Halvorsen smiled. 'Are you getting old, Harry?'
'Old? What do you mean?'
'Old and human. That's the first time I've heard you prioritise the living over the dead.'
The instant Halvorsen saw Harry's face he was filled with regret. 'I didn't mean…'
'That's fine,' Harry said, standing up. 'I want you to get hold of the passenger lists of all flights to and from Croatia over the last few days. Ask the police at Gardemoen Airport whether you need a police lawyer to make an application. Should you need a court ruling, nip over to the court and get it on the spot. When you have the lists, ring Alex in Europol and ask him to check the names for us. Say it's for me.'
'And you're sure he can help?'
Harry nodded. 'In the meantime Beate and I will go and have a chat with Jon Karlsen.'
'Oh?'
'So far, all we've heard about Robert Karlsen is pure Disney. I think there's more.'
'Why aren't you taking me along?'
'Because Beate, unlike you, knows when people are lying.'
He breathed in before tackling the steps up to the restaurant called Biscuit.
The difference from the previous evening was that there were almost no people around. But the same waiter was leaning against the door to the dining room. The one with the Giorgi curls and the blue eyes.
'Hello there,' said the waiter. 'I didn't recognise you.'
He blinked twice, caught on the hop by the fact that it meant he had been recognised.
'But I recognised the coat,' the waiter said. 'Very tasteful. Is it camel hair?'
'I hope so,' he stammered with a smile.
The waiter laughed and placed a hand on his arm. He didn't see a trace of fear in the man's eyes and concluded the waiter was without suspicions. And hoped that meant the police had not been here and therefore had not found the gun.
'I don't want to eat,' he said. 'I just want to use the toilet.'
'The toilet?' repeated the waiter, and he saw the blue eyes scanning his. 'You came here to use the toilet? Really?'
'A quick visit,' he said, swallowing. The waiter's presence made him uneasy.
'A quick visit,' repeated the waiter. 'I see.'
The Gents was empty and smelt of soap. But not freedom.
The smell of soap was even stronger when he flipped up the lid of the soap container over the basin. He rolled up his sleeve and thrust his hand down in the cold green mush. For an instant a thought shot through his mind: that they had changed soap dispensers. But then he felt it. Slowly, he fished it out and the soap dripped long, green fingers on the white porcelain basin. After a wash and a bit of oil the gun would be fine. And he still had six bullets in the magazine. He hurriedly rinsed the gun and was about to put it in his coat pocket when the door opened.
'Hello again,' the waiter whispered with a big smile. But the smile went rigid when he caught sight of the gun.
He slipped it into his pocket, mumbled a goodbye and forced his way past the waiter in the narrow doorway. He felt rapid breathing against his face and the other man's erection on his thigh.
It was only when he was out in the cold again that he became aware of his heart. It was pounding. As though he had been frightened. The blood streamed through his body, making him feel warm and light.
Jon Karlsen was on his way out as Harry arrived in Goteborggata.
'Is it that late?' Jon asked with a glance at his watch, confused.
'I'm a bit early,' Harry said. 'My colleague will be along in a moment.'
'Have I got time to buy some milk?' He was wearing a thin jacket and his hair was combed.
'By all means.'
The corner shop was on the other side of the street and while Jon was rummaging for the change to buy a litre of semi-skimmed milk Harry studied the lavish selection of Christmas decorations between the toilet paper and the cornflakes packets. Neither of them commented on the newspaper stand by the cash desk on which the Egertorget murder screamed out at them in bold capitals. The front page of Dagbladet carried a blurred, grainy crop of Wedlog's picture of the crowd with a red circle around the head of the person with the scarf and the headline: POLICE SEEK THIS MAN.
They went out and Jon stopped in front of a beggar with red hair and a seventies goatee. He searched long and hard in his pocket until he found something he could drop in the brown paper cup.
'I haven't got much to offer you,' Jon said to Harry. 'And, to tell the truth, the coffee has been standing in the percolator for a while. Probably tastes of tar.'
'Great, that's just how I like it.'
'You too?' Jon Karlsen gave a pale smile. 'Ow!' Jon held his head and turned to the beggar. 'Are you throwing money at me?' he asked in astonishment.
The beggar snorted into his whiskers in annoyance and shouted in a clear voice: 'Legal tender only, thank you!'
Jon Karlsen's flat was identical to Thea Nilsen's. It was clean and tidy, but the interior still bore the unmistakable signs of bachelorhood. Harry drew three quick assumptions: that the old but well-lookedafter furniture came from the same place as his, namely Elevator, the second-hand shop in Ullevalsveien; that Jon had not been to the art exhibition the solitary poster on the sitting-room wall was advertising; and that more meals were taken bent over the low table in front of the TV than in the place provided in the kitchenette. On the almost empty bookshelf there was a photograph of a man in a Salvation Army uniform looking out into space with an authoritative air.
'Your father?' Harry asked.
'Yes,' Jon answered, taking two mugs from the kitchen cupboard and pouring from a brown, stained coffee jug.
'You look very similar.'
'Thank you,' said Jon. 'I hope that's true.' He brought the mugs in and deposited them on the coffee table next to the fresh carton of milk, among the collection of rings in the varnish, showing where he usually ate his meals. Harry was going to ask how his parents had taken the news of Robert's death, but changed tack.
'Let's begin with the hypothesis,' Harry said, 'that your brother was killed because he had done something to someone. Tricked them, borrowed money off them, insulted them, threatened them, hurt them or whatever. Your brother was a good guy; everyone says that. And that's what we tend to hear in murder cases. People like to emphasise the good sides. Most of us have dark sides though. Don't we?'
Jon nodded, although Harry was unable to decide whether this was a sign of agreement or not.
'What we need is some light shed on Robert's dark sides.'
Jon stared, uncomprehending.
Harry cleared his throat. 'Let's start with money. Did Robert have any financial problems?'
Jon shrugged. 'No. And yes. He didn't exactly live in style so I can't imagine he had incurred huge debts, if that's what you mean. By and large he borrowed from me, if he needed money, I think. By borrowing I mean…' Jon's smile was wistful.
'What sort of sums are we talking about?'
'Not big ones. Apart from this autumn.'
'How much?'
'Er… thirty thousand.'
'For what purpose?'
Jon scratched his head. 'He had a project, but wouldn't expand on it. Just said he would need to travel abroad. I would find out, he said. Yes, I thought it was quite a lot of money, but I live cheaply and I don't have a car. And for once he seemed so enthusiastic. I was curious about what it was, but then… well, then this happened.'
Harry took notes. 'Mm. What about Robert's darker sides, as a person?'
He waited. Studied the coffee table and let Jon sit and think while the vacuum of silence took effect, the vacuum that sooner or later always elicited something: a lie, a despairing digression or, in the best-case scenario, the truth.
