perfect English:
'I'm Kristoffer. I need money for a room tonight. Or else I'll freeze to death.'
It sounded like something he had learned on a marketing course, a brief and concise message plus his name to add an effective emotional immediacy. The request came with a broad smile.
He shook his head and made to go, but the beggar stood in front of him with the cup. 'Come on, mister. Haven't you ever had to sleep rough, frozen, dreading the night?'
'As a matter of fact I have.' For one crazy moment he felt like telling him he had hidden in a water-filled foxhole for four days waiting for a Serbian tank.
'Then you know what I'm talking about, mister.'
He answered with a slow nod. Stuffed his hand in his pocket, took out a note and gave it to Kristoffer without looking. 'You'll sleep rough anyway, won't you?'
Kristoffer pocketed the money, nodded and said with an apologetic smile: 'Have to prioritise my medicine, mister.'
'Where do you usually sleep?'
'Down there.' The junkie pointed and he followed the long, slim forefinger with the trim nail. 'Container terminal. They're going to build an opera house there in the summer.' Kristoffer flashed another broad smile. 'And I love opera.'
'Isn't it a bit cold there now?'
'Tonight it might have to be the Salvation Army. They always have a free bed in the Hostel.'
'Do they?' He studied the boy. He looked well groomed, and his smile revealed a set of shining white, even teeth. Nevertheless he smelt decay. As he listened he thought he could hear the crunching of a thousand jaws, of flesh being consumed from inside.
11
Wednesday, 17 December. The Croat.
Halvorsen sat patiently behind the steering wheel waiting for a car with a Bergen number plate in front of him. Its wheels spun round on the ice as the driver pressed the accelerator to the floor. Harry was talking to Beate on his mobile phone.
'What do you mean?' Harry shouted to drown the noise of the racing engine.
'It doesn't look like it's the same person in these two pictures,' Beate repeated.
'It's the same woolly hat, same raincoat and same neckerchief. It must be the same person, mustn't it?'
She didn't answer.
'Beate?'
'The faces are unclear. There's something strange. I'm not quite sure what. Maybe something to do with the light.'
'Mm. Do you think we're on a wild goose chase?'
'I don't know. His position in front of Karlsen tallies with the technical evidence. What's all that noise?'
'Bambi on ice. See you.'
'Hang on!'
Harry hung on.
'There's one more thing,' Beate said. 'I looked at the other pictures, from the day before.'
'Yeah?'
'I can't see any faces that match, but there is one small detail. There's a man wearing a yellowish coat, maybe a camel-hair coat. He's got a scarf…'
'Mm. A neckerchief, you mean?'
'No, it looks like an ordinary woollen scarf, but it's tied in the same way as he – or they – ties the neckerchief. The right-hand side sticks up from the knot. Have you seen it?'
'No.'
'I've never seen anyone tie a scarf in that way before,' Beate said.
'Email me the pictures and I'll have a look.'
The first thing Harry did on getting back to the office was to print out Beate's pictures.
When he went to the print room to collect them Gunnar Hagen was already there.
Harry nodded, and the two men stood in silence watching the grey machine spitting out sheet after sheet.
'Anything new?' Hagen asked at length.
'Yes and no,' Harry replied.
'The press are on my back. Would be good if we had something to give them.'
'Ah, yes, I almost forgot to say, boss. I tipped them off that we were looking for this man.' Harry took one of the printouts from the pile and pointed to the man with the neckerchief.
'You did what?' Hagen said.
'I tipped off the press. To be exact, Dagbladet.'
'Without going through me?'
'Routine number, boss. We call them constructive leaks. We say the information is from an anonymous source in the police so that the newspaper can pretend they have been doing serious investigative journalism. They like that, so they give it more column space than if we had asked them to publish pictures. Now we can get some help from the general public to identify the man. And everyone is happy.'
'I'm not, Hole.'
'I'm genuinely sorry to hear that then, boss,' Harry said, and underlined the genuineness with a concerned expression.
Hagen glared at him with his upper and lower jaw moving sideways in opposite directions, in a kneading motion that reminded Harry of a ruminant.
'And what is so special about this man?' Hagen said, snatching the printout from Harry.
'We're not quite sure. Maybe there are many of them. Beate Lonn thinks they… well, tie the neckerchief in a particular way.'
'That's a cravat knot.' Hagen took another look. 'What about it?'
'What did you say it was, boss?'
'A cravat knot.'
'Do you mean a tie knot?'
'A Croat knot, man.'
'What?'
'Isn't this basic history?'
'I'd be grateful if you would enlighten me, boss.'
Hagen placed his hands behind his back. 'What do you know about the Thirty Years War?'
'Not enough, I suppose.'
'During the Thirty Years War, before he marched into Germany, Gustav Adolf, the Swedish King, supplemented his disciplined but small army with what were reckoned to be the best soldiers in Europe. They were the best because they were considered totally fearless. He hired Croat mercenaries. Did you know that the Norwegian word krabat comes from Swedish and its original meaning was Croat, in other words a fearless maniac?'
Harry shook his head.
'Although the Croats were fighting in a foreign country and had to wear King Gustav Adolf 's uniform, they were allowed to retain a marker to distinguish them from the others: the cavalry neckerchief. It was a neckerchief the Croats tied in a special way. The item of clothing was adopted and developed further by the French, but they kept the name, which became cravate.'
'Cravate. Cravat.'
'Exactly.'
