‘You’ve always had such high expectations of me, Oleg. Too high. And I’ve always wanted you to see me as better than I am.’
Oleg looked down at his hands. ‘Don’t all boys see their fathers as heroes?’
‘Maybe. And I didn’t want you to expose me as a deserter, someone who clears off. But things happened as they did anyway. What I wanted to say was that even if I wasn’t there for you, that doesn’t mean you weren’t important to me. We can’t live the lives we would like to. We’re prisoners of… things. Of who we are.’
Oleg lifted his chin. ‘Of junk and shit.’
‘That too.’
They inhaled in unison. Watching the smoke drift in gusts towards the vast, open, blue sky. Harry knew that nicotine couldn’t appease the cravings in the boy, but at least it was a distraction. And that was all it was about, for the next few minutes.
‘Harry?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why didn’t you come back?’
Harry took another drag before answering. ‘Because your mother thought I wasn’t good for you or her. And she was right.’
Harry continued to smoke as he stared into the distance. Knowing Oleg would not want him to look at him now. Eighteen-year-old boys don’t like being watched when they’re crying. Nor would he want him to put an arm around his shoulder and say something. He would want him to be there. Without straying. To think alongside him about the impending race.
When they heard the car approach they walked down the stand and into the car park. Harry saw Hans Christian place a hand on Rakel’s arm as she was about to charge out of the car.
Oleg turned to Harry, puffed himself up, hooked his thumb round Harry’s and nudged his right shoulder with his. But Harry didn’t let him get away so easily and pulled him close. Whispered in his ear: ‘Win.’
Irene Hanssen’s last known address was her family home. The house was in Grefsen, semi-detached. A small overgrown garden with apple trees, no apples, and a swing.
A young man Harry guessed to be about twenty opened the door. The face was familiar, and Harry’s police brain searched for a tenth of a second before it had two hits on the database.
‘My name’s Harry Hole. And you are Stein Hanssen perhaps?’
‘Yes?’
His face had the combination of innocence and alertness of a young man who had experienced both good and bad, but still vacillated between overly revealing openness and overly inhibiting caution in his confrontation with the world.
‘I recognise you from a photo. I’m a friend of Oleg Fauke’s.’
Harry looked for a reaction in Stein Hanssen’s grey eyes, but it failed to materialise.
‘You may have heard that he’s been released? Someone has confessed to the killing of your foster- brother.’
Stein Hanssen shook his head. Still minimal expression.
‘I’m an ex-policeman. I’m trying to find your sister, Irene.’
‘How come?’
‘I want to be sure she’s OK. I’ve promised Oleg I would.’
‘Great. So that he can continue to feed her drugs?’
Harry shifted his weight. ‘Oleg’s clean now. As you may know, that takes its toll. But he’s clean because he wanted to try to find her. He loves her, Stein. But I’d like to try to find her for all our sakes, not only for his. And I’m reckoned to be quite handy at finding people.’
Stein Hanssen looked at Harry. Hesitated. Then he opened the door.
Harry followed him into the living room. It was tidy, nicely furnished and seemed completely unoccupied.
‘Your parents…’
‘They don’t live here now. And I’m only here when I’m not in Trondheim.’
He had a conspicuous trilled ‘r’, the kind that was once regarded as a status symbol for families who could afford nannies from Sorland. The kind of ‘r’ that makes your voice easy to remember, Harry thought without knowing why he did.
There was a photograph on the piano, which looked as if it had never been used. The photograph must have been six or seven years old. Irene and Gusto were younger, smaller versions of themselves, sporting clothes and hairstyles that Harry assumed would have been deadly embarrassing for them to see now. Stein stood at the back with a serious expression. The mother stood with her arms crossed and wore a condescending, almost sarcastic, smile. The father was smiling in a way that made Harry think it had been his idea to have this family photo taken. At least, he was the only person showing any enthusiasm.
‘So that’s the family?’
‘Was. My parents are divorced now. My father moved to Denmark. Fled is probably a more precise word. My mother’s in hospital. The rest… well, you obviously know the rest.’
Harry nodded. One dead. One missing. Big losses for one family.
Harry sat down unbidden in one of the deep armchairs. ‘What can you tell me that might help me find Irene?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
Harry smiled. ‘Try.’
‘Irene moved to my place in Trondheim after going through an experience she wouldn’t tell me about. But which I’m sure Gusto was behind. She idolised Gusto, would do anything for him, imagined he cared because now and then he would pat her on the cheek. But after a few months there was a phone call and she said she had to return to Oslo. Refused to divulge why. That’s four months ago, and since then I’ve neither seen nor heard from her. When, after more than two weeks, I hadn’t been able to contact her, I went to the police and reported her missing. They took note, did a bit of checking, then nothing else happened. No one cares about a homeless junkie.’
‘Any theories?’ Harry asked.
‘No. But she hasn’t gone of her own free will. She’s not the type to clear off like… like some others.’
Harry had no idea whom he actually meant, yet the jibe hit home.
Stein Hanssen scratched a scab on his forearm. ‘What is it you all see in her? Your daughter? Do you think you can have your daughters?’
Harry looked at him in surprise. ‘You? What do you mean?’
‘You oldies drooling over her. Just because she looks like a fourteen-year-old Lolita.’
Harry recalled the picture on the wardrobe door. Stein Hanssen was right. And the thought took root in Harry. He might be wrong, Irene might be the victim of a crime that had nothing to do with this case.
‘You study in Trondheim. At the University of Science and Technology?’
‘Yes.’
‘What subject?’
‘Information technology.’
‘Mm. Oleg also wanted to study. Do you know him?’
Stein shook his head.
‘Never spoken to him?’
‘We must have met a couple of times. Very short meetings, you might say.’
Harry scrutinised Stein’s forearm. It was an occupational hazard for Harry. But apart from the scab there were no other marks. Of course not, Stein Hanssen was a survivor, one of those who would cope. Harry got to his feet.
‘Anyway, I’m sorry about your brother.’
‘Foster-brother.’
‘Mm. Could I take your mobile number? In case anything crops up.’
‘Like what?’
They looked at each other. The answer hung in the air between them, unnecessary to elucidate, unbearable to articulate. The scab had burst and a line of blood was trickling down towards his hand.
