'You asked me to have a think,' she said. 'About whether I could remember anyone ringing or asking about the duty roster. About Jon's shift.'
'Yes?'
'I've had a think.'
'And?'
'No one.'
Long pause.
'Did you ring to tell me that?' His voice was warm and rough. As though he had been asleep.
'Yes. Shouldn't I have done?'
'Yes, yes, of course. Thank you very much for your help.'
'Not at all.'
She closed her eyes and waited until she heard his voice again.
'Did you… get home alright?'
'Mm. There's a power cut here.'
'Here too,' he said. 'It'll be back soon.'
'What if it isn't?'
'What do you mean?'
'Will we be cast into chaos?'
'Do you think about that sort of thing a lot?'
'From time to time. I think civilisation's infrastructure is much more fragile than we like to believe. What do you think?'
He paused for a long time before answering. 'Well, I think all the systems we rely on can short-circuit and hurl us into deepest night, where laws and regulations no longer protect us, where the cold and beasts of prey rule, and everyone has to try to save their own skin.'
'That,' she said, when no more was forthcoming, 'was not very suitable for helping little girls get off to sleep. I think you're a real dystopian, Harry.'
'Of course. I'm a policeman. Goodnight.'
He had put down the receiver before she had a chance to formulate an answer.
Harry crept back under the duvet and gazed at the wall.
The temperature had plummeted in his flat.
Harry thought about the sky outside. About Andalsnes. About his grandfather. And his mother. The funeral. And the prayer she had whispered at night in her gentle, gentle, voice. 'A mighty fortress is our God.' But in the weightless moment before sleeping he thought of Martine and her voice which was still in his head.
The TV in the sitting room came to life with a groan and began to hiss. The light bulb in the corridor came back on and cast light through the open bedroom door and onto Harry's face. But by then he was already asleep.
Twenty minutes later Harry's telephone rang. He thrust open his eyes and swore. Shuffled, shivering, into the hallway and lifted the receiver.
'Speak. Softly.'
'Harry?'
'Just about. What's up, Halvorsen?'
'Something's happened.'
'Something, or a lot?'
'A lot.'
'Fuck.'
15
Early Hours, Thursday, 18 December. The Raid.
Sail stood shivering on the path beside the Akerselva. To hell with the Albanian bastard! Despite the cold, the river was icefree and black and reinforced the darkness under the plain iron bridge. Sail was sixteen years old and had come from Somalia with his mother when he was twelve. He had started selling hash when he was fourteen, and heroin last spring. Now Hux had let him down again, and he couldn't risk standing here all night with his goods and no trade. Ten fixes. If he had been eighteen he could always have gone down to Plata and sold them there. But the cops hauled in underage dealers at Plata. Their territory was here, along the river. Most of them were young boys from Somalia selling to customers who were either underage, too, or had other reasons not to be seen at Plata. Sod Hux, he needed the cash desperately!
A man came walking down the footpath. It wasn't Hux, that was for sure; he was still limping after the B gang had beaten him up for selling diluted amphetamines. As if there were anything else. And he didn't look like an undercover man, either. Or a junkie, even though he was wearing the type of blue coat he had seen many junkies wear. Sail looked around. They were alone.
When the man was close enough Sail stepped out of the shadow of the bridge. 'Wanna fix?'
The man gave a brief smile, shook his head and made to walk on. However, Sail had positioned himself in the middle of the path. He was big for his age. For any age. And his knife was, too. A Rambo: First Blood with a hollow handle containing a compass and fishing line. It cost around a thousand kroner at the Army Shop but he had got it for three hundred from a pal.
'Do you want to buy or just pay up?' Sail asked, holding the knife so that the grooved blade reflected the pale light from the street lamp.
'Excuse me?'
Foreignerspeak. Not Sail's strongest suit.
'Money.' Sail heard his voice rising. He always got so angry when he robbed people; he didn't know why. 'Now.'
The foreigner nodded and held up his left hand in defence while calmly moving his right inside his jacket. Then he withdrew his hand with lightning speed. Sail did not have time to react; he whispered a 'shit' as he realised he was staring down the muzzle of a gun. He wanted to run, but the black metal eye seemed to have frozen his feet to the ground.
'I…' he began.
'Run,' said the man. 'Now.'
And Sail ran. Ran with the cold, damp air from the river burning in his lungs and the lights from the Plaza Hotel and the Post House jumping up and down on his retina, ran until the river flowed out into the fjord and he could run no further, and he screamed at the fences around the container terminal that one day he would kill them all.
A quarter of an hour had passed since Harry had been awoken by Halvorsen's call. The police car pulled up by the kerb of Sofies gate and Harry slid onto the back seat beside his colleague. He mumbled an 'Evening' to the uniformed policemen at the front.
The driver, a hefty fellow with a closed police face, drove off quietly.
'Put your foot down,' said the pale, young, pimply policeman in the passenger seat.
'How many are there of us?' Harry peered at his watch.
'Two cars plus this one,' Halvorsen said.
'So six plus us two. I don't want any blue lights. We'll try and do this in a calm manner. You, me, a uniform and a gun will perform the arrest. The other five will cover potential escape routes. Are you carrying a weapon?'
Halvorsen slapped his chest pocket.
'That's good because I'm not,' Harry said.
'Haven't you got the firearms licence sorted yet?'
Harry leaned forward between the front seats.
'Which of you would most like to join us in arresting a professional hit man?'
