lifeguard. 'The first thing he asked me was if I recognised him. And of course I knew what he meant by that.'
'What did he mean by that, Astrid?'
Her voice rose half an octave. 'A murderer asking the sole witness if she recognises him? What do you think? He came to warn me what would happen if I gave him away. I did what he wanted. I told him I had never seen him.'
'But you said he came back later to ask you about Arne Albu?'
'Yes, he wanted me to foist the blame on someone else. You must understand how frightened I was. I pretended I didn't realise and played along…' He could hear sobs begin to catch hold of her vocal cords.
'But now you would be willing to tell us about this? In a court of law, on oath as well?'
'Yes, if you're…if I know I'm safe.'
The ping of an e-mail arriving sounded from another room. Waaler checked his watch. 4.30. He would have to move fast, this evening if possible.
At 4.35, Harry unlocked the door to his apartment and instantly realised he had forgotten that he and Halvorsen had arranged a bike session at the gym. He kicked off his shoes, went into the sitting room and pressed PLAY on the flashing answer machine. It was Rakel.
'Court makes its decision on Wednesday. I've booked tickets for Thursday. We'll be in Gardemoen at eleven. Oleg asked if you could come and pick us up.'
Us. She had said the decision would have immediate effect. If they lost, there would be no us to pick up, just someone who had lost everything.
She hadn't left a number for him to ring back, to be told it was all over and she wouldn't need to keep looking over her shoulder any more. He sighed and slumped into the green armchair. Closed his eyes and saw her there. Rakel. The white sheet which was so cold it burned his skin, the curtains which barely moved against the open window and let in a strip of moonlight which fell on her naked arm. He ran the tips of his fingers so gently across her eyes, her hands, her narrow shoulders, her long, slim neck, her legs entangled in his. He felt her calm, warm breath against his neck, heard the breathing from the sleeping body imperceptibly change rhythm as he gently caressed the small of her back. Her hips which also imperceptibly began to move towards his as if she had only been hibernating, waiting.
At 5.00, Rune Ivarsson picked up the phone in his Шsterеs home to tell the caller that his family had just sat down to eat. Meals were holy in their house; would they mind ringing back later?
'Apologies for the disturbance, Ivarsson. This is Tom Waaler.'
'Hi, Tom,' Ivarsson said with a half-chewed potato in his mouth. 'Listen…'
'I need a warrant for the arrest of Harry Hole. Along with a warrant to search his apartment. Plus five people to do the search. I have reason to believe Hole is implicated in a murder case in a very unfortunate way.'
The potato went down the wrong way.
'It's urgent,' Waaler said. 'There's a risk that evidence will be destroyed.'
'Bjarne Mшller,' was all Ivarsson could splutter between coughing fits.
'Right, I know strictly speaking this is Mшller's responsibility,' Waaler said. 'But I bet you agree with me that he is prejudiced. He and Harry have worked together for ten years.'
'You've got a point. But we had another job to do last thing today, so my lads have their hands tied.'
'Rune…' This was Ivarsson's wife. He was reluctant to provoke her; he had arrived home twenty minutes late after the champagne celebration and then the alarm had gone off at the Grensen branch of Den norske Bank.
'I'll get back to you, Waaler. I'll ring the police solicitors and see what I can do.' He cleared his throat and added in a voice loud enough for his wife to hear: 'After we've eaten.'
Harry woke up to hear banging on the door. His brain automatically concluded that the person had been banging for a while and was sure Harry was at home. He looked at his watch. 5.55. He had been dreaming about Rakel. He stretched and rose from the chair.
More banging. Hard.
'Alright, alright,' Harry shouted, walking to the door. He could see the outline of a figure through the wavy glass in the door. It must be one of the neighbours, Harry thought, since they hadn't used the intercom.
He had just put his hand on the door handle when he felt himself pause. A prickling at the back of his neck. Spots in front of his eyes. Pulse rushing. Rubbish. He opened the door.
It was Ali. Deeply furrowed brow.
'You promised you would clean out your storeroom in the cellar by today,' he said.
Harry slapped his forehead with his hand.
'Shit! Sorry, Ali. I'm a good-for-nothing scatterbrain.'
'That's alright, Harry. I can help you if you've got time this evening.'
Harry eyed him with surprise. 'Help me? I can remove what I have in ten seconds. To be honest, I can't remember a single thing I've got down there, but fine.'
'They're valuable items, Harry.' Ali shook his head. 'You're crazy to keep stuff like that down in the cellar.'
'I don't know about that. I'm off to Schrшder's for a bite to eat. I'll pop by afterwards, Ali.'
Harry closed the door, sank back in the chair and pressed the remote control. The news in sign language. Harry had been on a case when several deaf people had been brought in for questioning and he had learned a couple of the signs. He tried to match the reporter's gesticulations with the lines that came up. All quiet on the Middle Eastern front. An American was to be court-martialled for fighting for the Taliban. Harry gave up. Schrшder's menu of the day, a coffee, a smoke, he mused. Down to the cellar and then straight to bed. He took the remote and was about to switch off when he saw the signer point outstretched fingers and raise a thumb at him. That was a sign he remembered. Someone had been shot. Harry automatically thought of Arne Albu, but he had been suffocated. His eyes moved down to the subtitles. He froze in his chair. And frantically started pressing the remote. This was bad-perhaps very bad news. Teletext didn't say a lot more than the subtitles:
Bank clerk shot in raid. Raider shot a cashier at the Grensen branch of DnB in Oslo this afternoon. Bank clerk's condition is critical.
Harry went into his bedroom and switched on the computer. The bank robbery was the headline on his home page. He double-clicked:
The branch was closing for the day when a masked raider came in brandishing a gun and ordered the female branch manager to empty the ATM. As this didn't happen in the time specified, he shot a 34-year-old bank clerk. The state of the wounded woman is said to be critical. PAS Rune Ivarsson says the police have no leads at present and would not comment on suggestions that the raid followed a similar pattern to raids carried out by the man dubbed the Expeditor. Police informed us this week he had been found dead in d'Ajuda, Brazil.
Could be a coincidence. Of course it could. But it wasn't. No chance. Harry ran his hand across his face. This was what he had been fearing the whole time. Lev Grette had only held up one bank. The following hold-up had been done by someone else. Someone who was well into their stride now. So well that he prided himself on copying the original Expeditor down to the last gory detail.
Harry tried to derail his train of thought. He didn't want to brood over any more bank raids now. Or bank staff being shot. Or the consequences of there turning out to be two Expeditors. The risk that he might have to work under Ivarsson and postpone the Ellen case again.
Stop. No more thinking today. Tomorrow.
But his legs still carried him out into the hall where his fingers dialled Weber's number all on their own. 'Harry here. Had any luck?'
'We certainly have.' Weber sounded surprisingly cheerful. 'Good boys and girls are always lucky in the
