'You don't need to worry about my mother, Doctor. If you give me the orders, I'll pass them on.'
Brockhard turned to face her. He picked up a letter from the desk.
'He's being sent to the 3rd Panzer Division in Hungary. You know what that means, I take it?'
She frowned. 'The 3rd Panzer Division? He volunteered for the Waffen SS. Why should he be enlisted in the regular Wehrmacht?'
Brockhard shrugged his shoulders.
'In these times we have to accomplish what we can and perform the tasks we are set to do. Or don't you agree, Helena?’
‘What do you mean?'
'He's in the infantry, isn't he? In other words, he has to run behind combat vehicles, not sit in them. A friend of mine who was in the Ukraine tells me that every single day they shoot Russians until their machine guns run hot and the bodies are piled high, but they keep pouring in as if there were no end to them.'
She only just managed to restrain herself from snatching the letter off Brockhard and ripping it to pieces.
'Perhaps a young woman like you should be a little realistic and not develop too strong an attachment to a man who, in all probability, you will never see again. Incidentally, that shawl really suits you, Helena. Is it a family heirloom?'
'I am surprised and happy to hear your considerate words, Doctor, but I can assure you they are completely redundant. I have no special feelings for this patient. Meals have to be served now, so if you would excuse me, Doctor…'
'Helena, Helena…' Brockhard shook his head and smiled. 'Do you really believe I am blind? Do you think I can watch the pain this is causing you with a light heart? The close friendship between our families makes me feel there are bonds which tie us together, Helena. Otherwise I would not talk to you in this confidential manner. Please forgive me, but you must have noticed that I bear warm feelings of affection for you, and -'
'Stop!'
'What?'
Helena had closed the door behind her and now she raised her voice.
'I'm a volunteer here, Brockhard. I'm not one of your nurses whom you can play with as you will. Give me that letter and say what you have to. Otherwise, I'll be on my way immediately'
'My dear Helena,' Brockhard wore an expression of concern, 'don't you understand that this is up to you?'
'Up to me?'
'A full bill of health is an extremely subjective thing. Especially with regard to a head injury of that kind.’
‘I see.'
'I could provide him with a medical certificate for another three months, and who knows if there will be any Eastern Front in three months' time?'
She looked at Brockhard, puzzled.
'You're a keen reader of the Bible, Helena. You know the story of King David, don't you? Who desires Bathsheba even though she is married to one of his soldiers? So he orders his generals to send the husband to the front line so that he will be killed. Then King David can woo Bathsheba unhindered.'
'What's that got to do with this?'
'Nothing. Nothing, Helena. I wouldn't dream of sending your heart's desire to the front if he was not fit enough. Or anyone else for that matter. That's exactly what I mean. And since you know this patient's state of health at least as well as I, I thought I might consult you before I make a final decision. If you consider him not to be fit enough, I ought perhaps to send a further medical certificate to the Wehrmacht.'
Slowly the nature of the situation began to sink in.
'Or what, Helena?'
She could hardly believe her ears: he wanted to use Uriah to force his way into her bed. How long had he spent working this One out?
Had he been waiting for weeks for just the right moment? And how did he actually want her? As a wife or a lover? 'Well?' Brockhard asked.
Her head was racing as she tried to find a way out of the labyrinth. But all the exits were closed. Naturally. Brockhard wasn't a stupid man. As long as he had a certificate for Uriah, as a favour to her, she would have to obey his every whim. The posting would be deferred, but only when Uriah was gone would Brockhard cease to have any power over her. Power? Goodness, she hardly knew the Norwegian man. And she had no idea how he felt about her.
'I…' she began.
'Yes?'
He had leaned forward in his eagerness. She wanted to continue, wanted to say what she knew she had to say to break free, but something stopped her. It took her a second to understand what it was. It was the lies. It was a lie that she wanted to be free, a lie that she didn't know what Uriah felt for her, a lie that we always had to submit and to degrade ourselves to survive, it was all lies. She bit her lower lip as she felt it begin to tremble.
24
Bislett. New Year's Eve 1999.
It was midday when Harry Hole got off the tram at the Radisson SAS hotel in Holbergs gate and saw the low morning sun reflecting briefly on the residential block windows of the Rikshospital before disappearing back behind the clouds. He had been in his office for the last time. To clear up, to make sure he had collected everything, he had told himself. But the little that constituted his personal effects found enough room in the supermarket carrier bag he had taken from Kiwi the day before. Those who weren't on duty were at home, preparing for the last party of the millennium. A paper streamer lay across the back of his chair as a reminder of yesterday's little leaving party, under the direction of Ellen, of course. Bjarne Moller's sober words of farewell hadn't really been in keeping with her blue balloons and sponge cake decorated with candles, but the little speech had been nice enough anyway. Presumably the head of Crime Squad knew that Harry would never have forgiven him had he been verbose or sentimental. And Harry had to admit he had felt a tinge of pride when Moller congratulated him on being made an inspector and wished him luck in POT. Not even Tom Waaler's sardonic smile and light shake of the head from the spectators' ranks by the door at the back had destroyed the occasion.
The intention of the trip to the office had been to sit there one last time, in the creaking, broken office chair, in the room where he had spent almost seven years. Harry shivered. All this sentimentality, he wondered, wasn't that another sign he was getting on?
Harry walked up Holbergs gate and turned left into Sofies gate. Most of the properties in this narrow street were workers' flats dating back to the turn of the century and not in the best condition. But after the prices of flats had risen and young middle-class people who couldn't afford to live in Majorstuen had moved in, the area had received something of a face-lift. Now there was only one property which had not had its facade done up recently: number 8, Harry's. It didn't bother Harry in the least.
He let himself in and opened the postbox in the hallway. An offer on pizzas and an envelope from Oslo City Treasurer which he immediately assumed contained a reminder to pay his parking fine from last month. He swore as he went up the stairs. He had bought a fifteen-year-old Ford Escort at a bargain price from an uncle whom, strictly speaking, he didn't know. It was a bit rusty and the clutch was worn, it was true, but there was a neat sun roof. So far, however, there had been more parking fines and garage bills than hairs on your head. On top of that, the shit heap wouldn't start, so he had to remember to park at the top of a hill to push-start it.
He unlocked his front door. It was a spartanly equipped two-room flat. Clean and tidy, no carpets on the polished wooden floor. The only decorations on the walls were a photograph of his mother and Sis, and a poster of The Godfather he had pinched from Symra cinema when he was sixteen. There were no plants, no candles or cute knick-knacks. He had once hung up a notice-board he had thought he might use for postcards, photographs or any words of wisdom he might come across. In other people's homes he had seen boards like these. When he realised
