'What do you mean you saw him?' Beate asked.
'I saw someone walk past me into the changing room. He was wearing baggy, black clothes. Like overalls.'
'Balaclava?'
Grette shook his head.
'Cap with a peak maybe?' Harry asked.
'He was holding some headgear in his hand. It might have been a balaclava. Or a peaked cap.'
'Did you see his fa-?' Harry began, but was interrupted by Beate.
'Height?'
'Don't know,' Grette said. 'Average height. What's average though?
1.80?'
'Why didn't you tell us this before?' Harry asked.
'Because,' Grette said, pressing his fingers against the glass, 'it's just a feeling. I know it wasn't him.'
'How can you be so sure?' Harry asked.
'Because two of your colleagues were here a few days ago. They were both called Li.' He swivelled round and looked at Harry. 'Are they related?'
'No. What did they want?'
Grette took his hand away. The window had misted up around the greasy marks.
'They wanted to check if Stine might have been involved in some way with the bank robber. And they showed me photos of the robbery.'
'And?'
'The overalls were black without any markings. Those I saw at the Focus centre had large white letters on the back.'
'What letters?' Beate asked.
'P-O-L-I-T-I,' Grette said, rubbing the greasy marks off. 'When I was in the street afterwards, I could hear police sirens in Majorstuen. The first thing I thought was how strange it was that thieves could escape with such a large police presence.'
'Yes, indeed. What made you think that?'
'I don't know. Perhaps because someone had just stolen my squash racquet from the changing room while I was training. My next thought was that Stine's bank was being robbed. That's how your mind works when your imagination runs wild, isn't it. Then I went home and made lasagne. Stine loved lasagne.' Grette made an attempt at a smile. Then the tears began to flow.
Harry fixed his eyes on the piece of paper Grette had written on so as not to see the grown man crying.
'I saw from your six-monthly bank statement there had been a large withdrawal.' Beate's voice sounded harsh and metallic. 'Thirty thousand kroner in Sгo Paulo. What did you spend it on?'
Harry looked up at her in surprise. She seemed quite untouched by the situation.
Grette smiled through his tears. 'Stine and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary there. She had some holiday due and went a week before me. That was the longest we had ever been apart.'
'I asked you what you spent the thirty thousand in Brazilian currency on,' Beate said.
Grette turned to the window. 'That's a private matter.'
'And this is a murder case, herr Grette.'
Grette fixed her with a long, hard look. 'You've obviously never been in love with anyone, have you.'
Beate's brow darkened.
'The German jewellers in Sгo Paulo are reckoned to be among the best in the world,' Grette said. 'I bought the diamond ring Stine was wearing when she died.'
Two carers came for Grette. Lunch. Harry and Beate stood by the window watching him while they waited for the carer to show them the way out.
'I'm sorry,' Beate said. 'I made a fool of myself. I…'
'It was fine,' Harry said.
'We always check the finances of suspects in bank cases, but I probably went too far this time…'
'I said it was fine, Beate. Never apologise for the questions you asked; apologise for the ones you didn't ask.'
The carer arrived and unlocked the door.
'How long will he be here?' Harry asked.
'He's being sent home on Wednesday,' the carer said.
In the car on the way to the city centre Harry asked Beate why carers always 'send patients home'. After all, they didn't provide the transport, did they. And the patients decided themselves if they wanted to go home, or anywhere else, didn't they. So why couldn't they say 'were going home'? Or 'were being discharged'?
Beate didn't have a view on this, and Harry focused on the grey weather, thinking he had begun to sound like a grumpy old man. Before, he had only been grumpy.
'He's changed his hair,' Beate said. 'And he's wearing glasses.'
'Who's that?'
'The carer.'
'Oh, I didn't know you knew each other.'
'We don't. I saw him on the beach in Huk once. And in Eldorado. And in Stortingsgata. I think it was Stortingsgata…must be five years ago.'
Harry studied her. 'I didn't realise he was your type.'
'It's not that,' she said.
'Ah,' Harry said. 'I forgot. It's that brain defect of yours.'
She smiled. 'Oslo's a small town.'
'Oh yes? How many times had you seen me before you came to Police HQ?'
'Once. Five years ago.'
'Where was that?'
'On TV. You had solved that case in Sydney.'
'Mm. I guess that must have made an impression.'
'I only remember it irritated me that you came over as a hero even though you had failed.'
'Oh.'
'You never brought the murderer to court, you shot him dead.'
Harry closed his eyes and thought about how good the first drag of his next cigarette would be. He patted his chest to feel if the packet was in his inside pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper to show to Beate.
'What's that?' Beate asked.
'The page Grette was scribbling on.'
'A Wonderful Day,' she read.
'He's written it thirteen times. A bit like The Shining, isn't it.'
'The Shining?'
'You know, the horror film. Stanley Kubrick.' He shot her a glance from the corner of his eye. 'The one where Jack Nicholson is sitting in a hotel writing the same sentence again and again.'
'I don't like horror films,' she said quietly.
Harry faced her. He was on the point of saying something, but then felt it was best to leave it.
'Where do you live?' she asked.
'Bislett.'
'It's on the way.'
'Hm. What to?'
'Oppsal.'
'Yes? Where in Oppsal?'
'Vetlandsveien. Right by the station. Do you know where Jшrnslшkkveien is?'
