'I don't know. You look as if something has happened to you.'
'Nothing has happened, Tom.'
'Did anyone ring? Hey!' Tom stiffened in his seat and placed both palms firmly on the dashboard. 'Didn't you see that car or what?'
'Sorry.'
'Shall I take over?’
‘Driving? Why?'
'Because you're driving like a…’
‘Like a what?'
'Forget it. I asked if anyone had rung.'
'No one rang, Tom. If anyone had rung, I would have said, wouldn't
I?'
She had to ring Harry. Quick. 'Why did you turn off my mobile?’
‘What?' Ellen eyed him aghast.
'Keep your eyes on the road, Gjelten. I asked: Why -’
‘No one rang. You must have switched off the phone yourself Unconsciously, her voice had risen. She heard it screech in her own ears.
'OK, Gjelten,' he said. 'Relax, I was just wondering.'
Ellen tried to do as he instructed. Breathing evenly and concentrating on the traffic in front of her. She took a left off the roundabout down Vahls gate. Saturday evening, but the streets in this part of town were practically deserted. The lights were green. To the right along Jens Bjelkes gate. Left, down Toyengata. Into the Police HQ car park. She could feel Tom's eyes studying her the whole way.
Harry hadn't looked at his watch once since meeting Rakel Fauke. He had even joined Linda for a round of introductions to some of his colleagues. The conversation had been stiff. They asked him what his position was, and once he answered the conversation petered out. Probably an unwritten rule in POT that you mustn't ask too much. Or they didn't give a toss. Fair enough, he wasn't particularly interested in them either. He had resumed his position by the speaker. He had seen a glimpse of her red dress a couple of times. As far as he could judge, she was circulating and didn't spend much time with anyone. She hadn't danced, he was fairly sure of that.
My God, I'm behaving like a teenager, he thought.
Then he did look at his watch: 9.30. He could go over to her, say a few words, see what happened. And if nothing happened, he could slink off, get the promised dance with Linda out of the way, and then off home. Nothing happened? What sort of self-delusion was this? Another inspector, as good as married. He could do with a drink. No. He stole one more look at his watch. He shuddered at the thought of the dance he had promised. Back home to his flat. Most of them were good and drunk now. Even in a sober state they would hardly have noticed the new inspector disappearing down the corridor. He could just stroll out the door and take the lift down. Outside his Ford Escort was loyally waiting for him. Linda looked as if she was having fun on the dance floor where she had a tight hold on a young officer who was swinging her round with a sweaty smile on his lips.
'There was a bit more buzz at the Raga gig at the Law Festival, don't you think?'
He felt his heart race as he heard her dark voice beside him.
Tom had positioned himself beside Ellen's chair in her office.
'Sorry if I was a bit rough in the car in town.'
She hadn't heard him coming and gave a start. She was holding the receiver, but hadn't yet dialled the number.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'It's me who is a little, well… you know.'
'Premenstrual?'
She peered up at him and knew it was not a joke. He was actually trying to be understanding.
'Maybe,' she said. Why was he in her office now when he had never come in before?
'Shift's over, Gjelten.' He inclined his head towards the clock on the wall. It said 10.00. 'I've got the car here. Let me drive you home.’
‘Thank you very much, but I have to make a call first. You go on.’
‘Private call?’
‘No, it's just…'
'Then I'll wait here.'
Waaler settled into Harry's old office chair, which screamed in protest. Their eyes met. Damn! Why hadn't she said it was a private call? Now it was too late. Did he know that she had stumbled on to something? She tried to read his expression, but she seemed to have lost the ability since the panic had seized her. Panic? Now she knew why she had never felt comfortable with Tom Waaler. It wasn't because of his coldness, his views on women, blacks, flashers and homosexuals or his tendency to grab every legal opportunity to use violence. Off the top of her head, she could list the names of ten other policemen who would run Tom Waaler close on such matters, but still she had been able to find some positives about them which allowed her to get on with them. With Tom Waaler, though, there was something else and now she knew what it was: she was scared of him.
'Well,' she said. 'It can wait until Monday.'
'Fine.' He stood up again. 'Let's get going.'
Waaler had one of those Japanese sports cars which Ellen thought looked like cheap Ferrari imitations. It had bucket seats which scrunched your shoulders up and loudspeakers that seemed to fill half the car. The engine purred affectionately and the light from the street lamps swept through the compartment as they drove up Trondheims-veien. A falsetto voice she was becoming familiar with sidled out of the loudspeakers.
Prince. The Prince.
'I can get out here,' Ellen said, trying to make her voice sound natural. 'Out of the question,' Waaler said, looking in the mirror. 'Door-to-door service. Where are we going?'
She resisted the impulse to tear open the door and jump out. 'Turn left here,' Ellen said, pointing. Be at home, Harry.
'Jens Bjelkes gate,' Waaler read out the street sign on the wall and turned.
The lighting here was frugal and the pavements deserted. Out of the corner of her eye Ellen saw small squares of light flit across his face.
Did he know she knew? And could he see she was sitting with her hand in her bag? Did he realise she was clutching the black gas spray she had bought in Germany? She had shown it to him in the autumn when he had insisted she was putting herself and her colleagues at risk by refusing to carry a weapon. Hadn't he discreedy intimated that he could get hold of a neat little gun which could be hidden anywhere on the body? It wasn't registered and therefore couldn't be traced back to her, should there be an 'accident'. She hadn't taken his words so seriously at that time; she had thought it was one of those semi-macabre macho jokes and laughed it off.
'Stop next to the red car there.'
'But number 4 is in the next block,' he said.
Had she told him she lived at number 4? Possibly. She might have forgotten. She felt transparent, like a jellyfish, as if he could see her heart thumping away much too fast.
The engine purred in neutral. He had stopped. She hunted feverishly for the door handle. Bloody Japanese nerds! Why couldn't they just design a plain, easy-to-recognise handle for the door?
'See you Monday,' she heard Waaler's voice say behind her as she found the handle, stumbled out and inhaled the toxic March Oslo air as if coming to the surface after a long time under water. When she slammed her heavy front door she could still hear the smooth, well-lubricated sound of Waaler's car idling outside.
She charged up the stairs, her boots stamping down hard on every step, holding the keys in front of her like a divining rod. Then she was in her flat. As she dialled Harry's number she memorised Sverre Olsen's message word for word.
This is Sverre Olsen. I'm still waiting for the ten big ones as commission for the shooter for the old guy. Ring me at home.
