‘Ibsen?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. He was also a great artist. I would like to propose a partnership, herr Ibsen. Vertical integration. We corner the market and set the price. Better margin for both of us. What do you say?’
Ibsen shook his head.
The old boy tilted his head with a smile on the lipless mouth. ‘Why not, herr Ibsen?’
I watched the little man straighten up; he seemed to grow in the baggy, all-year-round, world’s-most- boring-person jacket.
‘If I give you the monopoly, herr…’
The old boy pressed his fingertips together. ‘You can call me whatever you like, herr Ibsen.’
‘I don’t want to be dependent on a single buyer, herr Dubai. It’s too risky. And it means you can force prices down. On the other hand, I don’t want too many buyers, because then the risk that the police will trace me is greater. I came to you because you’re known to be invisible, but I want one more buyer. I have already been in contact with Los Lobos. I hope you can understand.’
The old boy laughed his chug-chug laugh. ‘Listen and learn, Gusto. Not only is he a pharmacist, he’s also a businessman. Good, herr Ibsen, let’s say that then.’
‘The price…’
‘I’ll pay what you asked. You’ll find this is a business in which you don’t waste time haggling, herr Ibsen. Life’s too short and death too close at hand. Shall we say the first delivery next Tuesday?’
On the way out the old boy acted as if he needed to support himself on me. His nails scratched the skin on my arm.
‘Have you thought about exporting, herr Ibsen? The checks on exporting drugs from Norway are non-existent, you know.’
Ibsen didn’t answer. But I saw it now. What he wanted. Saw it as he stood over his club foot with a pivoted hip. Saw it in the reflection from his sweaty, shiny forehead below the thinning hair. The condensation had gone from his glasses, and his eyes had the same gleam I had seen in Skippergata. Payback, Dad. He wanted some payback. Payback for all the things he hadn’t received: respect, love, admiration, acceptance, everything it is claimed you can’t buy. Although you can, of course. Isn’t that right, Dad? Life owes you stuff, but sometimes you have to be your own sodding debt collector. And if we have to burn in hell for it, heaven’s going to be sparsely populated. Isn’t that right, Dad?
Harry sat by the road looking out. Watched the planes taxiing in and taxiing out to the runway.
He would be in Shanghai within eighteen hours.
He liked Shanghai. Liked the food, liked walking down the Bund along the River Huangpu to Peace Hotel, liked going into the Old Jazz Bar and listening to the ancient jazz musicians creaking their way through standards, liked the thought that they had been sitting there and playing without an audible break since the revolution in ’49. Liked her. Liked what they had, and what they didn’t have, but ignored.
The ability to ignore. It was a wonderful quality, not something he was naturally blessed with, but which he had practised over the last three years. Not banging your head against the wall if you didn’t have to.
How unshakeable is your faith in your gospel actually? Aren’t you also a doubter?
He would be in Shanghai in eighteen hours.
Could be in Shanghai within eighteen hours.
Shit.
She answered on second ring.
‘What do you want?’
‘Don’t ring off again, OK?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Listen, how strong a hold have you got on that Nils Christian?’
‘Hans Christian.’
‘Is he besotted enough for you to persuade him to help me with a very dubious stunt?’
13
It had rained all night, and from where Harry was standing, in front of Oslo District Prison, he could see a fresh layer of leaves lying like a wet yellow tarpaulin over the park. He had not slept much after he had gone straight from the airport to Rakel’s. Hans Christian had come, not protested too much and gone again. Afterwards Rakel and Harry drank tea and talked about Oleg. About how it had been before. About how it had been, but not about how it could have been. In the early hours Rakel had said Harry could sleep in Oleg’s room. Before Harry went to bed he had used Oleg’s computer to search for, and find, old articles about the police officer found dead beneath Alvsborg Bridge in Gothenburg. It confirmed what Cato had told him, and Harry also found a piece in the ever- sensationalist Goteborgstidningen leaking rumours about the dead man being a burner, which it defined as a person criminals used to destroy evidence against them. It was only two hours since Rakel had woken him with a steaming cup of coffee and a whisper. She had always done that, started the day with whispers, to him and Oleg, as if to soften the transition from dreams to reality.
Harry peered into the CCTV camera, heard the low buzz and pushed open the door. Then he entered quickly. Held the briefcase up in front of him for all to see and laid his ID card on the counter while turning his good cheek.
‘Hans Christian Simonsen…’ the prison officer mumbled without looking up, running her eye down the list in front of her. ‘There, yes. For Oleg Fauke.’
‘Correct,’ Harry said.
Another officer led him through the corridors and across the open gallery in the middle of the prison. The officer talked about how warm the autumn had been and rattled the huge bunch of keys whenever he opened a new door. They walked through the common room, and Harry saw a ping-pong table with two rackets and an open book on top, and a kitchenette, in which a wholemeal loaf and a bread knife had been left out along with spreads of various kinds. But no inmates.
They stopped by a white door and the officer unlocked it.
‘I thought cell doors were open at this time of day,’ Harry said.
‘The others are, but this prisoner’s doing a 171,’ the officer said. ‘He’s allowed out only one hour a day.’
‘Where are all the others then?’
‘God knows. Perhaps they’ve got the Hustler Channel on TV again.’
After the officer had let him in, Harry stood by the door until he heard the footsteps outside fading in the distance. The cell was the usual kind. Ten square metres. A bed, a cupboard, a desk and chair, bookshelves, a TV. Oleg sat at the desk and looked up in surprise.
‘You wanted to meet me,’ Harry said.
‘I thought I wasn’t allowed visitors,’ Oleg said.
‘This isn’t a visit. It’s a consultation with your defence counsel.’
‘Defence counsel?’
Harry nodded. And saw the light dawn in Oleg’s eyes. Smart boy.
‘How…?’
‘The type of murder you’re suspected of committing doesn’t qualify you for a high-security prison. It wasn’t so difficult.’ Harry opened the briefcase, took out the white Game Boy and passed it to Oleg. ‘Here you are. It’s for you.’
Oleg ran his fingers over the display. ‘Where did you find it?’
Harry thought he could see the suggestion of a smile on the boy’s serious face. ‘Vintage model with battery. I found it in Hong Kong. My plan was to crush you at Tetris the next time we met.’
‘Never!’ Oleg laughed. ‘Not at that, and not at underwater swimming.’
‘That time in Frogner Lido? Mm. I seem to recall I was a metre ahead of you-’
