appeared and peeped out of her eyes. Harry had a feeling a dam was about to burst.
'You were ugly,' she whispered. 'But in an attractive way.'
Harry raised an eyebrow. 'Mm. When you lifted me up, did you notice if I smelt of alcohol?'
She looked surprised. As though she hadn't thought of that before. 'No. Not really. You smelt…of nothing.'
'Nothing?'
She blushed a deep red. 'Nothing…in particular.'
'Did I lose anything on the stairs?'
'Like what, for example?'
'A mobile phone. Keys.'
'What keys?'
'You have to answer me.'
She shook her head. 'No mobile phone. And I put the keys back in your pocket. Why are you asking about all this?'
'Because I know who killed Anna. I just wanted to double-check the details first.'
44
Patrin
The next day the last remnants of the two-day-old snow were gone. At the morning meeting in the Robberies Unit, Ivarsson said if they were going to make any headway in the Expeditor case their best hope was another bank raid, but he added that unfortunately Beate's prediction that the Expeditor would strike sooner or later was incorrect. To everyone's surprise, Beate didn't seem to take this indirect criticism to heart. She shrugged and repeated confidently that it was just a question of time before the Expeditor cracked.
The same evening a police car slid into the car park in front of the Munch Museum and came to a halt. Four men stepped out, two uniformed officers plus two plain-clothes men who from a distance looked as if they were walking hand in hand.
'Apologies for the security precautions,' Harry said, jerking his head towards the handcuffs. 'It was the only way I could get permission to do this.'
Raskol hunched his shoulders. 'I think it irks you more than me that we're cuffed together, Harry.'
The group crossed the car park towards the football pitch and the caravans. Harry signalled to the officers to wait outside while he and Raskol entered the small caravan.
Simon was waiting inside. He had put out a bottle of Calvados and three glasses. Harry shook his head, unlocked the cuffs and crawled onto the sofa.
'Nice to be back?' Harry asked.
Raskol didn't answer, and Harry waited while Raskol's black eyes examined the caravan. Harry saw them stop by the photograph of the two brothers over the bed. He thought he detected a tiny twist of the gentle mouth.
'I've promised we'll be back in Botsen by twelve, so we have to get down to brass tacks,' Harry said. 'Alf Gunnerud did not kill Anna Bethsen.'
Simon looked across at Raskol, who was staring at Harry.
'And neither did Arne Albu.'
In the silence, the roar of the traffic in Finnmarkgata seemed to increase. Did Raskol miss the traffic noise when he lay in his cell at night? Did he miss the voice from the other bed, the smell, the sound of his brother's regular breathing? Harry turned to Simon: 'Would you mind leaving us alone?'
Simon turned to Raskol, who gave a brief nod. He closed the door after leaving. Harry folded his hands and raised his eyes. Raskol's eyes were shiny, as though he had a temperature.
'You've known for some time, haven't you,' Harry said in a low voice.
Raskol pressed his palms together, on the surface a sign of inner calm, but the white fingertips told a different story.
'Perhaps Anna had read Sun Tzu,' Harry said. 'And knew the first rule of all war was deception. Nevertheless she gave me the solution. I just couldn't crack the code. S^2 MN. She even gave me a clue; she said the retina inverted things, so I would have to look in the mirror to see what they were.'
Raskol had closed his eyes. He seemed to be praying. 'Her mother was beautiful and crazy,' he whispered. 'Anna inherited both elements.'
'You solved the code ages ago, I know,' Harry said. 'Her signature was S^2 MN. The two stands for a second S and there are three vowels missing. From left to right it reads S-S-M-N, but in the mirror it becomes N-M-S-S, or with the vowels NeMeSiS. The goddess of vengeance. She told me. It was her masterpiece. What she wanted to be remembered for.'
Harry said it without a hint of triumph in his voice. It was a statement of fact. The cramped caravan seemed to shrink around them.
'Tell me the rest,' Raskol breathed.
'I suppose you can work it out.'
'Tell me!' he hissed.
Harry looked at the small, round window over the table, which had already misted up. A porthole. A spaceship. He fantasised that if he wiped away the condensation they would discover they were in outer space, two lonely astronauts in the Horsehead Nebula on board a flying caravan. That wouldn't be very much more fantastic than what he was about to tell now.
45
The Art of War
Raskol straightened up and Harry began:
'This summer my neighbour, Ali Niazi, received a letter from someone purporting to owe rent from the time he lived in the building several years ago. Ali couldn't find his name in the list of occupants, so he wrote to him telling him to forget it. The name was Eriksen. I rang Ali yesterday and asked him to dig up the letter he had received. It turned out the address was Sorgenfrigata 17. Astrid Monsen told me that Anna's letter box had had another name sticker on it for a few days this summer. Name of Eriksen. What was the point of the letter? I rang the locksmith. They had, in fact, received an order for a key to my flat. I had the papers faxed over. The first thing I noticed was that the order was made a week before Anna's death. The order was signed by Ali, chairman and key-man of our housing co-op. The forged signature on the order form was no more than passable. Done by a no more than passable painter, imitating the signature on a letter she had received, for instance. But it was good enough for the locksmith, who promptly ordered a key for Harry Hole's flat from Trioving. And Harry Hole had to appear personally, show ID and sign for the key, believing he was signing for a spare key for Anna. You could kill yourself laughing, couldn't you?'
Raskol didn't seem to have any problems restraining himself.
'Between our meeting and the evening meal she rigged all this up. Arranged an e-mail account via a server in Egypt and wrote the e-mails on the laptop, pre-programming their delivery dates. During the day she unlocked the door to our cellar and found my storeroom. She used the same key to get into my flat to look for an easily recognisable personal item which she could plant at Alf Gunnerud's. She chose the photo of Sis and me. Next item on the agenda was a visit to her ex-lover and dealer. Alf Gunnerud must have been a little surprised to see her again. What did she want? Buy or borrow a gun maybe? Because she knew he had one of the weapons Oslo appears to be full of right now, with the manufacturer's serial number filed off. He found her a gun, a Beretta M92F, while she went to the toilet. He thought she was in there for a long time. And when she eventually came out, she was suddenly in a hurry and had to leave. At least we can imagine that was how it might have happened.'
