The Redbreast

67

Halvorsen's Flat. 6 May 2000.

When Halvorsen was woken by the telephone ringing the luminous figures on the digital alarm clock showed 1.30 a.m. 'Hole speaking. Were you asleep?'

'Nope,' Halvorsen said, without the slightest idea why he should lie.

'I had a couple of things on my mind, about Sverre Olsen.'

From the breathing and the traffic in the background it sounded as if Harry was out walking.

'I know what you want to know,' Halvorsen said. 'Sverre Olsen bought a pair of combat boots at Top Secret in Henrik Ibsens gate. They recognised him from the photo and furthermore they could give us the date. You see, Kripos had been there to check his alibi in connection with the Hallgrim Dale case before Christmas. But I faxed all that up to your office earlier today'

'I know. I've just come from there now.'

'Now? I thought you were going out for dinner this evening?'

'Well, we finished early'

'And you went back to work?' Halvorsen asked, in disbelief.

'Yes, I suppose I did. It was your fax which started me thinking. I was wondering if you could check a couple of other things for me tomorrow.'

Halvorsen groaned. First of all, Moller had told him in a way that brooked no misunderstanding: Harry was to have nothing to do with the Ellen Gjelten case. And second: tomorrow was Saturday.

'Are you there, Halvorsen?'

'Yes.'

I can imagine what Moller said. Don't take any bloody notice. Now you've got the chance to learn a little more about detective work.’

‘The problem is, Harry -’

‘Keep quiet and listen, Halvorsen.' Halvorsen cursed to himself. And listened.