stirred strawberry jam off slices of bread at his grandmother’s house. He raised his hand to strike again. He saw the handcuffed, defenceless man try to cover his body, but it only made him even more furious. Tired, frightened and furious.
‘ Wer ist da? ’
Harry froze. He and Sivertsen stared at each other. Neither of them said anything. The nasal sound came from the mobile phone on the floor.
‘ Sven? Bist du es, Sven? ’
Harry grabbed the phone and held it to his ear.
‘Sven is here,’ he said slowly. ‘Who are you?’
‘ Eva,’ said the indignant woman’s voice. ‘ Bitte, was ist passiert? ’
‘Beate Lonn.’
‘Harry. I -’
‘Hang up and call my mobile.’ She rang off.
Ten seconds later he had her on what he would insist on calling ‘the line’.
‘What’s up?’
‘We’re being monitored.’
‘How?’
‘We’ve got an anti-hacking software package and it shows that all our phone calls and e-mails are being monitored by a third party. It’s meant to protect us against criminals, but Bjorn says it looks like the ISP is doing it.’
‘Listening in?’
‘Hardly. But all our conversations and e-mails are being recorded.’
‘That’s Waaler and his boys.’
‘I know. So now they know that you’re ringing me, which in turn means that I cannot help you any more, Harry.’
‘Sivertsen’s girl is sending you a picture of a meeting Sivertsen and Waaler had in Prague. The picture shows Waaler from the back and can’t be used as evidence of any kind, but I want you to look at it and tell me if it seems genuine. She has the photo on her computer, so she can mail it to you. What’s the e-mail address?’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said, Harry? They check all incoming e-mails and calls. What do you think will happen if we get an e-mail or a fax from Prague right now? I can’t do it, Harry. And I’ll have to find a plausible explanation for why you phoned me and I’m not as quick-thinking as you. My God, what will I say to them?’
‘Relax, Beate. You don’t need to say anything. I haven’t rung you.’
‘What are you saying? You’ve rung me three times in all.’
‘Yes, but they don’t know that. I’m using a mobile I exchanged with a pal.’
‘So, you anticipated all this?’
‘No, not this. I did it because mobile phones send signals to phone masts that pinpoint which part of the town the phone is in. If Waaler has got people working on the mobile phone network trying to trace me with the help of my mobile they’ll have something to sharpen their wits on because it is more or less in constant motion all over Oslo.’
‘I want to know as little about this as possible, Harry. But don’t send me anything here. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘I’m sorry, Harry.’
‘You’ve given me your right arm, Beate. You don’t need to apologise for holding on to your left.’
He knocked at the door. Five short knocks at room number 303. He hoped it was loud enough to be heard over the music. He waited. He was going to knock once more when he heard the music being turned down and the padding of bare feet on the floor. The door opened. She looked as if she had been asleep.
‘Yes?’
He flashed his ID card which, strictly speaking, was false since he was no longer a police officer.
‘Apologies again for what happened on Saturday,’ Harry said. ‘Hope you weren’t too frightened when they burst in.’
‘That’s OK,’ she said with a grimace. ‘I suppose you were only doing your job.’
‘Yes.’ Harry rocked on his heels while casting quick glances up and down the corridor. ‘A colleague from Forensics and I are checking Marius Veland’s room for clues. We have to send off a document right this minute but my laptop has gone on strike. It’s pretty important. I remembered that you were surfing the Net on Saturday and so I wondered…’
She gestured that any further explanation was superfluous and switched on the computer.
‘The computer’s on. I suppose I ought to apologise for the mess or something like that. Hope you don’t mind if I don’t give a damn.’
He sat down in front of the screen, got the e-mail program up, pulled out a slip of paper and banged Eva Marvanova’s address in with the greasy keys. The message was brief. Ready. This address. Send.
He swung round on the chair and watched the girl, who was sitting on the sofa, pulling on a tight pair of jeans. He hadn’t even noticed that she was only wearing a pair of knickers, presumably because of the baggy T- shirt with a picture of a hemp leaf on.
‘On your own today?’ he asked, mostly to say something while waiting for Eva. He could tell by the expression on her face that it was not a particularly successful attempt at conversation.
‘I only screw at weekends,’ she said, sniffing a sock before she put it on. And she beamed with pleasure when it was apparent that Harry had no intention of following up her comment. It was apparent to Harry that she could have done with a trip to the dentist.
‘You’ve got an e-mail,’ she said.
He turned round to the screen. It was from Eva. No text, just an attachment. He double-clicked on it. The screen went black.
‘He’s old and sluggish,’ the girl said with an even broader grin. ‘He’ll get it up eventually. You’ll just have to wait a bit.’
In front of Harry the picture had begun to appear on the screen, first as a blue glaze, and then, when there was no more sky, a grey wall and a black and green monument. Then the square. And the tables. Sven Sivertsen. And a man in a leather jacket with his back to the camera. Dark hair. Powerful neck. It was no good as evidence, of course, but Harry was in no doubt at all that it was Tom Waaler. Nevertheless, that was not what made him sit and stare at the picture.
‘Er, you, I have to go to the loo,’ the girl said. Harry had no idea how long he had been sitting there. ‘And the bloody sound carries, so I get very embarrassed, don’t I? So if you could…’
Harry stood up, mumbled his thanks and left.
On the stairs between the third and the fourth floor he stopped.
The picture.
It couldn’t be chance. It was theoretically impossible.
Or was it?
Anyway, it couldn’t be true. No-one did that kind of thing.
No-one.
37
Monday. Confession.
The two men standing opposite each other in the church of the Holy Apostolic Princess Olga were the same height. The warm, clammy air smelled of sweet smoke and acrid tobacco. The sun had shone on Oslo every day now for almost five weeks, and the sweat was running in streams down Nikolai Loeb’s thick woollen tunic as he was reading the prayer to take confession:
‘Lo, you have come to the place of healing. The invisible spirit of Jesus Christ is here and will receive your confession.’
