‘To outstare the ghosts that haunt you?’
‘Then what would you say?’
‘To what?’
‘To my hypothetical question of getting married.’
‘Is that supposed to be a proposal? Hypothetical? On the phone?’
‘Now you’re stretching it a bit. I’m just sitting in the sun and chatting with a charming woman.’
‘And I’m ringing off!’
She hung up, and Harry slumped down on the kitchen chair with closed eyes and a fat grin. Sun-warmed and pain-free. In fourteen hours he would see her. He imagined Rakel’s expression when she came to the gate in Gardermoen and saw him sitting there waiting for her. Her face as Oslo shrank beneath them. Her head gliding onto his shoulder as she fell asleep.
He lay like that until the temperature plummeted. He half opened one eye. The edge of a cloud had drifted in front of the sun, nothing more.
Closed the eye again.
Follow the hatred.
When the old man had said that Harry had at first thought he meant Harry should follow his own hatred and kill him. But what about if he had meant something else? He had said it straight after Harry asked who had killed Gusto. Had that been the answer? Did he mean that if Harry followed the hatred it would lead him to the murderer? In which case there were several candidates. But who had the greatest reason to hate Gusto? Irene, of course, but she had been locked up when Gusto was killed.
The sun was switched back on, and Harry decided he was reading too much into the old man’s words, the job was over, he should relax, he would soon need another tablet. And he should ring Hans Christian to say that Oleg was finally out of danger.
Another thought struck Harry. Truls Berntsen, a rogue officer at Orgkrim, could not possibly have access to the data in the witness protection programme. It had to be someone else. Someone higher up.
Hold on there, he thought. Hold on for Christ’s sake. They can all go to hell. Think about the flight. The night flight. The stars over Russia.
Then he went back to the cellar, considered whether to cut down Nybakk, rejected the idea and found the jemmy he had been looking for.
The main door to Hausmanns gate 92 was open, but the door to the flat had been resealed and locked. Perhaps because of the recent confession, Harry thought, before inserting the jemmy between the door and the frame.
Inside, everything seemed untouched. The stripes of morning sunlight lay across the sitting-room floor like piano keys.
He deposited the little canvas suitcase against the wall and sat on one of the mattresses. Checked to see that he had the plane ticket in his inside pocket. Glanced at his watch. Thirteen hours to take-off.
Looked around. Closed his eyes. Tried to envisage the scene.
A man wearing a balaclava. Who didn’t say a word because he knew they would recognise his voice.
A man who had visited Gusto here. Who didn’t take anything from him, except his life. A man who hated.
The bullet had been a nine by eighteen millimetre Makarov, in all likelihood therefore the killer had used a Makarov gun. Or a Fort-12. At a pinch an Odessa if they were becoming standard equipment in Oslo. He had stood there. Fired. Left.
Harry listened, hoping the room would talk to him.
The seconds ticked by, became minutes.
A church bell rang.
There was nothing else to be gleaned here.
Harry got up and made to go.
Had reached the door when he heard a sound between the chiming bells. He waited until the next peal was over. There it was again, a gentle scratching. He tiptoed two paces back and gazed around the room.
It was by the threshold, with its back to Harry. A rat. Brown with a shiny, glistening tail, ears that were pink inside, the odd white speck on its coat.
Harry didn’t know what was keeping him there. A rat here, that was no more than one might expect.
It was the white specks.
It was as if the rat had been wading through washing powder. Or…
Harry looked around the room again. The big ashtray between the mattresses. He knew he would only have one chance, so he removed his shoes, slipped across the room during the next chime of the bell, grabbed the ashtray and stood perfectly still, one and a half metres from the rat, which had still not detected his presence. Did the calculation, timed it. As the bell rang he leapt forward with his arm outstretched. The rat’s reactions were too slow to avoid capture in the ceramic dish. Harry heard the hiss, felt it hurling itself backwards and forwards inside. He pushed the ashtray across the floor to the window where there was a pile of magazines, and placed them on top of the bowl. Then he began to search.
After going through various drawers and cupboards in the flat he still couldn’t find any string or thread.
He snatched the rag rug from the floor and pulled out a warp; the long strand of fabric would do the job. He made a loop at the end. Then he moved the magazines and lifted the ashtray, high enough to push his hand in. Braced himself for what he knew would happen next. As he felt the rat’s teeth sinking in to the soft flesh between thumb and first finger he flipped off the ashtray and grabbed the animal with his other hand. It hissed as Harry picked at the white grains stuck between hairs. Placed them on his tongue and tasted. Bitter. Overripe papaya. Violin. Someone had a stash close by.
Harry attached the loop to the rat’s tail and tightened it at the base. Set the animal down on the floor and let go. The rat shot off and the fabric ran through Harry’s hand. Home.
Harry followed. Into the kitchen. The rat darted in behind a greasy stove. Harry tipped the ancient heavyweight appliance onto its rear wheels and pulled it out. There was a fist-sized cavity in the wall through which the fabric disappeared.
Until it came to a stop.
Harry stuck his hand, which had already been bitten once, through the cavity. Felt the inside of the wall. Insulation batts to left and right. He felt above the cavity. Nothing. The insulation had been dug away. Harry secured the end of the fabric under one foot of the stove, went to the bathroom, unhooked the mirror, which was stained with saliva and phlegm, smashed it against the side of the basin and chose a suitably large fragment. Went into a bedroom, yanked a reading lamp from the wall and returned to the kitchen. He laid the chunk of mirror inside the cavity. Then he plugged the lamp in the socket beside the stove and shone it on the mirror. Pointed the lamp at the wall until the angle was right, and he saw it.
The stash.
It was a cloth bag, hanging from a hook half a metre above the floor.
The opening was too narrow to insert your hand and twist your arm up to reach the bag. Harry racked his brains. What tool had the owner used to reach his stash? He had been through several drawers and cupboards in the flat, so rewound through his database.
The wire.
He went back into the sitting room. That was where he had seen it the first time he and Beate were here. Protruding from under the mattress and bent at an angle of ninety degrees. Only the owner of the stiff wire would have known its purpose. Harry poked it through the cavity and used the bent end to unhook the bag.
It was heavy. As heavy as he had hoped. He would have to squeeze it out.
The bag had been hung up high so that the rats could barely reach it, yet still they had managed to nibble a hole in the bottom. Harry shook the bag and a few grains fell out. That explained the powder on the rat’s coat. Then he opened the bag. Took out three small bags of violin, probably quarters. There wasn’t a full junkie kit inside, only a spoon with a curved handle and a used syringe.
It lay at the bottom of the bag.
Harry used a dishcloth so as not to leave fingerprints on it as he lifted it out.
It was unmistakable. Lumpen, odd, almost comical. Foo Fighters. It was an Odessa. Harry sniffed the
