desperate prayer: that no one would hear either his screams or his prayers.
Part Five
EPILOGUE
35 Guilt
Harry emerged from the underground in Egertorget. It was the day before Christmas Eve and people were hurrying past him in search of the last presents. Nevertheless, Yuletide serenity seemed to have settled over the town already. You could see it in people's faces, the smiles of contentment because Christmas preparations were over or the smiles of weary resignation. A man in matching Puffa jacket and trousers waddled past like an astronaut, grinning and blowing frosted breath from round, pink cheeks. Harry saw one desperate face, though. A pale woman dressed in a thin, black leather jacket with holes in the elbows standing by the jeweller's and hopping from one foot to the other.
The face of the young man behind the counter lit up when he caught sight of Harry; he hurriedly dealt with his customer and darted into the back room. He came back with Harry's grandfather's watch, which he placed on the counter with an expression of pride.
'It's working,' Harry said, impressed.
'Everything can be repaired,' the young man said. 'Just make sure you don't overwind it. That wears down the mechanisms. Try and I'll show you.'
As Harry wound the watch he could feel the rough friction against the metal parts and the resistance of the spring. And he noticed the rapt attention of the young man.
'Excuse me,' the young man asked, 'but may I ask where you got hold of that watch?'
'I was given it by my grandfather,' Harry answered, taken aback by the sudden reverence in the watch repairer's voice.
'Not that one. That one.' The young man pointed to Harry's wrist.
'I was given it by my former boss when he resigned.'
'My goodness.' The young watch repairer leaned over Harry's left arm and examined the wristwatch with great care. 'It's genuine, no doubt about it. That was a generous gift.'
'Oh? Is there anything special about it?'
The watch repairer looked at Harry in disbelief. 'Don't you know?'
Harry shook his head.
'It's a Lange 1 Tourbillon made by A. Lange amp; Sohne. On the back you'll find a serial number which tells you how many units of this model were made. If my memory serves me well, there were a hundred and fifty. You're wearing one of the most beautiful timepieces that has ever been made. In fact, the question is whether it is wise to wear it. With the market price the way it is now, strictly speaking, it should be in a bank vault.
'Bank vault?' Harry eyed the anonymous-looking watch that a few days ago he had thrown out of the bedroom window. 'It doesn't seem very exclusive.'
'But that's what it is. It's only available with the standard black watch strap and the grey face, and there's not a single diamond or ounce of gold in the watch. It does look like standard steel, platinum, it's true. However, its value lies in the fact that this is workmanship which has been elevated to the level of art.'
'I see. How much would you say this watch is worth?'
'I don't know. At home I have some catalogues of auction prices for rare watches. I could bring them in some time.'
'Just give me a round figure,' Harry said.
'A round figure?'
'An idea.'
The young man stuck out his lower lip and moved his head from side to side. Harry waited.
'Well, I wouldn't sell it for less than four hundred thousand.'
'Four hundred thousand kroner?' Harry exclaimed.
'No, no,' said the young man. 'Four hundred thousand dollars.'
Back outside the jeweller's shop, Harry no longer felt the cold. Nor the heavy drowsiness that remained in his body after twelve hours of sound sleep. Nor did he notice the hollow-eyed woman with the thin leather jacket and the junkie glaze come over to ask him whether he was the policeman she had spoken to a few days before, and whether he knew anything about her son whom no one had seen for four days.
'Where was he last seen?' Harry asked mechanically.
'Where do you think?' the woman said. 'In Plata, of course.'
'What's his name?'
'Kristoffer. Kristoffer Jorgensen. Hello! Is anyone at home?'
'What?'
'You look like you're on a trip, man.'
'Sorry. You'd better take a photo of him to the main police station, ground floor, and report him missing.'
'Photo?' She gave a shrill laugh. 'I've got a photo of him from when he was seven. Do you think that will do?'
'Haven't you got anything more recent?'
'And who do you think would have taken it?'
Harry found Martine at the Lighthouse. The cafe was closed, but the receptionist at the Hostel had let Harry in round the back.
She was standing with her back to him in the clothes depot emptying the washing machine. He coughed quietly so as not to frighten her.
Harry was watching her shoulder blades and neck muscles when she turned round and he wondered where she had this suppleness from. And whether she would always have it. She stood up, tilted her head, brushed away a wisp of hair and smiled.
'Hi, the one they call Harry.'
She was standing a step away from him with her arms down by her sides. He had a good look at her. At the winter-pale skin that still had this strange glow. The sensitive, flared nostrils, the unusual eyes with pupils that had spilt over, making them resemble partial lunar eclipses. And at the lips that she unconsciously curled inside, moistened and then pressed against each other, soft and wet, as though she had just kissed herself. The drum of the tumble dryer rumbled.
They were alone. She took a deep breath and leaned back her head a tiny bit. She was a step away.
'Hi,' Harry said. Without moving.
She blinked twice in quick succession. Then she sent him a fleeting, somewhat bewildered smile, turned to the worktop and started folding the clothes.
'I'll have finished soon. Will you wait?'
'I have reports to finish before the holidays start.'
'We're putting on a Christmas dinner here tomorrow,' she said, half turning. 'Would you like to come and help?'
He shook his head.
'Other plans?'
Today's Aftenposten lay open on the worktop beside her. They had devoted a whole page to the Salvation Army soldier who had been found dead in the toilet at Gardemoen Airport last night. The newspaper quoted Chief Inspector Gunnar Hagen who said the gunman and the motive were as yet unknown, but they thought the case was connected with the previous week's killing in Egertorget.
As the two murder victims were brothers and police suspicions were now concentrated on an unidentified Croat, the day's newspapers had already begun to speculate whether the background could be a family feud. Verdens Gang drew attention to the fact that many years ago the Karlsen family had taken their holidays in Croatia
