must have power if it is to plot the course which will ultimately bring a case to fruition. Indeed, it was simply for their own good that management possessed greater knowledge. When he had instructed everyone working on the Expeditor case to report directly to him, it was for exactly that reason, to keep the information where it belonged instead of wasting time on endless plenary discussions, which were only intended to give subordinates the feeling they were participants in the process. Right now it was more important that he, as Unit Head, got a grip, showed initiative and acted. Even though he had done his best to make it look as if the revelations about Lev Grette were his work, he knew the way it had happened had weakened his authority. A Unit Head's authority was not a question of personal prestige, but a matter for the whole police force, he had told himself.
There was a knock at the door.
'Didn't know you were a morning person, Hole,' Ivarsson said to the pasty face in the doorway, continuing to read the fax in front of him. He had had some quotes sent over from a daily newspaper which had interviewed him about the hunt for the Expeditor. He didn't like the interview. Fair enough, he hadn't been misquoted, but they had still managed to make him sound evasive and helpless. Fortunately, the photographs were good. 'What do you want, Hole?'
'Merely to say that I've called a meeting on the sixth floor. I thought you might be interested in coming along. It's about the so-called bank raid in Bogstadveien. We're about to begin.'
Ivarsson stopped reading and looked up. 'So you've called a meeting? Interesting. Might I ask who authorised this meeting, Hole?'
'No one.'
'No one.' Ivarsson emitted a short rattle of seagull laughter. 'Then you'd better get up there and say the meeting is postponed until after lunch. You see, I have a pile of reports to work through right now. Got it?'
Harry nodded slowly, as if giving the matter due, careful consideration. 'Got it. This is Crime Squad business, though, and we're starting now. Good luck with the reports.'
He turned and at that moment Ivarsson's fist hammered down on the table.
'Hole! Don't turn your fucking back on me like that! I call the meetings in this department. Especially when it's a robbery. Understood?' A wet, red lower lip quivered in the centre of the PAS's face.
'As you heard, I said the so-called robbery in Bogstadveien, Ivarsson.'
'And what the hell do you mean by that?' The voice was a whine now.
'That the robbery in Bogstadveien was never a robbery,' Harry said. 'It was a meticulously planned murder.'
Harry stood by the window and looked across at Botsen prison. The day had reluctantly got under way, like a creaking cart. Rain clouds over Ekeberg and black umbrellas in Grшnlandsleiret. They were assembled behind his back: Bjarne Mшller, yawning and sunk into the chair; the smiling Chief Superintendent chatting with Ivarsson; Weber with crossed arms, silent and impatient; Halvorsen with his notebook at the ready; and Beate Lшnn with nervously wandering eyes.
49
Stone Roses
The rain showers petered out later in the day. The Sun peeped out in between all the leaden grey, and then the clouds parted like curtains opening on the final act. It would turn out to be the last hours of a blue sky before the city of Oslo pulled the grey winter duvet over its head. Disengrenda lay bathed in sun as Harry pressed the bell for the third time.
He could hear the bell like a grumbling in the terraced house's abdomen. The neighbour's window opened with a bang.
'Trond's not here,' a voice trilled. Her face wore a different brown hue now, a kind of golden brown, which made Harry think of nicotine-stained skin. 'Poor boy,' she added.
'Where is he?' Harry asked.
She rolled her eyes in answer and pointed her thumb over her shoulder.
'The tennis court?'
Beate made to go, but Harry stayed put.
'I've been thinking about what we discussed last time,' Harry said. 'About the footbridge. You said everyone was surprised because he was such a quiet, polite boy.'
'I did?'
'But everyone here in Grenda knew he had done it?'
'We saw him cycling off in the morning.'
'Wearing the red jacket?'
'Yes.'
'Lev?'
'Lev?' She laughed and shook her head. 'I'm not talking about Lev. He did a lot of weird things, but he was never wicked.'
'Who was then?'
'Trond. I was talking about him the whole time. I did say he was completely ashen when he returned. Trond can't stand the sight of blood.'
The wind was picking up. In the west, black popcorn clouds were beginning to gobble up the blue sky. The gusts gave the puddles on the red clay court goose pimples and erased the reflected image of Trond Grette, who tossed the ball up for another serve.
'Hello,' Trond said, hitting a ball which gently spun through the air. A little cloud of white chalk puffed up at the back of the server's box and was immediately blown away as the ball bounced, high and unreturnable, past the imaginary opponent on the other side of the net.
Trond faced Harry and Beate standing outside the wire fence. He was wearing a white tennis shirt, white tennis shorts, white socks and white shoes.
'Perfect, wasn't it.' He smiled.
'Almost,' said Harry.
Trond beamed even wider, shaded his eyes and scanned the sky. 'Looks like it's clouding over. How can I help you?'
'You can come with us to Police HQ,' Harry said.
'Police HQ?' He eyed them in surprise. That is, he seemed to be trying to appear surprised. His widening eyes were a touch too theatrical and there was something affected about his voice they hadn't heard before when they questioned him. The intonation was too low and gave a little jump at the end: Police H-Q? Harry could feel his hackles rising.
'Right now,' Beate said.
'Right.' Trond nodded as if something had just clicked into place and smiled again. 'Of course.' He made for the bench where a couple of tennis racquets peered out from underneath a grey coat. His shoes shuffled along in the shale.
'He's lost it,' Beate whispered. 'I'll cuff him.'
'Don't…' Harry began and grabbed her arm, but she had already shoved open the door and stepped in. Time expanded, inflated like an airbag and trapped Harry, immobilised him. Through the wire netting he saw Beate go for the handcuffs she had attached to her belt. He heard the sound of Trond's shoes on the shale. Small steps. Like an astronaut. Harry's hand automatically moved towards the gun in his shoulder holster under his jacket.
'Grette, I'm sorry…' was all Beate managed to say before Trond reached the bench and put his hand under
