'Yes, there's a big yellow timber house on the corner.'
'Exactly. That's where I live. On the first floor. My mother lives on the ground floor. I grew up in that house.'
'I grew up in Oppsal, too,' Harry said. 'Perhaps we know the same people?'
'Perhaps,' Beate said, looking out through the window.
'Have to check that out some time,' Harry said.
Neither of them said another word.
The evening came and the wind picked up. The weather report forecast storms south of Stadt and squalls in the north. Harry coughed. He took out the sweater his mother had knitted for his father and which he had given Harry as a Christmas present some years after her death. A strange thing to do, Harry mused. He heated the pasta and meatballs, and then rang Rakel and told her about the house where he had grown up.
She didn't say much, but he could tell she liked hearing him talk about his bedroom. About his games and the little dressing table. About how he had made up stories from the wallpaper pattern, as if they were fairy tales written in code. And one drawer in the dressing table which his mother and he had agreed was only his, and she would never touch.
'I kept my football cards there,' said Harry. 'Tom Lund's autograph. A letter from Sшlvi, a girl I met one summer holiday in Еndalsnes. Later, my first packet of cigarettes. A packet of condoms. They lay there unopened until they had passed the sell-by date. Then, when my sister and I blew them up, they were so dry they split.'
Rakel laughed. Harry carried on, just to hear her laughing.
After the call he paced up and down restlessly. The news was a reprise of the day before. Squalls building up over Jalalabad.
He went into his bedroom and switched on the computer. As it creaked and hummed he saw that he had received another e-mail. He felt his pulse race when he saw the address. He clicked.
Hi Harry
The game has begun. The post-mortem established you could have been present when she died. Is that why you're keeping it to yourself? Probably very wise. Even if it looks like suicide. There are a couple of things that don't tally, though, aren't there? Your move.
A bang made Harry jump and he realised he had smacked his palm down on the table with all his strength. He looked around the dark room. He was angry and frightened, but the frustrating thing was his instinct that the e-mail writer was so…close at hand. Harry stretched out his arm and placed his still-smarting hand against the screen. The cold glass cooled his skin, but he could feel heat, a kind of body heat, building up inside the machine.
19
The Shoes on the Wire
Elmer scampered down Grшnlandsleiret with a quick greeting and smile to customers and employees in neighbouring shops. He was annoyed with himself. Once again he had run out of change and been obliged to hang up a BACK SOON sign on the door while he nipped into the bank.
He pulled open the door, strode into the bank, sang out his usual 'Good morning' and hurried over to take a ticket. No one answered, but he was used to that by now-only white Norwegians worked here. There was a man who seemed to be repairing the ATM and the only customers he could see were standing by the window overlooking the street. It was unusually quiet. Was something going on he hadn't quite caught wind of?
'Twenty,' a woman's voice called out. Elmer looked at the number on his ticket. It said 51, but since all the positions were closed, he went to the till where the woman's voice came from.
'Hello, Catherine, my love,' he said, inquisitively peering through the window. 'Five rolls of fives and ones, please.'
'Twenty-one.' He looked at Catherine Schшyen in surprise and only then did he notice the man standing beside her. At first glance, he thought it was a black man, but then he saw it was a man wearing a black balaclava. The barrel of his AG3 swung away from her and stopped at Elmer.
'Twenty-two,' Catherine called out in a tin-can voice.
'Why here?' Halvorsen asked, peering down at Oslo fjord beneath them. The wind tossed his fringe hither and thither. It had taken them less than five minutes to drive up from the exhaust fumes of Grшnland to Ekeberg, which protruded like a green watchtower in the south-east corner of Oslo. They had found a bench under the trees with a view of the beautiful old brick building Harry still called the Seamen's School, even though it currently ran courses for business managers.
'First of all, because it's wonderful here,' Harry said. 'Second of all, to teach a foreigner a little about the history of Oslo. The 'Os' of Oslo means 'ridge', the hillside we're sitting on now. Ekeberg Ridge. And 'lo' is the plain you can see down there.' He pointed. 'And third of all, we sit looking up at this ridge every single day and it is important to find out what's behind it, don't you think?'
Halvorsen didn't answer.
'I didn't want to do this at the office,' Harry said. 'Or at Elmer's. There is something I have to tell you.' Although they were high above the fjord, Harry thought he could still taste salt water in the wind. 'I knew Anna Bethsen.'
Halvorsen nodded.
'You don't exactly look gobsmacked,' Harry remarked.
'I reckoned it was something like that.'
'But there is more.'
'Oh, yes?'
Harry poked an unlit cigarette between his lips. 'Before I go on, I have to warn you. What I am going to say must remain between you and me, and that could pose a dilemma for you. Do you understand? So, if you don't want to be involved, I don't need to say any more and we'll stop there. Would you like to hear more or not?'
Halvorsen searched Harry's face. If he was reflecting, he didn't need long. He nodded.
'Someone has started sending me e-mails,' Harry said. 'About Anna's death.'
'Someone you know?'
'Haven't a clue. The address means nothing to me.'
'That's why you asked me about tracing e-mail addresses yesterday?'
'I'm not remotely computer-savvy. But you are.' Harry failed in an attempt to light his cigarette in the wind. 'I need help. I think Anna was murdered.'
As the north-west wind stripped the trees of their leaves on Ekeberg, Harry talked about the strange e-mails he had received from someone who seemed to know everything they knew, and probably more. He didn't mention that the e-mails placed Harry at the scene of the crime the night Anna died. But he did mention that the gun was in Anna's right hand even though her palette proved she was left-handed. The photograph in the shoe. And the conversation with Astrid Monsen.
'Astrid Monsen said she had never seen Vigdis Albu and the children in the photo. But when I showed her the newspaper photo of her husband, Arne Albu, she didn't need a second glance. She didn't know his name, but he visited Anna regularly. She had seen him when she went down to pick up her post. He came in the afternoon and left in the evening.'
'That's what's called working late.'
'I asked Monsen if the two of them only met during the week and she said he sometimes collected her in his car at the weekend.'
