Nemesis

'Autumn's bloody awful. Finally, a bit of snow.'

'Oh, yes. I thought you meant the case.'

'Of the laptop in your storeroom? Is it over?'

'Hasn't anyone told you? They've found the man who put it there.'

'Aha. That must be why my wife was told I didn't need to go to the police station for questioning today after all. What was it about, anyway?'

'To cut a long story short, a guy was trying to make out I was involved in a serious crime. Invite me to a meal one day and I'll give you all the details.'

'I've already invited you, Harry!'

'You didn't say when.'

Ali rolled his eyes. 'Why do you have to have a date and a time before you dare to drop by? Knock on the door and I'll open up. We've always got food.'

'Thanks, Ali. I'll knock loud and clear.' Harry opened the door.

'Did you find out who the lady was? Was she an assistant?'

'What do you mean?'

'The mysterious lady I saw in front of the cellar door that day. I told Tom somebody-or-other about it.'

Harry stood with his hand on the door handle. 'Exactly what did you say to him, Ali?'

'He asked if I had seen anything unusual in or around the cellar and then I remembered I'd seen the back of a lady I didn't recognise by the cellar door as I came in the building. I remembered because I was going to ask who she was, but then I heard the lock click so I assumed if she had a key, she had to be OK.'

'When was this and what did she look like?'

Ali opened his palms in apology. 'I was busy and only glimpsed her back. Three weeks ago? Five weeks? Blonde hair? Dark hair? No idea.'

'But you're sure it was a woman?'

'I must have thought it was a woman, anyway.'

'Alf Gunnerud was medium height, narrow-shouldered with dark, shoulder-length hair. Is that what made you think it was a woman?'

Ali pondered. 'Yes, it might have been. And it could also have been fru Melkersen's daughter visiting. For instance.'

'Bye, Ali.'

Harry decided to take a quick shower before changing and going to see Rakel and Oleg, who had invited him to pancakes and Tetris. On their return from Moscow, Rakel had brought back an attractive chess set with carved pieces and a board made of wood and mother-of-pearl. Unfortunately, Rakel hadn't liked the Namco G-Con 45 gun Harry had bought for Oleg and had immediately confiscated it. She had explained that she had told Oleg many times that he was not to play with firearms until he was twelve, at least. Harry and Oleg had both rather shamefacedly accepted this without any discussion. But they knew Rakel would take advantage of the opportunity to go jogging while Harry looked after Oleg. And Oleg had whispered to Harry that he knew where she had hidden the Namco G- Con 45 gun.

The burning-hot jets of water drove the cold out of his body as he tried to forget what Ali had said. There would always be room for doubts in any case, however cut and dried it seemed. And Harry was a born doubter. At some point, though, you had to have some faith, if life was to have any shape or make sense.

He dried himself down, shaved and put on a clean shirt. Checked himself over in the mirror and grinned. Oleg had said he had yellow teeth, and Rakel had laughed a bit too loudly. In the mirror he saw the printout of the first e-mail from S^2 MN pinned to the opposite wall. Tomorrow he would take it down and put up the photograph of Sis and himself. Tomorrow. He studied the e-mail in the mirror. Strange he hadn't realised the evening he had been standing in front of the mirror and felt something was missing. Harry and his little sister. Must have been because when you see something so often you tend to develop a blindness to it. Blind to it. He scrutinised the e-mail in the mirror. Then he ordered a taxi, put on his shoes and waited. Looked at his watch. The taxi must have arrived by now. Should get going. He realised he had picked up the receiver again and was dialling a number.

'Aune.'

'I want you to read the e-mails one more time and tell me if you think they were written by a man or a woman.'

42

Kebab

The snow melted overnight.Astrid Monsen had just come out of the apartment building and was making her way across the wet, black tarmac towards Bogstadveien when she saw the blond policeman on the opposite pavement. Her pulse, like her walking speed, leapt. She stared rigidly ahead, hoping he wouldn't see her. There had been photographs of Alf Gunnerud in the papers and for days detectives had been trudging up and down the stairs disrupting her quiet working routine. But now it was over, she had told herself.

She scuttled towards the pedestrian crossing. To Hansen's bakery. If she got there, she would be safe. A cup of tea and a doughnut at the table behind the counter, at the far end of the long, thin cafй. Every day at precisely 10.30.

'Tea and a doughnut?' 'Yes, please.' 'That'll be 38 kroner.' 'Here you are.' 'Thank you.'

Most days that was the longest conversation she had with anyone.

For the last weeks an elderly man had been sitting at her table when she arrived, and even though there were several unoccupied tables, this was the only table she could sit at because…no, she didn't want to think about these things now. Nevertheless, she had been forced to arrive a quarter of an hour earlier to get to the table first. Today that was perfect because otherwise she would have been at home when he rang. And she would have had to open the door. She had promised Mother. Ever since the time she had refused to answer the telephone or the doorbell for two months, and in the end the police had come and her mother had threatened to have her readmitted.

She didn't lie to Mother.

To others, yes. She lied to them all the time. On the telephone to the publishers, in shops and on Internet chat sites. Especially there. She could pretend to be someone else, one of the characters in the books she translated, or Ramona, the decadent, promiscuous but fearless woman she had been in an earlier life. Astrid had discovered Ramona when she was small. She was a dancer, had long black hair and brown almond-shaped eyes. Astrid used to draw Ramona, especially her eyes, but she had to do it clandestinely because Mother tore the drawings to shreds and said she didn't want to see hussies like her in the house. Ramona had been gone for many years, but she had returned, and Astrid had noticed how Ramona had begun to take over, in particular when she wrote to the male writers she translated. After the preamble about language and cultural references, she liked to write more informal e-mails, and after a couple of those, the French writers would beg to meet her. When they were in Oslo to launch the book. Besides, she alone was reason enough to make the trip. She would always refuse although that did not seem to deter the suitors, more the opposite. This was what constituted her writerly activities now, after waking up from the dream of publishing her own books several years ago. A publishing consultant had finally cracked on the telephone and hissed that he could no longer put up with her 'hysterical fussing'; no reader would ever pay to share her thoughts, but, for a fee, a psychologist might.

'Astrid Monsen!'

She felt her throat constrict and for a moment she panicked. She didn't want to have respiratory problems here on the street. She was about to cross when the lights changed to red. She could have made it, but she would never cross on red.

'Hello, I was on my way to see you.' Harry Hole caught up with her. He still had the same hunted expression, the same red eyes. 'Let me first say I read Inspector Waaler's report of the conversation he had with you. I understand you lied to me because you were frightened.'

She could feel she would start hyperventilating soon.

'It was extremely inept of me not to tell you about my role in the whole business straight away,' the police