— not without some irritation he seemed to remember — questions about serial killings. Harry closed the drawer. Cast around. He felt a need to smash something. Then he switched off the computer, packed the little suitcase, went into the hall and put on his suit jacket. Rakel came out. She brushed an invisible speck of dust from his lapel.
‘It’s so strange,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages, I had just begun to forget you, and then, here you are again.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Is that a good thing?’
A fleeting smile. ‘I don’t know. It’s both good and bad. Do you understand?’
Harry nodded and pulled her to him.
‘You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,’ she said. ‘And the best. Even now, merely by being here, you can make me forget everything else. No, I’m not sure that’s good.’
‘I know.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing to the suitcase.
‘I’m checking in to Hotel Leon.’
‘But…’
‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Goodnight, Rakel.’
Harry kissed her on the forehead, opened the door and went out into the warm autumn evening.
The boy in reception said he didn’t need to fill in another registration form and offered Harry the same room as last time, 301. Harry said that was fine so long as they fixed the broken curtain pole.
‘Is it broken again?’ the boy said. ‘It was the previous lodger. He had a bit of a temper, I’m afraid.’ He passed Harry the room key. ‘He was a policeman as well.’
‘Lodger?’
‘Yes, he was one of the permanent ones. An agent, undercover as you call him.’
‘Mm. Sounds like his cover wasn’t up to much, if you knew.’
The boy smiled. ‘Let me go and see if I have a curtain pole in the storeroom.’ The boy left.
‘Beret Man was very like you,’ a deep Swedish voice said. Harry turned.
Cato was sitting in a chair in what with a little charity could be termed the lobby. He looked drawn and was slowly shaking his head. ‘Very like you, Harry. Very passionate. Very patient. Very obstinate. Unfortunately. Not as tall as you, of course, and he had grey eyes. But the same police look about them, and just as lonely. And he died in the same place as you will. You should have gone, Harry. You should have caught the plane.’ He gesticulated something incomprehensible with his long fingers. His expression was so mournful that for a moment Harry wondered if the old man was going to cry. He staggered to his feet as Harry turned to the boy.
‘Is what he says true?’
‘What who says?’ the boy asked.
‘Him,’ Harry said, turning to point at Cato. But he was already gone. He must have flitted into the darkness by the stairs.
‘Did the undercover cop die here, in my room?’
The boy stared at Harry before answering. ‘No, he went missing. He was washed ashore by the Opera House. Afraid I don’t have a curtain pole, but what about this nylon line? You can thread it through the curtains and tie it to the pole attachments.’
Harry nodded slowly.
It was gone two o’clock in the morning. Harry was still awake and on his last cigarette. On the floor lay the curtains and the thin nylon line. He could see the woman on the other side of the yard; she was dancing a soundless waltz, without a partner. Harry listened to the sounds of the town and watched the smoke curling up towards the ceiling. Studied the winding routes it took, the apparently random figures it made and tried to see a pattern in it.
19
It took two months from the meeting between the old boy and Isabelle for the clean-up to begin.
The first ones to be busted were the Vietnamese. The newspapers said the cops had struck in nine places simultaneously, found five heroin stores and arrested thirty-six Vietcong. The week after it was the Kosovar Albanians’ turn. The cops used elite Delta troops to raid a flat in Helsfyr which the gypsy chief thought no one knew about. Then it was the turn of the North Africans and Lithuanians. The guy who was head of Orgkrim, a good- looking model-type with long eyelashes, said in the papers they had been given anonymous tip-offs. Over the next few weeks street sellers, everything from coal-black Somalis to milky-white Norwegians, were busted and banged up. But not a single one of us wearing an Arsenal shirt. It was already clear that we had more elbow room and the queues were getting longer. The old boy was recruiting some of the unemployed street sellers, but keeping his end of the bargain: heroin dealing had become less visible in Oslo city centre. We cut down on heroin imports as we earned so much more on violin. Violin was expensive, so some tried to switch to morphine, but they soon came back.
We were selling faster than Ibsen could make it.
One Tuesday we ran out at half past twelve, and since it was strictly forbidden to use mobiles — the old boy thought Oslo was fricking Baltimore — I went down to the station and rang the Russian Gresso phone from one of the call boxes. Andrey said he was busy, but he would see what he could do. Oleg, Irene and I sat on the steps in Skippergata waving away punters and chilling. An hour later I saw a figure come limping towards us. It was Ibsen in person. He was furious. Yelling and cursing. Until he caught sight of Irene. Then it was as if the storm was over and his tone became more conciliatory. Followed us to the backyard where he handed over a plastic bag containing a hundred packages.
‘Twenty thousand,’ he said, holding out his paw. ‘This is cash on delivery.’ I took him aside and said that next time we ran out we could go to his place.
‘I don’t want visitors,’ he said.
‘I might pay more than two hundred a bag,’ I said.
He eyed me with suspicion. ‘Are you planning to start up on your own? What would your boss say to that?’
‘This is between you and me,’ I said. ‘We’re talking chicken-feed. Ten to twenty bags for friends and acquaintances.’
He burst out laughing.
‘I’ll bring the girl,’ I said. ‘Her name’s Irene, by the way.’
He stopped laughing. Looked at me. Club Foot tried to laugh again, but couldn’t. And now everything was written in big letters in his eyes. Loneliness. Greed. Hatred. And desire. Fricking desire.
‘Friday evening,’ he said. ‘At eight. Does she drink gin?’
I nodded. From now on she did.
He gave me the address.
Two days later the old boy invited me to lunch. For a second I thought Ibsen had grassed on me, because I could remember his expression. We were served by Peter and sat at the long table in the cold dining room while the old boy told me he had cut out heroin imports across the country and from Amsterdam and now only imported from Bangkok via a couple of pilots. He talked about the figures, checked I understood and repeated the usual question: was I keeping away from violin? He sat there in the semi-gloom gazing at me, then he called Peter and told him to drive me home. In the car I considered asking Peter whether the old boy was impotent.
Ibsen lived in a typical bachelor pad in a block on Ekeberg. Big plasma screen, little fridge and nothing on the walls. He poured us a cheap gin with lifeless tonic, without a slice of lemon, but with three ice cubes. Irene watched the performance. Smiled, was sweet, and left the talking to me. Ibsen sat with an idiotic grin on his face gawping at Irene, though he did manage to close his gob whenever saliva threatened to leak out. He played fricking classical music. I got my packages and we agreed I would drop by again in a fortnight. With Irene.
Then came the first report about the falling number of ODs. What they didn’t write was that first-time users of violin, after only a few weeks, were queueing with staring eyes and visible fits of the shakes from withdrawal
