Killing Moon

7 Sunday

Harry was sitting in the passenger seat of a 1970 Volvo Amazon. Bjørn was next to him and they were singing along to a Hank Williams song playing at an irregular speed on Bjørn’s cassette player. Every time they stopped singing, a soft whimpering could be heard from a child in the back seat. The car began to shake. Odd, seeing as they were parked.

Harry opened his eyes and looked up at the flight attendant who was shaking him gently on his shoulder.

‘We’ll be landing soon, sir,’ she said from behind the face mask. ‘Please fasten your seat belt.’

She removed the empty glass from in front of him, manoeuvred the table to the side and down into the armrest. Business class. He had, at the last moment, decided to put on his suit and leave everything else, not even taking hand luggage along. Harry yawned and looked out the window. Forest passed below. Lakes. And then: city. More city. Oslo. Then forest again. He thought about the quick phone call he had made before they took off from LAX. To Ståle Aune, the psychologist who had been his regular collaborator on murder cases. Thought about his voice, which had sounded so different. About him telling Harry he had tried to reach him several times over the past few months. Harry’s answer, that he’d had the phone switched off. Ståle saying it wasn’t that important, he had only wanted to tell him that he was ill. Pancreatic cancer.

The flight from LA should, according to the schedule, take thirteen hours. Harry looked at his watch. Converted it into Norwegian time. Sunday 08.55. Sunday was a day of abstinence, but if he defined himself as still being on LA time, it was Saturday for another five minutes. He looked up at the ceiling for the call button before remembering that in business class it was on the remote control. He located it wedged into the console. He pressed, and a sonar ping sounded at the same time as a light came on above him.

She was there in under ten seconds. ‘Yes, sir?’

But within those ten seconds Harry had sufficient time to count the number of drinks he’d had in the course of his LA Saturday. Full quota. Shit.

‘Sorry,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘Nothing.’

Harry was standing in the duty-free in front of the shelf of whiskey bottles when a text pinged to let him know the car Krohn had arranged was waiting for him outside the arrivals hall. Harry answered ‘OK’, and — while he had the phone out — tapped on K.

Rakel sometimes joked about the fact he had so few friends, colleagues and contacts that one initial was all he needed for each.

‘Katrine Bratt.’ Her voice sounded tired, drowsy.

‘Hi, it’s Harry.’

‘Harry? Really?’ It sounded like she had sat up in bed. ‘I saw it was an American number, so I—’

‘I’m in Norway now. Just landed. Did I wake you?’

‘No. Or yeah, sort of. We have a possible double homicide, so I was working late. My mother-in-law is here looking after Gert, so I’m catching up on some sleep. Jesus, you’re alive.’

‘Apparently. How are things?’

‘OK. Not too bad, actually, considering the circumstances. I was just talking about you last Friday. What are you doing in Oslo?’

‘A couple of things. I’m going to visit Ståle Aune.’

‘Shit, yeah, I heard. Cancer of the pancreas, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t have the details. Have you time for a coffee?’

He noticed there was a moment’s hesitation before she replied: ‘Why don’t you come over here instead and have dinner?’

‘At your place, you mean?’

‘Yeah, sure. My mother-in-law is a terrific cook.’

‘Well. If it’s OK, then...’

‘Six o’clock? Then you’ll get to say hello to Gert too.’

Harry shut his eyes. Tried to recall the dream. Volvo Amazon. The whimpering child. She knew. Of course she knew. Had she realised that he knew as well? Did she want him to know?

‘Six o’clock is great,’ he said.

They hung up, and he looked at the shelf of whiskey bottles again.

There was a shelf of cuddly toy animals right behind it.

The car moved slowly through the mostly pedestrianised streets of Tjuv-holmen, Oslo’s most expensive five hectares, situated on two islands jutting out into the fjord. It was teeming with people visiting the shops, restaurants and galleries or just out for a Sunday stroll. At the Thief, the receptionist greeted Harry as though he were a guest they had genuinely been looking forward to putting up.

The room had a double bed of perfect softness, hip art on the walls and luxury-brand shower gel. Everything expected of a five-star hotel, Harry assumed. He had a view of the rust-red tower of City Hall and Akershus Fortress. Nothing seemed changed in the year he had been away. Yet it felt different. Perhaps because this — Tjuvholmen with all its designer shops, galleries, luxury apartments and mostly sleek facades — was not the Oslo he knew. He had grown up on the east side at a time when Oslo was a quiet, boring and rather grey little capital on the outskirts of Europe. The language you heard in the streets was mostly unaccented Norwegian, and people were white on the whole. But the city had slowly opened up. As a youth, Harry had first noticed this when the number of clubs grew, when more of the cool bands — not just those who played for 30,000 people at Valle Hovin — began including Oslo on their tours. And restaurants opened, a whole bunch of them, serving food from every corner of the world. This transformation into an international, open and multicultural city had naturally brought about an increase in organised crime, but there were still so few murders that they could barely keep a department of detectives employed. True, the city had already, for various reasons, in the 1970s become — and later remained — a graveyard for young people hooked on heroin. But it was a city without a Skid Row, a city where even women could in general feel safe, a sentiment also expressed by ninety-three per cent of the inhabitants when they were asked. And although the media did their best to paint another picture, the number of rapes over the past fifteen years had been consistently low compared with other cities, and street violence and other crime also low and still decreasing.

So one murdered and one missing woman with a possible link to each other was not a commonplace occurrence. Not so odd then that the Norwegian newspaper articles Harry had had time to google were numerous and the headlines large. Nor was it strange that Markus Røed’s name was mentioned in several of them. Firstly, everyone knew that the media, even the previously so-called broadsheets, survived on creating ongoing narratives about well-known names, and Røed was apparently a celebrity on account of his wealth. Secondly, the perpetrator in eighty per cent of all the murders Harry had investigated was a person closely linked to the victim. Therefore it was not strange that his prime suspect — for the time being — was the man who had hired him.

Harry showered. Stood in front of the mirror while he buttoned the only other shirt in his possession, which he had bought at Gardermoen. Heard the ticking of his wristwatch as he fastened the top button. Tried not to think about it.

It was less than a five-minute stroll from the Thief to Barbell’s offices at Haakon VII’s gate.

Harry walked up to the almost three-metre-high door and made eye contact with a young man in the lobby inside. He rushed over to open up, having obviously been assigned to wait for Harry. He let Harry through the glass airlocks and — following some momentary confusion when Harry explained he didn’t take lifts — up the stairs. On the sixth and top floor, he walked ahead of Harry through weekend empty office space to an open door where he stopped, allowing Harry to pass by him and enter.

It was a corner office, which looked to be almost one hundred square metres, with a view over City Hall Square and the Oslo Fjord. At one end stood a desk with a large iMac screen, a pair of Gucci sunglasses and an Apple iPhone on it, but no papers.

At the other end there were two people sitting at a conference table. He knew one of them as Johan Krohn. The other he recognised from the newspaper articles. Markus Røed let Krohn get to his feet first and approach Harry with hand outstretched. Harry gave Krohn a quick smile without taking his eye off the man behind. Saw Markus Røed fasten a button on his suit jacket with an automatic movement, but remain standing at the table. After shaking Krohn’s hand, Harry walked over to the table and did the same with Røed. Noticed they were probably much the same height. Estimated Røed had at least twenty kilos extra to wrestle with. Now, close up, Røed’s sixty-six years showed behind the artificially smooth skin, the white teeth and the thick, black hair. But OK, he had at least used better surgeons than some of the people he had seen in LA. Harry noticed a slight twitch in the large pupils in Røed’s narrow blue irises, as though he had a fascicular condition.

‘Have a seat, Harry.’

‘Thanks, Markus,’ Harry said, unbuttoning his jacket and sitting down. If Røed disliked the form of address or registered the riposte, his facial expression didn’t reveal it.

‘Thanks for coming at such short notice,’ Røed said, gesturing something to the young man in the doorway.

‘A certain momentum suits me fine.’ Harry let his gaze wander over the portraits of the three serious-looking men on the wall. Two paintings and a photograph, all with gold plaques at the bottom of the frame, all with the surname Røed.

‘Yes, well, of course things move at a different pace over there,’ Krohn said, the last two words in English, in what sounded to Harry like a slightly stressed diplomat’s small talk.

‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘I think Los Angeles is laid-back compared to New York and Chicago. But you’re cracking on here too, I see. Office hours on a Sunday. Impressive.’

‘It does a man good to take a little time away from the hell of home life and the family,’ Røed said, and grinned at Krohn. ‘Especially on a Sunday.’

‘You have children?’ Harry asked. He hadn’t got that impression from the newspaper articles.

‘Yes,’ Røed replied, looking at Krohn as if he was the one who had asked. ‘My wife.’

Røed laughed, and Krohn joined dutifully in. Harry pulled the corners of his mouth up slightly so as not to appear undemonstrative. He thought about the pictures of Helene Røed he had seen in the newspapers. How big was the age difference? Had to be at least thirty years. In all the pictures the couple were photographed against backdrops with logos, in other words at premieres, fashion shows and the like. Helene Røed was of course dressed up and dolled up, but she looked more self-aware, less ridiculous than some of the women — and the men — you see posing for the camera at similar events. She was beautiful, but there was something faded about her beauty, a youthful lustre that seemed to have disappeared a tad too early. A little too much work? A little too much alcohol or other things? A little too little happiness? Or a little of all three?

‘Well,’ Krohn said, ‘knowing my client as I do, I’d say he’d spend a lot of time here no matter. You don’t get to where he’s got without hard work.’

Røed shrugged, but offered no objection. ‘What about you, Harry? Do you have children?’

Harry was looking at the portraits. All three men were pictured in front of large buildings. Erected or owned by themselves, Harry presumed.

‘Combined with a solid family fortune, perhaps,’ he said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Along with the hard work. It makes it that bit easier, doesn’t it?’

Røed raised a well-groomed eyebrow below his shiny black hair and looked enquiringly at Krohn, as though to demand an explanation for what kind of guy Krohn had got hold of. Then he raised his head to lift the onset of a double chin over his shirt collar and fixed his eyes on Harry.

‘Fortunes don’t take care of themselves, Hole. But perhaps you know that?’

‘Me? What makes you think that?’

‘No? You certainly dress like a man of means. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that suit of yours was sewn by Garth Alexander of Savile Row. I have two of them myself.’

‘I don’t remember the name of the tailor,’ Harry said. ‘I got it from a lady for agreeing to be her escort.’

‘Bloody hell. Was she so ugly?’

‘No.’

‘No? A looker, then?’

‘Yeah, I’ll say. For a septuagenarian.’

Markus Røed put his hands behind his head and leaned back. His eyes became narrow slits.

‘You know what, Harry, you and my wife have something in common there. You only take your clothes off to change into something more expensive.’

Markus Røed’s laughter was deafening. He slapped his thighs and turned to Krohn, who again quickly managed to supply a laugh. Røed’s laughter turned into a fit of sneezing. The young man — who had just walked in with a tray of water glasses — offered him a napkin, but Røed waved him away, drew a large, light blue handkerchief with the initials M.R. on it, in lettering almost as large, from the inside pocket of his suit and blew his nose loudly.

‘Relax, it’s just my allergies,’ Røed said, stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket. ‘You been vaccinated, Harry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too. Been safe the whole time. Helene and I went to Saudi Arabia and took the first vaccine long before it came to Norway. Anyway, let’s make a start. Johan?’

Harry listened to Johan Krohn’s presentation of the case, which was more or less a repetition of what he had heard on the phone twenty-four hours earlier.

‘Two women, Susanne Andersen and Bertine Bertilsen, disappeared on consecutive Tuesdays, three and two weeks ago respectively. Susanne Andersen was found dead two days ago. Police haven’t released anything about the cause of death but say they’re investigating it as a murder. Markus has been interviewed by the police for one reason and one reason only. That the two girls were at the same party four days prior to Susanne’s disappearance, a rooftop party for the residents of the apartment building where Markus and Helene live. And the only connection between the two girls the police have found so far is that they both know Markus and both were invited by him. Markus has an alibi for the two Tuesdays the girls went missing — he was at home with Helene — and the police have cleared him of any suspicion in that respect. Unfortunately, the press are not as logical in their reasoning. That is to say, they have other motives than the desire for the case to be solved. They have, therefore, been running with all kinds of speculative headlines about Markus’s relationship with the girls, implying that they were trying to extort money from him by threatening to tell their “story” to a newspaper which was offering the two girls a large sum for this. And they’ve also drawn into doubt the value of an alibi provided by a spouse, even though they’re well aware that it’s common and completely legal tender in a criminal case. It is, of course, all to do with the sensational mix of celebrity and murder, not the truth. Should that come to light, the people in the media are no doubt hoping it’s later rather than sooner, so they can continue with their sales-friendly speculation for as long as possible.’

Harry nodded briefly, his face impassive.

‘In the meantime, my client’s business interests are suffering because he has not — according to the media’s version at least — been cleared of all accusations. Naturally, there is the personal strain involved.’

‘First and foremost on the family,’ Røed interjected.

‘Naturally,’ the lawyer continued. ‘This would be a temporary problem we could have lived with if the police had shown themselves equal to the task. But they have had almost three weeks and have found neither the perpetrator nor any lead that might have caused the media to call off their witch hunt against the only person in Oslo who has actually provided an alibi in the case. In short, we wish for the case to be solved as quickly as possible, and that’s where you come in.’

Krohn and Røed looked at Harry.

‘Mm. Now that the police have a body, there’s the chance they’ve found DNA traces from a perpetrator. Have the police taken a DNA sample from you?’ Harry looked directly at Markus Røed.

Without replying, Røed turned to Krohn.

‘We’ve said no to that,’ Krohn said. ‘Until the police produce a court order.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we have nothing to gain by submitting to such a test. And because by accepting that sort of intrusive investigation we would be acknowledging indirectly that we can see the case from the perspective of the police, that is to say, that there could be grounds for suspicion.’

‘But you don’t see any grounds?’

‘No. But I have told the police that if they are able to establish any link whatsoever between the missing persons cases and my client, he’ll be more than happy to submit to a DNA test. We haven’t heard any more from them.’

‘Mm.’

Røed clapped his hands together. ‘There you have it, Harry. In broad strokes. Can we hear what your battle plan is?’

‘Battle plan?’

Røed smiled. ‘In broad strokes, anyway.’

‘In broad strokes,’ Harry said, stifling a jet-lag yawn, ‘it’s to find the killer as quickly as possible.’

Røed grinned and looked over at Krohn. ‘Now that was very broad, Harry. Can you say anything else?’

‘Well. I’ll investigate this case the same way I would as a policeman. Meaning without obligation or regard for anything other than the truth. In other words, if the evidence leads me to you, Røed, I’ll take you down like I would any other murderer. And claim the bonus.’

In the silence that followed the bells of City Hall began to chime.

Markus Røed chuckled. ‘You talk tough, Harry. How many years would it take you to scrape together that kind of bonus as a policeman? Ten? Twenty? What do you people even earn down there at the station actually?’

Harry made no reply. The bells continued to chime.

‘Well,’ Krohn said, flashing a rushed smile, ‘essentially, what you’re saying is what we want done, Harry. Like I said on the phone: an independent investigation. So although you’re putting it in rather a rough way, we are on the same page. What you’re expressing is the very reason we want you. An individual with that kind of integrity.’

‘Are you?’ Røed asked, stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger while looking at Harry. ‘A man with that kind of integrity?’

Harry again noticed the twitching in Røed’s eyes. He shook his head. Røed leaned forward, smiled cheerfully and said in a low voice: ‘Not even a little?’

Harry smiled as well. ‘Only to the extent a horse wearing blinkers can be accused of having integrity. A creature of limited intelligence just doing what it’s trained to: running straight ahead without allowing itself to be distracted.’

Markus Røed laughed. ‘That’s good, Harry. That’s good. We’ll buy that. What I want you to do first is put together a team of top people. Preferably with names people are aware of. That we can announce to the media. So they can see that we mean business, you get me?’

‘I have an idea of who I could use.’

‘Good, good. How long before you get an answer from them, do you think?’

‘By four o’clock tomorrow.’

‘As early as tomorrow?’

Røed laughed again when he realised Harry was serious. ‘I like your style, Harry. Let’s sign the contract.’

Røed nodded to Krohn, who reached into his briefcase and placed a one-page document in front of Harry.

‘The contract states that the assignment is to be regarded as complete when there is an agreement of guilt among at least three lawyers in the legal department of the police,’ Krohn said. ‘Should the accused be acquitted in a court case, however, the fee will have to be repaid. That is to say it’s a “no cure no pay” agreement.’

‘But with a bonus an executive would envy you, myself included,’ Røed said.

‘I’d like one additional clause in there,’ Harry said. ‘My fee is to be paid should the police — with or without my assistance — find the presumed guilty party within the next nine days.’

Røed and Krohn exchanged glances.

Røed nodded before leaning towards Harry. ‘You’re a tough negotiator. But don’t think I don’t understand why you have such exact numbers on the sum to be paid and the number of days.’

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Come on. It gives the other guy the feeling that there’s a true figure. A magic number where everything falls into place. You can’t teach your dad to fuck, Harry, I use that negotiation ploy myself.’

Harry nodded slowly. ‘You got me, Røed.’

‘And now I’m going to teach you a trick, Harry.’ Røed leaned back, grinning broadly. ‘I want to give you a million dollars. That’s nearly four hundred thousand Norwegian kroner more than you’re asking for, enough for a decent car. You know why?’

Harry didn’t reply.

‘Because people put in a lot more effort if you give them a little more than they expected. It’s a psychologically proven fact.’

‘Then I’m willing to test it,’ Harry said drily. ‘But there is one more thing.’

Røed’s smile disappeared. ‘And that is?’

‘I’ll need permission from someone in the police.’

Krohn cleared his throat. ‘You are aware that in Norway you don’t need authorisation or a licence to undertake private investigations?’

‘Yes. But I said someone in the police.’

Harry explained the problem, and after a while Røed nodded and reluctantly agreed. After Harry and Røed had shaken hands, Krohn escorted Harry down to the exit. He held the door onto the street open for Harry.

‘Might I ask you a question, Harry?’

‘Shoot.’

‘Why did I have to send a copy of our contract in English to a Mexican email address?’

‘That was for my agent.’

Krohn’s face remained expressionless. Harry figured that as a defence lawyer he was so used to being lied to that he was probably more inclined to bat an eyelid when his clients told the truth. And that Krohn also understood that such an obvious lie was a no-trespassing sign.

‘Have a nice Sunday, Harry.’

‘You too.’

Harry walked down to Aker Brygge. Sat down on a bench. Watched the ferry from the Nesoddtangen peninsula glide to the quay in the sunshine. Closed his eyes. He and Rakel had taken a day off in the middle of the week on occasion, brought their bikes aboard the boat and, after twenty-five minutes among the small islets and sailing boats, docked at Nesoddtangen. From there they had cycled straight into a rural landscape with country roads, trails and secluded, deserted bathing spots where they dived in and afterwards warmed themselves up on the smooth rock slabs, and the only sounds to be heard were the buzz of insects and Rakel’s intense but low moaning as she dug her nails into his back. Harry forced himself to let go of the image and opened his eyes. Looked at his watch. Looked at the staccato progression of the second hand. In a few hours he was to meet Katrine. And Gert. He walked on, with long strides, towards the Thief.

‘Your uncle seems on form today,’ said the nurse, taking leave of Prim at the open door of the small room.

Prim nodded. Looked at the elderly man in the dressing gown sitting up in the bed staring at the turned-off TV screen. He had been a handsome man at one time. A highly respected man accustomed to being listened to, in both his private life and his professional one. Prim thought it was still visible in his features, in his uncle’s high, smooth forehead, his deep-set, clear blue eyes on either side of his aquiline nose. In the determined set to his tightly closed mouth with the surprisingly full lips.

Prim called him Uncle Fredric. Because that’s what he was. Among other things.

His uncle looked up as Prim stepped into the room, and Prim, as usual, wondered which Uncle Fredric was at home today. If any.

‘Who are you? Get out.’ His face was flushed with a mixture of contempt and amusement, and his voice lay in that deep register he used that made it impossible to be sure whether Uncle Fredric was joking or furious. He suffered from dementia with Lewy bodies, a brain disorder which not only brought about hallucinations and nightmares, but — as in his uncle’s case — occasionally aggressive behaviour. Mostly verbal, but also physical, rendering the limitations the muscle rigidity caused almost an advantage.

‘I’m Prim, Molle’s son.’ And before any possible response from his uncle, added: ‘Your sister.’

Prim looked at the only decoration on the wall, a framed diploma hanging over the bed. He had once brought and hung up a framed photo of his uncle, his mother and himself as a boy smiling by a swimming pool in Spain, a holiday his uncle had treated his sister and nephew to after his stepfather had left them.

But his uncle had taken the picture down after a few months, saying he couldn’t stand looking at so many rabbit teeth. He was obviously referring to the two large front teeth with a gap that Prim had inherited from his mother. But the diploma conferring the doctorate still hung there, with the name Fredric Steiner on it. He had changed the surname he shared with Prim’s mother because — as he had plainly told Prim — a Jewish surname held more weight and authority in scientific circles. Especially in his own field, microbiology, where there were few who could be bothered to pretend that it was not the case that Jews — particularly Ashkenazi Jews — had genes which granted them superior intellectual capabilities. While it might be sensible in terms of decorum and for political reasons to deny — or at least ignore — such a fact was all well and good, but a fact was a fact. So if Fredric had a mind that was as brilliant and highly functioning as a Jewish one, why humbly join the back of the queue with a staid, Norwegian peasant name?

‘I have a sister?’ his uncle asked.

‘You had a sister, don’t you remember?’

‘Goddamnit, boy, I have dementia, can’t you get that into your little pea brain? That nurse you came with... pretty nice, eh?’

‘So her you remember?’

‘My short-term memory is excellent. You want to bet some money on my fucking her before the weekend? Actually hang on, you probably don’t have any money either, you loser. When you were a little boy I had hopes for you. But now. You’re not even a disappointment, you’re just nothing.’

His uncle paused. Looked as though he were thinking carefully. ‘Or did you make anything of yourself? What is it you do?’

‘I’m not planning on telling you.’

‘Why not? I remember you were interested in music. Our family wasn’t musical in the slightest, but didn’t you fancy yourself becoming a musician?’

‘No.’

‘So what...?’

‘Firstly you’ll have forgotten it by the next time, and secondly you wouldn’t believe it.’

‘What about a family? Don’t look at me like that!’

‘I’m single. For the time being. But I have met one woman.’

‘One? Did you say one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ. Do you know how many women I’ve fucked?’

‘Yes.’

‘Six hundred and forty-three. Six hundred and forty-three! And these were good-looking women. Apart from a few at the beginning before I knew what I could get hold of. Started when I was seventeen. You’ll have to work hard to match your uncle, boy. This woman, does she have a tight cunt?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? What happened to that other one?’

‘Other one?’

‘I distinctly remember you had a couple of kids and a little dark-skinned woman with big tits. Did I ever fuck her? Ha ha! I did, I can see it in your face! Why did you turn out as the sort no one could love? Was it those rabbit teeth you got from your mother?’

‘Uncle—’

‘Don’t uncle me, you fucking freak! You were born ugly and stupid, you’re an embarrassment to me, to your mother and to the entire family.’

‘All right. Why did you call me Prim then?’

‘Ah, Prim, yes! Why do you think I did it?’

‘You said it was because I was special. An exception among numbers.’

‘Special, yes, but as in an anomaly. A mistake. The type no one wants to be with, an outcast, one that can only be divided by one and itself. That’s you, primtallet, the prime number. One and yourself. We all long for what we cannot have, and for you that meant being loved. That was always your weakness, and you inherited it from your mother.’

‘Did you know, Uncle, that one day soon I shall be more famous than you and the entire family. Put together.’

His uncle’s face lit up, as though Prim had finally provided him with something that made sense, or was at least entertaining.

‘Let me tell you, the only thing that’s going to happen to you is that one day you’ll be just as demented as me, and you’ll be only too happy to be! You know why? Because then you’ll have forgotten that your life was one long series of humiliating defeats. That there—’ he pointed at the diploma on the wall — ‘is the only thing I want to remember. But I can’t even manage that. And the six hundred and forty-three...’ His voice grew thick, and large tears welled up in his blue eyes. ‘I can’t remember a single fucking one. Not one! So what’s the point?’

His uncle was crying as Prim left. It happened more and more often. Prim had read that when Robin Williams took his own life, it was because he had been diagnosed with Lewy body dementia. That he wished to spare himself and his family the torture. Prim was surprised his uncle had not done the same.

The nursing home was situated in the heart of Vinderen on Oslo’s west side. On his way to the car he passed the jeweller’s he had been into several times recently. As it was Sunday, the shop was closed, but pressing his nose against the window he could see the diamond ring in the glass display case inside. It was not large but it was so beautiful. Perfect for Her. He had to buy it this week, otherwise he risked someone else beating him to it.

He took a detour past his childhood home in Gaustad. The fire-damaged villa ought to have been torn down years ago, but he’d had the demolition postponed time and time again despite the council’s orders and the neighbours’ complaints. On some occasions he had claimed plans were afoot for renovation, on others he had documents to prove that the demolition was booked but had been arranged with firms which later went bankrupt or where business had been suspended. Why exactly he had engaged in these stalling tactics he did not know. After all, he could have sold the plot for a good price. It was only recently that it had dawned on him. And that the plan — what the house would be used for — was something that must have been lying there, like a tiny worm egg in his mind.