did at the substation. And that he had forty seconds.
Harry ran blind into the pitch black. Stumbled over the picket fence, felt tarmac under his feet and ran on. Heard shouting and sirens coming closer. But also the growl of a powerful car engine starting up. Harry kept to the right, could see enough to stay on the road. He was south of Frogner Park. There was a chance he would make it. He passed darkened detached houses, trees, forest. The district was still without electricity. The car engine was coming closer. He lurched left into the car park by the tennis courts. A puddle in the gravel almost brought him to grief, but he stumbled on. The only objects reflecting enough light to be seen were the white chalk stripes on the tennis courts behind the wire fence. Harry saw the outline of the OTC clubhouse. He sprinted to the wall in front of the dressing-room door and dived headlong as the light from two car headlamps swept across. He landed and rolled sideways on the concrete. It was a soft landing, but nevertheless it made him dizzy.
He lay as still as a mouse, waiting.
Heard nothing.
Stared up into the dark night.
Then, without warning, he was dazzled by light.
The outside lamp beneath the roof. The electricity was back.
Harry lay for two minutes listening to the sirens. Cars came and went on the road by the clubhouse. The search parties. The area was probably already surrounded. Soon they would be bringing in the dogs.
He couldn’t move away, so he would have to break into the building.
He stood up, peered over the edge of the wall.
Saw the box with the red light and the keypad beside the door.
The year the king was born. God knows when that was.
He visualised a photo from a gossip mag and tried 1941. It beeped and he wrenched at the door handle. Locked. Hang on, hadn’t the king just been born when the family went to London in 1940? 1939? Bit older maybe. Harry feared it would be three tries and you’re out. 1938. Grabbed the handle. Shit. 1937? Green light. The door opened.
Harry slipped in and heard the door lock behind him.
Silence. Safe.
He switched on the light.
Dressing room. Narrow wooden benches. Iron cabinets.
It was only now that he realised how exhausted he was. He could stay here until dawn, until the hunt had been called off. He inspected the dressing room. A sink with a mirror. Four showers. One toilet. He opened a heavy wooden door at the end of the room.
A sauna.
He went in and let the door close behind him. The smell of wood. He lay down on one of the broad benches by the cold stove. Closed his eyes.
30
There were three of them. They were running down a corridor, holding each other’s hands, and Harry shouted that they would have to hold tight when the avalanche hit so they wouldn’t be separated. He heard the snow coming behind them, first as a rumble, next as a roar. Then it was there, the white darkness, the black chaos. He clung on as hard as he could, yet still he felt their hands slipping from his.
Harry woke with a start. Looked at his watch and saw he had been asleep for three hours. He let out his breath in a long wheeze as though he had been holding it. His body felt battered and bruised. His neck ached. He had a thundering headache. And he was sweating. Was so drenched in sweat that his suit had dark patches. He didn’t need to turn to see the reason. The stove. Someone had switched on the sauna.
He got to his feet and staggered into the dressing room. There were clothes lying on the benches, and he heard the sound of racket strings on balls outside. They wanted a sauna after the tennis.
Harry went to the sink. Looked at himself in the mirror. Red eyes, bloated red face. The ridiculous necklace of silver gaffer tape; the edge had dug into the soft skin. He threw water over his face and walked into the morning sun.
Three men, all pensioner-tanned with thin pensioner-legs, stopped playing and stared at him. One of them straightened his glasses.
‘We’re a man short for doubles, young man. Feel like…?’
Harry stared ahead and concentrated on speaking calmly.
‘Sorry, boys. Tennis elbow.’
Harry felt their eyes on his back as he walked down towards Skoyen. There should be a bus around here somewhere.
Truls Berntsen knocked on the unit head’s door.
‘Come in!’
Bellman was standing with the phone to his ear. He looked calm, but Truls knew Mikael too well. The hand that kept going to his well-tended hair, the slightly accelerated manner of talking, the concentrated furrow in his brow.
Bellman cradled the receiver.
‘Stressful morning?’ Truls asked, passing Bellman a steaming cup of coffee.
The unit head looked at the cup with surprise, but took it.
‘The Chief of Police,’ Bellman said, nodding towards the phone. ‘The papers are on his back about this old lady in Madserud alle. Her house has been shot half to bits, and he wants me to explain what happened.’
‘What did you answer?’
‘Ops Room sent out a patrol car after the guard at Vestre Cemetery informed us there were people digging up Gusto Hanssen. The culprits had escaped by the time the car arrived, but then some shooting broke out around Madserud alle. Someone was shooting at someone else who broke into the house. The lady’s in shock, she just says the intruder was a polite young man, two and a half metres tall with a scar on his face.’
‘Do you think the shooting is connected with the grave desecration?’
Bellman nodded. ‘There were clods of mud on her living-room floor that certainly come from the cemetery. So now the Chief of Police is wondering if this is drugs-related, if this is another showdown between gangs. Whether I have the situation under control, that sort of thing.’ Bellman went to the window and stroked the ridge of his narrow nose with his first finger.
‘Is that why you asked me to come?’ Truls asked, taking a careful swig of coffee.
‘No,’ Bellman said with his back to Truls. ‘I was wondering about the night we got that anonymous tip-off that the whole Los Lobos gang would be at McDonald’s. You weren’t on that arrest, were you?’
‘No,’ Berntsen said with a cough. ‘I couldn’t make it. I was ill that night.’
‘Same illness as recently?’ Bellman asked without turning.
‘Eh?’
‘Some officers were surprised that the door to the bikers’ clubhouse wasn’t locked when they arrived. And wondered how this Tutu who, according to Odin, was keeping watch there managed to get away. No one could have known we were coming. Could they?’
‘As far as I know,’ Truls said, ‘there was only us.’
Bellman continued to stare out of the window and rocked on his heels. Hands behind his hips. Rocked back. And rocked forward.
Truls wiped his upper lip. Hoped the sweat wasn’t visible. ‘Anything else?’
Kept rocking. Backwards and forwards. Like a boy trying to see over something, but he’s too short.
‘That was all, Truls. And thank you… for the coffee.’
When Truls was back in his own office he went to the window. Saw what Bellman must have seen. The red poster was hanging from the tree.
It was twelve o’clock, and on the pavement outside Schroder’s there were the usual thirsty souls waiting for Rita to open up.
