coffin. Volunteers?’
Hans Christian had already half crawled out.
Harry put one foot down beside the coffin and the other against the earth wall and squeezed his fingers under the lid. Then he exerted pressure and from force of habit began to breathe through his mouth. Before he even looked down he could feel the heat rising from the coffin. He knew the process of decomposition produced energy, but what made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck was the sound.
The rustle of fly larvae in flesh. He kneed the coffin lid to the side of the grave.
‘Shine here,’ he said.
White slithering larvae glistened in and around the corpse’s mouth and nose. The eyelids had sunk as the eyeballs were the first parts to be consumed.
Harry shut out the sounds of Hans Christian being sick and switched on his analytical faculties: face discoloured, dark, impossible to determine whether the owner was Gusto Hanssen, but the hair colour and shape of face suggested it was.
But there was something that caught Harry’s attention and caused him to stop breathing.
Gusto was bleeding.
Red roses were growing on the white shroud, roses of blood that were spreading.
Two seconds passed before Harry realised that the blood was coming from him. He clutched his neck. His fingers felt thick blood. The stitches had come undone.
‘Your T-shirt,’ Harry said.
‘What?’
‘I need some patching-up here.’
Harry heard the brief song of a zip, and a few seconds later a T-shirt floated down into the light. He grabbed it, saw the logo. Free Legal Aid. Christ, an idealist. Harry wound the T-shirt round his neck with no clear idea of how this would help, but it was all he could do for now. Then he bent over Gusto, grabbed the shroud with both hands and tore it open. The body was dark, slightly bloated and larvae were crawling out from the bullet holes in the chest.
Harry could see the wounds tallied with the report.
‘Give me the scissors.’
‘The scissors.’
‘The nail scissors.’
‘Damn,’ Hans Christian coughed. ‘I forgot them. Perhaps I’ve got something in the car. Shall I-’
‘No need,’ Harry said, taking the long flick knife from his jacket pocket. Undid the safety catch and pressed the release button. The blade shot out with a brutal power, so fierce it made the handle vibrate. He could feel the perfect balance of the weapon.
‘I can hear something,’ Hans Christian said.
‘It’s a Slipknot song,’ Harry said. ‘“Pulse of the Maggots”.’ He was humming softly.
‘No, damn it. Someone’s coming!’
‘Angle the torch so that I can see, and run for it,’ Harry said, lifting up Gusto’s hands and studying the nails on the right hand.
‘But you-’
‘Run for it,’ Harry said. ‘Now.’
Harry heard Hans Christian’s steps fade into the distance. The nail on Gusto’s middle finger was cut shorter. He examined the first finger and the third. Said calmly: ‘I’m from the funeral home. We’re doing a bit of after- hours.’
Then he turned his face up to the very young, uniform-clad guard standing by the edge of the grave looking down at him.
‘The family wasn’t very happy with the manicure.’
‘Out you get!’ the guard ordered with only a slight tremble in his voice.
‘Why?’ Harry said, taking a little plastic bag from his jacket pocket and holding it under the third finger while sedulously cutting. The blade sliced through the nail as if it were butter. Indeed a fantastic instrument. ‘Unfortunately for you, your instructions state that you mustn’t tackle intruders head-on.’
Harry used the tip of the blade to winkle out the dry remains of blood from under the short nail.
‘If you do, you’ll get the boot and Police College will reject you, and you won’t be allowed to carry a big gun and shoot someone in self-defence.’
Harry turned his attention to the first finger.
‘Do what your instructions tell you, ring an adult in the police. If you’re lucky they’ll be here in half an hour. But if we’re realistic we’ll probably have to wait for office hours tomorrow. There we are!’
Harry closed the bags, put them in his jacket pocket, replaced the coffin lid and clambered out of the grave. He brushed the soil off his suit and bent down to pick up the spade and torch.
Saw the headlamps of a car turning into the chapel.
‘In fact they said they would come straight away,’ said the young guard, retreating to a safe distance. ‘I told them it was the grave of the guy who was shot, you see. Who are you?’
Harry switched off the torch and it was pitch black.
‘I’m the one you should be rooting for.’
Then Harry set off at a run. He headed east, away from the chapel, back along the route they had come.
He took his bearings from a bright light he assumed was a lamp post in Frogner Park. If he could make it to the park he knew, in his current form, he could outrun most of them. He only hoped they didn’t have any dogs. He hated dogs. Best to keep to the gravel paths so as not to stumble over headstones and bunches of flowers, but the crunching made it more difficult to hear any potential pursuers. By the war memorial Harry moved onto the grass. He couldn’t hear anyone behind him. But then he saw it. A quivering beam of light on the treetops above. Someone was chasing him with a torch.
Harry emerged onto the path and headed for the park. Tried to shut out the pain round his neck and run in a relaxed, efficient way, concentrating on technique and breathing. Told himself he was pulling away. He ran towards the Monolith, knowing they would see him under the lamps on the pathway that continued over the hill and it would look as if he was making for the park’s main gate on the eastern side.
Harry waited until he had topped the crest and was out of sight before heading south-west towards Madserud alle. Adrenalin had kept him going, but now he could feel his muscles stiffening. For a second, things went black and he thought he had lost consciousness. But then he was back, and a sudden feeling of nausea engulfed him, followed by overwhelming giddiness. He looked down. Blood was oozing from under his jacket sleeve and dripping between his fingers, like strawberry jam off a slice of bread at his grandfather’s house. He wasn’t going to last the distance.
He craned his head. Saw a figure pass through the light under the lamp at the top of the hill. A big man, but with a light running style. Tight-fitting black clothes. Not a police uniform. Could it be a Delta guy? In the middle of the night at such short notice? Because someone was digging in a cemetery?
Harry swayed but managed to steady himself. He had no hope of outrunning anyone in this state. He had to find a place to hide.
Harry aimed for one of the houses in Madserud alle. Left the path, sprinted down a grass slope, had to stretch out his arms so as not to fall, continued across the tarmac road, jumped over the low picket fence, carried on into the apple trees and round the back of the house. Where he threw himself into the long, wet grass. Took a deep breath, felt his stomach constrict, braced himself to vomit. Concentrated on breathing as he listened.
Nothing.
But it was just a matter of time before they would be here. And he needed a decent bandage for his neck. Harry got to his feet and walked to the terrace of the house. Peered through the glass in the door. Dark living room.
He kicked in the glass and slipped his hand inside. Good old naive Norway. The key was in the door. He slid into the gloom.
Held his breath. The bedrooms were probably on the first floor.
He switched on a table lamp.
Plush chairs. Cabinet TV. Encyclopedia. A table covered with family photographs. Knitting. So elderly
