backyards along Radhusgata and the southern side of Akershus Fortress. And Martine knew that most people whose work was in some way connected with Narco-Oslo – the police, social workers, street preachers and prostitutes – all thought the same: that Plata was better than the alternatives. But it was not a pretty sight.
'Langemann!' she shouted to the man standing in the darkness outside their bus. 'Don't you want any soup tonight?'
But Langemann sidled away. He had probably bought his fix and was off to inject the medicine.
She concentrated on ladling soup for a Mediterranean type in a blue jacket when she heard chattering teeth beside her and saw a man dressed in a thin suit jacket awaiting his turn. 'Here you are,' she said, pouring out his soup.
'Hello, sweetie,' came a rasping voice.
'Wenche!'
'Come over and thaw out a poor wretch,' said the ageing prostitute with a hearty laugh, and embraced Martine. The smell of the damp skin and body that undulated against the tight-fitting leopard-pattern dress was overwhelming. But there was another smell, one she recognised, a smell that had been there before Wenche's broadside of fragrances had overpowered everything else.
They sat down at one of the empty tables.
Although some of the foreign working girls who had flooded the area in the last year also used drugs, it was not as widespread as among their home-grown rivals. Wenche was one of the few Norwegians who did not indulge. Furthermore, in her words, she had begun to work more from home with a fixed clientele, so the intervals between meeting Martine had lengthened.
'I'm here to look for a girlfriend's son,' Wenche said. 'Kristoffer. I'm told he's on shit.'
'Kristoffer? Don't know him.'
'Aaah!' She dismissed it. 'Forget it. You've got other things on your mind, I can see.'
'Have I?'
'Don't fib. I can see when a girl's in love. Is it him?'
Wenche nodded towards the man in the Salvation Army uniform with a Bible in one hand who had just sat down next to the man in the thin suit jacket.
Martine puffed out her cheeks. 'Rikard? No, thank you.'
'Sure? His eyes have been trailing you ever since I arrived.'
'Rikard is alright,' she sighed. 'At any rate he volunteered for this shift at short notice. The person who should have been here is dead.'
'Robert Karlsen?'
'Did you know him?'
Wenche answered with a heavy-hearted nod, then brightened up again. 'But forget the dead and tell Mummy who you're in love with. It's not before time, by the way.'
Martine smiled. 'I didn't even know I was in love.'
'Come on.'
'No, this is too silly. I-'
'Martine,' said another voice.
She peered up and saw Rikard's imploring eyes.
'The man sitting there says he has no clothes, no money and nowhere to stay. Do you know if the Hostel has any free places?'
'Call them and ask,' Martine said. 'They do have some winter clothes.'
'Right.' Rikard didn't move, even though Martine was facing Wenche. She didn't need to look up to know that his top lip was sweaty.
Then he mumbled a 'thanks' and went back to the man in the suit jacket.
'Tell me then,' Wenche urged in a whisper.
Outside, the northerly wind had lined up its small-calibre artillery.
Harry walked along with his sports bag over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes against the wind, which was making the sharp, almost invisible snowflakes imbed small pinpricks in the cornea. As he passed Blitz, the squatters' property in Pilestredet, his mobile rang. It was Halvorsen.
'There have been two calls to Zagreb in the last two days from the phones in Jernbanetorget. Same number both times. I rang the number and got through to a hotel receptionist. Hotel International. They couldn't tell me who had rung from Oslo or who this person was trying to contact. Nor had they heard of anyone called Christo Stankic.'
'Hm.'
'Shall I follow up?'
'No,' Harry sighed. 'We'll let it go until something tells us this Stankic might be interesting. Switch off the light before you go and we'll talk tomorrow.'
'Hang on!'
'I'm not going anywhere.'
'There's more. The uniformed boys have received a call from a waiter at Biscuit. He said he was in the toilet this morning and bumped into one of the customers.'
'What was he doing there?'
'I'll come to that. You see, the customer had something in his hand-'
'I mean the waiter. Restaurant employees always have their own toilets.'
'I didn't ask,' Halvorsen said, becoming impatient. 'Listen. This customer was holding something green and dripping.'
'Sounds like he should see a doctor.'
'Very funny. The waiter swore it was a gun covered in soap. The lid of the container was off.'
'Biscuit,' Harry repeated as the information sank in. 'That's on Karl Johan.'
'Two hundred metres from the crime scene. I bet a crate of beer that's our gun. Er… sorry, I bet-'
'By the way, you still owe me two hundred kroner. Give me the rest of the story.'
'Here comes the best bit. I asked for a description. He couldn't give me one.'
'Sounds like the refrain in this case.'
'Except that he recognised the guy by his coat. A very ugly camelhair coat.'
'Yes!' Harry shouted. 'The guy with the scarf in the photo of Egertorget the night before Karlsen was shot.'
'Incidentally, the waiter reckoned it was imitation. And he sounded like he knew about that sort of thing.'
'What do you mean?'
'You know. The way they speak.'
'Who are they?'
'Hello! Poofs. Whatever. The man with the gun was through the door and gone. That's all I have for the moment. I'm on my way to Biscuit to show the waiter the photos now.'
'Good,' said Harry.
'What are you wondering?'
'Wondering?'
'I'm getting to know your ways, Harry.'
'Mm. I was wondering why the waiter didn't phone the police straight away this morning. Ask him, alright?'
'In fact, I was intending to do just that, Harry.'
'Of course you were. Sorry.'
Harry hung up, but five minutes later his mobile rang again.
'What did you forget?' Harry asked.
'What?'
'Oh, it's you, Beate. Well?'
'Good news. I've finished at Scandia Hotel.'
'Did you find any DNA?'
