Killing Moon

11 Monday

Naked

As Harry entered the square in front of Oslo Central Station, he caught sight of Øystein Eikeland standing by the tiger statue, stamping his feet on the flagstones. Øystein was wearing a Vålerenga top, but the rest was pure Keith Richards. The hair, the wrinkles, scarf, eyeliner, cigarette, the emaciated frame.

As with Aune, Harry didn’t hug his childhood friend too hard, as though afraid even more of the people in his life would go to pieces.

‘Wow,’ Øystein said. ‘Nice suit. What were you doing over there? Running prostitutes? Selling coke?’

‘No, but I can see you are,’ Harry said, looking around. The people on the square were mostly commuters, tourists and office workers, but there were few places in Oslo where the sale of drugs took place as openly as here. ‘I have to admit I didn’t see that coming.’

‘No?’ Øystein said, adjusting his sunglasses, the hug having knocked them out of position. ‘I did. Should have started years ago. Not only does it pay better than driving a cab, it’s healthier too.’

‘Healthier?’

‘Gets me closer to the source. Everything going into this body now is high-quality stuff.’ He ran his hands down his sides.

‘Mm. And in moderate doses too?’

‘Course. How ’bout you?’

Harry shrugged. ‘At the moment, I’m trying out your Moderation Management programme. Not sure it’ll work out in the long run, but we’ll see.’

Øystein tapped a finger to his temple.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Harry said, and saw a young man in a parka standing a little further off staring at him. Even at this distance Harry could see that his eyes were blue and so wide open that the whites were visible all the way around his irises. He had both hands stuffed down in the deep pockets as though holding something.

‘Who’s that guy?’ Harry asked.

‘Oh, that’s Al. He can see you’re a cop.’

‘Pusher?’

‘Yeah. Nice guy, but odd. Bit like yourself.’

‘Me?’

‘Better looking than you of course. And smarter.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, you’re smart in your own way, Harry, but that guy he’s like nerd smart. You start talking about something and he knows everything about it, like he’s studied it or something, you know. What you got in common is both of you have that thing the ladies fall for. That whole charismatic loneliness schtick. And he’s a creature of habit, just like you.’

Harry saw Al turn away as though he didn’t want to show Harry his face.

‘Stands here from nine to five, off at the weekends,’ Øystein continued. ‘As if he had, like, a regular job. Likeable, as I said, but cautious, almost paranoid. Happy to talk shop, but won’t say anything about himself, exactly like you. Except this guy won’t even tell you his name.’

‘So Al is...’

‘I gave him the name from the Paul Simon song. “You Can Call Me Al”, y’know?’

Harry grinned.

‘You seem a bit jumpy and all yourself,’ Øystein said. ‘You OK?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I might have got a little paranoid myself over there.’

‘Yo,’ a voice sounded. ‘Got any coke?’

Harry turned and saw a boy in a hoodie.

‘You think I’m a dealer?’ Øystein hissed, ‘Get off home and do your homework!’

‘Aren’t you?’ Harry asked, as they watched the boy wander towards the guy in the parka.

‘Yeah, but not for kids that young. I leave that to Al and the West Africans on Torggata. Besides, I’m like a high-class hooker, mostly call-out.’ Øystein grinned, revealing a row of rotten teeth, and flashed a new, shiny Samsung mobile phone. ‘Deliveries to the door.’

‘Does that mean you have a car?’

‘Sure do. Bought that old Merc I was driving. Got it cheap from the taxi company owner. He said the customers were complaining about the smell of smoke, that he couldn’t get rid of it, and told me it was my fault. Hehe. I also forgot to remove the taxi sign from the roof, so I can drive in the bus lane. Speaking of the smell of smoke, you got a cig?’

‘I quit. And it looks to me like you have your own anyway.’

‘Yours always tasted better, Harry.’

‘Well. That’s over now.’

‘Yeah, I gather that’s the kind of thing California can do to a man.’

‘The car parked far away?’

From the sprung, worn-out front seats of the Mercedes they looked out over the seaward approach into Bjørvika, the attractive new urban quarter comprising Oslobukta and Sørenga, but where the newly built Munch Museum, a thirteen-storey mental patient in a straitjacket, blocked the view.

‘Christ, that’s ugly,’ Øystein said.

‘So what do you say?’ Harry asked.

‘Driver and general dogsbody?’

‘Yes. And if it turns out to have anything to do with the case, we may need an insider who can follow the cocaine trail to and from Markus Røed.’

‘So you’re sure he uses the marching powder?’

‘Sneezes. Has large, dilated pupils and sunglasses lying on the desk. His eyes dart all over the place.’

‘Nystagmus. But follow the trail from Røed, you say. Isn’t he, like, your client?’

‘My job is to solve a murder, probably two. Not to defend that man’s interests.’

‘And you think it’s about coke? If you said heroin, I might—’

‘I don’t think anything, Øystein, but when addiction is in the picture, it always plays a part. And I think at least one of the girls was a little too fond of blow too. She owed her dealer ten thousand kroner. So, are you in?’

Øystein studied the glow on his cigarette. ‘Why are you actually taking on this job, Harry?’

‘I told you, money.’

‘Y’know, that was what Dylan said when he was asked why he started with folk music and protest songs.’

‘And you think he was lying?’

‘I think it was one of the few times Dylan was telling the truth, but I think you’re lying. If I’m going to be part of this madness, I want to know why you’re in on it. So spit it out.’

Harry shook his head. ‘OK, Øystein, I’m not going to tell you everything, for your sake and for my own. You’re just going to have to trust me here.’

‘When was the last time that paid off?’

‘Don’t remember. Never?’

Øystein laughed. Pushed a CD into the player and turned up the volume. ‘Heard the latest from Talking Heads?’

‘Naked, 1987?’

‘’88.’

Øystein lit up cigarettes for both of them as ‘Blind’ streamed out of the loudspeakers. They smoked without rolling down the windows while David Byrne sang about signs being lost and signs disappearing. The smoke lay like a sea fog inside the car.

‘Have you ever had the feeling that you know you’re going to do something stupid, but do it all the same?’ Øystein asked, taking one last drag on the cigarette.

Harry stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘The other day I saw a mouse walk right up to a cat and get killed. What was that all about, you think?’

‘I dunno, you tell me. A lack of instinct for self-preservation?’

‘Some sort of urge, anyway. We’re drawn — some of us, at least — towards the edge of the precipice. They say it’s because the closeness to death intensifies the feeling of being alive. But fuck it, I don’t know.’

‘Well said,’ Øystein said.

They gazed at the Munch Museum.

‘I agree,’ Harry said. ‘Absolutely horrible.’

‘OK,’ Øystein said.

‘OK what?’

‘OK, I’ll take the job.’ Øystein stubbed his cigarette out on top of Harry’s. ‘It’s bound to be more fun than selling coke. Which is fucking boring, actually.’

‘Røed pays well.’

‘That’s all right, I’ll still take it.’

Harry smiled and took out his phone, which was vibrating. Saw a ‘T’ on the display.

‘Yes, Truls.’

‘I’ve checked that report from the Forensic Medical Institute you asked about. Susanne Andersen had stitches to her head. And they found saliva and mucus on one of her breasts. They ran an express DNA analysis but got no hits on the database of registered offenders.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

Harry hung up. That was it, what Katrine didn’t want to — or thought she couldn’t — tell him. Saliva. Mucus.

‘So where to, boss?’ Øystein asked, turning the key in the ignition.