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  Inwardly, Kaja Solness was beaming like a sun and felt an almost irresistible desire to do a couple of spins in her swivel chair.

  ‘If Hagen says OK, of course I’ll join you,’ she said, trying to contain herself, but she could hear the exultation in her voice.

  ‘Hagen says OK,’ said the man leaning against the door frame with his arm over his head, forming a diagonal in her doorway. ‘So it’s just Holm, you and me. And the case we’re working on is confidential. We start tomorrow. Meet at seven in my office.’

  ‘Er … seven?’

  ‘Sieben. Seven. O seven hundred hours.’

  ‘I see. Which office?’

  The man grinned and explained.

  She looked at him in disbelief. ‘We’ve got an office in the prison?’

  The diagonal in the doorway relaxed. ‘Meet up, all systems go. Questions?’

  Kaja had several, but Harry had already left.

  The dream has begun to appear in the daytime, too, now. A long way off I can still hear the band playing ‘Love Hurts’. I notice a few boys standing around us, but they don’t move in. Good. As for me, I’m looking at her. See what you’ve done, I try to say. Look at him now. Do you still want him? My God, how I hate her, how I want to tear the knife out of my mouth and stick it in her, stab holes in her, see it gush out: blood, guts, the lie, the stupidity, her idiotic self-righteousness. Someone should show her how ugly she is on the inside.

  I saw the press conference on TV. Incompetent oafs! No clues. No suspects! The golden first forty-eight hours, the sands are running out, hurry, hurry. What do you want me to do? Write it on the wall in blood?

  It’s you who are allowing this killing to go on.

  The letter is finished.

  Hurry.

  15

  Strobe Lights

  STINE EYED THE BOY WHO HAD JUST SPOKEN TO HER. HE had a beard, blond hair and a woollen hat. Indoors. And this was no indoor hat, but a thick hat to keep your ears warm. A snowboarder? Anyway, when she took a closer look, this was no boy, but a man. Over thirty. At any rate, there were white wrinkles in the brown skin.

  ‘So?’ she shouted over the music booming out through the stereo system at Krabbe. The recently opened restaurant had proclaimed it was the new hangout for Stavanger’s young avant-garde musicians, filmmakers and writers, of whom there were quite a few in this otherwise business-orientated, dollar-counting oil town. It would turn out that the in-crowd had not yet decided whether Krabbe deserved their favour or not. As indeed Stine had not yet decided whether this boy – man – deserved hers.

  ‘It’s just I think you should let me tell you about it,’ he said with a confident smile and looked at her with a pair of eyes that seemed much too pale blue to her. But perhaps that was the lighting in here? Strobe lights? Was that cool? Time would tell. He turned the beer glass in his hand and leaned back against the bar so that she had to lean forward if she wanted to hear what he was saying, but she didn’t fall for that one. He was wearing a thick puffa jacket, yet there was not a drop of sweat to be seen on his face under that ridiculous hat. Or was that cool?

  ‘There are very few people who’ve biked through the delta district of Burma and returned sufficiently alive to tell the tale,’ he said.

  Sufficiently alive. A talker, then. She liked that up to a point. He looked like someone. Some American action hero from an old film or a TV show from the eighties.

  ‘I promised myself that if I got back to Stavanger I would go out, buy myself a beer and accost the most attractive girl I could see and say what I am saying now.’ He thrust out his arms and wore a big white smile. ‘I think you’re the girl by the blue pagoda.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rudyard Kipling, missie. You’re the girl waiting for the English soldier by the old blue Moulmein pagoda. So what do you say? Will you join me and walk barefoot on the marble in Shwedagon? Eat cobra meat in Bago? Sleep till the Muslims’ call to prayers in Rangoon and wake to the Buddhists in Mandalay?’

  He breathed in. She bent forward. ‘So I’m the most attractive girl in here, am I?’

  He looked around. ‘No, but you’ve got the biggest boobs. You’re good-looking, but the competition is too fierce for you to be the best-looking of the lot. Shall we be off?’

  She laughed and shook her head. Didn’t know whether he was fun or just mad.

  ‘I’m with some girls. You can try that trick on someone else.’

  ‘Elias.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were wondering what my name was. In case we meet again. And my name’s Elias. Skog. You’ll forget that, but you’ll remember Elias. And we’ll meet again. Before you imagine, actually.’

  She slanted her head. ‘Oh yes?’

  Then he drained his glass, put it on the bar, smiled at her and left.

  ‘Who was he?’

  It was Mathilde.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Stine said. ‘He was quite nice. But weird. Talked like he came from eastern Norway.’

  ‘Weird?’

  ‘There was something odd about his eyes. And teeth. Are there strobe lights in here?’

  ‘Strobe lights?’

  Stine laughed. ‘No, it’s that toothpaste-coloured solarium light. Makes your face look like a zombie’s.’

  Mathilde shook her head. ‘You need a drink. Come on.’

  Stine turned towards the exit as she followed. She thought she had seen a face against a pane, but no one was there.

  16

  Speed King

  IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, AND HARRY WAS WALKING through Oslo city centre. He had spent the morning humping chairs and tables into the new office. In the afternoon he had gone up to Rikshospital, but his father was undergoing some tests. So he had doubled back, copied reports, made a few calls, booked a ticket to Bergen, nipped down to the shops and bought a SIM card the size of a cigarette end.

  Harry strode out. He had always enjoyed moving from east to west in this compact town, seeing the gradual but obvious changes in people, fashion, ethnicity, architecture, shops, cafes and bars. He popped into a McDonald’s, had a hamburger, stuffed three straws in his coat pocket and continued his journey.

  Half an hour after standing in the ghetto-like Pakistani Grønland, he found himself in neat, slightly sterile and very white West End land. Kaja Solness’s address was in Lyder Sagens gate and turned out to be one of those large old timber houses that attracted a long queue of Oslo-ites on the rare occasions one of them was for sale. Not to buy – very few could afford that – but to see, dream about and receive confirmation that Fagerborg really was what it purported to be: a neighbourhood where the rich were not too rich, the money was not too new, and no one had a swimming pool, electric garage doors or any other vulgar modern invention. For the Fagerborger, quite literally the fine burghers, did as they always had done here. In the summer they sat under apple trees in their large shaded gardens on the garden furniture that was as old, impractically large and stained black as the houses from which it had been carried. And when it was transported back and the days became shorter, candles were lit behind the leaded windows. In Lyder Sagens gate there was a Yuletide atmosphere from October through to March.

  The gate gave a screech so loud that it made any need for a dog superfluous, Harry hoped. The gravel crunched beneath his boots. He had been as happy as a child to be reunited with his boots when he found them in the wardrobe, but now they were drenched right through.

  He went up the porch steps and pressed the bell without a nameplate.

  In front of the door was a pair of pretty ladies’ shoes and a pair of men’s shoes. Size forty-six, Harry estimated. Kaja’s husband was big, they seemed to suggest. For, naturally, she had a husband; he didn’t know why he had thought any differently. Because he had, hadn’t he? It was of no consequence. The door opened.

  ‘Harry?’ She was wearing an open and much too large woollen jacket, faded jeans and felt slippers that were so old Harry could swear they had liver spots. No
make-up. Just a surprised smile. Nevertheless she seemed to have been expecting him. Expected that he would like to see her this way. Of course, he had already seen it in her eyes in Hong Kong, the fascination so many women have for any man with a reputation, good or bad. Though he had not made a comprehensive analysis of every single thought process that, in concert, had led him to this door. Just as well he had saved himself the effort. Size forty-six shoes. Or forty-six and a half.

  ‘I got your address from Hagen,’ Harry said. ‘You live within walking distance of my flat so I thought I would drop by instead of ringing.’

  She smirked. ‘You haven’t got a mobile.’

  ‘Wrong.’ Harry produced a red phone from his pocket. ‘I was given this by Hagen, but I’ve already forgotten the PIN. Am I disturbing?’

  ‘No, no.’ She opened the door wide and Harry stepped in.

  It was pathetic, but his heart had been beating a bit faster while he waited for her. Fifteen years ago that would have annoyed him, but he had resigned himself and accepted the banal fact that a woman’s beauty would always have this modicum of power over him.

  ‘I’m making coffee. Would you like some?’

  They had moved into the living room. The walls were covered with pictures and shelves with so many books he doubted she could have read them all herself. The room had a distinctly masculine character. Large, angular furniture, a globe, a hookah, vinyl records on more shelves, maps and photographs of high, snow-covered mountains on the walls. Harry concluded that he was a great deal older than her. A TV was on, but without the volume.

  ‘Marit Olsen is the main item on all the news broadcasts,’ Kaja said, lifting the remote and switching off the TV. ‘Two of the Opposition leaders stood up and demanded quick results. They said the government had been systematically dismantling the police force. Kripos won’t get much peace for the next few days.’

  ‘Yes please to the coffee,’ Harry said, and Kaja scurried into the kitchen.

  He sat on the sofa. An open John Fante book lay face down on the coffee table, beside a pair of ladies’ reading glasses. Beside it were photos of Frogner Lido. Not of the crime scene itself, but of the people who had gathered outside the cordon to rubberneck. Harry gave a grunt of satisfaction. Not only because she had taken work home, but because crime scene officers continued to take these photos. It had been Harry who insisted they always photograph the crowd. It was something he had learned on the FBI course about serial killings; the killer returning to the scene of a crime was no myth. The King brothers in San Antonio and the K-Mart man had been arrested precisely because they couldn’t restrain themselves from returning to admire their handiwork, to see all the commotion they had caused, to feel how invulnerable they were. The photographers at Krimteknisk called it Hole’s sixth commandment. And, yes, there were nine other commandments. Harry riffled through the photos.

  ‘You don’t take milk, do you?’ Kaja shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you? At Heathrow—’

  ‘I mean yes, as in yes, you’re right, I don’t take milk.’

  ‘Aha. You’ve gone over to the Cantonese system.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve stopped using double negatives. Cantonese is more logical. You like logical.’

  ‘Is that right? About Cantonese?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she laughed from the kitchen. ‘I’m just trying to sound clever.’

  Harry could see that the photographer had been discreet, he’d shot from hip height, no flash. The spectators’ attention was directed towards the diving tower. Dull eyes, half-open mouths, as if they were bored of waiting for a glimpse of something dreadful, something for their albums, something with which they could scare the neighbours out of their wits. A man holding a mobile phone up in the air; he was definitely taking photos. Harry took the magnifying glass lying on the pile of reports, and scrutinised their faces, one by one. He didn’t know what he was looking for, his brain was empty; it was the best way, so as not to miss whatever might be there.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ She had taken up a position behind his chair and bent down to see. He caught a mild fragrance of lavender soap, the same he had smelt on the plane when she had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

  ‘Mm. Do you think there’s anything to see here?’ he asked, taking the coffee mug.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why did you bring the photos home?’

  ‘Because ninety-five per cent of all police work is searching in the wrong place.’

  She had just quoted Harry’s third commandment.

  ‘And you have to learn to enjoy the ninety-five per cent, too. Otherwise you’ll go mad.’

  Fourth commandment.

  ‘And the reports?’ Harry asked.

  ‘All we have are the reports on the murders of Borgny and Charlotte, and there’s nothing in them. No forensic leads, no accounts of unusual activities. No tip-offs about bitter enemies, jealous lovers, greedy heirs, deranged stalkers, impatient drug dealers or other creditors. In short—’

  ‘No leads, no apparent motives, no murder weapons. I would have liked to start interviewing people in the Marit Olsen case, but, as you know, we’re not working on it.’

  Kaja smiled. ‘Of course not. By the way, I spoke to a political journalist from VG today. He said none of the journalists at Stortinget knew anything about Marit Olsen having depression, personal crises or suicidal thoughts. Or enemies, in her professional or her private life.’

  ‘Mm.’

  Harry skimmed the row of spectators’ faces. A woman with sleepwalker eyes and a child on her arm.

  ‘What do these people want?’ Behind them: the back of a man leaving. Puffa jacket, woollen hat. ‘To be shocked. Shaken. Entertained. Purified …’

  ‘Incredible.’

  ‘Mm. And so you’re reading John Fante. You like older things, do you?’ He nodded towards the room, the house. And he meant the room, the house. But reckoned she would drop in a comment about the husband if he was a lot older than her, as Harry guessed he was.

  She looked at him with enthusiasm. ‘Have you read Fante?’

  ‘When I was young and was going through my Bukowski period I read one whose title eludes me. I bought them mostly because Charles Bukowski was an ardent fan.’ He made a show of checking his watch. ‘Whoops, time to go home.’

  Kaja looked at him in amazement and then at the untouched cup of coffee.

  ‘Jet lag,’ Harry smiled, getting to his feet. ‘We can talk tomorrow at the meeting.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Harry patted his trouser pocket. ‘By the way, I’ve run out of cigarettes. The tax-free Camel cigarettes you took through customs for me …’

  ‘Just a minute,’ she smiled.

  When she came back with the carton Harry was standing in the hall, with his jacket and shoes already on.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking out one of the packs and opening it.

  When he was outside on the steps, she leaned against the door frame. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I have a feeling that this was some kind of test.’

  ‘Test?’ Harry said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘I won’t ask what the test was for, but did I pass?’

  Harry chuckled. ‘It was just this.’ He walked down the steps waving the carton. ‘O seven hundred hours.’

  Harry let himself into his flat. Pressed the light switch and established that the electricity had not been disconnected. Took off his coat, went into the sitting room, put on Deep Purple, his top favourite band in the category can’t-help-being-funny, but-brilliant-anyway. ‘Speed King’. Ian Paice on drums. He sat down on the sofa and pressed his fingertips against his forehead. The dogs were yanking at the chains. Howling, snarling, barking, their teeth tearing at his innards. If he let them loose, there would be no way back. Not this time. Before, there had always been good enough reasons to stop drinking again. Rakel, Oleg, the job, perhaps even Dad. He didn’t have any of them
any more. It couldn’t happen. Not with alcohol. So he had to have an alternative intoxicant. He could control intoxication. Thank you, Kaja. Was he ashamed? Of course he was. But pride was a luxury he couldn’t always afford.

  He tore the plastic wrapping from the carton. Took out the bottom pack. You could hardly see that the seal on the pack had been broken. It was a fact that women like Kaja were never checked at customs. He opened the pack and pulled out the tinfoil. Unfolded it and looked at the brown ball. Inhaled the sweet smell.

  Then he set about his preparations.

  Harry had seen all possible ways of smoking opium, everything from the complicated, ritual procedures of opium dens, which were nothing less than Chinese tea ceremonies, through all sorts of pipe arrangements to the simplest: lighting the ball, placing a straw over it and inhaling for all you were worth as the goods literally went up in smoke. Whatever method you chose, the principle was the same: to get the substances – morphine, thebaine, codeine and a whole bouquet of other chemical friends – into your bloodstream. Harry’s method was straightforward. He taped a steel spoon to the end of the table, placed a tiny particle of the lump, no bigger than the head of a matchstick, in the spoon and heated it with a lighter. When the opium began to burn he held an ordinary glass over it to collect the smoke. Then he put a drinking straw, one with a flexible joint, in the glass and inhaled. Harry noted that his fingers worked without a hint of a tremble. In Hong Kong he had regularly kept a check on his dependency level; seen in that light, he was the most disciplined drug abuser he knew. He could predetermine his dose of alcohol and stop there, however plastered he was. In Hong Kong he had cut out opium for a week or two and only taken a couple of analgesic tablets, which would not have prevented withdrawal symptoms from materialising anyway, but which perhaps had a psychological effect since he knew they contained a tiny amount of morphine. He was not hooked. On drugs in general he was, but on opium in particular: no. Though it is a sliding scale of course. Because while he was taping the spoon into position he could already feel the dogs calming down. For they knew now, knew they would soon be fed.