'Come on,' Harry said. 'I can't be that wrong.' She raised her eyes from the menu with a quizzical expression on her face.
'You and me,' Harry said, leaning across the table. 'Here, this evening. We're flirting. We're having fun. But we want more than that. You want more than that.'
'Perhaps.'
'Not perhaps. Absolutely certain. You want everything.’
‘So what.'
'So what? You have to tell me, that's what, Rakel. I'm off to some dump in southern Sweden in a few days' time. I'm not a spoiled man. I just want to know if I have anything to come back to in the autumn.'
Their eyes met and this time he held her gaze. For a long time. She finally put down the menu.
'I'm sorry. I don't mean to be like this. I know this will sound strange, but… the alternative won't work.'
'What alternative?'
'Doing what I feel like doing. Taking you home and taking off all your clothes and making love to you all night.'
She whispered the last part softly and quickly. As if it were something she had wanted to wait until the very last minute to say, but when it had to be said, it had to be said exactly like that. Blunt and unadorned.
'What about one more night?' Harry said. 'What about several nights? What about tomorrow night and the night after that and next week and…?'
'Stop it!' She had an angry line over the bridge of her nose. 'You have to understand, Harry. It won't work.'
'Right.' Harry flicked out a cigarette and lit it. He allowed her to stroke his chin, his mouth. The gentle touch ran like an electric shock along his nerve fibres, leaving a dull pain.
'It's not you, Harry. For a while I thought I might be able to do it again. I've been through all the arguments. Two adults. No one else involved. Non-committal and simple. And a man I feel more for than anyone since… since Oleg's father. That's why it won't stop with just the once. And that… that is no good.'
She fell silent.
'Is it because Oleg's father is an alcoholic?’
‘Why do you ask about that?'
'I don't know. It could explain why you don't want to get involved with me. Not that you need to have been with another alkie to know that I'm not a good catch, but…'
She rested her hand on his.
'You're a good catch, Harry. It's not that.'
'So what is it then?'
'This is the last time. That's what it is. We won't meet again.'
Her eyes rested on him. And he saw it now. They weren't tears of laughter gleaming in the corners of her eyes.
And the rest of the story?' he asked, trying to force a smile. 'Is that like everything else in POT, on a need- to-know basis?'
She nodded.
The waiter came to their table, but must have sensed his timing was off and went away again.
She opened her mouth to say something. Harry could see that she was on the verge of tears. She bit her lower lip. Then she put the napkin down on the tablecloth, shoved her chair back, stood up without a word and left. Harry remained, sitting and staring at the napkin. She must have been squeezing it in her hand for some time, he mused, because it was crumpled up into a ball. He watched it slowly unfold like a white paper flower.
67
Halvorsen's Flat. 6 May 2000.
When Halvorsen was woken by the telephone ringing the luminous figures on the digital alarm clock showed 1.30 a.m. 'Hole speaking. Were you asleep?'
'Nope,' Halvorsen said, without the slightest idea why he should lie.
'I had a couple of things on my mind, about Sverre Olsen.'
From the breathing and the traffic in the background it sounded as if Harry was out walking.
'I know what you want to know,' Halvorsen said. 'Sverre Olsen bought a pair of combat boots at Top Secret in Henrik Ibsens gate. They recognised him from the photo and furthermore they could give us the date. You see, Kripos had been there to check his alibi in connection with the Hallgrim Dale case before Christmas. But I faxed all that up to your office earlier today'
'I know. I've just come from there now.'
'Now? I thought you were going out for dinner this evening?'
'Well, we finished early'
'And you went back to work?' Halvorsen asked, in disbelief.
'Yes, I suppose I did. It was your fax which started me thinking. I was wondering if you could check a couple of other things for me tomorrow.'
Halvorsen groaned. First of all, Moller had told him in a way that brooked no misunderstanding: Harry was to have nothing to do with the Ellen Gjelten case. And second: tomorrow was Saturday.
'Are you there, Halvorsen?'
'Yes.'
I can imagine what Moller said. Don't take any bloody notice. Now you've got the chance to learn a little more about detective work.’
‘The problem is, Harry -’
‘Keep quiet and listen, Halvorsen.' Halvorsen cursed to himself. And listened.
68
Vibes Gate. 8 May 2000.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted into the hall where Harry was hanging his jacket on an overloaded coat stand.
'Thank you for receiving me at such short notice, herr Fauke.'
'Not at all,' Fauke mumbled from the kitchen. 'An old man like me is only too happy to help. If I can help.'
He poured coffee into two large mugs and put them on the kitchen table. Harry ran the tips of his fingers along the rough surface of the dark, heavy oak table.
'From Provence,' Fauke said without any prompting. 'My wife liked French peasant furniture.'
'Wonderful table. Your wife had good taste.'
Fauke smiled.
'Are you married? No? Never been married? You shouldn't wait too long, you know. You become difficult, on your own all the time.' He laughed.
'I know what I'm talking about. I was past thirty when I got married. That was late for the time. May 1955.'
He pointed to one of the photographs hanging on the wall over the kitchen table.
'Is that really your wife?' Harry asked. 'I thought it was Rakel.'
'Oh yes, of course,' after first looking at Harry in surprise. I forgot that you and Rakel knew each other from POT.'
They went into the sitting room, where the piles of paper had grown since his last visit and occupied all the chairs except the one at the desk. Fauke cleared a place for them to sit by the overflowing coffee table.
