Then he rang off.
It had taken her a nanosecond to realise the connection. The fifth clue to the puzzle about who the middleman was in the Marklin deal. A policeman. Tom Waaler. Of course. Ten thousand in commission to a nobody like Olsen-that had to be a big job. The old man. Arms freaks. Sympathies with the extreme right. The Prince who would soon be a chief inspector. It was crystal clear, so self-evident that for a moment she had been shocked that she, with her ability to register sub-tones inaudible to others, had not realised it before. She knew paranoia had had her in its grip for some time, but still she hadn't managed to refrain from thinking the thought through to the end as she waited for him to come out of the restaurant: Tom Waaler had every possibility of climbing higher, of pulling strings from ever-more important positions, sheltering beneath the wings of power. Who knows what alliances he had already struck and with whom at Police HQ. If she put her mind to it, there were of course several people she could never imagine becoming involved. But the only person she could count on too-one hundred-per cent was Harry.
Got through. It wasn't engaged. It was never engaged at his place. Come on, Harry!
She also knew it was only a question of time before Waaler would talk to Olsen and find out what had happened, and she didn't doubt for a second that her life would be in jeopardy from that moment on. She would have to act fast, but she couldn't afford to make a single mistake. A voice interrupted her reasoning.
'This is Hole. Speak to me.'
Bleep.
'Sod you, Harry! This is Ellen. We've got him now. I'll ring you on your mobile.'
She held the receiver between shoulder and chin as she flicked through the index of numbers for H, dropped the book on to the floor with a bang, swore and finally found Harry's mobile number. Fortunately he always had his mobile on him.
Ellen Gjelten lived on the second floor of a recently renovated block of flats together with a tame great tit called Helge. The walls of the flat were half a metre thick and the windows were double-glazed. Nevertheless, she could have sworn that she heard the purring sound of a car in neutral.
Rakel Fauke laughed.
'If you've promised Linda a dance, you won't get away with a quick sweep of the floor.'
'Mm. The alternative is to make a run for it.'
A pause ensued and Harry realised that what he had said was open to misinterpretation. He hurriedly filled the silence with a question.
'How did you start at POT?'
'Via Russian,' she said. 'I joined the Ministry of Defence Russian course and worked for two years as an interpreter in Moscow. Kurt Meirik recruited me then and there. After finishing my law degree I went straight into pay grade thirty-five. I thought I'd caught the goose that laid the golden egg.'
'Hadn't you?'
Are you kidding? Today the students I studied with earn three times more than I'll ever get.'
'You could stop, and do what they do.'
She arched her shoulders forward. 'I like what I do. Not all of them can say the same.’
‘Good point.' Silence.
Good point. Was that really the best he could muster?
'What about you, Harry? Do you like what you do?'
They stood facing the dance floor, but Harry could feel her eyes on him, measuring him up. All sorts of thoughts scurried through his brain. She had small laughter lines next to her eyes. Mosken's chalet was not far from where they had found the empty cartridges from the Marklin rifle. According to Dagbladet, 40 per cent of women living in towns were unfaithful. He should ask Even Juul's wife if she remembered three Norwegian soldiers in the Norge regiment being wounded or killed by a hand-grenade thrown from a plane, and he should have gone for it at the New Year menswear sales Dressman advertised on TV3. But did he like what he did?
'Some days I do,' he said.
'What do you like about it?'
'I don't know. Does that sound stupid?' I don't know.'
'I'm not saying that because I haven't thought about why I'm a policeman. I have. And I don't know. Perhaps I just enjoy catching naughty boys and girls.'
'So what do you do when you're not catching naughty boys and girls?' she asked.
'Watch The Robinson Expedition!
She laughed again. And Harry knew he was prepared to say the silliest things if there was a chance he could make her laugh like that. He pulled himself together and talked relatively seriously about his current situation, but since he took care not to mention the unpleasant aspects of his life, there wasn't a great deal to tell. When she still seemed interested he went on to talk about his father and Sis. Why did he always end up talking about Sis when someone asked him to talk about himself?
'Sounds like a nice girl,' she said.
'The nicest,' Harry said. 'And the bravest. Never afraid of new things. A test pilot of life.'
Harry told her about the time Sis had put in a spontaneous offer for a flat in Jacob Aalls gate-because the wallpaper in the picture she had seen on the property page in Aftenposten reminded her of her childhood room in Oppsal-and had been told the asking price was two million kroner, a record square-metre price for Oslo that summer.
Rakel Fauke laughed so much she spilled tequila on Harry's suit jacket.
'The best thing about her is that after a crash landing she picks herself up, brushes herself down and is immediately ready for the next kamikaze mission.'
She dried the lapels of his jacket with a handkerchief. 'And you, Harry, what do you do when you crash land?’
‘Me? Well. I probably lie still for a second. And then I get up because there's no other option, is there?’
‘Good point.'
He looked up smartly to see if she was making fun of him. Amusement was dancing in her eyes. She radiated strength, but he doubted that she had had much experience of crash landings.
'Your turn to tell something about yourself.'
Rakel had no sister to fall back on, she was an only child. So she talked about her work instead.
'But we rarely catch anyone,' she said. 'Most cases are settled amicably with a telephone call or at a cocktail party at an embassy'
Harry smiled sardonically.
'And how was the matter of the Secret Service agent I shot smoothed over?' he asked. 'Telephone call or cocktail party?'
She studied him pensively while putting her hand in the glass to fish out a lump of ice. She held it up, between two fingers. A drop of melted water ran slowly down her wrist, under a thin gold chain towards the elbow.
'Dance, Harry?'
'As far as I remember, I've just spent at least ten minutes explaining how much I hate dancing.' She angled her head again. 'I mean-would you dance with me?’
‘To this music?'
An almost inert pan pipe version of 'Let it Be' oozed like thick syrup out of the speakers.
'You'll survive. Look on it as a warm-up for the great Linda test.' She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. Are we flirting now?' Harry asked. 'What did you say, Inspector?'
'Sorry, but I'm so bad at reading hidden signals that I asked if we were flirting.'
'Highly improbable.'
He placed his hand around her waist and took a tentative dance step.
'It feels like losing my virginity, this does,' he said. 'But it's probably inevitable-sooner or later every Norwegian male has to go through something like this.'
'What are you talking about?' she laughed. 'Dancing with a colleague at an office party.’
‘I'm not forcing you.'
He smiled. It could have been anywhere, they could have been playing 'The Birdie Song' backwards on a
