

'Mm.'

The rear wheels of the lorry in front of them were sending a sheet of dirty, oily water over their windscreen, and the wipers were working overtime.

'Albu has gone to great lengths to cover the traces of his escapades,' Halvorsen said. 'But do you think he took Anna Bethsen's life?'

Harry stared at the logo on the rear doors of the lorry: AMOROMA

– ETERNALLY YOURS. 'Why not?'

'He doesn't exactly strike me as a murderer. A well-educated, straight-down-the-line type of guy. Reliable father with spotless record and a business he built up himself.'

'He's been unfaithful.'

'Who hasn't?'

'Yes, who hasn't,' Harry repeated slowly. And exploded in a fit of sudden irritation: 'Are we going to stay behind this lorry and take its crap with us all the way to Oslo, or what?'

Halvorsen checked the mirror and moved into the left-hand lane. 'And what would his motive be?'

'Let's ask, shall we?' Harry said.

'What do you mean? Drive to his place and ask? Reveal that we've acquired evidence by illegal means and get fired at the same time?'

'You don't have to go. I'll do it on my own.'

'And what do you think you'll achieve by doing that? If it gets out that we entered his chalet without a warrant, there is not a judge in this land who wouldn't boot the case out of court.'

'That's precisely why.'

'Precisely…Sorry, these puzzles are beginning to take their toll, Harry.'

'Because we don't have anything we can use in a court of law, we have to turn up the heat to find something we can use.'

'Shouldn't we take him in for questioning, give him the good chair, serve espresso and run the tape?'

'No. We don't need a load of lies on tape when we can't use what we do know to prove he's a liar. What we need is an ally. Someone who can expose him on our behalf.'

'And that is?'

'Vigdis Albu.'

'Aha. And how…?'

'If Arne Albu has been unfaithful, the chances are that Vigdis will want to dig deeper into the matter. And the chances are that she's sitting on the information we need. And we know a couple of things which could help her to find out even more.'

Halvorsen slanted the mirror so that he wouldn't be dazzled by the headlamps of the lorry right up their boot. 'Are you sure this is a smart idea, Harry?'

'No. Do you know what a palindrome is?'

'No idea.'

'Word or words that can be read forwards and backwards. Look at the lorry in your mirror. AMOROMA. It's the same word whichever way you read it.'

Halvorsen was about to say something, but thought better of it and just shook his head in despair.

'Drive me to Schrшder's,' Harry said.

The air was stiff with sweat, cigarette smoke, rain-drenched clothing and orders for beer shouted from the tables.

Beate Lшnn sat at the table where Aune had been sitting. She was as difficult to spot as a zebra in a cowshed.

'Have you been waiting long?' Harry asked.

'Not long at all,' she lied.

In front of her was a large beer, untouched and already flat. She followed his gaze and dutifully raised the glass.

'There's no obligation to drink alcohol here,' Harry said, making eye contact with Maja. 'It just seems like it.'

'In fact, it's not bad,' Beate took a tiny sip. 'My father said he didn't trust people who didn't drink beer.'

The coffee pot and cup arrived in front of Harry. Beate blushed to the roots of her hair.

'I used to drink beer,' Harry said. 'I had to stop.'

Beate studied the tablecloth.

'It's the only vice I've got rid of,' Harry said. 'I smoke, lie and hold grudges.' He lifted his cup in toast. 'What do you suffer from, Lшnn? Apart from being a video junkie and remembering the face of everyone you've ever seen?'

'There's not a lot more.' She raised her glass. 'Apart from the Setesdal Twitch.'

'Is it serious?'

'Fairly. Actually, it's called Huntingdon's Disease. It's hereditary and was normal for Setesdal.'

'Why there of all places?'

'It's a…narrow dale surrounded by high fells. And a long way from anywhere.'

'I see.'

'Both my mother and father come from Setesdal and at first my mother didn't want to marry him because she thought he had an aunt with the Setesdal Twitch. My auntie would suddenly lash out with her arms, so people used to keep their distance.'

'And now you've got it?'

Beate smiled. 'My father used to tease my mother about it when I was small. Because when Dad and I played knuckles, I was so fast and hit him so hard that he thought it had to be the Setesdal Twitch. I just found it so funny I wished…I had the Twitch, but one day my mother told me you can die from Huntingdon's Disease.' She sat fidgeting with her glass.

'And the same summer I learned what death meant.'

Harry nodded to an old sailor on the neighbouring table, who didn't return the greeting. He cleared his throat: 'What about grudges? Do you suffer from them, too?'

She looked up at him. 'What do you mean?'

Harry shrugged. 'Look around you. Humanity can't survive without it. Revenge and retribution. That's the driving force for the midget who was bullied at school and later became a multi-millionaire, and the bank robber who thinks he has been short-changed by society. And look at us. Society's burning revenge disguised as cold, rational retribution-that's our profession, isn't it.'

'That's the way it has to be,' she said, avoiding his gaze. 'Society wouldn't work without punishment.'

'Yes, of course, but there's more to it than that, isn't there. Catharsis. Revenge cleanses. Aristotle wrote that the human soul is purged by the fear and compassion that tragedy evokes. It's a frightening thought that we fulfil the soul's innermost desire through the tragedy of revenge, isn't it.'

'I haven't read a lot of philosophy.' She raised her glass and took a long swig.

Harry bent his head. 'I haven't, either. I'm just trying to impress you. Down to brass tacks?'

'First some bad news,' she said. 'The reconstruction of the face behind the mask failed. Just a nose and the outline of a head.'

'And the good news?'

'The woman who was used as a hostage in the Grшnlandsleiret hold-up reckons she would recognise the robber's voice. She said it was unusually high, she'd almost thought it was a woman's.'

'Mm. Anything else?'

'Yes, I've been talking to the staff at Focus and doing some checking. Trond Grette arrived at half past two and left at around four.'

'How can you be so sure of that?'

'Because he paid for the squash court with a card when he arrived. The payment was registered at 14.34. And do you remember the stolen squash racquet? Naturally he told the staff. The person who was working the Friday shift noted down the time Grette was there. He left the centre at 16.02.

'And that was the good news?'

'No, I'm coming to it now. Do you remember the overalls Grette saw going past the fitness room?'

'With POLITI on the back?'

'I've been watching the video. It looks like there is Velcro on the front and back of the Expeditor's boiler suit.'

'Meaning?'

'If the Expeditor is the person Grette saw, he could have put the sign on the boiler suit with Velcro when he was out of range of the cameras.'

'Mm.' Harry slurped out loud.

'It might explain why no one reported seeing someone in a plain black boiler suit in the area. There were black police uniforms everywhere right after the hold-up.'

'What did they say at Focus?'

'That's the interesting part. The woman on duty in fact remembers a man in a boiler suit she took for a policeman. He raced past so she assumed he had booked a squash court or something like that.'

'So they didn't have a name?'

'No.'

'That's not exactly sexy…'

'No, but the best is to come. The reason she remembered the guy was that she thought he had to be in a special unit, or something similar, because the rest of his outfit was so Dirty Harry. He…' She paused and gave him a horrified look. 'I didn't mean to…'

'That's fine,' Harry said. 'Go on.'

Beate moved her glass, and Harry thought he detected a tiny, triumphant smile around her little mouth.

'He was wearing a half-rolled-up balaclava. And a pair of large sunglasses hiding the rest of his face. She said he was carrying a black holdall which seemed very heavy.'

Harry's coffee went down the wrong way.

A pair of old shoes hung by their laces from the wire stretched between the houses in Dovregata. The lights on the wire did what they could to illuminate the cobbled pavement, but it was as if the dark autumn evening had already sucked all the light out of the town. That didn't bother Harry; he could find the way between Sofies gate and Schrшder's in the pitch dark. He had done it many times.

Beate had a list of the names of people who had booked squash or aerobics at Focus at the time the man in the boiler suit had been there, and she was going to start ringing round tomorrow. If she didn't find the man, there was still a good chance that someone had been in the room when he was changing and could give a description.

Harry walked beneath the shoes on the wire. He had seen them hanging there for years and had long reconciled himself to never finding an answer to the question of how they got there.

Ali was washing the steps as Harry came to the house entrance.

'You must hate Norwegian autumns,' Harry said, wiping his feet. 'Just grime and muddy water.'

'In my hometown in Pakistan visibility was down to fifty metres because of pollution.' Ali smiled. 'All year round.'

Harry could hear a distant yet familiar sound. It was the law which states that telephones start ringing when you hear them, but you can never get to them in time. He looked at his watch. Ten. Rakel had said she would ring him at nine.

'That cellar room…' Ali began, but Harry had already taken off at full speed, leaving a Doc Martens bootprint on every fourth step.

The telephone stopped ringing as he opened the door.

He kicked off his boots. Covered his face in his hands. Went to the telephone and lifted the receiver. The number of the hotel was on a yellow Post-it on the mirror. He took the note and caught sight of the reflection of the first e-mail from S^2 MN. He had printed it out and pinned it on the wall. Old habit. In Crime Squad they always decorated the wall with pictures, letters and other leads which might help them to see a connection or trigger the subconscious in some way. Harry couldn't read the mirror reflection, but he didn't need to:

Shall we play? Let's imagine you've been to dinner with a woman and the next day she's found dead. What do you do?

He changed his mind, went into the sitting room, switched on the TV and slumped in the wing chair. Then he got up with a jerk, went into the hallway and dialled the number.

Rakel sounded careworn.

'At Schrшder's,' Harry said. 'I've just this minute come in.'

'I must have rung ten times.'

'Anything the matter?'

'I'm frightened, Harry.'

'Mm. Very frightened?'

Harry was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, the receiver squeezed between shoulder and ear while turning down the volume on the TV with the remote control.

'Not very,' she said. 'A little.'

'A little frightened can't hurt. You become stronger by being a little frightened.'

'But what if I become very frightened?'

'You know I'll be there instantly. You just have to say the word.'

'I've already said you can't come, Harry.'

'You are hereby granted the right to change your mind.'

Harry watched the man in the turban and camouflage uniform on TV. There was something strangely familiar about his face, a close resemblance to someone.

'My world is caving in,' she said. 'I just had to know someone was there.'

'There's someone here.'

'But you sound so distant.'

Harry turned away from the TV and leaned against the door frame. 'I'm sorry, but I'm here and I'm thinking about you. Even if I sound distant.'

She started to cry. 'Sorry, Harry. You must think I'm a terrible blubberer. Of course I know you're there.' She whispered: 'I know I can rely on you.'

Harry took a deep breath. The headache came on slowly but surely. Like an iron hoop slowly being tightened around his forehead. When they finished their conversation, he could already feel every throbbing pulse in his temple.

He switched off the TV and put on a Radiohead record, but he couldn't tolerate Thom Yorke's voice. Instead he went to the bathroom and washed his face. Stood in the kitchen and stared into the refrigerator without knowing what he was looking for. Finally, it could not be postponed any longer and he went to the bedroom. The computer came to life, casting its cold, blue light into the room. He had contact with the world around him. Which informed him that he had one e-mail. Now he felt it. The thirst. It rattled the chains like a pack of hounds straining to be set free. He clicked the e-mail icon.

I ought to have checked her shoes. The photo must have been on the bedside table and she took it while I was loading the gun. Nevertheless, it makes the game a little more exciting. A little. PS She was frightened. I just wanted you to know that.

Harry felt deep in his pocket and pulled out the keyring. Attached was a brass plate bearing the initials AA.