thought she could achieve something, make a difference, if she was a good girl, good and bright with it, bright and always doing what other people wanted her to do. It was time for a change, but she didn’t know whether she could carry it through. Most of all she just wanted to go home, hide under the duvet and sleep.
‘You’re right,’ Olaug said. ‘There’s not much to see, anyway. More tea?’
‘Please.’
Olaug was just going to pour out the tea when she saw that Beate was holding her hand over her cup.
‘Sorry,’ Beate said laughing. ‘What I meant was that I would like to see it.’
‘What…’
‘See the piece of jewellery your son gave you.’
Olaug brightened up and went out of the kitchen.
Good girl, Beate thought. She lifted the cup to finish her tea. She would have to ring Harry and hear how it had gone.
‘Here it is,’ Olaug said.
Beate Lonn’s teacup, that is, Olaug Sivertsen’s teacup, or to be absolutely precise, the Wehrmacht teacup, stopped in mid-air.
Beate stared at a brooch – at the precious stone that was attached to the brooch.
‘Sven imports them,’ Olaug said. ‘I suppose they’re only cut in this special way in Prague.’
It was a diamond. In the shape of a pentagram.
Beate ran her tongue round her mouth to get rid of the dryness.
‘I have to ring someone,’ she said.
The dryness would not go.
‘Can you find me a photo of Sven in the meantime? Preferably an up-to-date one. It’s quite important.’
Olaug looked confused, but nodded.
Otto was breathing through an open mouth as he stared at the screen and registered the voices around him.
‘Possible target going into sector Bravo Two. Possible target stopped in front of the door. Ready, Bravo Two?’
‘Bravo Two ready.’
‘Target stationary. He’s putting his hand in his pocket. Possible weapon. We can’t see his hand.’
Waaler’s voice: ‘Now.’
‘Into action, Bravo Two.’
‘Strange,’ mumbled the bouncer.
Marius Veland thought at first he was hearing things and turned down Violent Femmes to be sure. There it was again. Someone was knocking at the door. Who on earth could that be? As far as he knew, everyone in the corridor had gone home for the summer. Not Shirley, though. He had seen her on the stairs. He had stopped to ask her if she would go with him to a concert. Or a film. Or a play. Free. She could choose.
Marius got up and noticed that his hands were sweating. Why? There was no sensible reason for it to be her. He cast a sweeping glance around the room and realised that he had never actually looked at it until now. He didn’t have enough things for the room to be in a real mess. The walls were bare except for a ripped poster of Iggy Pop and a sad-looking bookshelf that would soon be full of free CDs and DVDs. It was an awful room, completely without character. There was another knock. He hastily prodded a flap from his duvet sticking out of the back of the sofa bed. He opened the door. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be… It wasn’t her.
‘Mr Veland?’
‘Yes?’
Taken aback, Marius stared at the man.
‘I’ve got a package for you.’
The man took off his rucksack, pulled out an A4 envelope and passed it over. Marius held the stamped white envelope in his hand. There was no name written on it.
‘Are you sure it’s for me?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I need a receipt…’
The man held out a clipboard with a sheet of paper on.
Marius looked at him enquiringly.
‘Sorry. You wouldn’t have a pen, would you?’ the man smiled.
Marius stared at him again. Something was not right, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘Just a moment,’ Marius said.
He took the envelope with him, put it on the shelf beside the bunch of keys with the skull on, found a pen in a drawer and turned round. Marius recoiled when he saw that the man was already standing in the dark passage behind him.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ Marius said and heard his own laughter nervously rebound off the walls.
It wasn’t that he was frightened. Where he came from people generally walked in so as not to let the heat out, or to let the cold in. There was something strange about this man, though. He had taken off his goggles and helmet and now Marius could see what it was that had made him start. He seemed too old. Bike couriers were usually in their twenties. This guy’s body was slim and in good shape. It could pass for a young man’s. But the face belonged to someone well into his thirties, maybe into his forties even.
Marius was about to say something when he spotted what the courier was holding in his hand. The room was bright, but the hallway was dark and Marius Veland had seen enough films to recognise the contours of a gun with a silencer on the end of it.
‘Is that for me?’ Marius floundered.
The man smiled and pointed the gun at him. At his face. Then Marius knew that he should be afraid.
‘Sit down,’ the man said. ‘You’ve got a pen. Open the envelope.’
Marius dropped into a chair.
‘You have some writing to do,’ the man said.
‘Well done, Bravo Two!’
Falkeid shouted, his face red and shiny.
Otto was breathing through his nose. On the screen the man was lying on his stomach on the floor in front of room 205, with his wrists handcuffed behind his back. And best of all, he was lying with his face twisted towards the camera so that you could see the surprise, see it contort in pain, see the defeat slowly sink in for the bastard. It was a scoop. No, it was more than that, it was a historic recording. The dramatic climax to the bloody summer in Oslo: the arrest of the Courier Killer on his way to committing his fourth murder. The whole world will be fighting to show it. My God, he, Otto Tangen, was a rich man. No more 7-Eleven shit, no more of that bastard Waaler, he could buy… he could… Aud-Rita and he could…
‘It’s not him,’ the doorman said.
The bus went quiet.
Waaler leaned forward in his chair.
‘What’s that, Harry?’
‘It’s not him, 205 is one of the rooms we didn’t have any luck with. According to the room list I have here, his name is Odd Einar Lillebostad. It’s difficult to see what the guy on the floor is holding in his hand, but it looks to me as though it could be a key. Sorry, guys, but my guess is that Odd Einar Lillebostad has just returned home.’
Otto stared at the picture. He had equipment worth over a million kroner in the bus, bought and borrowed equipment that could focus on the hand and magnify it easy as wink to see if that bastard doorman was right. But he didn’t need to. The branch in the apple tree was cracking. He could see the light in the windows from the garden. The tin can crackled.
‘Bravo Two to Alpha. According to his bank card, this guy’s name is Odd Einar Lillebostad.’
Otto slumped back in his chair.
‘Relax, folks,’ Waaler said. ‘He may still come. Isn’t that right, Harry?’
That bastard Harry didn’t answer. Instead his mobile phone bleeped.
Marius Veland stared at the two blank pieces of paper he had taken out of the envelope.
‘Who are your next of kin?’ the man asked.
Marius gulped and wanted to answer, but his voice would not obey.
