the Watchtower. Martine. He had in fact thought he could get her. She worked with dangerous people, and he was someone who could protect her. But she had ignored him, and as usual he hadn’t had the guts to approach her and get the rejection over and done with. It was better to wait in hope, drag it out, torment yourself, see possible encouragement where less desperate men saw only universal friendliness. And then one day he had overheard someone say something to her, and he had realised she was pregnant. Bloody whore. They’re all whores. Like this girl Gusto Hanssen had used as a lookout. Whore, whore, whore. He hated these women. And the men who knew how to make these women love them.
He jumped up and down slapping his arms around him, but knew he would never get the warmth back.
Harry had gone back to Kvadraturen. Found a seat inside Postcafe. That was the one that opened earliest, four hours before Schroder’s, and he had to queue with beer-thirsty customers until he could buy himself something that would pass for breakfast.
Rakel was his first call. He asked her to check Oleg’s inbox.
‘There’s something from Bellman,’ she said. ‘Looks like a list of addresses.’
‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Forward it to Beate Lonn.’ He gave her the email address.
Then he texted Beate, said the lists had been sent, and finished his breakfast. He moved to Gj?stgiveri in Stortorvet, and he had just been given a cup of well-percolated coffee when Beate rang.
‘I’ve compared the lists I copied directly from the patrol cars with the list you forwarded. What’s this list?’
‘It’s the list Bellman received and forwarded to me. I’d like to see if he’s been given a correct report or if it’s been doctored.’
‘I see. All the addresses I had from before are on the list you and Bellman received.’
‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘Wasn’t there one patrol car you didn’t get a list from?’
‘What’s this about, Harry?’
‘It’s about me trying to get the burner to help us.’
‘Help us to do what?’
‘To point out the house where Dubai lives.’
Pause.
‘I’ll see if I can get hold of the last list,’ Beate said.
‘Thanks. Talk to you later.’
‘Wait.’
‘Yes?’
‘Aren’t you interested in the rest of the DNA profile of the blood under Gusto’s nail?’
35
It was summer, and I was the king of Oslo. I had half a kilo of violin in exchange for Irene and I had sold half on the street. It was supposed to be the starting capital for something big, a new network that would sweep the old boy off the court. First of all, though, the start had to be celebrated. I spent a tiny fraction of the sales money to buy myself a suit that matched the shoes I had been given by Isabelle Skoyen. I looked like a million dollars, and they didn’t raise an eyebrow when I went into the fricking Grand and asked for a suite. We stayed there. We were twenty-four-hour partygoers. Exactly who ‘we’ were varied somewhat, but it was summer, Oslo, women, boys, it was like the old days, though with slightly heavier medication. Even Oleg brightened up and was his old self for a while. It turned out I had more friends than I could remember, and the dope went faster than you would believe. We were kicked out of the Grand and went to the Christiania. Then to the Radisson, Holbergs plass.
Of course it couldn’t last for ever, but what the fuck does?
Once or twice I saw a black limousine on the opposite side of the street as I came out of the hotel, but there are lots of cars like that. However, this one didn’t go anywhere.
And then came the inevitable day when the money ran out, and I had to sell more dope. I had made a stash in one of the broom closets on the floor below, inside the ceiling tiles, behind a bunch of electric cables. But either I must have shot my mouth off while I was high or else someone must have seen me going there. Because the stash had been cleaned out. And I had nothing in reserve.
We were back to square one. Apart from the fact that there was no ‘we’ any more. It was time to check out. And inject the day’s first fix, which had to be bought on the street. But when I had to settle up for the room we’d had for more than two weeks I was fifteen thousand short.
I took the only sensible course of action.
I ran.
Ran straight through the lobby onto the street, through the park towards the sea. No one followed me.
Then I strolled down to Kvadraturen to do some shopping. There wasn’t an Arsenal player in sight, just hollow-eyed zonkers shuffling around on the lookout for a dealer. I talked to someone wanting to sell me meth. He said there hadn’t been any violin on the go for days, stocks had simply dried up. But there were rumours circulating that dopeheads were selling their last quarters of violin for five thousand kroner apiece in Plata, so that they could buy a week’s supply of horse.
I didn’t have five sodding thousand of course, so I knew I was in trouble. Three alternatives: flog, con or nick.
Flog first. But what did I actually have to flog, me who had even sold my foster-sister? I remembered. The Odessa. It was in the rehearsal room, and the Pakis in Kvadraturen would definitely fork out five thousand for a shooter that fired fricking salvos. So I jogged north, past the Opera House and Oslo Central. But it must have been burgled because there was a new padlock on the door and the amps had gone. Only the drums were left. I searched for the Odessa, but they must have taken that too. Bloody thieves.
Con next. I hailed a taxi, directed it west, up to Blindern. The driver nagged me for money from the moment I got in, so he knew the score. I told him to pull in where the road ends by the railway lines, jumped out and dodged the driver by running over the footbridge. I ran up through Forskningsparken, ran even though no one was chasing me. Ran because I was in a hurry. Why, I didn’t know.
I opened the gate, ran up the gravel path to the garage. Peered through the crack at the side of the iron curtain. The limousine was there. I knocked on the front door.
Andrey opened. The old boy wasn’t at home, he said. I pointed to the neighbouring house behind the water tank, said he had to be there then, the limo was in the garage. He repeated that ataman was not at home. I said I needed money. He said he couldn’t help me and that I was never to come here again. I said I needed violin, just this once. He said there was no violin at the moment, Ibsen was short of some ingredient or other, I would have to wait a couple of weeks. I said I would be dead by then. I had to have either money or violin.
Andrey was about to close the door, but I stuck out a foot.
I said that if I didn’t get it I would tell people where he lived.
Andrey looked at me.
‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ he said with that comical accent. ‘Remember Bisken?’
I stuck out my hand. Said the cops would pay well to find out where Dubai and his flunkeys lived. Plus a bit more to find out what happened to Bisken. And they would fork out most if I told them about the dead undercover guy on the cellar floor.
Andrey slowly shook his head.
So I told the Cossack bastard to passhol v’chorte, which I think is Russian for ‘go to hell’, and left.
Felt his eyes on my back all the way to the gate.
I had no idea why the old boy had let me get away with stealing the dope, as Oleg and I had done, but I knew I wouldn’t get away with this. I didn’t give a shit, though, I was at the end of my tether, all I heard were the hungry screams of my blood vessels.
I walked up to the path behind Vestre Aker Church. Stood there watching some old ladies coming and going. Widows on the way to graves, their husbands’ and their own, carrying handbags groaning with cash. But I didn’t have it in me. Me, the Thief, stood quite still, sweating like a pig, scared to death by brittle-boned eighty-year-old women. It was enough to make you weep.
