‘Michael Krohn. Raga Rockers.’
‘Twenty-four hours, Harry. Good luck.’
Part Five
32
Sunday. The Swallows.
Rakel was in the bedroom studying herself in the mirror. The window was open so that she could listen out for the car and steps on the gravel leading up to the house. She looked at the photograph of her father on the dressing table in front of the mirror. It always struck her how young and innocent he seemed in the picture.
She had her hair held in place with a hairslide, as always. Should she do it differently? The dress was her mother’s, a red muslin dress she had had altered. She hoped she wasn’t overdressed. When she was small her father often used to tell her about the first time he saw her mother in this dress and Rakel never grew tired of hearing that it had been like in a fairy tale.
Rakel undid the hairslide and shook her head from side to side so that her dark hair fell over her face. The doorbell rang. She could hear Oleg’s footsteps as he ran down the hall. She could hear the enthusiasm in his voice and Harry’s deep laugh. Then she took a last look in the mirror. She could feel her heart beating faster. She went out the door.
‘Mummy, Harry’s…’
Oleg’s shout died when Rakel appeared at the top of the stairs. She placed one foot cautiously on the top stair – her high heels suddenly felt unsteady, wobbly – but then she found her balance and looked up. Oleg was standing at the foot of the stairs and staring at her open-mouthed. Harry was standing beside him. His eyes were shining so much that she could feel the heat from them burning in her own cheeks. He was holding a bunch of roses in his hand.
‘You’re beautiful, Mummy,’ Oleg whispered.
Rakel closed her eyes. Both side windows were rolled down and the wind brushed against her hair and skin as Harry carefully steered the Escort through the bends on the way down Holmenkollen. The faint smell of washing-up liquid lingered. Rakel moved the sun visor down to check her lipstick and noticed that even the little mirror on the inside had been buffed up.
She smiled at the thought of the first time they had met. He had offered to drive her to work and she had had to help push the car to get it started.
It was incredible really that he still had the same unroadworthy vehicle as then.
She observed him out of the corner of her eye.
And the same sharp bridge of the nose. And the same gently curved, almost feminine lips that contrasted with the other hard masculine features. And the eyes. He could hardly be called good-looking, not in the classical sense. However, he was – what was the word? – real. Real. It was his eyes. No, not his eyes. The expression in his eyes.
He turned towards her as if he could hear her thoughts.
He smiled. And there it was. The childlike softness in his eyes. The boy sitting behind them and laughing at her. There was a certain ingenuousness about the way he looked at her. An uncorrupted sincerity. Honesty. Integrity. It was a look you could rely on. Or you wanted to rely on.
Rakel smiled back.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked and had to get his eyes back on the road.
‘This and that.’
She had had plenty of time to think over the last few weeks. Time enough to realise that Harry had never made her a promise he hadn’t kept. He had never promised that he would not go to pieces again. He had never promised that work would not continue to be the most important thing in his life. He had never promised that it would be easy with him. All these were promises he had made to himself. She could see that now.
Olav Hole and Sis were standing at the entrance waiting for them when they arrived at the house in Oppsal. Harry had talked so much about it that Rakel occasionally felt that it was her who had grown up there in the small house.
‘Hi, Oleg,’ Sis said, looking adult and big-sister-like. ‘We’ve made meatballs.’
‘Have you?’ Oleg pushed impatiently at the back of Rakel’s seat to try to get out.
On the way back Rakel leaned her head back in her seat and said that she thought he was good-looking, but that he shouldn’t let it go to his head. He replied that he thought she was better looking and that she could let it go to her head as much as she liked as far he was concerned. When they reached the slopes of Ekeberg and Oslo lay below them, she saw black Vs intersecting the sky beneath.
‘Swallows,’ Harry said.
‘They’re flying low,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t it mean that it’s going to rain?’
‘Yes, rain is forecast.’
‘Oh, that’ll be wonderful. Is that why they’re out flying, to tell everyone?’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘They’re doing a more useful job than that. They’re clearing the air of insects. Pests and so on.’
‘But why are they so busy? They seem almost hysterical, don’t they?’
‘It’s because they haven’t got much time. The insects are out now, but when the sun goes down the hunt for pests has to be over.’
‘ Is over, you mean?’
She turned towards him. He was staring ahead, lost in thought.
‘Harry?’
‘Yes. Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was gone there for a minute.’
The audience for the play had assembled in the now shaded square in front of the National Theatre. Celebrities were making conversation with celebrities while journalists were swarming around and cameras were whirring. Apart from rumours about some summer romance, the topic of conversation was the same for everyone: the previous day’s arrest of the Courier Killer.
Harry’s hand lay lightly against the small of Rakel’s back as they rushed towards the entrance. She could feel the heat from the tips of his fingers through the thin material. A face appeared in front of them.
‘Roger Gjendem from Aftenposten. Sorry, but we’re conducting a survey about what people think about the capture of the man who kidnapped the woman chosen to play the lead this evening.’
They stopped and Rakel noticed that the hand on her back was suddenly no longer there.
The journalist’s rictus smile was there, but his eyes were roaming.
‘We’ve met before, Inspector Hole. I work on crime reports. We chatted a couple of times when you returned after the case in Sydney. You once said that I was the only journalist who reported what you said accurately. Do you remember me now?’
Harry studied Roger Gjendem’s face thoughtfully and nodded.
‘Mm. Finished with crime?’
‘No, no!’ The journalist shook his head energetically. ‘I’m just standing in. National holidays. Could I have a comment from Harry Hole, the policeman?’
‘No.’
‘No? Not even a couple of words?’
‘I mean, no, I’m not a policeman,’ Harry said.
The journalist seemed taken aback.
‘But I saw you…’
Harry quickly panned around him before leaning forwards.
‘Have you got a business card?’
‘Yes…’
Gjendem passed him a white card with the blue Gothic letters of Aftenposten on; Harry put it in his back pocket.
