The Redeemer

13

Wednesday, 17 December. The Ticking.

Every so often Martine thought that the square in Plata had to be the basement staircase to hell. Nevertheless, she was terrified by rumours going around that in spring the town hall's welfare committee was going to abandon the scheme for the open trading of drugs. The overt argument put forward by opponents of Plata was that the area attracted young people to drugs. Martine's opinion was that anyone who thought that the life you saw played out in Plata could be attractive either had to be crazy or had never set foot there.

The covert argument was that this terrain, delimited by a white line in the tarmac next to Jernbanetorget, like a border, disfigured the image of the city. And was it not a glaring admission of failure in the world's most successful – or at least richest – social democracy to allow drugs and money to exchange hands openly in the very heart of the capital?

Martine agreed with that. That there had been a failure. The battle for the drug-free society was lost. On the other hand, if you wanted to prevent drugs from gaining further ground it was better for the drug dealing to take place under the ever-watchful eyes of surveillance cameras than under bridges along the Akerselva and in dark backyards along Radhusgata and the southern side of Akershus Fortress. And Martine knew that most people whose work was in some way connected with Narco-Oslo – the police, social workers, street preachers and prostitutes – all thought the same: that Plata was better than the alternatives. But it was not a pretty sight.

'Langemann!' she shouted to the man standing in the darkness outside their bus. 'Don't you want any soup tonight?'

But Langemann sidled away. He had probably bought his fix and was off to inject the medicine.

She concentrated on ladling soup for a Mediterranean type in a blue jacket when she heard chattering teeth beside her and saw a man dressed in a thin suit jacket awaiting his turn. 'Here you are,' she said, pouring out his soup.

'Hello, sweetie,' came a rasping voice.

'Wenche!'

'Come over and thaw out a poor wretch,' said the ageing prostitute with a hearty laugh, and embraced Martine. The smell of the damp skin and body that undulated against the tight-fitting leopard-pattern dress was overwhelming. But there was another smell, one she recognised, a smell that had been there before Wenche's broadside of fragrances had overpowered everything else.

They sat down at one of the empty tables.

Although some of the foreign working girls who had flooded the area in the last year also used drugs, it was not as widespread as among their home-grown rivals. Wenche was one of the few Norwegians who did not indulge. Furthermore, in her words, she had begun to work more from home with a fixed clientele, so the intervals between meeting Martine had lengthened.

'I'm here to look for a girlfriend's son,' Wenche said. 'Kristoffer. I'm told he's on shit.'

'Kristoffer? Don't know him.'

'Aaah!' She dismissed it. 'Forget it. You've got other things on your mind, I can see.'

'Have I?'

'Don't fib. I can see when a girl's in love. Is it him?'

Wenche nodded towards the man in the Salvation Army uniform with a Bible in one hand who had just sat down next to the man in the thin suit jacket.

Martine puffed out her cheeks. 'Rikard? No, thank you.'

'Sure? His eyes have been trailing you ever since I arrived.'

'Rikard is alright,' she sighed. 'At any rate he volunteered for this shift at short notice. The person who should have been here is dead.'

'Robert Karlsen?'

'Did you know him?'

Wenche answered with a heavy-hearted nod, then brightened up again. 'But forget the dead and tell Mummy who you're in love with. It's not before time, by the way.'

Martine smiled. 'I didn't even know I was in love.'

'Come on.'

'No, this is too silly. I-'

'Martine,' said another voice.

She peered up and saw Rikard's imploring eyes.

'The man sitting there says he has no clothes, no money and nowhere to stay. Do you know if the Hostel has any free places?'

'Call them and ask,' Martine said. 'They do have some winter clothes.'

'Right.' Rikard didn't move, even though Martine was facing Wenche. She didn't need to look up to know that his top lip was sweaty.

Then he mumbled a 'thanks' and went back to the man in the suit jacket.

'Tell me then,' Wenche urged in a whisper.

Outside, the northerly wind had lined up its small-calibre artillery.

Harry walked along with his sports bag over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes against the wind, which was making the sharp, almost invisible snowflakes imbed small pinpricks in the cornea. As he passed Blitz, the squatters' property in Pilestredet, his mobile rang. It was Halvorsen.

'There have been two calls to Zagreb in the last two days from the phones in Jernbanetorget. Same number both times. I rang the number and got through to a hotel receptionist. Hotel International. They couldn't tell me who had rung from Oslo or who this person was trying to contact. Nor had they heard of anyone called Christo Stankic.'

'Hm.'

'Shall I follow up?'

'No,' Harry sighed. 'We'll let it go until something tells us this Stankic might be interesting. Switch off the light before you go and we'll talk tomorrow.'

'Hang on!'

'I'm not going anywhere.'

'There's more. The uniformed boys have received a call from a waiter at Biscuit. He said he was in the toilet this morning and bumped into one of the customers.'

'What was he doing there?'

'I'll come to that. You see, the customer had something in his hand-'

'I mean the waiter. Restaurant employees always have their own toilets.'

'I didn't ask,' Halvorsen said, becoming impatient. 'Listen. This customer was holding something green and dripping.'

'Sounds like he should see a doctor.'

'Very funny. The waiter swore it was a gun covered in soap. The lid of the container was off.'

'Biscuit,' Harry repeated as the information sank in. 'That's on Karl Johan.'

'Two hundred metres from the crime scene. I bet a crate of beer that's our gun. Er… sorry, I bet-'

'By the way, you still owe me two hundred kroner. Give me the rest of the story.'

'Here comes the best bit. I asked for a description. He couldn't give me one.'

'Sounds like the refrain in this case.'

'Except that he recognised the guy by his coat. A very ugly camelhair coat.'

'Yes!' Harry shouted. 'The guy with the scarf in the photo of Egertorget the night before Karlsen was shot.'

'Incidentally, the waiter reckoned it was imitation. And he sounded like he knew about that sort of thing.'

'What do you mean?'

'You know. The way they speak.'

'Who are they?'

'Hello! Poofs. Whatever. The man with the gun was through the door and gone. That's all I have for the moment. I'm on my way to Biscuit to show the waiter the photos now.'

'Good,' said Harry.

'What are you wondering?'

'Wondering?'

'I'm getting to know your ways, Harry.'

'Mm. I was wondering why the waiter didn't phone the police straight away this morning. Ask him, alright?'

'In fact, I was intending to do just that, Harry.'

'Of course you were. Sorry.'

Harry hung up, but five minutes later his mobile rang again.

'What did you forget?' Harry asked.

'What?'

'Oh, it's you, Beate. Well?'

'Good news. I've finished at Scandia Hotel.'

'Did you find any DNA?'

'Don't know yet. I've got a couple of hairs which might belong to the cleaners or a previous guest. But I did get the ballistics results half an hour ago. The bullet in the milk carton at Jon Karlsen's place comes from the same weapon as the bullet we found in Egertorget.'

'Mm. That means the theory about several gunmen is weakened.'

'Yes. And there's more. The receptionist at Scandia Hotel remembered something after you left. This Christo Stankic had a particularly ugly piece of clothing. She reckoned it was a kind of imitation-'

'Let me guess. Camel-hair coat?'

'That's what she said.'

'We're in business, 'Harry yelled, so loud that the graffiti-covered wall of Blitz sent an echo around the deserted city-centre street.

Harry rang off and called Halvorsen back.

'Yes, Harry?'

'Christo Stankic is our man. Give the description of the camel-hair coat to the uniforms and the ops room and ask them to alert all patrol cars.' Harry smiled at an old lady tripping and scraping along with spiked cleats attached to the bottom of her fashionable ankle boots. 'And I want twenty-four-hour surveillance of telecommunications so we know if anyone calls Hotel International in Zagreb from Oslo. And which number they call from. Talk to Klaus Torkildsen in the Telenor Business Centre, Oslo region.'

'That's wiretapping. We need a warrant for that and it can take days.'

'It's not wiretapping. We just need the address of the incoming call.'

'I'm afraid Telenor won't be able to tell the difference.'

'Tell Torkildsen you've spoken to me. OK?'

'May I ask why he would be willing to risk his job for you?'

'Old story. I saved him from being beaten to pulp in the remand centre a few years back. Tom Waaler and his pals. You know what it's like when flashers and the like are brought in.'

'So he's a flasher?'

'Now retired. Happy to exchange services for silence.'

'I see.'

Harry rang off. They were on the move now, and he no longer felt the northerly wind or the onslaught of snow needles. Now and then the job gave him moments of unalloyed pleasure. He turned and walked back to Police HQ.

In the private room at Ulleval Hospital Jon felt the phone vibrate against the sheet and grabbed it at once. 'Yes?'

'It's me.'

'Oh, hi,' he said, without quite managing to conceal his disappointment.

'You sound as if you were hoping it was someone else,' Ragnhild said in the rather too cheerful tone that betrays a wounded woman.

'I can't say much,' Jon said, glancing at the door.

'I wanted to say how awful the news about Robert is,' Ragnhild said. 'And I feel for you.'

'Thank you.'

'It must be painful. Where are you actually? I tried to call you at home.'

Jon didn't answer.

'Mads is working late, so if you want I can walk over to yours.'

'No, thanks, Ragnhild, I'll manage.'

'I was thinking about you. It's so dark and cold. I'm afraid.'

'You're never afraid, Ragnhild.'

'Sometimes I am.' She put on her sulky voice. 'There are so many rooms here and there is no one about.'

'Move to a smaller house then. I have to ring off now. We're not allowed to use mobiles here.'

'Wait! Where are you, Jon?'

'I've got slight concussion. I'm in hospital.'

'Which hospital? Which department?'

Jon was taken aback. 'Most people would have asked how I got the concussion.'

'You know I hate not knowing where you are.'

Jon visualised Ragnhild marching in with a large bunch of roses during visiting time next day. And Thea's questioning looks, first at her and then at him.

'I can hear the sister coming,' he whispered. 'I'll have to ring off.'

He pressed the OFF button and stared at the ceiling until the phone had played its fanfare and the display was extinguished. She was right. It was dark. But he was the one who was afraid.

Ragnhild Gilstrup stood by the window with her eyes closed. Then she looked at her watch. Mads had said he had work to do for the board meeting and would be late. He had started saying things like that in recent weeks. Before, he had always given her a time and arrived on the dot, sometimes he was a little early. Not that she wanted him home earlier, but it was somewhat odd. Somewhat odd, that was all. Just as it was odd that all the calls had been itemised on the last landline bill. And she had not requested any such thing. But there it was: five pages with much too much information. She should have stopped ringing Jon, but she couldn't. Because he had that look. That Johannes look. It wasn't kind or clever or gentle or anything like that. But it was a look that could read whatever she thought before she had got as far as thinking it herself. That saw her as she was. And still liked her.

She opened her eyes again and surveyed the six-thousand-square-metre site of unsullied nature. The view reminded her of boarding school in Switzerland. The reflection off the snow shone into the large bedroom and covered the ceiling and walls in a bluish-white light.

She was the one who had insisted on building here, high above the city, well, in the forest in fact. It would make her feel less enclosed and restricted, she had said. And her husband, Mads Gilstrup, who had imagined the city was the restriction she was referring to, had gladly spent some of the money he possessed on the construction. The extravagance had cost him twenty million kroner. When they moved in, Ragnhild felt as though she were moving from a cell to a prison yard. Sun, air and room. Yet still confined. Like at boarding school.

At times – like this evening – she wondered how she had ended up here. Her external circumstances could be summed up as follows: Mads Gilstrup was heir to one of Oslo's great fortunes. She had met him during her degree outside Chicago, Illinois, where they had both studied business administration at a middling university that bestowed greater prestige than competent seats of learning in Norway, and anyway they were a lot more fun. Both came from wealthy families, but his was wealthier. While his family consisted of five generations of shipowners with old money, her family was peasant stock and their money still bore the whiff of printer's ink and farmed fish. They had lived in the interstices between agricultural subsidies and wounded pride until her father and uncle had sold their tractors and gambled their capital on a small fish farm in the fjord outside their sitting-room window on the southernmost, wind-blown coastline of Vest-Agder. The timing had been perfect, competition minimal, kilo price astronomical and in the course of four lucrative years they became multimillionaires. The house on the crag was demolished and replaced by a gateau of a house, bigger than the barn and boasting eight bay windows and a double garage.

Ragnhild had just turned sixteen when her mother sent her from one crag to another crag: Aron Schuster's private school for girls nine hundred metres above sea level in a town with a station, six churches and a Bierstube in Switzerland. The official reason was that Ragnhild was to learn French, German and art history, subjects that were considered useful as the kilo price of farmed fish was still hitting record levels.

The real reason for her exile, however, was of course her boyfriend, Johannes. Johannes of the warm hands, Johannes of the gentle voice and the look that could read whatever she thought before she had got as far as thinking it. Johannes, the country clod, who was going nowhere. Everything changed after Johannes. She changed after Johannes.

At Aron Schuster's private school she was freed from the nightmares, the guilt and the smell of fish, and learned all that young girls need to acquire a husband of their own or higher status. And with the inherited survival instinct that had enabled her to survive on the crag in Norway, she had slowly but surely buried the Ragnhild whose mind Johannes had read so well and become the Ragnhild who was going places, who did her own thing and would not be held back by anyone, least of all by upper-class French girls or spoilt Danish brats who sniggered in corners at the futile attempts of girls like Ragnhild to be anything but provincial or vulgar.

Her little revenge was to seduce Herr Brehme, the young German teacher with whom they were all infatuated. The teachers lived in a building facing the pupils' block and she simply crossed the cobbled square and knocked on the door of his little room. She visited him four times. And four nights she click-clacked her way back across the cobble stones, her heels echoing off the walls of both buildings.

Rumours started up, and she did little or nothing to stop them. When the news broke that Herr Brehme had resigned and hastily taken up a teaching post in Zurich, Ragnhild had beamed a smile of triumph to all the grief-stricken faces of the young girls in her class.

After the final year of school in Switzerland, Ragnhild returned home. Home at last, she thought. But then Johannes's eyes were there again. In the silver fjord, in the shadows of the verdigris forest, behind the shiny black windows of the chapel or in the cars that flashed past, leaving a cloud of dust that made your teeth crunch and was bitter to the taste. When the letter from Chicago arrived, with the offer of a place to study business administration – four years for a BA, five for an MA – she went to Daddy to ask him to transfer the study funds without delay.

It was a relief to go. A relief to be the new Ragnhild once again. She was looking forward to forgetting, but to do that she needed a project, a goal. In Chicago she found that goal. Mads Gilstrup.

She anticipated that it would be simple. After all, she had the theoretical and practical grounding to seduce upper-class boys. And she was good-looking. Johannes and several others had said that. Above all, it was her eyes. She had been blessed with her mother's light blue irises surrounded by unusually white sclera, which science had proven attracted the opposite sex as it signalled robust health and hearty genes. For that reason Ragnhild was seldom seen wearing sunglasses. Unless she had planned the effect it created by taking them off at a particularly favourable moment.

Some said she looked like Nicole Kidman. She understood what they meant. Beautiful in a stiff, severe way. Perhaps that was the reason. The severity. Because when she had tried to engineer some contact with Mads Gilstrup in the corridors or the campus canteen, he had behaved like a frightened wild horse, averted his eyes, tossed his fringe in the air and trotted off to a safe area.

In the end she staked everything on one card.

The evening before one of the many silly annual and, apparently, traditional parties, Ragnhild had given her room-mate money for a new pair of shoes and a hotel room in town and spent three hours in front of the mirror. For once she arrived early at the party. Because she knew Mads Gilstrup went to all parties early in order to pre-empt potential rivals.

He stuttered and stammered, barely daring to look into her eyes – light blue irises and clear sclera notwithstanding – and even less down the plunging neckline she had arranged with such care. She had come to the conclusion – contrary to her previous opinion – that confidence did not necessarily come with money. Later she was to conclude that the reason for Mads's bad self-image lay at the door of his brilliant, demanding, weakness-hating father who was unable to grasp why he had not been granted a son more in his own mould.

But she did not give up and dangled herself like bait in front of Mads Gilstrup. It was so obvious she was making herself accessible that she noticed the girls she called friends, and vice versa, were standing with their heads together in a huddle. When it came down to it, they were all herd animals. Then – after six American lagers and a growing suspicion that Mads Gilstrup was homosexual – the wild horse ventured out into open terrain and two lagers later they left the party.

She let him mount her, but in her best friend's bed. After all, it had cost her an expensive pair of shoes. And when, three minutes later, Ragnhild wiped him off with her room-mate's home-made crocheted bedspread, she knew she had lassoed him. Harness and saddle would follow in good time.

After their studies they travelled home as an engaged couple. Mads Gilstrup to administer his portion of the family fortune in the secure knowledge that he would never have to be tested in any rat race. His job consisted of finding the right advisers.

Ragnhild applied for and got a job with a trust manager, who had never heard of the mediocre university, but had heard of Chicago, and liked what he heard. And saw. He was not so brilliant, but he was demanding and found a soulmate in Ragnhild. Thus, after quite a short spell, she was removed from the intellectually somewhat over-demanding work as a share analyst and put behind a screen and telephone on one of the tables in the 'kitchen', as they called the traders' room. This was where Ragnhild Gilstrup (she had changed her name to Gilstrup as soon as they were engaged because it was 'more practical') came into her own. If it was not enough to advise brokerages' own and, one presumed, professional, investors to buy Opticum, she could purr, flirt, hiss, manipulate, lie and cry. Ragnhild Gilstrup could caress her way up a man's legs – and, if pushed, a woman's – in a way that shifted shares with far greater efficacy than any of her analyses had done. Her greatest quality, however, was her supreme understanding of the most important motivation of the equity market: greed.

Then one day she became pregnant. And, to her surprise, she found herself considering an abortion. Until then she had really believed she wanted children, or one anyway. Eight months later she gave birth to Amalie. She was filled with such happiness that she repressed the memory of her thoughts of abortion. Two weeks later Amalie was taken to hospital with a high temperature. Ragnhild could see that the doctors were uneasy, but they couldn't tell her what was wrong with her child. One night Ragnhild had considered praying to God, but then dismissed the idea. The next night, at eleven o'clock, little Amalie died of pneumonia. Ragnhild locked herself indoors and cried for four successive days.

'Cystic fibrosis,' the doctor had told her in private. 'It's genetic and means that either you or your husband is a carrier of the disease. Do you know if anyone has had it in your family or his? It may manifest itself in frequent asthma attacks or something similar.'

'No,' Ragnhild had answered. 'And I assume you're aware of client confidentiality.'

The period of grieving was managed with professional help. After a couple of months she was able to talk to people again. When summer came they went to Gilstrup's chalet on the west coast of Sweden and tried for another child. But one evening Mads found his wife crying in front of the bedroom mirror. She said this was her punishment because she had wanted an abortion. He comforted her, but when his tender caresses became bolder she pushed him away and said that would be the last time for a good while. Mads thought she meant having children and agreed right away. He was therefore disappointed, disconsolate, to find that she meant she wanted a break from the act itself. Mads Gilstrup had acquired a taste for mating and particularly appreciated the self-esteem he felt when giving her what he interpreted as small but distinct orgasms. Nevertheless, he accepted her explanation as the reactions to grieving and hormonal changes after childbirth. Ragnhild didn't think she could tell him that from her side the last two years had been a duty, or that the last remnants of pleasure she had been able to work up for him had disappeared in the delivery room when she had peered up into his stupid, gawping, terror-stricken face. And when he had cried with happiness and dropped the scissors just as he was supposed to cut the victory tape for all new fathers, she had felt like walloping him. Nor did she think she could tell him that, as far as the mating department was concerned, for the last year she and her less than brilliant boss had been meeting each other's demanding needs.

Ragnhild was the only stockbroker in Oslo to have been offered a full partnership as she left for maternity leave. To everyone's surprise, however, she resigned. She had been offered another job. Managing Mads Gilstrup's family fortune.

She explained to her boss on the farewell night that she thought it was time that brokers schmoozed with her, and not vice versa. She didn't breathe a word about the real reason: that, sad to say, Mads Gilstrup had been unable to manage the sole task he had been entrusted with, that of finding good advisers, and that the family fortune had shrunk at such an alarmingly rapid rate that Ragnhild and her father-in-law, Albert Gilstrup, had both intervened. That was the last time she met her boss. A few months later she heard he had taken sick leave after years of affliction with asthma.

Ragnhild didn't like Mads's social circle and she noticed that Mads didn't, either. But they still went to the parties they were invited to, since the alternative – ending up outside the clique of people who meant or owned anything – was even worse. It was one thing to spend time with pompous, complacent men who deep in their hearts felt that their money gave them the right to be so; however, their wives, or the 'bitches', as Ragnhild labelled them in secret, were quite another. The chattering, shopaholic, health-freak housewives with tits that looked so genuine, not to mention the tan, although that was genuine, since they and their children had just returned from two weeks in St Tropez 'relaxing' away from au pairs and noisy workmen who never finished swimming pools and new kitchens. They talked with unfeigned concern about how bad the shopping had been in Europe over the last year, but otherwise their horizons didn't stretch further than skiing in Slemdal or swimming in Bogstad, both near Oslo, and at a pinch, Kragero, in the south. Clothes, facelifts and exercise apparatuses were the wives' topics of conversation as that was the means to holding onto their rich, pompous husbands, which of course was their sole real mission here on earth.

When Ragnhild thought like that she could surprise herself. Were they so different from her? Maybe the difference was that she had a job. Was that why she couldn't stand their smug faces at the morning restaurant in Vinderen when they complained about all the welfare abuse and tax evasion in what they, with a slight sneer, called 'society'? Or was there another reason? Because something had happened. A revolution. She had begun to care for someone other than herself. She hadn't felt that since Amalie. Or Johannes.

The whole thing had started with a plan. Share values had continued to tumble thanks to Mads's unfortunate investments, and something drastic had to be done. It wasn't just a question of shifting assets to funds with a lower risk; debts had accumulated that had to be covered. In short, they needed to make a financial coup. Her father-in-law had launched the idea. And it really did smack of a coup, or to be more precise, a robbery. Not a robbery of a well-guarded bank but of old ladies. The lady in question was the Salvation Army. Ragnhild had gone through their property portfolio, which was nothing short of impressive. That is, the properties were not in very good condition, but their potential and location were excellent. Above all those in central Oslo, and especially those in Majorstuen. The accounts of the Salvation Army had demonstrated at least two things to her: they needed money and the properties were hugely undervalued. In all probability they were not aware of the assets they were sitting on; she very much doubted the decision-makers in the organisation were the sharpest knives in the drawer. In addition, it was perhaps the perfect time to buy as the property market had fallen at the same time as share prices, and other leading indicators had begun to point upwards again.

One telephone call later she had arranged a meeting.

It was a wonderful spring day as she drove up to the Salvation Army Headquarters.

Commander David Eckhoff received her and within three seconds she had seen through the joviality. Behind it she saw a domineering leader of the herd, the kind she was so talented at manoeuvring and she thought to herself: this could go well. He led her into a meeting room with waffles, sensationally bad coffee and one older and two younger colleagues. The older one was the chief administrator, a lieutenant colonel who was on the point of retiring. The first of the two younger ones was Rikard Nilsen, a timid young man similar at first glance to Mads Gilstrup. But that recognition was nothing compared with the shock she received when greeting the other young man. He shook hands with a tentative smile and introduced himself as Jon Karlsen. It wasn't the tall, stooped figure, nor the open boyish face, nor the warm voice, but the eyes. He looked straight at her. Inside her. The way he had done. They were Johannes's eyes.

For the first part of the meeting, while the chief administrator accounted for the turnover of the Norwegian Salvation Army, amounting to just under a billion kroner, of which a significant contribution was rental income from the 230 plots the Army owned, she sat in a trancelike state trying to stop herself staring at the young man. At his hair, at his hands resting on the table in total serenity. At his shoulders that didn't quite fill the black uniform, a uniform which Ragnhild had, from her childhood, associated with old men and women who, despite not believing in life before death, sang to three-chord songs with a smile. She must have thought – without really thinking – that the Salvation Army was for those who couldn't gain a foothold anywhere else, the simple ones, the lacklustre and the lackwits no one else wanted to play with but who knew that in the Army there was a community where even they could meet the requirements: singing second voice.

When the chief administrator was finished, Ragnhild thanked him, opened the folder she had brought with her and passed a single A4 sheet over the table to the commander.

'This is our offer,' she said. 'It will become clear which properties we're interested in.'

'Thank you,' said the commander, studying the document.

Ragnhild tried to read the expression on his face. But knew it didn't mean much. A pair of reading glasses lay untouched on the table in front of him.

'Our specialist will have to do the calculations and make a recommendation,' the commander said with a smile, and passed the document on. To Jon Karlsen. Ragnhild noticed the twitch in Rikard Nilsen's face.

She pushed a business card across the table to Jon Karlsen.

'If anything is unclear, just give me a ring,' she said, and felt his eyes on her like a physical caress.

'Thank you for talking to us, fru Gilstrup,' Commander Eckhoff said, clapping his hands. 'We promise to give you an answer in the course of… Jon?'

'Not too long.'

The commander gave a jovial smile. 'Not too long.'

All four of them accompanied her to the lift. No one said anything while they waited.

As the lift doors slid open she half leaned towards Jon and said in a low voice: 'Any time at all. Use my mobile number.'

She had tried to catch his eye to feel it again, but had failed. On the way down in the lift, alone, Ragnhild Gilstrup had felt her blood pumping in sudden, painful bursts and she had started to tremble uncontrollably.

Three days passed before he rang to say no. They had assessed the offer and concluded they didn't want to sell. Ragnhild had made an impassioned defence of the price and pointed out that the Salvation Army's position in the property market was vulnerable, the properties were not being run in a professional manner, that they were losing money with the low rents and that the Army should diversify their investments. Jon Karlsen listened without interrupting.

'Thank you,' he said when she was finished, 'for examining the case with such thoroughness, fru Gilstrup. And, as an economist, I don't disagree with what you say. But-'

'But what? The calculations are unambiguous…' She had heard the breathy excitement in her voice.

'But there is a human dimension.'

'Human?'

'The tenants. Human beings. Old people who have lived there all their lives, retired Army soldiers, refugees, human beings who need security. They are my human dimension. You'll throw them out to do up the flats and rent or sell at a profit. The calculations are – as you yourself said – unambiguous. That's your all-consuming economic dimension and I accept it. Do you accept mine?'

She caught her breath.

'I…' she started.

'I would be very happy to take you to meet some of these people,' he said. 'Then you might understand better.'

She sat shaking her head. 'I would like to clear up a few misunderstandings as far as our intentions are concerned,' she said. 'Are you busy Thursday evening?'

'No, but-'

'Let's meet at Feinschmecker at eight.'

'What is Feinschmecker?'

She had to smile. 'A restaurant in Frogner. Let me put it this way: the taxi driver will know where it is.'

'If it's in Frogner, I'll cycle.'

'Fine. See you.'

She called a meeting with Mads and her father-in-law and reported back on the outcome.

'Sounds like the key is this adviser of theirs,' said the father-in-law, Albert Gilstrup. 'If we can get him on our side, the properties are ours.'

'But I'm telling you he's not interested in any price we would pay.'

'Oh yes, he is,' said the father-in-law.

'No, he isn't!'

'Not to the Salvation Army, he isn't. He can wave his moral flag there as much as he likes. We have to appeal to his personal greed.'

Ragnhild shook her head. 'Not to this person's. He… he's not the kind to do that.'

'Everyone has their price,' Albert Gilstrup said with a sad smile, wagging his forefinger from side to side, like a metronome, in front of her face. 'The Salvation Army grew out of pietism, and pietism was the practical person's approach to religion. That's why pietism was such a hit in the unproductive north: bread first, then a prayer. I propose two million.'

'Two million?' Mads Gilstrup gasped. 'For… recommending them to sell?'

'Providing that there's a sale, of course. No cure, no pay.'

'That's still an insane sum of money,' the son protested.

The father-in-law answered without a glance: 'The only thing that's insane is that we have managed to decimate a family fortune at a time when everything else has gone up.'

Mads Gilstrup opened his mouth like an aquarium fish, but nothing came out.

'This adviser of theirs won't have the stomach to negotiate the price if he thinks the first offer is too low,' the father-in-law said. 'We have to knock him out with the first punch. Two million. What do you say, Ragnhild?'

Ragnhild nodded slowly, concentrating on something outside the window because she couldn't bring herself to look at her husband, who sat with bowed head in the shadow beyond the reading lamp.

Jon Karlsen was already at the table waiting when she arrived. He seemed smaller than she remembered, but perhaps that was because he had swapped his uniform for a sack of a suit she assumed had been bought in Fretex. Or he looked as though he felt lost in the fashionable restaurant. He knocked over the flower vase as he stood up to greet her. They rescued the flowers in a joint operation and laughed. Afterwards they talked about a variety of things. When he asked her if she had any children, she just shook her head.

Did he have any children? No. Right, but maybe he had…? No, not that either.

The conversation moved over to the properties owned by the Salvation Army, but she noticed he was arguing without the usual spark. He wore a polite smile and sipped his wine. She increased the offer by 10 per cent. He shook his head, still smiling, and complimented her on the necklace she knew contrasted well with her skin.

'A present from my mother,' she lied without effort. Thinking it was her eyes he was admiring. The light blue irises with the clear sclera.

Between main course and dessert she threw in the offer of a personal emolument of two million. She was spared looking into his eyes because he was studying his wine glass, silent, suddenly white-faced.

At length, he asked, in a whisper: 'Was this your idea?'

'Mine and my father-in-law's.' She noticed she was short of breath.

'Albert Gilstrup?'

'Yes. Apart from us two and my husband no one will ever know about this. We would have as much to lose if this came out as… er, as you.'

'Is it something I've said or done?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'What made you and your father-in-law think I would agree to a handful of silver?'

He looked up at her and Ragnhild could feel the blush spreading across her face. She couldn't remember blushing since her adolescence.

'Shall we drop the dessert?' He took the serviette from his lap and put it on the table beside the dinner plate.

'Take your time and think before you answer, Jon,' she stammered. 'For your own good. This can give you the chance to realise some dreams.'

The words grated and jarred even in her ears. Jon signalled to the waiter for the bill. 'And what dreams are they? The dream of being a corrupt servant, a miserable deserter? Driving around in a fine car while everything you're trying to achieve as a person lies in ruins around you?' The fury in his voice was making it quiver. 'Is that the kind of dream you have, Ragnhild Gilstrup?'

She was unable to answer.

'I must be blind,' he said. 'Because do you know what? When I met you I thought I saw… an altogether different person.'

'You saw me,' she whispered, sensing the onset of trembling, the same as she had experienced in the lift.

'What?'

She cleared her voice. 'You saw me. And now I've offended you. I am so sorry.'

In the ensuing silence she felt herself sinking through hot and cold layers of water.

'Let's put all this behind us,' she said as the waiter approached and took the card she had held up in one hand. 'It's not important. Not for either of us. Would you like to walk with me in Frogner Park?'

'I…'

'Please?'

He looked at her in astonishment.

Or did he?

How could those eyes – that saw everything – be astonished?

Ragnhild Gilstrup looked down from her window in Holmenkollen at a dark square below. Frogner Park. That was where the insanity had all started.

It was past midnight, the soup bus was parked in the garage and Martine felt pleasantly exhausted, but also blessed. She was standing on the pavement in front of the Hostel in the dark, narrow street of Heimdalsgata, waiting for Rikard, who had gone to fetch the car, when she heard the snow crunch behind her.

'Hi.'

She turned and felt her heart stop as she saw the silhouette of a tall figure towering up under the solitary street light.

'Don't you recognise me?'

One heartbeat. Two. Then three and four. She had recognised the voice.

'What are you doing here?' she asked, hoping her voice would not reveal how frightened she had been.

'I found out you were working on the bus this evening and that it was parked here at midnight. There has been a development in the case, as they say. I've been doing a bit of thinking.' He stepped forward and the light fell on his face. It was harder, older than she remembered. Strange how much you can forget in twenty-four hours. 'And I have a couple of questions.'

'Which couldn't wait?' she asked with a smile, and saw that her smile had made the policeman's face soften.

'Are you waiting for someone?' Harry asked.

'Yes, Rikard is going to drive me home.'

She looked at the bag the policeman was carrying over his shoulder. It had JETTE written on one side, but looked too old and worn to be the fashionable retro model.

'You should get yourself a couple of new insoles for the trainers you've got in there,' she said, pointing.

He eyed her in astonishment.

'You don't need to be Jean-Baptiste Grenouille to recognise the smell,' she said.

'Patrick Suskind,' he said. 'Perfume.'

'A policeman who reads,' she said.

'A Salvation Army soldier who reads about murder,' he said. 'Which leads us back to the reason for my being here, I'm afraid.'

A Saab 900 drove up and stopped. The window was lowered without a sound.

'Shall we be off, Martine?'

'Just a moment, Rikard.' She turned to Harry. 'Where are you going?'

'Bislett. But I prefer-'

'Rikard, is it alright if Harry joins us as far as Bislett? You live there, too, don't you?'

Rikard stared out into the dark before replying with a drawled 'Of course'.

'Come on,' Martine said, passing a hand to Harry.

Harry sent her a look of surprise.

'Slippery shoes,' she whispered, grabbing his hand. She could feel his hand was warm and dry, and it automatically squeezed hers as if he was afraid she would fall that instant.

Rikard drove with care, his eyes jumping from mirror to mirror as though expecting an ambush from behind.

'Well?' said Martine from the front seat.

Harry cleared his throat. 'Someone tried to shoot Jon Karlsen today.'

'What?' cried Martine.

Harry met Rikard's eyes in the mirror.

'Had you already heard?' Harry asked.

'No,' Rikard said.

'Who…?' Martine started.

'We don't know,' Harry said.

'But… both Robert and Jon. Has this got something to do with the Karlsen family?'

'I think they were only after one of them,' Harry said.

'What do you mean?'

'The gunman postponed his trip home. He must have discovered he had shot the wrong man. Robert wasn't the intended target.'

'Robert hadn't-'

'That's why I had to talk to you. I think you can tell me whether my theory is right or not.'

'Which theory?'

'That Robert died because he was unlucky enough to take Jon's shift in Egertorget.'

Martine swivelled round and looked in alarm at Harry.

'You have the duty roster,' Harry said. 'When I first went to see you, I noticed the roster hanging from the board in reception. Where everyone could see who was on duty that night in Egertorget. It was Jon Karlsen.'

'How…?'

'I popped in after going to the hospital and checked. Jon's name was there. But Robert and Jon swapped shifts after the list was typed up, didn't they.'

Rikard turned up Stensberggata towards Bislett.

Martine chewed her lower lip. 'Shifts are changed all the time, and if people arrange switches I don't always find out.'

Rikard drove down Sofies gate. Martine's eyes widened.

'Ah, now I remember! Robert rang to tell me they had swapped, so I didn't need to do anything. That must be why I didn't think of it. But

… but that means that…'

'Jon and Robert are very similar,' Harry said. 'And in uniform.. .'

'And it was dark and snowing…' Martine said in a hushed voice, as though to herself.

'What I wanted to know is if anyone had rung you to ask about the roster. And about that evening in particular.'

'Not as far as I can remember,' Martine said.

'Can you have a think? I'll call you tomorrow.'

'OK,' said Martine.

Harry held her eyes and in the light from the street lamp again he noticed the irregularities in her pupils.

Rikard pulled into the kerb.

'How did you know?' Harry asked.

'Know what?' Martine asked with alacrity.

'I was asking the driver,' Harry said. 'How did you know I live here?'

'You said,' Rikard answered. 'I know my way around. As Martine said, I live in Bislett too.'

Harry stood on the pavement watching the car drive away.

It was obvious the boy was besotted. He had driven here first so that he could be alone with Martine for a few minutes. To talk to her. To have the requisite peace and quiet when you have something to say, to make it clear who you are, to unburden your soul, to find out about yourself and all the stuff that is part of being young, and with which, he was happy to say, he had finished. All for a kind word, a hug and the hope of a kiss before she went. To beg for love the way that infatuated idiots do. Of all ages.

Harry ambled towards the front door as his hand instinctively searched for the keys in his trouser pocket, and his mind searched for something that was repelled every time he came close. And his eyes sought something he struggled to hear. It was a tiny sound, but at this late hour Sofies gate was quiet. Harry looked down at the piles of snow left by the ploughs today. It sounded like a cracking noise. Melting. Impossible; it was eighteen degrees below.

Harry put the key in the lock.

And he could hear it was not a melting sound. It was ticking.

He turned slowly and scrutinised the snowdrifts. A glint. Glass.

Harry walked back, bent down and picked up the watch. The glass on Moller's present was as shiny as the surface of water. Not a scratch. And the time was accurate to the second. Two minutes ahead of his watch. What was it Moller had said? So that he would be in time for what he thought he would miss.