The woman shouted to the boy in Urdu. The old man smiled, but the woman shunned him and looked sternly at her son, who finally obeyed and padded over to her. When they turned, her gaze swept across and past him as if he were invisible. He wanted to explain to her that he was not a bum, to tell her he'd had a hand in shaping society. He had invested in it, in spades, given everything he had until there was no more to give, apart from giving way, giving in, giving up. But he was unable to do that, he was tired and simply wanted to go home. Rest, then he would see. It was time some others paid.
He didn't hear the little boy shouting after him as he was leaving.
6
Police HQ, Gronland. 9 October 1999.
Ellen Gjelten looked up at the man who burst through the door.
'Good morning, Harry.'
'Fuck!'
Harry kicked the waste-paper basket beside his desk and it smashed into the wall next to Ellen's chair and rolled across the linoleum floor, spreading its contents everywhere: discarded attempts at reports (the Ekeberg killing); an empty pack of twenty cigarettes (Camel, tax free sticker); a green Go'morn yoghurt pot; Dagsavisen; a used cinema ticket (Filmteateret. Fear amp; Loathing in Las Vegas); a used pools coupon; a music magazine (MOJO, no. 69, February 1999, with a picture of Queen on the cover); a bottle of Coke (plastic, half-litre); and a yellow Post-it with a phone number he had considered ringing for a while.
Ellen looked up from her PC and studied the contents of the bin on the floor.
'Are you chucking the MOJO out, Harry?' she asked.
'Fuck!' Harry repeated. He wrestled off his tight suit jacket and threw it across the twenty metre square office he and Ellen Gjelten shared. The jacket hit the coat stand, but slid down to the floor.
'What's up?' Ellen asked, reaching out a hand to stop the swaying coat stand from falling.
'I found this in my pigeon-hole.' Harry waved a document in the air. 'Looks like a court sentence.'
'Yep.'
'Dennis Kebab case?'
'Right.'
'And?'
'They gave Sverre Olsen the full whack. Three and a half years.'
'Jesus. You ought to be in a stupendous mood.'
'I was, for about a minute. Until I read this.'
Harry held up a fax.
'Well?'
'When Krohn got his copy of the sentence this morning, he responded by sending us a warning that he was going to pursue a claim of procedural error.'
Ellen made a face as if she had something nasty in her mouth.
'Ugh:
'He wants the whole sentence quashed. You won't fucking believe it, but that slippery Krohn guy has screwed us on the oath.' Harry stood in front of the window. 'The associate judges only have to take the oath the first time they act as judges, but it must take place in the courtroom before the case begins. Krohn noticed that one associate judge was new. And that she didn't take her oath in the courtroom.'
'It's called affirmation.'
'Right. Now it turns out that according to the certificate of sentence the judge had attended to the affirmation of the associate judge in his office, just before the case started. He blames lack of time and new rules.'
Harry crumpled up the fax and threw it in a wide arc, missing Ellen's waste-paper basket by half a metre.
'And the result?' Ellen asked, kicking the fax to Harry's half of the office.
'The conviction will be deemed invalid and Sverre Olsen will be a free man for at least eighteen months until the case comes up again. And the rule of thumb is that the sentence will be a great deal milder because of the strain which the waiting period inflicts on the accused blah, blah, blah. With eight months already served in custody, it's more than bloody likely that Sverre Olsen is already a free man.'
Harry wasn't speaking to Ellen; she knew all the ins and outs of the case. He was speaking to his own reflection in the window, articulating the words to hear if they made any sense. He drew both hands across a sweaty skull, where until recently close-cropped blond hair had bristled. There was a simple reason for him having had the rest shaved off: last week he had been recognised again. A young guy, in a black woollen hat, Nikes and such large baggy trousers that the crotch hung between his knees, had come over to him while his pals sniggered in the background and asked if Harry was 'that Bruce Willis type guy in Australia'. It was three-three!-years ago since his face had decorated the front pages of newspapers and he had made a fool of himself on TV shows talking about the serial killer he had shot in Sydney. Harry had immediately gone and shaved off his hair. Ellen had suggested a beard.
'The worst thing is that I could swear that lawyer bastard had a draft appeal ready before the sentence was passed. He could have said something and the affirmation could have been taken there and then, but he sat there, rubbing his hands and waiting.'
Ellen shrugged her shoulders.
'That sort of thing happens. Good work by the defence counsel. Something has to be sacrificed on the altar of law and order. Pull yourself together, Harry.'
She said it with a mixture of sarcasm and sober statement of fact.
Harry rested his forehead against the cooling glass. Another one of those unexpectedly warm October days. He wondered where Ellen, the fresh, young policewoman with the pale, doll-like, sweet face, the little mouth and eyes as round as a ball, had developed such a tough exterior. She was a girl from a middle-class home, in her own words, an only child and spoiled rotten, who had even gone to a girl's boarding school in Switzerland. Who knows? Perhaps that was a tough enough upbringing.
Harry laid back his head and exhaled. Then he undid one of his shirt buttons.
'More, more,' Ellen whispered as she clapped encouragement.
'In neo-Nazi circles they call him Batman.'
'Got it. Baseball bat.'
'Not the Nazi-the lawyer.'
'Right. Interesting. Does that mean he's good-looking, rich, barking mad and has a six-pack and a cool car?'
Harry laughed. 'You should have your own TV show, Ellen. It's because Batman always wins. Besides, he's married.'
'Is that the only minus?'
'That… and him making monkeys of us every time,' Harry said, pouring himself a cup of the home-blended coffee Ellen had brought with her when she moved into the office two years ago. The snag was that Harry's palate could no longer tolerate the usual slop.
'Supreme Court judge?' she asked.
'Before he's forty'
'Thousand kroner he isn't.'
'Done.'
They laughed and toasted with their cardboard cups.
'Can I have that MOJO magazine then?' she asked.
'There are pictures of Freddie Mercury's ten worst centrefold poses. Bare chest, arms akimbo and buck teeth sticking out. The full whammy. There you are.'
'I like Freddie Mercury, I do. Liked.'
