be Toya again. But she couldn’t be. She could only stare at the pallid, blue face of her sister, staring back at her with pupilless eyes. And listen to the ssshh sounds of the shower, so like the TV set after transmission had finished. And then the sound of dripping water on the parquet floor by the foot of the bed behind her, telling her that Wilhelm was no longer in the shower.
‘It can’t be him,’ Ruth said. ‘It’s… it’s… not possible.’
‘The last time I was here you said you were thinking about going over the roof to Barli’s to do a bit of spying,’ Harry said. ‘And that his terrace door was left open all summer. Are you sure about that?’
‘Absolutely, but can’t you just phone?’ the Trondheim Eagle asked.
Harry shook his head.
‘He’ll become suspicious and we cannot risk him getting away. I have to catch him this evening, if it’s not too late already.’
‘Too late for what?’ the Trondheim Eagle asked, scrunching up one eye.
‘Listen, all I’m asking is that you let me use your balcony to get up onto the roof.’
‘Is there really no-one else with you?’ the Trondheim Eagle asked. ‘Haven’t you got a search warrant or something like that?’
Harry shook his head.
‘Justified grounds for suspicion,’ he said. ‘You don’t need one.’
A rumble of thunder boomed low and menacingly over Harry’s head. The gutter above the balcony had been painted yellow, but most of it had flaked off revealing large patches of red rust. Harry grabbed hold with both hands and pulled gently to see if it was properly attached. The gutter gave way with a groan and a screw detached itself from the plaster and hit the ground in the yard with a tinkle. Harry released his grip and swore. There was no alternative, however, so he put a foot on the railing and hauled himself up. He peered over the edge. An automatic sharp intake of breath. The sheet on the rotary dryer down below was like a white stamp blowing in the wind.
He forced one leg onto the gutter and scrambled over. Even though the roof was steep, the grip his robust Doc Martens had on the tiles was good enough for him to take the two steps to the drainpipe and clutch it to his chest as if it were a long-lost friend. He straightened and looked around. There was a flash of lightning over Nesodden. The air, which had not stirred when he arrived, was softly plucking at his jacket. Harry gave a start as a black shadow suddenly raced past his face. The shadow intersected the space above the central yard. A swallow. Harry just caught sight of it as it sought shelter under the eaves.
Harry scrabbled his way to the top of the roof, aimed for a black weathervane 15 metres away, took a deep breath and began to walk along the ridge of the roof with his arms held out like a line dancer.
He had reached the halfway point when it happened.
Harry heard a whoosh, which he first thought came from the tops of the trees beneath him. The sound rose in volume at the same time as the rotary dryer down in the yard began to rotate and shriek. He couldn’t feel any wind, not yet. Then it hit him. The drought was over. The wind struck him in the chest like an avalanche of air set in motion by a plunging mass of water. He tottered back a step and stood swaying on the ridge. He heard it advancing towards him over the clattering roof tiles. The rain. The deluge. It beat down against the roof and in less than a second everything was wet. Harry tried to keep his balance, but there was nothing to grip; it was like walking on soap. One shoe slipped and he made a desperate dive for the weathervane. His arms were stretched out in front of him, his fingers splayed. His right hand scrabbled at the surface of a tile, searching for something to hold on to, but there was nothing. Gravity was pulling at him. The scratching of his nails made the same rasping noise as a scythe blade on a whetstone as he slid downwards. He heard the shriek of the rotary dryer abating, felt the gutter against his knees and knew he was on his way over the edge. He stretched his body out in a last-ditch attempt, tried to make himself longer, turn himself into an aerial. An aerial. His left hand grabbed hold of it, held on tight. The metal softened, bowed and bent. It threatened to follow him down into the yard. But it held.
Harry took hold of it with both hands and pulled himself up. He managed to get his rubber soles back underneath him and pushed as hard as he could against the surface and gained a foothold. With the rain furiously whipping into his face he crawled up to the ridge, sat astride it and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The contorted metal aerial beneath him was pointing downwards. Someone was going to have a reception problem with tonight’s repeat showing of Beat for Beat.
Harry waited until his pulse had calmed down a little. Then he stood up and continued the tightrope walk. The weathervane received a kiss.
Barli’s terrace was inset in the roof, so he could easily swing his legs down onto the red terracotta tiles. His feet made a splash as he landed, but the sound was drowned out by the roaring and gurgling of the flooded roof gutters.
The chairs had been taken in, the barbecue lay black and dead in a corner, but the terrace door was ajar.
At first, all he could hear was the drumming of the rain on the tiles, but as he cautiously crossed the threshold and entered the room he could discern another sound, also made by water. It came from the bathroom downstairs. The shower. Finally a bit of luck. Harry patted the pockets of his drenched jacket to find his chisel. An undressed and unarmed Barli was the best he could hope for, especially if Wilhelm still had the gun that Sven handed over in Frogner Park on Saturday.
Harry saw that the bedroom door was open. There was a Sami knife in the toolbox beside the bed. He tiptoed over to the door and crept into the bedroom.
The room was dark, barely lit by the reading lamp on the bedside table. Harry stood at the foot of the bed; his gaze fell on the wall and the picture of Lisbeth and Wilhelm on their honeymoon in front of an old majestic building and the statue of a horse and rider. Harry knew now that this picture had not been taken in France. In Sven’s opinion, any half-educated person should be able to recognise this statue of the Czech national hero, Vaclav, in front of the National Museum in Vaclav Square in Prague.
Harry’s eyes were used to the dark now. He shifted his attention to the double bed and froze: he held his breath and stood as rigid as a snowman. The duvet had been thrown to the floor and the sheet had been half removed so that blue rubber was revealed. On top, a naked person was lying stomach down, the upper body supported by its elbows. The eyes were directed towards the area where the cone of light from the reading lamp met the blue mattress.
The rain on the roof played its last drum roll before it abruptly stopped. The person had clearly not heard Harry coming into the room, but Harry had the same problem as most snowmen in July. Water was running off him. Water was dripping from his jacket and onto the parquet floor with what, to Harry’s ears, sounded like a thundering roar.
The body on the bed tensed up. And turned over. First of all his head. Then his entire, naked body.
What Harry first noticed was the erect penis oscillating to and fro like a metronome.
‘My God! Harry?’
Wilhelm Barli’s voice sounded at once frightened and relieved.
41
Monday. Happy Ending.
‘Goodnight.’
Rakel kissed Oleg on the forehead and tucked him in around his body. Then she went downstairs and sat in the kitchen watching the rain falling.
She liked rain. It cleaned the air and washed away the past. A new start. That was what was needed. A new start.
She walked over to the front door and felt to see if it was locked. It was the third time she had done so this evening. What was she really so frightened about?
Then she switched on the TV.
There was a kind of music programme. Three people sitting on the same piano stool. They were smiling at each other. Like a little family, Rakel thought.
She jumped as a clap of thunder rent the air.
