promised to switch off the sirens well before Slemdal so she didn't need to worry about neighbours. She hadn't even mentioned it.
She sat in the hallway waiting. Hole had gone to sleep in the bath, she hoped. Another look at her watch. Listened to the music. Fortunately the stressful Police songs were finished and now Sting was singing songs off his solo album with his wonderful, soothing voice. About rain…like tears from a star. It was so beautiful she almost wanted to cry.
Then she heard Gregor's hoarse barking. Finally.
She opened the door and went out onto the step as arranged. She saw a figure running across the garden towards the patio and another going around the back of the house. Two masked men in black uniforms carrying small, snub pistols stopped in front of her.
'Still in the bath?' whispered one from behind the black balaclava. 'Left after the stairs?'
'Yes, Tom,' she whispered. 'And thanks for coming so-'
But they were already inside.
She closed her eyes and listened. Feet running up the stairs, Gregor's fierce snarls from the patio, Sting's gentle 'How Fragile We Are', the crash of the bathroom door being kicked in.
She turned and went inside. Up the stairs. Towards the shouting. Needed a drink. She saw Tom at the top of the stairs. He had taken off his balaclava, but his face was so distorted she hardly recognised him. He was pointing to something. On the carpet. She looked down. A trail of blood. Her eyes followed it across the living room to the open patio door. She couldn't hear what the idiot dressed in black was shouting at her. The plan was all she could think. This isn't the plan.
36
Waltzing Matilda
Harry ran. Gregor's staccato barking was like an angry metronome in the background, otherwise everything around him was still. His naked feet slapped against wet grass. He stretched his arms in front of him as he burst through another hedge hardly feeling the thorns tearing at his palms and the Bjшrn Borg collection. He hadn't found his own clothes and shoes; he guessed she must have taken them downstairs to where she was sitting and waiting. While searching for another pair of shoes he had heard Gregor whining and he had had to make a run for it as he was, in trousers and shirt. The rain fell into his eyes, and houses, apple trees and bushes blurred in front of him. Another garden appeared out of the dark. He took the risk and jumped over the low fence. But lost his balance. Running with alcohol in your blood. A trim lawn rose and hit him in the face. He stayed down, listening.
He thought he could hear a number of dogs barking now. Was Victor there? So quickly? Waaler must have had them on standby. Harry got to his feet and scoured the area. He was at the top of the hill he had headed towards. Deliberately keeping away from the illuminated roads which police cars would soon be patrolling and where he could easily be spotted. Down by Bjшrnetrеkket he could see Albu's property. There were four cars outside the front gate, two of them with rotating blue lights. He looked down the other side of the hill. Wasn't it called Holmen, or Gressbanen? Something like that. A civilian car was parked on the pavement by the crossroads with its lights on. Harry had been quick, but Waaler had been quicker. Only the police parked like that.
He rubbed his face hard. Tried to get rid of the anaesthetisation he had longed for so recently. A blue light flashed between the trees in Stasjonsveien. He was caught in the net and it was already tightening. He wouldn't escape. Waaler was too good. But he didn't quite understand. This couldn't be a solo show. Someone must have authorised the use of these huge resources to arrest one single man. What had happened? Hadn't Beate received the e-mail he had sent her?
He listened. There were more dogs, no question. He cast his eyes around. At the illuminated detached houses scattered across the pitch-black hill. He thought of the snug, warm rooms behind the windows. Norwegians liked light. And they had electricity. They only turned it off when they were away for a fortnight on holiday down south. His gaze moved from house to house.
Tom Waaler stared up at the isolated houses decorating the landscape like Christmas lights. Large, black gardens. Scrumping. He had his feet up on the dashboard in Victor's specially converted van. They had the best communication equipment available, so he had moved control of the operation there. He was in radio contact with all the units closing the circle around the area. He looked at his watch. The dogs were out; it would soon be ten minutes since they had slipped into the darkness with their handlers, moving through gardens.
The radio crackled: 'Stasjonsveien to Victor zero one. We have a car here with one Stig Antonsen going to Revehiven 17. Returning from work, he says. Shall we…?'
'Check ID, address and let him through,' Waaler said. 'The same holds for you others out there, OK? Use your heads.'
Waaler tugged a CD out of his top pocket and put it in the player. Several falsettos. Prince sang 'Thunder.' The man in the driver's seat beside him raised an eyebrow, but Waaler pretended not to notice and turned up the volume. Verse. Refrain. Verse. Refrain. Next song: 'Pop Daddy'. Waaler checked his watch again. Shit, what a long time the dogs were taking. He hit the dashboard. Earning another glance from the driver's seat.
'They have a fresh trail of blood to follow,' Waaler said. 'How difficult can that be?'
'They're dogs, not robots,' the man said. 'Relax, they'll soon have him.'
The artist to be known for ever as Prince was in the middle of 'Diamonds and Pearls' when the report came in: 'Victor zero three to Victor zero one. Think we've got him. We're outside a white house in…er, Erik's trying to find out what the road's called, but there's a number 16 on the wall, anyway.'
Waaler turned down the music. 'OK. Find out and wait for us. What's the ringing sound I can hear?'
'It's coming from the house.'
The radio crackled: 'Stasjonsveien to Victor one. Sorry to interrupt but there's a security vehicle here. They say they're going to Harelabben 16. Their central switchboard registered a burglar alarm going off there. Shall I-?'
'Victor zero one to all units!' Waaler yelled. 'Move in. Harelabben 16.'
Bjarne Mшller was in a dreadful mood. In the middle of his favourite TV programme! He found the white house, number 16, parked outside, went through the gate and up to the open door where a police officer was standing with an Alsatian on a leash.
'Is Waaler here?' asked the PAS. The officer motioned to the door. Mшller noticed that the glass in the hall window was smashed. Waaler stood in the hall inside in furious discussion with another officer.
'What the hell's going on here?' Mшller asked without preamble.
Waaler turned. 'Right. What brings you here, Mшller?'
'A phone call from Beate Lшnn. Who authorised this idiocy?'
'Our police solicitor.'
'I'm not talking about the arrest. I'm asking who gave the go-ahead to World War Three because one of our very own colleagues may-may!-have a couple of things to explain.'
Waaler rocked back on his heels while eyeballing Mшller. 'PAS Ivarsson. We found a couple of things at Harry's place which make him more than just someone we would like to talk to. He is under suspicion of murder. Anything else you were wondering about, Mшller?'
Mшller raised an eyebrow in surprise and concluded Waaler must be very worked up. That was the first time he had ever heard him talk to a superior in such a provocative manner. 'Yes. Where's Harry?'
Waaler pointed to the red footprints on the parquet floor. 'He was here. Broke in, as you can see. Beginning to be quite a lot to explain, isn't there?'
'I asked where he is now.'
