rid of it of course. Or put it somewhere for safekeeping.'
'There aren't that many left-luggage places in Oslo any more.'
'Think.'
'Right. The luggage room in one of the hotels where he was staying. The lockers in Oslo Central Station of course.'
'Follow the line of thought.'
'Which line?'
'He's out there now and has a bag somewhere.'
'He might need it now, yes. I'll ring Ops and get someone sent to Scandia and the station and… what was the other hotel that had Stankic on their lists?'
'Radisson SAS in Holbergs plass.'
'Thank you.'
Harry turned to the driver and asked if he wanted to go out and have a smoke. They went down and out of the back door. On the snow-covered handkerchief of a garden in the quiet backyard an old man was standing and smoking while contemplating the dirty yellow sky, oblivious of their presence.
'How's your colleague?' Harry asked, lighting both of their cigarettes.
'He'll survive. Sorry about the reporters.'
'It's not your fault.'
'Yes, it is. When he called me on the radio he said someone had entered the Hostel. I should have drilled things like that into him.'
'There were a couple of other things you should have drilled more.'
The driver's eyes shot up. And blinked twice, in quick succession. 'I apologise. I tried to warn you, but you ran off.'
'OK. But why?'
The glow of the cigarette lit up, red and reproachful, as the driver sucked hard. 'Most criminals give up the second they have an MP5 pointing at them.'
'That wasn't what I asked.'
The muscles in his jaw tensed and relaxed. 'It's an old story.'
'Mm.' Harry regarded the policeman. 'We've all got old stories to tell. That doesn't mean we can put colleagues' lives at risk with empty magazines.'
'You're right.' The man dropped the half-smoked cigarette and it disappeared into the fresh snow with a hiss. He took a deep breath. 'And you won't get into any trouble about it, Hole. I'll confirm your report.'
Harry shifted weight. Studied his cigarette. He put the policeman's age at about fifty. There weren't so many of them left in patrol cars. 'The old story, is it one I would like to hear?'
'You've heard it before.'
'Mm. Young lad?'
'Twenty-two, no previous.'
'Killed?'
'Paralysed from the chest down. I hit him in the stomach, but the bullet went right through.'
The old man coughed. Harry looked across. He was holding the cigarette between two matches.
In reception the young officer was still sitting on the chair being comforted. Harry motioned with his head for the sympathetic colleague to withdraw and sank down onto his haunches.
'Trauma counselling doesn't help,' Harry said to the wan young man. 'Sort yourself out.'
'Eh?'
'You're frightened because you think you were a shot away from dying. You weren't. He wasn't aiming at you. He aimed at the car.'
'Eh?' the whelp repeated in the same monotone.
'This guy's a pro. He knows that if he had shot a policeman he wouldn't have had a hope of getting away. He fired to frighten you.'
'How do you know…?'
'He didn't fire at me, either. You tell yourself that and you'll be able to sleep. And don't go to a psychologist; there are other people who need them.' Harry's knees gave a nasty crack as he stood up. 'And remember that higher ranked officers are by definition cleverer than you. So, next time, follow orders, OK?'
His heart was beating like a hunted animal's. A gust of wind caught the lamps hanging from the thin wires above the street and his shadow danced across the pavement. He wished he could take longer strides, but because of the ice's slippery surface he had to keep his legs beneath him as far as possible.
It must have been the telephone call to Zagreb from the office that had led the police to the Hostel. And it had happened at such speed! As a result he would not be able to call her. He heard a car coming from behind and had to force himself not to turn round. Instead he listened. It hadn't braked so far. It passed by, followed by a rush of air and a flurry of powdery snow that settled on the tiny strip of neck not covered by the blue jacket, the jacket that the policeman had seen him wearing and meant he was no longer invisible. He had considered discarding the jacket, but a man in a shirt would not only look suspicious but would also freeze to death. He glanced at his watch. There were quite a few hours before the town came to life, before cafes and shops opened where he could find refuge. He had to find somewhere before then. A bolt-hole, a place where he could keep warm and rest until day broke.
He walked by a dirty yellow house front covered with graffiti. His eye was caught by one word painted there. 'Vestbredden'. The West Bank? A bit further up the street a man was standing bent double in front of an entrance. From a distance it looked like he was resting his head against a door. As he came closer he saw that the man was holding his finger on a bell.
He stopped and waited. This might be his salvation.
A voice crackled from the speaker above the bell and the stooped figure straightened up, swayed and started yelling furiously by way of answer. His reddened, booze-battered skin hung off his face like the folds of a Shar Pei dog. The man stopped and the echoes between the houses died away in the night-still town. There was a low electric buzz and, with some difficulty, he shifted his centre of gravity forwards, pushed open the door and staggered in.
The door began to close and his reactions were lightning fast. Too fast. His sole slipped on the blue ice and he just managed to slap down the palms of his hands on the burning cold surface before the rest of his body hit the pavement. He scrambled up again, saw that the door was on the point of snapping shut, charged forward, stuck out his foot and felt the weight of the door trap his ankle. He sneaked inside and stood listening. Shuffling feet. Which seemed to stop before being painfully resumed. Knocking. A door opened and a woman's voice screamed something in this weird sing-song language of theirs. Then it came to an abrupt end, as though someone had cut her throat. After a few seconds of silence he heard a low whine, the noise children make when they are getting over the shock of hurting themselves. Then the door upstairs banged again and it was quiet.
He let the door close behind him. Among the rubbish under the stairs were a couple of newspapers. In Vukovar they had put paper in their shoes as it insulated and absorbed moisture. His frosty breath was still visible, but for the time being he was safe.
Harry sat in the office behind the reception desk of the Hostel waiting with the receiver against his ear as he tried to visualise the flat he was ringing. He saw photos of friends stuck to the mirror above the telephone. Smiling, in party mood, maybe on a trip abroad. Girlfriends in the main. He saw a flat with simple furnishings but cosy. Words of wisdom on the fridge door. Che Guevara poster in the toilet. Did people still do that?
'Hello?' said a sleepy voice.
'It's me again.'
'Daddy?'
Daddy? Intake of breath and Harry felt himself blush. 'The policeman.'
'Ah yes.' Stifled laughter. Bright and deep at the same time.
'Sorry to wake you, but we-'
'That doesn't matter.'
There was one of those pauses Harry had wanted to avoid.
'I'm at the Hostel,' he said. 'We've been trying to arrest a suspect. The receptionist says you and Rikard
