Phantom

42

Harry was woken by the sun shining on one side of his face. Or was it a noise that had woken him?

He carefully opened one eye and peered around him.

Saw a living-room window and blue sky. No noise, not now at any rate.

He breathed in the smell of smoke-ingrained sofa and raised his head. Remembered where he was.

He had left the old man’s room for his own, calmly packed his canvas suitcase, exited the hotel via the back stairs and taken a taxi to the only place he could be sure no one would find him: the house belonging to Nybakk’s parents in Oppsal. It didn’t look as if anyone had been there since he left, and the first thing he did was to ransack the drawers in the kitchen and bathroom until he had a packet of painkillers. He had taken four tablets, washed the old man’s blood off his hands and gone down to the cellar to see if Stig Nybakk had made a decision.

He had.

Harry had gone back up, undressed, hung his clothes to dry in the bathroom, found a blanket and fallen asleep on the sofa before his mind could start churning.

Harry rose and went to the kitchen. Took two painkillers and washed them down with a glass of water. Opened the fridge and looked inside. There was a lot of gourmet food; he had clearly been feeding Irene well. The nausea from the previous day returned, and he knew it would be impossible to eat. Went back to the living room. He had seen the drinks cabinet yesterday as well. Had given it a wide berth before finding somewhere to sleep.

Harry opened the cabinet door. Empty. He breathed out with relief. Fumbled in his pocket. The sham wedding ring. And at that moment heard a sound.

The same one he thought he had heard when he was waking up.

He went over to the open cellar door. Listened. Joe Zawinul? He descended and headed for the storeroom door. Peered through the wire. Stig Nybakk was twirling slowly, like an astronaut, weightless in space. Harry wondered if the mobile phone vibrating in Stig’s trouser pocket could be functioning as a propeller. The ringtone — the four, or actually three, notes from ‘Palladium’ by Weather Report — sounded like a call signal from the beyond. And that was exactly what Harry was thinking as he took out the phone, that it was Nybakk ringing, wanting to talk to him.

Harry looked at the number on the display. And pressed the answer button. He recognised the voice of the receptionist at the Radium Hospital. ‘Stig! Hello! Are you there? Can you hear me? We’ve been trying to reach you, Stig. Where are you? You should have been here for a meeting, several meetings. We’re worried. Martin was at your house, but you weren’t there either. Stig?’

Harry hung up and put the phone in his pocket. He would need it; Martine’s had been ruined in the swim.

From the kitchen he fetched a chair and sat on the veranda. Sat there with the morning sun on his face. Took out his pack of smokes, stuck one of the stupid black cigarettes into his mouth and lit up. It would have to do. He dialled the number he knew so well.

‘Rakel.’

‘Hi. It’s me.’

‘Harry? I didn’t recognise your number.’

‘I’ve got a new phone.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear your voice. Did everything go OK?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said and had to smile at the happiness in her voice. ‘Everything went OK.’

‘Is it hot?’

‘Very hot. The sun’s shining, and I’m about to have breakfast.’

‘Breakfast? Isn’t it four o’clock or thereabouts?’

‘Jet lag,’ Harry said. ‘Couldn’t sleep on the plane. I’ve found us a great hotel. It’s in Sukhumvit.’

‘You’ve no idea how much I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Harry.’

‘I-’

‘No, wait, Harry. I mean it. I’ve been awake all night thinking about it. This is absolutely right. That is, we’ll find out if it is. But this is what’s right about it. Finding out. Oh, imagine if I’d said no, Harry.’

‘Rakel-’

‘I love you, Harry. Love you. Do you hear me? Can you hear how flat, strange and fantastic the word is? You really have to mean it to pull it off — like a bright-red dress. Love you. Is that a bit OTT?’

She laughed. Harry closed his eyes and felt the most wonderful sun in the world kiss his skin and the most wonderful laughter in the world kiss his eardrums.

‘Harry? Are you there?’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘It’s so strange. You sound so near.’

‘Mm. I’ll soon be very near, darling.’

‘Say that again.’

‘Say what?’

‘Darling.’

‘Darling.’

‘Mmmm.’

Harry could feel he was sitting on something. Something hard in his back pocket. He took it out. The sun made the veneer on the ring shine like gold.

‘Rakel,’ he said, stroking the black notch with the tip of his finger. ‘How would you feel about getting married?’

‘Harry, don’t mess about.’

‘I’m not messing about. I know you could never imagine marrying a debt collector from Hong Kong.’

‘No, not at all. Who should I imagine marrying then?’

‘I don’t know. What about a civilian, an ex-police officer, who lectures at Police College about murder investigations?’

‘Doesn’t sound like anyone I know.’

‘Perhaps someone you might get to know. Someone who could surprise you. Stranger things have happened.’

‘You’re the one who’s always said people don’t change.’

‘So if now I’m someone who says people can change, there’s the proof that it is possible to change.’

‘Glib bastard.’

‘Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that I’m right. People can change. And it is possible to put things behind you.’

‘To outstare the ghosts that haunt you?’

‘Then what would you say?’

‘To what?’

‘To my hypothetical question of getting married.’

‘Is that supposed to be a proposal? Hypothetical? On the phone?’

‘Now you’re stretching it a bit. I’m just sitting in the sun and chatting with a charming woman.’

‘And I’m ringing off!’

She hung up, and Harry slumped down on the kitchen chair with closed eyes and a fat grin. Sun-warmed and pain-free. In fourteen hours he would see her. He imagined Rakel’s expression when she came to the gate in Gardermoen and saw him sitting there waiting for her. Her face as Oslo shrank beneath them. Her head gliding onto his shoulder as she fell asleep.

He lay like that until the temperature plummeted. He half opened one eye. The edge of a cloud had drifted in front of the sun, nothing more.

Closed the eye again.

Follow the hatred.

When the old man had said that Harry had at first thought he meant Harry should follow his own hatred and kill him. But what about if he had meant something else? He had said it straight after Harry asked who had killed Gusto. Had that been the answer? Did he mean that if Harry followed the hatred it would lead him to the murderer? In which case there were several candidates. But who had the greatest reason to hate Gusto? Irene, of course, but she had been locked up when Gusto was killed.

The sun was switched back on, and Harry decided he was reading too much into the old man’s words, the job was over, he should relax, he would soon need another tablet. And he should ring Hans Christian to say that Oleg was finally out of danger.

Another thought struck Harry. Truls Berntsen, a rogue officer at Orgkrim, could not possibly have access to the data in the witness protection programme. It had to be someone else. Someone higher up.

Hold on there, he thought. Hold on for Christ’s sake. They can all go to hell. Think about the flight. The night flight. The stars over Russia.

Then he went back to the cellar, considered whether to cut down Nybakk, rejected the idea and found the jemmy he had been looking for.

The main door to Hausmanns gate 92 was open, but the door to the flat had been resealed and locked. Perhaps because of the recent confession, Harry thought, before inserting the jemmy between the door and the frame.

Inside, everything seemed untouched. The stripes of morning sunlight lay across the sitting-room floor like piano keys.

He deposited the little canvas suitcase against the wall and sat on one of the mattresses. Checked to see that he had the plane ticket in his inside pocket. Glanced at his watch. Thirteen hours to take-off.

Looked around. Closed his eyes. Tried to envisage the scene.

A man wearing a balaclava. Who didn’t say a word because he knew they would recognise his voice.

A man who had visited Gusto here. Who didn’t take anything from him, except his life. A man who hated.

The bullet had been a nine by eighteen millimetre Makarov, in all likelihood therefore the killer had used a Makarov gun. Or a Fort-12. At a pinch an Odessa if they were becoming standard equipment in Oslo. He had stood there. Fired. Left.

Harry listened, hoping the room would talk to him.

The seconds ticked by, became minutes.

A church bell rang.

There was nothing else to be gleaned here.

Harry got up and made to go.

Had reached the door when he heard a sound between the chiming bells. He waited until the next peal was over. There it was again, a gentle scratching. He tiptoed two paces back and gazed around the room.

It was by the threshold, with its back to Harry. A rat. Brown with a shiny, glistening tail, ears that were pink inside, the odd white speck on its coat.

Harry didn’t know what was keeping him there. A rat here, that was no more than one might expect.

It was the white specks.

It was as if the rat had been wading through washing powder. Or…

Harry looked around the room again. The big ashtray between the mattresses. He knew he would only have one chance, so he removed his shoes, slipped across the room during the next chime of the bell, grabbed the ashtray and stood perfectly still, one and a half metres from the rat, which had still not detected his presence. Did the calculation, timed it. As the bell rang he leapt forward with his arm outstretched. The rat’s reactions were too slow to avoid capture in the ceramic dish. Harry heard the hiss, felt it hurling itself backwards and forwards inside. He pushed the ashtray across the floor to the window where there was a pile of magazines, and placed them on top of the bowl. Then he began to search.

After going through various drawers and cupboards in the flat he still couldn’t find any string or thread.

He snatched the rag rug from the floor and pulled out a warp; the long strand of fabric would do the job. He made a loop at the end. Then he moved the magazines and lifted the ashtray, high enough to push his hand in. Braced himself for what he knew would happen next. As he felt the rat’s teeth sinking in to the soft flesh between thumb and first finger he flipped off the ashtray and grabbed the animal with his other hand. It hissed as Harry picked at the white grains stuck between hairs. Placed them on his tongue and tasted. Bitter. Overripe papaya. Violin. Someone had a stash close by.

Harry attached the loop to the rat’s tail and tightened it at the base. Set the animal down on the floor and let go. The rat shot off and the fabric ran through Harry’s hand. Home.

Harry followed. Into the kitchen. The rat darted in behind a greasy stove. Harry tipped the ancient heavyweight appliance onto its rear wheels and pulled it out. There was a fist-sized cavity in the wall through which the fabric disappeared.

Until it came to a stop.

Harry stuck his hand, which had already been bitten once, through the cavity. Felt the inside of the wall. Insulation batts to left and right. He felt above the cavity. Nothing. The insulation had been dug away. Harry secured the end of the fabric under one foot of the stove, went to the bathroom, unhooked the mirror, which was stained with saliva and phlegm, smashed it against the side of the basin and chose a suitably large fragment. Went into a bedroom, yanked a reading lamp from the wall and returned to the kitchen. He laid the chunk of mirror inside the cavity. Then he plugged the lamp in the socket beside the stove and shone it on the mirror. Pointed the lamp at the wall until the angle was right, and he saw it.

The stash.

It was a cloth bag, hanging from a hook half a metre above the floor.

The opening was too narrow to insert your hand and twist your arm up to reach the bag. Harry racked his brains. What tool had the owner used to reach his stash? He had been through several drawers and cupboards in the flat, so rewound through his database.

The wire.

He went back into the sitting room. That was where he had seen it the first time he and Beate were here. Protruding from under the mattress and bent at an angle of ninety degrees. Only the owner of the stiff wire would have known its purpose. Harry poked it through the cavity and used the bent end to unhook the bag.

It was heavy. As heavy as he had hoped. He would have to squeeze it out.

The bag had been hung up high so that the rats could barely reach it, yet still they had managed to nibble a hole in the bottom. Harry shook the bag and a few grains fell out. That explained the powder on the rat’s coat. Then he opened the bag. Took out three small bags of violin, probably quarters. There wasn’t a full junkie kit inside, only a spoon with a curved handle and a used syringe.

It lay at the bottom of the bag.

Harry used a dishcloth so as not to leave fingerprints on it as he lifted it out.

It was unmistakable. Lumpen, odd, almost comical. Foo Fighters. It was an Odessa. Harry sniffed the weapon. The smell of gunpowder can hang around for months after a pistol has been fired if it isn’t cleaned and oiled in the meantime. This one had been fired not so long ago. He checked the magazine. Eighteen. Two missing. Harry was in no doubt.

This was the murder weapon.

When Harry entered the toy shop on Storgata there were still twelve hours to take-off.

The shop had two different sets of fingerprint equipment to choose from. Harry chose the more expensive one, with a magnifying glass, an LED light, a soft brush, dusting powder in three colours, sticky tape for lifting prints and an album for storing the family’s fingerprints.

‘For my son,’ he explained as he paid.

The girl behind the cash desk put on her routine smile.

He walked back to Hausmanns gate and got down to work using the ridiculously small LED light to search for prints and sprinkling powder from one of the miniature cans. The brush was so small that he felt like a giant from Gulliver’s Travels.

There were prints on the gun handle.

And there was one clear one, probably a thumbprint, on one side of the syringe plunger, where there were also black dots that could have been anything at all, but Harry guessed it was gunpowder residue.

As soon as he had all the fingerprints on the cling film he compared them. The same person had held the gun and the syringe. Harry had checked the walls and the floor by the mattress and had found quite a few prints, but none of them matched those on the pistol.

He opened the canvas suitcase and the pocket inside, took out the contents and placed them on the kitchen table. Switched on the LED light.

Looked at his watch. Eleven hours to go. Oceans of time.

It was two o’clock and Hans Christian Simonsen looked strangely out of place as he entered Schroder’s.

Harry was sitting in the corner by the window, his favourite table.

Hans Christian sat down.

‘Good?’ he asked, nodding to the pot of coffee by Harry.

Harry shook his head.

‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Not at all. Saturday’s a free day. A free day and nothing to do. What’s up?’

‘Oleg can come home.’

The solicitor brightened up. ‘Does that mean…?’

‘Those who might be a danger to Oleg have gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Yes. Is he far away?’

‘No, twenty minutes outside town. Nittedal. What do you mean they’ve gone?’

Harry raised his coffee cup. ‘Sure you want to know, Hans Christian?’

The solicitor eyed Harry. ‘Does that mean you’ve solved the case as well?’

Harry didn’t answer.

Hans Christian leaned forward. ‘You know who killed Gusto, don’t you.’

‘Mm.’

‘How?’

‘A few matching fingerprints.’

‘And who-?’

‘Not important. But I’m leaving today, so it would be nice to say goodbye to Oleg.’

Hans Christian smiled. Pained, but a smile nonetheless. ‘Before you and Rakel leave, you mean?’

Harry twirled his coffee cup. ‘So she’s told you?’

‘We had lunch. I agreed to look after Oleg for a few days. I gather that some men will come from Hong Kong and collect him, some of your people. But I must have misunderstood something. You see, I thought you were in Bangkok.’

‘I was delayed. There’s something I want to ask you-’

‘She said more. She said you had proposed.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, in your way, of course.’

‘Well-’

‘And she said she’d thought about it.’

Harry held up a hand. He didn’t want to hear the rest.

‘The conclusion of her thoughts was no, Harry.’

Harry breathed out. ‘Good.’

‘So she’d stopped thinking about it, she said. And started feeling instead.’

‘Hans Christian-’

‘Her answer’s yes, Harry.’

‘Listen to me, Hans Christian-’

‘Didn’t you hear? She wants to marry you, Harry. Lucky bastard.’ Hans Christian’s face beamed as if with happiness, but Harry knew it was the glow of despair. ‘She said she wanted to be with you until the end of your days.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and his voice alternated between falsetto and husky. ‘She said she would have a terrible and nothing short of catastrophic time with you. She would have a fair-to-middling time with you. And she would have a fantastic time with you.’

Harry knew he was quoting her verbatim. And he knew why he was doing it. Because every word was seared into his heart.

‘How much do you love her?’ Harry asked.

‘I…’

‘Do you love her enough to take care of her and Oleg for the rest of her life?’

‘What?’

‘Answer me.’

‘Yes, of course, but-’

‘Swear.’

‘Harry.’

‘Swear, I said.’

‘I… I swear. But that doesn’t change anything.’

Harry smiled wryly. ‘You’re right. Nothing changes. Nothing can change. It can’t ever change. The river flows along the same damned course.’

‘This makes no sense. I don’t understand.’

‘You will,’ Harry said. ‘And she will, too.’

‘But… you love each other. She said that straight out. You’re the love of her life, Harry.’

‘And she mine. Always has been. Always will be.’

Hans Christian regarded Harry with a mixture of bewilderment and something that resembled sympathy. ‘And yet you don’t want her?’

‘There is nothing I would rather have than her. But it’s not certain I’ll be here for much longer. And if I’m not, you’ve made me a promise.’

Hans Christian snorted. ‘Aren’t you being a trifle melodramatic, Harry? I don’t even know if she’ll have me.’

‘Convince her.’ The pains in his neck seemed to be making it more difficult for him to breathe. ‘Do you promise?’

Hans Christian nodded, and said, ‘I’ll try.’

Harry hesitated. Then he proffered his hand.

They shook.

‘You’re a good man, Hans Christian. I’ve got you saved under H.’ He lifted his mobile phone. ‘You’ve replaced Halvorsen.’

‘Who?’

‘Just a former colleague I hope to see again. I have to go now.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Meet Gusto’s murderer.’

Harry rose, turned to the counter and saluted to Rita, who waved back.

Once outside and striding across the road between cars, there was an explosion behind his eyes, and his throat felt as if it would be torn apart. And in Dovregata came the gall. He stood bent double by the wall in the middle of the quiet street and brought up Rita’s bacon, eggs and coffee. Then he straightened and walked on down Hausmanns gate.

In the end it had been a simple decision, despite everything.

I was sitting on a filthy mattress and felt my petrified heart throbbing as I rang. I hoped he would pick up the phone, and I hoped he wouldn’t.

I was about to hang up when he answered, and there was my foster-brother’s voice, lifeless and clear.

‘Stein.’

I have occasionally considered how apt that name is. Stone. An impenetrable surface with a rock-hard centre. Impassive, bleak, heavy. But even rocks have a weak point, a place where a soft blow from a sledgehammer can make them split. In Stein’s case it was easy.

I cleared my throat. ‘It’s Gusto. I know where Irene is.’

I heard light breathing. Stein’s breathing was always light.

He could run and run for hours, needed almost no oxygen. Or a reason to run.

‘Where?’

‘That’s the thing,’ I said. ‘I know where, but it’ll cost you to find out.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I need it.’

It was like a wave of heat. No, of cold. I could feel his hatred. Heard him swallow.

‘How mu-’

‘Five thousand.’

‘Fine.’

‘I mean ten.’

‘You said five.’

Fuck.

‘But it’s urgent,’ I said, even though I knew he was already on his feet.

‘Fine. Where are you?’

‘Hausmanns gate 92. The lock on the door’s broken. Second floor.’

‘I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere.’

Go anywhere? I took a couple of dog-ends from the ashtray in the sitting room and lit up in the kitchen amid the deafening afternoon silence. Shit, it was so hot in here. Something rustled. I followed the noise. The rat again, scurrying along by the wall.

It came from behind the stove. Had a nice hiding place there.

I smoked dog-end number two.

Then I jumped up.

The stove weighed a bloody ton, until I discovered it had two wheels at the back.

The rathole was bigger than it ought to have been.

Oleg, Oleg, my dear friend. You’re smart, but this particular ruse you learned from me.

I fell on my knees. I was on a high even while working with the wire. My fingers shook so much I felt like biting them off. I could feel I had it, but then I lost it. It had to be violin. Had to be!

Then at long last I got a nibble, and it was a big ’un. I reeled it in. A large, heavy cloth bag. I opened it. It had to be, had to be!

A rubber tube, a spoon, a syringe. And three small transparent packages. The white powder inside was flecked with brown. My heart sang. I was reunited with the only friend and lover I have always been able to rely on.

I stuffed two of the packages in my pocket and opened the third. Now I had enough for a week if I was frugal, I just had to shoot up and vamoose before Stein or anyone else came. I sprinkled some powder onto the spoon, flicked my lighter. I usually added a few drops of lemon, the kind you buy in bottles and people put in tea. The lemon juice prevented the powder from going clumpy and you got all of it in the syringe. But I had neither the lemon nor the patience, now there was only one thing that mattered: getting the shit into my bloodstream.

I wrapped the tube round the top of my arm, put the end between my teeth and pulled. Found a big blue vein. Angled the syringe to give myself the biggest target and reduce the shaking. Because I was shaking. Shaking like hell.

I missed.

Once. Twice. Breathed in. Don’t think too much now, don’t be too keen, don’t panic.

The needle wobbled. I took a stab at the blue worm.

Missed again.

I fought against my despair. Thought I might smoke a bit of it first, to compose myself. But it was the rush I wanted, the kick you get when the whole dose hits the blood, goes straight to the brain, the orgasm, the free fall!

The heat and the sunlight, they were blinding me. I moved to the sitting room, sat in the shadow by the wall. Shit, now I couldn’t even see the sodding vein! Take it easy. I waited for my pupils to dilate. Luckily my forearms were as white as cinema screens. The vein looked like a river on a map of Greenland. Now.

Missed.

I didn’t have the energy for this, felt tears coming. A shoe creaked.

I had been concentrating so hard that I hadn’t heard him come in.

And when I looked up my eyes were so full of tears that shapes were distorted, like in a fricking fairground mirror.

‘Hi, Thief.’

I hadn’t heard anyone call me that for ages.

I blinked away the tears. And the shapes became familiar. Yes, now I recognised everything. Even the gun. It hadn’t been nicked from the rehearsal room by passing burglars, as I had thought.

The weird thing was I wasn’t frightened. Not at all. All of a sudden I was quite calm.

I looked down at the vein again.

‘Don’t do it,’ said the voice.

I studied my hand. It was as steady as a pickpocket’s. This was my chance.

‘I’ll shoot you.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Because then you’ll never find out where Irene is.’

‘Gusto!’

‘I’m doing what I have to do,’ I said and stabbed. Hit the vein. Raised my thumb to press the plunger. ‘So you can do what you have to do.’

The church bells started chiming again.

Harry sat in the shadow by the wall. The light from the street lamp outside fell on the mattresses. He checked his watch. Nine. Three hours to the Bangkok flight. The pains in his neck had suddenly got worse. Like the heat from the sun before it disappears behind a cloud. But soon the sun would be gone; soon he would be out of pain. Harry knew how this had to end. It was as inevitable as his return to Oslo. Just as he knew that the human need for order and cohesion meant he would manipulate his mind into seeing a kind of logic to it. Because the notion that everything is no more than cold chaos, that there is no meaning, is harder to bear than even the worst, though comprehensible, tragedy.

He groped inside his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes and felt the knife handle against his fingertips. Had a feeling he should have got rid of it. A curse lay over it. Over him. But it wouldn’t have made any difference; he had been cursed long before the knife appeared. And the curse was worse than any knife; it said that his love was a plague he carried around with him. Just as Asayev had said the knife transmitted the suffering and sickness of its owner to whoever had been stabbed by it, all those who had allowed themselves to be loved by Harry had been made to pay. Had been destroyed, taken from him. Only the ghosts were left. All of them. And soon Rakel and Oleg would be ghosts as well.

He opened the pack and looked inside.

What was it he had imagined? That he would be allowed to escape the curse? That he would be able to flee to the other side of the globe with them and live happily ever after? He was thinking this as he checked his watch again, wondering how late he could leave and still make the flight. This was his selfish, greedy heart he was listening to.

He took out the dog-eared family photo and looked at it again. At Irene. And the brother, Stein. The one with the grey look. Harry had had two hits in his memory database when he met him. One was from this photograph. The second was the night Harry came to Oslo. He had been to Kvadraturen. The close scrutiny to which Stein had subjected him made Harry think he was a policeman at first, but he was wrong. Very wrong.

Then he heard the footsteps on the stairs.

The church bells chimed. They sounded so frail and lonely.

Truls Berntsen stopped on the top step and stared at the front door. Felt his heart beating. They were going to see each other again. He looked forward to the meeting and yet dreaded it. Inhaled.

And rang.

Straightened his tie. He did not feel comfortable in a suit. But he had known there was no way out when Mikael had told him who was coming to the housewarming party. All the top brass, from the outgoing Chief of Police and unit heads to their old Crime Squad rival, Gunnar Hagen. Politicians would be there, too. The foxy council woman whose pictures he had stared at, Isabelle Skoyen. And a couple of TV celebs. Truls had no idea how Mikael had got to know them.

The door opened.

Ulla.

‘You look nice, Truls,’ she said. Hostess smile. Glittering eyes. But he knew at once he was too early.

He just nodded, unable to say what he should have said, that she looked very attractive herself.

She gave him a quick hug, said to come in. They would be welcoming guests with glasses of champagne but she hadn’t poured them yet. She smiled, wrung her hands and cast semi-panicked glances at the staircase to the first floor. Probably hoping that Mikael would come soon and take over. But Mikael must have been changing, inspecting himself in the mirror, checking every hair was in the right place.

Ulla was speaking a bit too fast about people from their childhood in Manglerud. Did Truls know what they were doing now?

Truls didn’t.

‘Don’t have much contact with them any more,’ he answered. Even though he was fairly sure she knew he had never had any contact with them. Not one of them, not Goggen, Jimmy, Anders or Krokke. Truls had one friend: Mikael. And he too had made sure to keep Truls at arm’s length as he had risen through the ranks socially and professionally.

They had run out of things to say. She had run out. He hadn’t had anything to say from the start. A pause.

‘Women, Truls? Anything new there?’

‘Nothing new there, nope.’ He tried to say it in the same jokey tone as she had. He really could have done with the welcome drink now.

‘Is there really no one who can capture your heart?’

She had tilted her head and winked one smiling eye, but he could see she was already regretting her question. Perhaps because she could see his flushed face. Or perhaps because she knew the answer. That you, you, you, Ulla, could capture my heart. He had walked three steps behind the super-couple Mikael and Ulla in Manglerud, been ever-present, ever at their service, though this was gainsaid by the sullen, indifferent I’m-bored-but-I-have-nothing-better-on-offer look. While his heart had burned for her, while from the corner of his eye he had registered her every movement or expression. He could not have her, it was an impossibility, he knew. Yet he had yearned the way people yearn to fly.

Then at last Mikael strode down the stairs, pulling down his shirtsleeves so that the cufflinks could be seen under the dinner jacket.

‘Truls!’

It sounded like the somewhat exaggerated heartiness usually reserved for people you don’t really know. ‘Why the long face, old friend? We have a palace to celebrate!’

‘I thought it was the Chief of Police job we were celebrating,’ Truls said, looking round. ‘I saw it on the news today.’

‘A leak. It’s not been formally announced yet. But it’s your terrace we’re going to pay tribute to today, Truls, isn’t it? How’s it going with the champagne, dear?’

‘I’ll pour it now,’ Ulla said, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her husband’s shoulder and departing.

‘Do you know Isabelle Skoyen?’ Truls asked.

‘Yes,’ Mikael said, still smiling. ‘She’s coming this evening. Why?’

‘Nothing.’ Truls inhaled. It had to be now, or not at all. ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering about.’

‘Yes?’

‘A few days ago I was sent on a job to arrest a guy at Leon, the hotel, you know?’

‘I think I know it, yes.’

‘But while I was in the middle of the arrest two other policemen I don’t know turned up, and they wanted to arrest us both.’

‘Double booking?’ Mikael laughed. ‘Talk to Finn. He coordinates operational matters.’

Truls slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t think it was a double booking.’

‘No?’

‘I think someone sent me there on purpose.’

‘You mean it was a wind-up?’

‘It was a wind-up, yes,’ Truls said, searching Mikael’s eyes, but found no indication that he understood what Truls was actually talking about. Could he have been mistaken after all? Truls swallowed.

‘So I was wondering if you knew anything about it, if you might have been in on it.’

‘Me?’ Mikael leaned back and burst out laughing. And when Truls saw into his mouth he remembered how Mikael had always returned from the school dentist with zero cavities. Not even Karius and Bactus got the better of him.

‘I wish I had been! Tell me, did they lay you out on the floor and cuff you?’

Truls eyed Mikael. Saw he had been wrong. So he laughed along with him. From relief as much as at the image of himself being sat on by two other officers, and because Mikael’s infectious laughter always invited him to laugh along. No, commanded him to laugh along. But it had also enveloped him, warmed him, made him part of something, a member of something, a duo consisting of him and Mikael Bellman. Friends. He heard his own grunted laughter as Mikael’s faded.

‘Did you really think I was in on it, Truls?’ Mikael asked with a pensive expression.

Truls, smiling, looked at him. Thought about how Dubai had found his way to him, thought of the boy Truls had beaten to blindness in remand. Who could have told Dubai that? Thought of the blood the SOC group had found under Gusto’s nail in Hausmanns gate, the blood Truls had contaminated before it got as far as a DNA test. But some of which he had procured and kept. It was evidence such as this that could be valuable one rainy day. And since it had definitely begun to rain, he had driven to the Pathology Unit this morning with the blood. And been given the result before coming here this evening. The test suggested, so far, that it was the same blood and nail fragments as those received from Beate Lonn a few days ago. Didn’t they talk to each other down there? Didn’t they think they had enough to do at Forensics? Truls had apologised and rung off. And considered the answer. The blood under Gusto Hanssen’s nails came from Mikael Bellman.

Mikael and Gusto.

Mikael and Rudolf Asayev.

Truls fingered the knot of his tie. It hadn’t been his father who taught him how to do it; he couldn’t even tie his own. It had been Mikael who had taught him when they were going to the end-of-school party. He had shown Truls how to tie a simple Windsor knot, and when Truls had asked why Mikael’s knot seemed so much fatter Mikael had answered that it was because it was a double Windsor, but it was unlikely to suit Truls.

Mikael’s gaze rested on him. He was still waiting for an answer to his question. Why Truls thought Mikael had been in on the stunt.

Been in on the decision to murder him and Harry Hole at Hotel Leon.

The doorbell rang, but Mikael didn’t move.

Truls pretended to be scratching his forehead while using his fingertips to dry the sweat.

‘No,’ he said and heard his own grunted laugh. ‘An idea, that’s all. Forget it.’

The stairs creaked under Stein Hanssen’s weight. He could feel every step and predict every creak and groan. He stopped at the top. Knocked on the door.

‘Come in,’ he heard from inside.

Stein Hanssen entered.

The first thing he saw was the suitcase.

‘Packed and ready?’ he asked.

A nod.

‘Did you find the passport?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve ordered a taxi to take you to the airport.’

‘I’m coming.’

‘OK.’ Stein looked around. The way he had in the other rooms. Said his farewells. Told them he wouldn’t be coming back. And listened to the echoes of their childhood. Father’s encouraging voice. Mother’s secure voice. Gusto’s enthusiastic voice. Irene’s happy voice. The only one he didn’t hear was his own. He had been silent.

‘Stein?’ Irene was holding a photograph in her hand. Stein knew which one, she had pinned it over her bed the same evening Simonsen, the solicitor, had brought her here. The photograph showing her with Gusto and Oleg.

‘Yes?’

‘Did you ever feel a desire to kill Gusto?’

Stein didn’t answer. Just thought of that evening.

The phone call from Gusto saying he knew where Irene was. Running to Hausmanns gate. And arriving: the police cars. The voices around him saying the boy inside was dead, shot. And the feeling of excitement. Yes, almost happiness. And after that, the shock. The grief. Yes, in a way he had grieved over Gusto. At the same time as nursing a hope that Irene would at last be clean. That hope had of course been extinguished as the days passed and he realised that Gusto’s death meant he had missed out on the chance to find her.

She was pale. Withdrawal symptoms. It was going to be tough. But they would manage. They would manage between them.

‘Shall we…?’

‘Yes,’ she said, opening the bedside-table drawer. Looking at the photograph. Pressing her lips against it and putting it in the drawer, face down.

Harry heard the door open.

He was sitting motionless in the darkness. Listened to the footsteps cross the sitting-room floor. Saw the movements by the mattresses. Glimpsed the wire as it caught the street lamp outside. The steps went into the kitchen. And the light came on. Harry heard the stove being moved.

He rose and followed.

Harry stood in the doorway watching him on his knees in front of the rathole, opening the bag with trembling hands. Placing objects beside each other. The syringe, the rubber tubing, the spoon, the lighter, the gun. The packages of violin.

The threshold creaked as Harry shifted weight, but the boy didn’t notice, just carried on with his feverish activity.

Harry knew it was the craving. The brain was focused on one thing. He coughed.

The boy stiffened. The shoulders hunched, but he didn’t turn. Sat without moving, his head bowed, staring down at the stash. Didn’t turn.

‘I thought so,’ Harry said. ‘That this is where you would come first. You reckoned the coast was clear now.’

The boy still hadn’t moved.

‘Hans Christian told you we found her for you, didn’t he? Yet you had to come here first.’

The boy got up. And again it struck Harry. How tall he’d become. A man, almost.

‘What do you want, Harry?’

‘I’ve come to arrest you, Oleg.’

Oleg frowned. ‘For possession of a couple of bags of violin?’

‘Not for dope, Oleg. For the murder of Gusto.’

‘Don’t!’ he repeated.

But I had the needle deep into a vein, which was trembling with expectation.

‘I thought it would be Stein or Ibsen,’ I said. ‘Not you.’

I didn’t see his fricking foot coming. It hit the needle, which sailed through the air and landed at the back of the kitchen, by the sink full of dishes.

‘Fuck’s sake, Oleg,’ I said, looking up at him.

Oleg stared at Harry for a long time.

It was a serious, calm stare, without any real surprise. More like it was testing the lie of the land, trying to find its bearings.

And when he did speak, Oleg sounded more curious than angry or confused.

‘But you believed me, Harry. When I told you it was someone else, someone with a balaclava, you believed me.’

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘I did believe you. Because I so wanted to believe you.’

‘But, Harry,’ Oleg said softly, gazing down at the bag of powder he had opened, ‘if you can’t believe your best friend what can you believe?’

‘Evidence,’ Harry said, feeling his throat thicken.

‘What evidence? We found explanations for the evidence, Harry. You and I, we crushed the evidence between us.’

‘The other evidence. The new stuff.’

‘Which new stuff?’

Harry pointed to the floor by Oleg. ‘The gun there is an Odessa. It uses the same calibre as Gusto was shot with, Makarov, nine by eighteen millimetres. Whatever happens, the ballistics report will state with one hundred per cent certainty that this gun is the murder weapon, Oleg. And it has your dabs on it. Only yours. If anyone else used it and wiped their prints afterwards, yours would have been removed as well.’

Oleg touched the gun, as if to confirm it was the one they were talking about.

‘And then there’s the syringe,’ Harry said. ‘There are lots of fingerprints on it, perhaps from two people. But it is definitely your thumbprint on the plunger. The plunger you have to press when you’re shooting up. And on that print there are particles of gunpowder, Oleg.’

Oleg ran a finger along the syringe. ‘Why is there new evidence against me?’

‘Because you said in your statement you were high when you came into the room. But the gunpowder particles prove you injected the needle after because you had the particles on you. It proves you shot Gusto first and injected yourself afterwards. You were not high at the moment of the act, Oleg. This was premeditated murder.’

Oleg nodded slowly. ‘And you’ve checked my fingerprints on the gun and the syringe against the police register. So they already know that I-’

‘I haven’t contacted the police. I’m the only person who knows about this.’

Oleg swallowed. Harry saw the tiny movements in his throat. ‘How do you know they’re my prints if you didn’t check with the police?’

‘I had other prints I could compare them with.’

Harry took his hand from his coat pocket. Placed the Game Boy on the kitchen table.

Oleg stared at the Game Boy. Blinked and blinked as though he had something in his eye.

‘What made you suspect me?’ he whispered.

‘The hatred,’ Harry said. ‘The old man, Rudolf Asayev, said I should follow the hatred.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘He’s the man you called Dubai. It took me a while to realise he was referring to his own hatred. Hatred for you. Hatred for the fact that you killed his son.’

‘Son?’ Oleg raised his head and looked blankly at Harry.

‘Yes. Gusto was his son.’

Oleg dropped his gaze, squatted and stared at the floor. ‘If…’ He shook his head. Started afresh. ‘If it’s true Dubai was Gusto’s father and if he hated me so much why didn’t he make sure I was killed in prison straight away?’

‘Because you were exactly where he wanted you. Because for him prison was worse than death. Prison eats your soul, death only liberates it. Prison was what he wished for those he hated most. You, Oleg. And he had total control over what you did there. It was only when you began to talk to me that you represented a danger, and he had to be content with killing you. But he didn’t manage that.’

Oleg closed his eyes. Sat like that, still on his haunches. As though he had an important race in front of him, and now they just had to be quiet and concentrate.

The town was playing its music outside: the cars, a distant foghorn, a half-hearted siren, noise as the sum of human activity, like the anthill’s perpetual, relentless rustle, monotonous, soporific, secure like a warm duvet.

Oleg slowly leaned over without taking his eyes off Harry.

Harry shook his head.

But Oleg grabbed the gun. Carefully, as though afraid it would explode in his hands.