'Most ex-Eastern Front men would be annoyed to hear you put them in the same category. Even though neo-Nazis generally hold them in very high regard. For them, fighting at the front is the ultimate dream-protecting their country and race with a firearm in their hand.'
'So if one of these old soldiers wanted to acquire a weapon he could reckon on support from the neo- Nazis?'
'He would probably meet with goodwill, yes. But he would have to know who to approach. Not just anyone would be able to provide him with such an advanced weapon as the one you are after. It's fairly indicative that the police in Honefoss, during a raid on a neo-Nazi garage, found a rusty old Datsun full of home-made clubs, wooden spears and a couple of blunt axes. The majority of these people are literally Stone Age types.'
'So where do I begin to look for a person in this milieu who has contacts with international arms dealers?'
'The problem is not that the milieu is particularly large. In fact, Fritt Ord, the nationalists' newspaper, claims that there are approximately fifteen hundred national socialists and national democrats in Norway, but if you call the Monitor, the voluntary organisation which keeps an eye on fascist nests, they'll tell you that there are fifty active members at most. No, the problem is that the wealthy backers who really hold the reins are invisible. They don't wear boots or have swastikas tattooed on their upper arms, let's put it like that. They may have a position in society they can exploit to serve the cause, but to do that they have to keep a low profile.'
A deep voice rumbled behind them: 'How dare you come here, Even Juul.'
49
Gimle Cinema, Bygdoy Alle.
7 March 2000.
'So what do I do?' Harry asked Ellen, nudging her forward in the queue. 'I'm just sitting wondering whether I should go and ask one of the old moaners if they know anyone who might be entertaining assassination plans and has purchased a rifle priced way above the norm for this special occasion. And at that very instant one of them comes over to our table and says in a funereal voice: How dare you come here, Even Juul'
'So what did you do?' Ellen asked.
'Nothing. I just sit there and see Even Juul's face drop. He looks as if he's seen a ghost. It's obvious the two of them know each other. By the way, that was the second person I've met today who knows Juul. Edvard Mosken also said he knew him.'
'Is that so strange? Juul writes for the newspapers, he's on TV, he's high profile.'
'You're probably right. At any rate, Juul stands up and simply marches out. I have to run after him. Juul's face is ashen when I catch up with him in the street. But when I ask what happened, he claims he doesn't know the man. Afterwards I drive him home and he barely says goodbye before leaving. He looks totally stunned. Is row ten alright?'
Harry stooped at the box-office window to buy two tickets. 'I have my doubts about this film,' he said. 'Why?' Ellen asked. 'Because it was my choice?’
‘I heard a gum-chewing girl on the bus say to her friend that Todo sobre mi madre was nice. As in naaiice.’
‘What's that supposed to mean?'
'When girls say that a film is nice, I get this Fried Green Tomatoes feeling. When you girls are served up some schmalz with even less content than The Oprah Winfrey Show you think you've seen a warm, intelligent film. Popcorn?'
He nudged her forward in the popcorn queue.
'You're a damaged human being, Harry. A damaged human being. By the way, do you know what? Kim was jealous when I said I was going to the cinema with a colleague from work.'
'Congratulations.'
'Before I forget,' she said. 'I found the name of Edvard Mosken Jr's defence counsel you were asking about. And his grandfather who was working on the postwar trials.'
'Yes?'
Ellen smiled.
'Johan Krohn and Kristian Krohn.’
‘Bingo.'
'I talked to the Public Prosecutor in the trial against Mosken Jr. Mosken Snr went ballistic when the court found his son guilty and physically attacked Krohn. He screamed that Krohn and his grandfather were conspiring against the Mosken family.'
'Interesting.'
'I deserve a big bag of popcorn, don't you think?'
Todo sobre mi madre was a great deal better than Harry had feared. But in the middle of the scene where Rosa is buried he still had to pester a tear-streaked Ellen to ask where Grenland was. She answered that it was the area around Porsgrunn and Skien, and was then allowed to see the rest of the film in peace.
50
Oslo. 11 March 2000.
Harry could see the suit was too small. He could see it, but he couldn't understand it. He hadn't put on any weight since he was eighteen and the suit had fitted perfectly when he had bought it at Dressmann for the post- exams celebrations in 1990. Nevertheless, standing in front of the mirror in the lift, he saw that his socks were visible between the suit trousers and the black Dr Martens shoes. It was just one of those unsolvable mysteries.
The lift doors slid to the side and Harry could already hear the music, loud male chatter and female twittering emanating from the open doors in the canteen. He looked at his watch. It was 8.15. Eleven should do it and then he could go home.
He inhaled, stepped into the canteen and scanned the room. The canteen was the traditional Norwegian kind-a square room with a glass counter, at one end of which you ordered food, light-coloured furniture from some fjord in Sunnmore and a smoking ban. The party committee had done their best to camouflage the daily backdrop with balloons and red tablecloths. Even though men were in the majority, the male-female mix was much more evenly distributed than when Crime Squad threw a party. Most people seemed to have already imbibed quite a bit of alcohol. Linda had talked about various pre-party looseners, and Harry was glad that no one had invited him.
'You look so good in a suit, Harry.'
That was Linda. He hardly recognised the woman in the tight dress, which emphasised not only the extra kilos but also her womanly exuberance. She was carrying a tray of orange-coloured drinks which she held up in front of him.
'Er… no thanks, Linda.'
'Don't be so boring, Harry. This is a party!'
Prince was howling on the car stereo again.
Ellen bent forward in the driver's seat and turned down the volume. Tom Waaler gave her a sideways glance.
'A little too loud,' she said, thinking that it was only three weeks until the policeman from Steinkjer arrived, and she wouldn't have to work with Waaler any more.
It wasn't the music. He didn't bother her. And he definitely wasn't a bad policeman.
It was the telephone calls. Not that Ellen Gjelten didn't have some sympathy for a certain nurturing of your sex life, but half the times his mobile phone rang she gathered from the conversations that a woman had already been spurned, was being spurned or was about to be spurned. The latter conversations were the most unpleasant.
