There were two Edvard Moskens on the screen. One was born in 1942, the other in 1921.
'We're having a department party next Saturday,' Meirik said.
'I've got the invitation in my pigeon-hole.' Harry double-clicked on 1921 and the address of the older Mosken came up. He lived in Drammen.
'Personnel said you hadn't responded yet. I just wanted to make sure you were coming.’
‘Why's that?'
Harry tapped Edvard Mosken's ID number into Criminal Records. 'We like people to get to know each other across departmental boundaries. I haven't even seen you in the canteen once yet.’
‘I'm quite happy here in the office.'
No hits. He brought up the Central National Register for everyone who'd had formal dealings with the police for any reason. Not necessarily prosecuted-they might, for instance, have been arrested, reported or themselves been a victim of a criminal act.
'It's good to see you immersed in cases, but don't wall yourself in here. Will I see you at the party, Harry?'
Enter.
'I'll see. I have another arrangement I made a long time ago,' Harry lied.
No hits again. While he was in the Central National Register he might as well put in the third name Fauke had given him. H-a-l-l-g-r-i-m D-a-l-e. An opportunist, in Fauke's view. Relied on Hitler winning the war and rewarding those who had chosen the right side. Had already regretted it by the time he got to Sennheim, but it was too late to turn back. Harry had thought there was something vaguely familiar about the name when Fauke had said it, and now the same feeling resurfaced.
'Let me put it a little stronger,' Meirik said. 'I am instructing you to come.'
Harry looked up. Meirik smiled.
'A joke,' he said. 'But it would be nice to see you there. Have a good evening.'
'Bye,' Harry mumbled, returning to the screen. One Hallgrim Dale. Born 1922. enter.
The screen filled with text. One more page. And then another.
They didn't all do well after the war then, Harry thought. Hallgrim Dale-place of residence: Schweigaards gate, Oslo-was what newspapers loved to describe as 'no stranger to the police'. Harry's eyes ran down the list. Vagrancy, drunkenness, harassment of neighbour, petty larceny, affray. A lot, but nothing of any real consequence. The most impressive thing was that he was still alive, Harry thought, as he noted down that he had been taken in to sober up as recently as last August. He found the Oslo telephone directory, looked up Dale's number and rang. While he was waiting for an answer he searched the register and found the other Edvard Mosken, born in 1942. He had an address in Drammen, too. He took down the ID number and went back to Criminal Records.
'This is a message from Telenor. You have reached a telephone number which is no longer in use. This is a me-'
Harry wasn't surprised. He put down the phone.
Edvard Mosken Junior had been given a prison sentence. A long sentence; he was still inside. What for? Drugs, Harry guessed, and pressed enter. A third of all prisoners had been on a drugs charge. There. Yes indeed. Smuggling hash. Four kilos. Four years, unconditional sentence.
Harry yawned and stretched. Was he getting anywhere or was he just sitting here wasting time because the only other place he felt like going was Schroder's, and he didn't feel like sitting there drinking coffee? What a shit day. He summed up: Gudbrand Johansen doesn't exist, at least not in Norway; Edvard Mosken lives in Drammen and has a son with a drugs conviction; and Hallgrim Dale is a drunk and hardly the type to have half a million kroner to blow. Harry rubbed his eyes.
Should he look up Fauke in the telephone directory to see if there was a number for Homenkollveien? He groaned.
She has a partner. And she has money. And class. In short: everything you don't have.
He put Hallgrim Dale's ID number into the Register, enter. The machine whirred and churned.
Long list. More of the same. Poor old alkie.
You both studied law. And she likes the Raga Rockers, too.
Wait a moment. On the last record, Dale was coded as 'victim'. Had he been beaten up? enter.
Forget her. That's it, now she was forgotten. Should he ring Ellen and ask if she fancied going to the cinema? Let her choose the film. No, he'd better go to Focus. Sweat it out.
It flashed at him from the screen. hallgrim dale. 151199. murder.
Harry took a deep breath. He was surprised, but why wasn't he more surprised? He double-clicked on details. The computer droned and vibrated. But for once the convolutions of his brain were quicker than the computer, and by the time the picture came up he had already managed to place the name.
43
Focus Gym. 3 March 2000.
'Ellen here.'
'Hi, it's me.'
'Who?'
'Harry. And don't pretend there are other men who ring you and say 'it's me'.'
'You sod. Where are you? What's that dreadful music?'
'I'm at Focus.'
'What?'
'I'm cycling. Soon have done eight kilometres.'
'Let me just get this absolutely straight, Harry: you're sitting on a bike at Focus at the same time as talking on your mobile?' She stressed the words 'Focus' and 'mobile'.
'Is there anything wrong with that?'
'Honestly, Harry'
'I've been trying to get hold of you all evening. Do you remember that murder case you and Tom Waaler had in November, name of Hallgrim Dale?'
'Naturally. Kripos took over almost immediately. Why's that?'
'Not sure yet. It may have something to do with this ex-front man I'm after. What can you tell me?'
'This is work, Harry. Ring me at the office on Monday.’
‘Just a little, Ellen. Come on.'
'One of the cooks in Herbert's Pizza found Dale in the back alley. He was lying between the large rubbish bins with his throat cut. The crime scene people found nada. The doctor who did the autopsy, by the way, thought that the cut around the throat was just fantastic. Surgical precision, he said.'
'Who do you think did it?'
'No idea. Might have been one of the neo-Nazis of course, but I don't think so.’
‘Why not?'
'If you kill someone right on your doorstep, you're either foolhardy or just plain foolish. But everything about this murder seems so tidy, so thought through. There were no signs of a struggle, no clues, no witnesses. Everything suggests that the murderer knew exactly what he was doing.'
'Motive?'
'Hard to say. Dale certainly had debts, but hardly amounts worth squeezing out of him. As far as we know, he didn't do drugs. We searched his flat-nothing there, apart from empty bottles. We talked to some of his drinking pals. For some reason or other he had taken up with these drinking ladies.'
'Drinking ladies?'
'Yes, the ones who stick to the soaks. You've seen them, you know what I mean.'
'Yes indeed, but… drinking ladies!
'You always get hung up on the craziest things, Harry, and it can be very irritating. Do you know that? Perhaps you should -'
