his brother were always busy at work when he was leaving for the office. Ali had raised his broom and pointed to something on the pavement.
Harry squinted to see what it was Ali was pointing at. A dog turd. He hadn’t seen it when Vibeke was standing on exactly the same spot the previous evening. Someone had obviously been a little distracted when they took the dog for a walk this morning. Or last night.
He looked at his watch. This was the day. In a few hours they would have an answer.
Harry inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs and felt how the mixture of fresh air and nicotine perked up the system. For the first time in a very long time he could taste the tobacco. It even tasted good. And for a moment he had forgotten all the things he was going to lose: his job, Rakel and his soul.
For this was the day.
And it had started well.
Once again, it hardly seemed possible.
Harry could feel that she was happy when she heard his voice.
‘I’ve talked to Dad. He’s more than happy to look after Oleg. Sis will be there, too.’
‘Opening night?’ She said it with a cheery laugh in her voice. ‘At the National Theatre? Goodness me.’
She was exaggerating – she liked to do that now and then – but Harry noticed that he was getting excited all the same.
‘What will you wear?’ she asked.
‘You haven’t said “yes” yet.’
‘It depends.’
‘A suit.’
‘Which one?’
‘Let me see… the one I bought in Hegdehaugsveien on May 17 the year before last. You know, the grey one with -’
‘That’s the only suit you’ve got.’
‘Then I’ll definitely wear that one.’
She laughed. The soft laugh, as soft as her skin and kisses, but it was still her laugh he liked best. It was as simple as that.
‘I’ll come and pick you up at six,’ he said.
‘Fine. But Harry…’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t think…’
‘I know. It’s just a play.’
‘Thanks, Harry.’
‘Oh, it’s my pleasure.’
She laughed again. Once she had started he could get her to laugh at almost anything, as if they were in the same head looking out through the same eyes, and he could just point without saying anything in particular. He had to force himself to put the phone down.
This was the day. And it was still good.
They had agreed that Beate would stay with Olaug Sivertsen during the operation. Moller didn’t want to risk the target (two days before, Waaler had started calling the killer ‘the target’ and now everyone was saying it) discovering the trap and changing the order of the crime scenes.
The telephone rang. It was Oystein. He wondered how things were going. Harry told him that things were going well and asked what he wanted. Oystein said that was what he wanted: to know how things were going. Harry became self-conscious – he wasn’t used to that kind of thoughtfulness.
‘Are you sleeping?’
‘I slept last night,’ Harry said.
‘Good. And the code? Did you crack it?’
‘Partly. I know where and when. I just don’t know why.’
‘So now you can read the text, but you don’t know what it means?’
‘Something like that. We’ll have to wait for the rest when we’ve got him.’
‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Loads. Like why hide one of the bodies? Or trivial things like him cutting all the fingers from the victims’ left hands, but different fingers. The index finger with the first victim, the middle finger with the second and the ring finger with the third.’
‘In sequence then. Must like systems.’
‘Yes, but why not start with the thumb? Is there a message there?’
Oystein burst out laughing.
‘Take care, Harry. Codes are like women: if you can’t crack them, they’ll crack you.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘Am I? Good, because that means I’m a caring person. I can’t believe my own eyes, but it looks to me as if I’ve just got a customer in the car, Harry. Talk to you later.’
‘OK.’
Harry watched the smoke dance pirouettes in slow motion. He looked at his watch. There was one thing he hadn’t told Oystein: that he had a hunch the rest of the details would soon fall into place. It was a little too pat because, despite the rituals, there was something unemotional about the killings, an almost conspicuous lack of hatred, desire or passion. Or love for that matter. They had been carried out too perfectly, almost mechanically, according to the book. It felt as if he was playing chess against a computer, not against someone whose mind was agitated or unbalanced. Time would tell, though.
He looked at his watch again.
His heart was beating faster.
27
Saturday. Into Action.
Otto Tangen’s mood was in the ascendant.
He had slept for a couple of hours and had woken up to a thundering headache and furious banging on the door. When he opened up, Waaler, Falkeid of the Special Forces and some character calling himself Harry Hole, who looked nothing like a police inspector, crashed in on him and the first thing they did was to complain about the air inside the bus. But after getting a coffee down him from one of the four thermos flasks, turning on the screens and setting the tapes to ‘record’, Otto felt the wonderful tingle of excitement he always got when a target was approaching.
Falkeid explained that guards wearing civilian clothes had been posted all round the student building the evening before. The dog patrol had gone through the loft and the cellar to check that no-one was hiding in the building. Only the house occupants had been coming and going, although the girl in 303 had explained to the guard at the entrance that she had her boyfriend staying. Falkeid’s people were in position and awaiting orders.
Waaler nodded.
Falkeid checked the communication at regular intervals. Special Forces’ own equipment, not Otto’s responsibility. Otto closed his eyes and enjoyed the sounds. The brief second of atmospheric noise when they released the ‘speak’ button, then the mumbling incomprehensible codes, a kind of playground lingo for adults.
‘Smilly dillies.’ Otto shaped the words silently with his lips and remembered sitting in the apple tree one autumn evening spying on the adults behind the illuminated windows. Whispering ‘smilly dillies’ into a tin can with a cord hanging down over the fence, where Nils crouched waiting with the other tin can next to his ear. If he hadn’t got sick of it and gone home for his supper, that is. The tin cans had never quite worked the way it said they should in the Woodchuck Book.
‘We’re ready to go on air,’ Waaler said. ‘Clock ready, Tangen?’
Otto nodded.
