‘I know one thing that might help,’ Stein Hanssen said when Harry was outside on the step. ‘The places you’re planning to search for her. Urtegata. Motestedet Kafe. The parks. The hostels. Junkie hovels. Red-light district. Forget it. I’ve been there.’
Harry nodded. Put on his sunglasses. ‘Keep your mobile switched on, OK?’
Harry went to Lorry Kafe for lunch, but on the steps felt a sudden craving for beer and about-turned in the doorway. Instead he went to a new place opposite the Literature House. Left after a quick scan of the clientele, and ended up in Pla where he ordered a Thai variant of a tapa.
‘Drink? Singha?’
‘No.’
‘Tiger?’
‘Have you only got beer?’
The waiter took the hint and returned with water.
Harry had king prawns and chicken but declined sausage Thai-style. Then he called Rakel at home and asked her to go through the CDs he had taken to Holmenkollen over the years and which had been left there. Some he had wanted to listen to for his own pleasure, and some he had wanted to redeem them with. Elvis Costello, Miles Davis, Led Zeppelin, Count Basie, Jayhawks, Muddy Waters. They hadn’t saved anyone.
She kept what, without any tangible irony, she called ‘Harry music’ in its own section on the rack.
‘I’d like you to read all the titles,’ he said.
‘Are you joking?’
‘I’ll explain later.’
‘OK. The first is Aztec Camera.’
‘Have you-’
‘Yes, I’ve organised them alphabetically.’ She sounded embarrassed.
‘That’s a boy thing.’
‘It’s a Harry thing. And they’re your CDs. Can I read them now?’
After twenty minutes they had got to W and Wilco without Harry picking up on any associations. Rakel heaved a sigh, but went on.
‘“When You Wake Up Feeling Old”.’
‘Mm. no.’
‘“Summerteeth”.’
‘Mm. Next.’
‘“In a Future Age”.’
‘Hang on!’
Rakel hung on.
Harry started laughing.
‘Was that funny?’ Rakel asked.
‘The chorus on “Summerteeth”. It goes like this… It’s just a dream he keeps having.’
‘That doesn’t sound great, Harry.’
‘Yes, it does! I mean, the original does. So beautiful that I’ve played it several times for Oleg. But he thought the lyrics went “It’s just a dreamy Gonzales”.’ Harry laughed again. And began to sing: ‘ It’s just a dreamy Gonz — ’
‘Please, Harry.’
‘OK. Could you go onto Oleg’s computer and find something on the Net for me?’
‘What?’
‘Google Wilco and find their home page. See if they’ve had any concerts in Oslo this year. And if so, where exactly.’
Rakel came back after six minutes.
‘One.’ She told Harry where.
‘Thank you,’ Harry said.
‘You’ve got that voice again.’
‘Which voice?’
‘The hyped-up one. The boy’s voice.’
Like a hostile armada, the ominous steel-grey clouds came rolling over Oslo fjord at four o’clock. Harry turned from Skoyen towards Frogner Park and parked on Thorvald Erichsens Vei. After ringing Bellman’s mobile three times without any luck he had called Police HQ and been told that Bellman had left early to do some training with his son at Oslo Tennis Club.
Harry watched the clouds. Then he went in and surveyed OTC’s facilities.
A superb clubhouse, shale courts, hard courts, even a centre court with stands. Yet only two of the twelve courts were in use. In Norway you played football and skied. Declaring yourself a tennis player attracted whispers and suspicious glances.
Harry found Bellman on a shale court. He was plucking balls out of a basket and hitting them gently at a boy who might have been practising backhand cross-court shots; it was hard to say, because the balls were going all over the place.
Harry went through the gate behind Bellman, onto the court and stood beside him. ‘Looks like he’s struggling,’ Harry said, taking out his pack of cigarettes.
‘Harry,’ Mikael Bellman said, without stopping or taking his eyes off the boy. ‘He’s getting there.’
‘There’s a certain similarity. Is he…?’
‘My son. Filip. Ten.’
‘Time flies. Talented?’
‘He’s got a bit of his father in him, but I have faith. He just needs to be pushed.’
‘I didn’t think that was legal any more.’
‘We want the best for our children, Harry, but may do them a disservice. Move your feet, Filip!’
‘Did you find out about Martin Pran?’
‘Pran?’
‘The hunchback weirdo at the Radium Hospital.’
‘Oh, yes, the gut instinct. Yes and no. That is, yes, I checked. And no, we’ve got nothing on him. Nothing at all.’
‘Mm. I was thinking about asking for something else.’
‘Down on your knees! What would that be?’
‘A warrant to dig up Gusto Hanssen to see if there was any blood under his nails for a new test.’
Bellman took his eyes off his son, evidently to check whether Harry was serious.
‘There’s a very plausible confession, Harry. I think I can say with some confidence that warrant would be rejected.’
‘Gusto did have blood under his nails. The sample went missing before it was tested.’
‘That sort of thing happens.’
‘Very rarely.’
‘And whose blood is it, in your opinion?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. But if the first sample was sabotaged that means it spells danger for someone.’
‘This dealer who confessed, for example. Adidas?’
‘Real name: Chris Reddy.’
‘Anyway, aren’t you done with this case now that Oleg Fauke has been released?’
‘Anyway, shouldn’t he have both hands on the racket for backhand?’
‘Do you know anything about tennis?’
‘Seen a bit on TV.’
‘One-handed backhands develop character.’
‘I don’t even know if the blood has anything to do with the killing. Perhaps someone’s frightened of being linked with Gusto?’