Nemesis

38

Fusiform Gyrus

Tom Waaler passed her the present, taking great care not to touch her since she still had the frightened body language of an antelope, which predators can smell. Instead he walked past her into the sitting room, and sat himself on the sofa. She followed and remained standing. He looked around. He found himself in young women's flats at regular intervals and they were all furnished more or less in the same way. Personal but unoriginal, snug but dull.

'Aren't you going to open it?' he asked. She did as he requested.

'A CD,' she said, puzzled.

'Not any CD,' he said. 'Purple Rain. Put it on and you'll understand.'

He studied her as she switched on the pathetic all-in-one radio she and others like her called a stereo. Frшken Lшnn wasn't exactly good-looking. Sweet in her way, though. Body was a bit uninspiring, not many curves to get hold of, but slim and fit. She had liked what he did with her and exhibited a healthy enthusiasm. At least the first few times when he had taken it a bit piano. Yes, in fact, it had lasted more than just the one time. Surprising really because she wasn't his type at all.

Then one evening he had given her the full treatment. And she-in common with most women he met-had not been entirely on the same wavelength. Which only made the whole thing even more appealing to him, but generally it meant that was the last time he heard from them. Which was no skin off his nose. Beate should be happy; it could have been a lot worse. A few evenings before, out of the blue, she had told him where she had seen him for the first time.

'In Grьnerlшkka,' she had said. 'It was evening and you were sitting in a red car. The streets were full of people and your window was rolled down. It was winter time. Last year.'

He had been pretty amazed. Especially since the only evening he could recall being in Grьnerlшkka last winter was the Saturday evening they had expedited Ellen Gjelten into the beyond.

'I remember faces,' she had said with a triumphant smile when she saw his reaction. 'Fusiform gyrus. It's the part of your brain which recognises the shape of faces. Mine is abnormal. I should be doing turns at a fair.'

'I see,' he said. 'What else can you remember?'

'You were talking to someone.'

He had supported himself on his elbows, leaned over her and stroked her larynx with his thumb. Felt the throb of her pulse; she was like a startled leveret. Or was it his own pulse he had felt?

'I suppose you can remember the other face, too, can you?' he had asked, his brain already in overdrive. Did anyone know she was here tonight? Had she kept her mouth shut about their relationship, as he had asked? Did he have any bin bags under the sink?

She had turned to him with a puzzled smile: 'What do you mean?'

'Would you recognise the other person if you saw a photograph?'

She had given him a long look. Kissed him circumspectly.

'Well?' he had said, bringing his other hand up from under the duvet.

'Mm. Mm, no. He had his back to me.'

'But you could remember the clothes he was wearing? If you were asked to identify him, I mean?'

She had shaken her head. 'The fusiform gyrus only recognises faces. The rest of my brain is absolutely normal.'

'But you remember the colour of the car I was in?'

She had laughed and snuggled up to him. 'That must mean I liked what I saw, didn't I?'

He had surreptitiously removed his hand from her neck.

Two evenings later he had let her have the whole show. And she hadn't liked what she had been forced to see. Or hear. Or feel.

The opening lines of 'When Doves Cry' blasted from the speakers.

She turned down the volume.

'What do you want?' she asked, sitting down in the armchair.

'As I said. To apologise.'

'You've done that now. So let's draw a line under that, shall we?' She made a show of yawning. 'I was on my way to bed, Tom.'

He could feel his anger mounting. Not the red mist which distorted and obscured, but the white heat which glowed and brought clarity and energy. 'OK, let's get down to business. Where's Harry Hole?'

Beate laughed. Prince let out a falsetto scream.

Tom closed his eyes, felt himself feeling stronger and stronger from the fury streaming through his veins like assuaging glacial water. 'Harry rang you the evening he disappeared. He forwarded e-mails to you. You're his contact, the only person he can trust for the moment. Where is he?'

'I'm exhausted, Tom.' She stood up. 'If you have any more questions I'm unable to answer, I suggest we deal with them tomorrow.'

Tom Waaler didn't move. 'I had an interesting chat with a prison officer in Botsen today. Harry was there last night, right under our noses, while we and half of the uniformed division were out looking for him. Did you know Harry was in league with Raskol?'

'I have no idea what you're talking about or what it has to do with the case.'

'Me neither, but I suggest you take a seat, Beate. And listen to a little story I think will change your mind about Harry and his friends.'

'The answer's no, Tom. Out.'

'Not even if your father's in the story?'

He caught the twitch of her mouth and knew he had hit the mark.

'I have sources which are-how shall I put it?-inaccessible to the regular police officer, meaning I know what happened to your father when he was shot that time in Ryen. And I know who shot him.'

She stared open-mouthed.

Waaler laughed. 'You weren't ready for that, were you.'

'You're lying.'

'Your father was shot with an Uzi, six bullets in the chest. According to the report he went inside the bank to negotiate, even though he was alone, unarmed and thus had nothing to bargain with. All he could hope to achieve was to make the robbers nervous and aggressive. A huge blunder. Incomprehensible. Especially as your father was legendary for his professionalism. In fact, he had a colleague with him, a promising young officer of whom great things were expected, a prospective rising star. But he'd never experienced a live bank raid before and certainly not bank raiders with decent shooters.

'He's keen to keep in with his superior officers and that day he's supposed to drive your father home after work. So your father arrives in Ryen in a car which the report fails to mention is not your father's. Because it's in the garage, at home with you, Beate, and Mummy, when you receive the news, isn't it.'

He could see the veins on her neck engorging, becoming thick and blue.

'Fuck you, Tom.'

'Come here now and listen to Daddy's little story,' he said, patting the sofa cushion beside him. 'Because I'm going to speak in a very soft voice and I honestly think you should hear this.'

Reluctantly, she stepped forward a pace, but no further.

'OK,' Tom said. 'On this day in-when was it, Beate?'

'June,' she breathed.

'June, yes. They hear the report on the radio, the bank is close by, they drive there and take up positions outside, armed. The young officer and the experienced inspector. They go by the book, wait for reinforcements or for the robbers to come out of the bank. Not dreaming of entering the bank. Until one of the men appears in the doorway with a gun to the head of the female bank clerk. He calls your father's name. The man has seen them outside and recognised Inspector Lшnn. He shouts he won't hurt the woman, but he needs a hostage. If Lшnn takes her place, that would be fine by them. But he has to drop his gun and go into the bank alone to effect the exchange. And your father, what does he do? He thinks. He has to think quickly. The woman is in shock. People die of shock. He thinks of his own wife, your mother. A June day, Friday, soon the weekend. And the sun…was the sun shining, Beate?'

She nodded.

'He thinks how hot it must be in the bank. The strain. The desperation. Then he makes up his mind. What does he decide? What does he decide, Beate?'

'He goes in.' The whisper was thick with emotion.

'He goes in.' Waaler lowers his voice. 'Inspector Lшnn has gone in and the young officer waits. Waits for reinforcements. Waits for the woman to come out. Waits for someone to tell him what to do, or that it is just a dream or a training exercise, and he can go home because it's Friday and the sun is shining. Instead he hears…' Waaler imitated the rattle of a gun with his tongue against his palate. 'Your father falls against the front door, which opens, and he is spread on the ground, half in, half out. Six shots in his chest.'

Beate collapsed into the chair.

'The young officer sees the inspector lying there and he knows now it isn't an exercise. Or a dream. They really do have automatic weapons in there and they do shoot policemen in cold blood. He's more frightened than he has ever been before or since. He's read about this, he got good grades in psychology, but something has cracked. He's gripped by the panic he wrote so well about in the exam. He gets in his car and drives. He drives and drives until he's home, and his new young wife comes to meet him and is angry because he's late for the evening meal. He takes his reprimand standing, like a schoolboy, and promises it will never happen again and they eat. After eating, they watch TV. A reporter says a policeman has been shot during a bank raid. Your father is dead.'

Beate hid her face in her hands. It had all come back to her. The whole day. A look of curious wonderment on the round sun in the meaninglessly blue sky. She had thought it was only a dream, too.

'Who could the bank raiders be? Who knows the name of your father, who knows the whole bank scene, who knows that of the two police officers standing outside, Inspector Lшnn is the one to pose a threat? Who is so cold and calculating that he can place your father in a dilemma and know which choice he will make? So he can shoot him and do what he likes with the scared young officer? Who's that? Beate?'

The tears were flowing between her fingers. 'Ras…' she sniffled.

'I didn't hear, Beate.'

'Raskol.'

'Raskol, yes. And only him. His sidekick was furious. They were robbers, not killers, he said. He was stupid enough to threaten to give himself up and finger Raskol. Fortunately for him, he manages to leave Norway before Raskol catches him.'

Beate was sobbing. Waaler waited.

'Do you know what the funniest thing about this is? That you allowed yourself to be taken in by your father's murderer? Just like your father.'

Beate raised her head. 'What…what do you mean?'

Waaler shrugged. 'You ask Raskol to point out the murderer. He's after someone who threatened to testify against him in a murder trial. So what does he do? Of course, he points out this person.'

'Lev Grette?' She dried her tears.

'Why not? So you could help him to find him. I read you found Grette hanging from a rope. That he'd committed suicide. I wouldn't put money on it. I wouldn't be surprised if someone got there before you.'

Beate cleared her throat. 'You're forgetting a couple of details. First of all, we found a suicide note. Lev didn't leave a lot in writing, but I talked to his brother, who dug up a few of Lev's old school exercise books from the loft in Disengrenda. I took them to Jean Hue, the writing expert in Kripos, who confirmed the note was written by Lev. Secondly, Raskol is already in prison. Of his own accord. That doesn't quite square with an intent to murder to avoid punishment.'

Waaler shook his head. 'You're a clever girl, but just like your father you lack psychological insight. You don't understand how the criminal mind works. Raskol isn't in prison; it's just a temporary posting to Botsen. A murder conviction would change all that. In the meantime you're protecting him. And his friend, Harry Hole.'

He leaned forward and placed a hand on her arm. 'I apologise if it was painful, but now you know, Beate. Your father didn't bungle anything. And Harry's working with the man who murdered him. So what do you say? Shall we look for Harry together?'

Beate screwed up her eyes, squeezed out the last tear. Then she opened her eyes again. Waaler held out a handkerchief, which she took.

'Tom,' she said. 'I have to explain something to you.'

'You don't need to.' Waaler stroked her hand. 'I understand. There's a conflict of loyalties. Imagine what your father would have done. It's called being professional, isn't it.'

Beate observed him. Then she slowly nodded her head. She breathed in. At that moment the telephone rang.

'Are you going to take it?' Waaler said, after three rings.

'It's my mother,' Beate said. 'I'll ring her back in thirty seconds.'

'Thirty seconds?'

'That's the time it'll take me to tell you that if I knew where Harry was, you'd be the last person I'd tell.' She passed him his handkerchief. 'And for you to put your shoes on and get out.'

Up his back and neck, Tom Waaler could feel the fury rising like a geyser. He took a moment to enjoy the feeling before grabbing her with one arm and forcing her under him. She gasped and resisted him, but he knew she could feel his erection and that the lips she was so tightly clenching would soon open.

After six rings Harry hung up and left the telephone box, so the girl behind him could slip in. He turned his back on Kjшlberggata and the wind, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards the car park and the caravans. It was funny really. Here he was, a couple of hefty stones' throws away from Forensics in one direction, Police HQ in another and the caravan in the third. Wearing a gypsy's suit. A wanted man. You could kill yourself laughing.

Harry's teeth chattered. He half-turned when a police car swept down the traffic-laden but unpopulated thoroughfare. Harry hadn't been able to sleep. Couldn't bear to be inactive while time was ticking away. He crushed the cigarette end beneath his heel and was about to go when he saw the telephone box was free again. Checked his watch. Almost midnight, strange she wasn't at home. Perhaps she had been asleep and hadn't made it to the phone? He dialled the number again. She answered immediately: 'Beate.'

'It's Harry. Did I wake you?'

'I…yes.'

'Sorry. Shall I call back tomorrow?'

'No, it's convenient now.'

'Are you alone?'

Silence. 'Why do you ask?'

'You sound so…no, forget it. Have you found out anything?'

He heard her gulp as if she was trying to catch her breath.

'Weber checked the fingerprints on the glass. Most of them are yours. The analysis of the sediment in the glass should be finished in a couple of days.'

'Great.'

'As for the laptop in your storeroom, it turns out there was a specialised program running which allows you to set the date and time for when you want an e-mail to be sent. The last change to the e-mails was made the day Anna Bethsen died.'

Harry no longer felt the icy-cold wind.

'So the e-mails you received were ready and waiting when it was planted,' Beate said. 'That explains how your Pakistani neighbour had seen it in your storage space quite a time ago.'

'Do you mean it had been working away all on its own the whole time?'

'Connected to the mains, the laptop and mobile phone would manage just fine.'

'Hell!' Harry slapped his forehead. 'But that must mean the guy who programmed the laptop anticipated the whole course of events. The whole bloody thing was a puppet show, and we were the puppets.'

'Looks like that. Harry?'

'I'm here. Just trying to let it sink in. Well, better forget it for a while, it's too much in one go. How about the name of the company I gave you?'

'The company, yes. What makes you think I've done anything about that?'

'Nothing. Until you just said what you did.'

'I didn't say anything.'

'No, but the way you said it was full of promise.'

'Oh, yes?'

'You found something, didn't you.'

'I found something.'

'Come on!'

'I rang the accountants that the locksmith uses and got a lady to send me the national insurance numbers of the employees working there. Four full-time staff and two part-time. I ran the numbers through the Criminal and Social Security Register. Five of them have an unblemished record. But one…'

'Yes?'

'I had to use the scroll to get everything. Mostly drugs. Has been charged with peddling heroin and morphine, but has only been convicted of possession of a small amount of hash. Has done time for breaking and entering and two aggravated robberies.'

'Violence?'

'He used a gun in one of the robberies. It wasn't fired, but it was loaded.'

'Perfect. He's our man. You're an angel. What's his name?'

'Alf Gunnerud. Thirty years old, single. Thor Olsens gate 9. Seems to live on his own.'

'Repeat the name and address.'

Beate did.

'Mm. Incredible that Gunnerud got a job at a locksmith's with a record like that.'

'Birger Gunnerud is listed as the owner.'

'Right. I see. Sure everything's alright?'

Silence.

'Beate?'

'Everything's OK, Harry. What are you going to do?'

'I was thinking of paying a visit to his flat. See if I can find anything of interest. If I do, I'll ring you from his flat so you can send a car and impound the evidence according to regulations.'

'When are you going?'

'Why?'

Another silence.

'To be sure I'm in when you phone.'

'Eleven tomorrow. I hope he'll be at work then.'

When Harry rang off, he stood gazing at the cloudy night sky arching over the town like a yellow dome. He had heard the music in the background. Barely, but it was enough. Prince's 'Purple Rain'.

He shoved a coin in the slot and dialled 1881.

'I need the number for one Alf Gunnerud…'

The taxi glided like a silent black fish through the night, through the traffic lights, beneath the street lighting and the sign indicating the city centre.

'We can't keep meeting like this,' Шystein said. He looked into the mirror and watched Harry put on the black jumper he had brought him from home.

'Got the crowbar?' Harry asked.

'It's in the boot. What if the john's at home?'

'People at home generally answer the phone.'

'But what if he comes home while you're in his flat?'

'Then do what I said: two short hoots.'

'Alright, alright, but I don't know what the guy looks like.'

'About thirty, I said. See anyone like that going into number 9, you honk your horn.'

Шystein pulled over by a NO PARKING sign in the polluted, traffic-congested twisted bowel of a street which is referred to a dusty book called City Fathers IV in the neighbouring public library as 'the extremely dull, unsightly street bearing the name Thor Olsens gate'. But it suited Harry down to the ground that night. The noise, passing cars and the darkness would camouflage him and the waiting taxi.

Harry slipped the crowbar down the sleeve of his leather jacket and quickly crossed the street. To his relief he saw there were at least twenty bells outside number 9. That would give him a good many alternatives if his bluff didn't work at first. Alf Gunnerud's name was second down on the right. He looked up at the right-hand side of the building. The windows on the fourth floor were unlit. Harry rang the ground-floor bell. A woman's sleepy voice answered.

'Hi, I'm trying to contact Alf,' Harry said. 'But they're playing their music so loud they can't hear the bell. Alf Gunnerud, that is. The locksmith on the fourth. You couldn't open up for me, could you?'

'It's past midnight.'

'I apologise. I'll make sure Alf keeps the music down.'

Harry waited. The buzz came.

He took three steps at a time. On the fourth floor he stood and listened, but could only hear his pounding heart. There were two doors to choose between. A grey piece of cardboard with ANDERSEN written in felt pen had been glued to one door. The other was bare.

This was the most critical part of the plan. A single lock could probably be bent open without waking the whole block, but if Alf had used a barrage of locks from Lеsesmeden AS, Harry had a problem. He scanned the door from top to bottom. No stickers from a security service or central switchboard. No drill-proof security locks. No burglar-proof twin cylinders with double pins. Just an old Yale cylinder lock. Piece of cake.

Harry lifted the sleeve of his jacket and caught the crowbar as it came out. He hesitated before inserting the tip inside the door under the lock. It was almost too easy. No time to think, though, and no choice. He didn't break open the door, he forced the door towards the hinges so that he could slip Шystein's bank card inside the latch and the deadlock slid out of the box in the door frame. He applied pressure, to push the door out a tiny bit, and put the sole of his foot against the bottom edge. The door creaked on its hinges as he gave the crowbar a nudge and pushed the card through. He slipped inside and closed the door after him. The whole operation had taken eight seconds.

The hum of a refrigerator and sitcom laughter from a neighbour's TV. Harry tried to breathe deeply and evenly as he listened to the total darkness. He could hear cars outside and felt a cold draught, indicating that the windows in the flat were old. But most important: no noises to suggest anyone was at home.

He found the light switch. The hall definitely needed a facelift, the sitting room replastering. The kitchen should have been condemned. The interior of the flat explained the poor security measures. Or to be precise-the lack of interior. Alf Gunnerud had nothing, not even a stereo Harry could have asked him to turn down. The only evidence that someone lived here was two camping chairs, a green coffee table, clothes scattered everywhere and a bed with a duvet but no cover.

Harry put on the washing-up gloves Шystein had brought along and carried one of the chairs into the hall. He put it in front of the row of wall cupboards reaching up to the three-metre-high ceiling, emptied his head of preconceived ideas and cautiously put one foot on the arm. At that moment, the telephone rang. Harry took a step to the side, the camping chair snapped shut and he fell to the floor with a crash.

Tom Waaler had a bad feeling. The situation lacked the clear structure he strove for at all times. Since his career and future prospects did not lie in his own hands, but in the hands of those he allied himself with, the human factor was always a risk he had to take into account. The bad feeling came from the fact that he didn't know if he could rely on Beate Lшnn, Rune Ivarsson or-and this was crucial-the man who was his most important source of income: the Knave.

When it came to Tom's ears that the City Council had begun to put pressure on the Chief of Police to catch the Expeditor after the Grшnlandsleiret bank hold-up, he had instructed the Knave to go into hiding. They had agreed on a place the Knave knew from the past. Pattaya had the biggest collection of wanted western criminals in the eastern hemisphere and was only a couple of hours' drive south of Bangkok. As a white tourist the Knave would melt into the crowds. The Knave had called Pattaya 'Asia's Sodom', so Waaler couldn't understand why he had suddenly shown up in Oslo, saying he couldn't stand it any longer.

Waaler stopped at the lights in Uelands gate and indicated left. Bad feeling. The Knave had carried out the latest bank job without clearing it with him first, and that was a serious breach of rules. Something would have to be done about it.

He had just tried to ring the Knave, but there was no answer. That might mean anything at all. It might mean, for example, that he was in his chalet in Tryvann working on the details of the heist of a security van they had talked about. Or going over the equipment-clothes, weapons, police radio, drawings. But it might also mean that he had had a relapse and was sitting in the corner nodding, with a syringe hanging from his forearm.

Waaler drove slowly along the dark, filthy little street where the Knave lived. A waiting taxi was parked opposite. Waaler looked up at the windows of the flat. Odd, the lights were on. If the Knave was on junk again, all hell would be let loose. It would be simple enough to get into the flat. There was a naff lock on his door. He looked at his watch. The visit to Beate had excited him, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep yet. He would have to cruise around for a bit, make a couple of calls and see what happened.

Waaler put Prince on louder, accelerated and drove up Ullevеlsveien.

Harry sat in the camping chair with his head in his hands, an aching hip and not a shred of evidence that Alf Gunnerud was the man. It had only taken ten minutes to go through the few possessions in the flat, so few that the suspicion lingered that he lived somewhere else. Harry had found a toothbrush in the bathroom, an almost empty tube of toothpaste and a piece of unidentifiable soap stuck to a soap dish. Plus a towel which might once have been white. That was it. That was his chance.

Harry felt like laughing. Banging his head against the wall. Smashing the top off a bottle of Jim Beam and drinking the whiskey with the shards of glass. Because it had to be-had to be-Gunnerud. Of all incriminating evidence, statistically, one piece was head and shoulders above the others-previous charges and convictions. The case simply screamed out Gunnerud's name. He had narco and guns on his record, he worked for a locksmith, could order whatever system keys he needed, say, to Anna's flat. Or to Harry's.

He went over to the window. Wondering how he could have gone in a circle following an insane man's script down to the last letter. But now there were no more instructions, no more lines in the dialogue. The moon peeped through a break in the clouds and resembled a half-chewed fluoride tablet, but not even that could jog his memory.

He closed his eyes. Concentrated. What had he seen in the flat which might give him the next line? What had he missed? He went through the flat in his mind, piece by piece.

After three minutes he gave up. It was all over. There was nothing here.

He checked everything was as it had been when he arrived and turned the sitting-room light off. Went to the toilet, stood in front of the bowl and unbuttoned. Waited. Christ, now he couldn't even do that. Then it flowed and he released a weary sigh. He pressed the handle, the water flushed and at that moment he froze. Wasn't that a car horn he had heard over the gushing water? He went into the hall and closed the toilet door to hear better. It was. A short, firm beep from the street. Gunnerud was on his way! Harry was already standing in the doorway when it struck him. Of course it had to strike him now, when it was too late. Flushing water. The Godfather. The gun. That's my favourite place.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck!'

Harry ran back into the toilet, grabbed the knob on top of the cistern and frantically began to loosen it. The rusty, red screw came into view. 'Faster,' he whispered. His heart accelerated as he twisted the knob and the damned rod went round and round with a groan but refused to come off. He heard a door slam down in the stairwell. Then it came off and he lifted the cistern lid. The harsh sound of porcelain on porcelain resounded in the semi-dark as the water continued to rise. Harry stuck his hand inside and his fingers brushed against the slippery coating of the tank. What the fuck? Nothing? He turned over the cistern lid, and there it was. Taped to the inside. He took a deep breath. Every notch, every indentation, every jagged edge of the key under the shiny tape was an old friend. It fitted Harry's front entrance, the cellar and his flat. The picture beside it was equally well known. The missing photograph in the mirror. Sis was smiling and Harry was trying to look tough. A summer tan and blissfully ignorant. However, Harry was not familiar with the white powder in the plastic bag attached by three broad pieces of black gaffer tape, but he was willing to bet a tidy sum it was diacetyl morphine, better known as heroin. A lot of heroin. Six years' unconditional, at least. Harry didn't touch anything, just replaced the lid and began to screw it back while listening for footsteps. As Beate had pointed out, the evidence would be worth diddly if it was discovered that Harry had been in the flat without a warrant. The knob was back in position and he ran for the door. Had no choice, opened the door and stepped onto the landing. Shuffling steps were on their way up. He closed the door quietly, peeped over the railings and saw a dark, thick mop of hair. In five seconds he would see Harry. Three long strides up to the fifth floor would be enough to keep Harry out of sight.

The man stopped abruptly when he spotted Harry sitting in front of him.

'Hi, Alf,' Harry said, looking at his watch. 'I've been waiting for you.'

The man stared at him with large eyes. A pale, freckled face was framed by greasy, shoulder-length hair with a Liam Gallagher cut around his ears. He did not remind Harry of a hard-bitten killer but a young lad frightened of more beatings.

'What do you want?' the man asked in a loud, high-pitched voice.

'I want you to come with me to Police HQ.'

The man reacted spontaneously. He swivelled, grabbed the railings and jumped down to the landing beneath. 'Hey!' Harry shouted, but the man had already disappeared from view. The heavy smack of feet as they hit the fifth or sixth step echoed up the stairwell.

'Gunnerud!'

Harry heard the downstairs door slam by way of response.

He reached inside his jacket pocket and realised he didn't have any cigarettes. Now it was the cavalry's turn.

Tom Waaler turned down the music, pulled the bleeping mobile phone from his pocket, pressed the green button and put the phone to his ear. At the other end he could hear breathing coming in quick, nervous pants, and traffic.

'Hello?' said the voice. 'Are you there?' It was the Knave. He sounded terrified.

'What's up, Knave?'

'Oh, God, there you are. All hell's broken loose. You've got to help me. Quick.'

'I don't have to do anything. Answer the question.'

'They've found us. There was a cop on the stairs waiting for me to come home.'

Waaler stopped at the zebra crossing before Ringveien. An old man, with strange, miniscule steps, was making his way across. He seemed to be taking for ever.

'What did he want?' Waaler asked.

'What do you think? To arrest me, I suppose.'

'And why haven't you been arrested?'

'I ran like fuck. Legged it straight away. But they're after me. Three police cars have driven by already. Do you hear? They'll get me unless-'

'Don't shout on the phone. Where were the other officers?'

'I didn't see any others. I just took off.'

'And you got away so easily? Are you sure the guy was a policeman?'

'Yes, it was him, wasn't it!'

'Who?'

'Harry Hole, I suppose. He was in the shop again recently.'

'You didn't tell me.'

'It's a locksmith's. There are police there all the time!'

The lights changed to green. Waaler hooted at the car in front. 'OK, let's talk about it later. Where are you now?'

'I'm in a telephone box in front of er…the Law Courts.' He laughed nervously. 'And I don't like it here.'

'Is there anything in your flat that shouldn't be there?'

'It's clean. All the equipment is in the chalet.'

'And what about you? Are you clean?'

'You know very well I'm off the habit. Are you coming or what? Fuck me, my whole body's shaking.'

'Just take it easy, Knave.' Waaler calculated how long it would take him. Tryvann. Police HQ. City centre. 'Think of it as a bank job. I'll give you a pill when I get there.'

'I've told you, I've given up.' He hesitated. 'I didn't know you carried pills around with you, Prince.'

'Always.'

Silence.

'What have you got?'

'Mother's Arms. Rohypnol. Have you got the Jericho I gave you?'

'Always.'

'Good. Now listen carefully. Our meeting place is the quay to the east of the container terminal. I'm quite a distance away so you'll have to give me forty minutes.'

'What are you talking about? You've got to come here, for fuck's sake! Now!'

Waaler listened to the breathing crackling against the membrane, without answering.

'If they get me, I'll take you with me. I hope you understand that, Prince. I'll sing if I can get off. I'm not fucking taking your rap if you-'

'That sounds like panic, Knave. And we don't need panic now. What guarantee do I have that you haven't already been arrested and this isn't a trap to set me up? Do you understand now? Come on your own and stand under a streetlight so I can see you clearly when I come.'

The Knave groaned: 'Shit! Shit! Shit!'

'Well?'

'Right. Fine. Bring the pills. Shit!'

'Container terminal in forty minutes. Under a light.'

'Don't be late.'

'Hang on, there's more. I'll park down the road from you. When I say so, hold the gun in the air so I can see it clearly.'

'What for? You paranoid, or what?'

'Let's just say the situation is a little unclear at the present moment and I'm not taking any chances. Do as I say.'

Waaler pressed the red button and looked at his watch. Flicked the volume control right round. Guitars. Beautiful pure noise. Beautiful pure fury.

Bjarne Mшller stepped into the flat and scanned the room with a disapproving expression.

'Cosy nook, isn't it,' Weber said.

'An old acquaintance, I heard?'

'Alf Gunnerud. At least the flat's in his name. There are loads of fingerprints here. Have to see whether they're his. Glass.' He pointed to a young man applying a thin brush to the window. 'Best prints are always on glass.'

'Since you're taking prints now, I assume you've found other things here?'

Weber pointed to a plastic bag on a floor rug with a number of other objects. Mшller crouched down and poked a finger through a split in the bag. 'Hm. Tastes like heroin. Must be close on half a kilo. And what's this?'

'A photograph of two children. We still don't know who they are. And a Trioving key which certainly doesn't fit this door.'

'If it's a system key, Trioving can soon tell us who the owner is. There's something familiar about the boy in the photo.'

'I thought so, too.'

'Fusiform gyrus,' a woman's voice said behind them.

'Frшken Lшnn,' Mшller said in surprise. 'What's Robberies Unit doing here?'

'It was me who got the tip-off there was heroin here. I was asked to call you in.'

'So you have informers in the narco family, too?'

'Bank robbers, narco, it's all one big happy family, you know.'

'Who was the informer?'

'No idea. He rang me at home after I'd gone to bed. Wouldn't give his name or say how he knew I was in the police. But the tip-off was so specific and detailed I took action and woke one of the police solicitors.'

'Hm,' Mшller said. 'Drugs. Previous conviction. Chance valuable evidence may be lost. You got the green light straight away, I imagine.'

'Yes.'

'I don't see a body, so why was I called?'

'The informer tipped me off about something else.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Alf Gunnerud is supposed to have known Anna Bethsen intimately. He was her lover and dealer. Until she dumped him for someone else while he was inside. What do you think about that, PAS Mшller?'

Mшller looked at her. 'I'm happy,' he said, without showing any reaction. 'Happier than you can imagine.'

He continued to look at her and, in the end, had to lower his gaze.

'Weber,' he said. 'I want you to cordon off this apartment and call in all the people you have at your disposal. We have a job to do.'