'Because there aren't many bloody places in Oslo where you can eat black Metzner. Make sure Delta and Falkeid have surrounded the terminal by the time I arrive on the first plane tomorrow. But no arrests before I get there. Is that clear?'
After Beate rang off, Harry stood in the street looking at the hotel bar. Where the plastic music was pounding away. And the half-finished glass of poison was awaiting him.
He had him now, the mali spasitelj. All that was needed was a clear head and a steady hand. Harry thought about Halvorsen. Of a heart drowning in blood. He could go straight up to his room, where there was no more alcohol, lock the door and throw the key out of the window. Or he could go in and finish off his drink. Harry shivered and took a deep breath and switched off his mobile. Then he went into the bar.
Staff at the Salvation Army's Headquarters had long since switched off the lights and gone home, but the light in Martine's office was still on. She dialled Harry Hole's number while asking herself the same questions: Was it because he was older that made it so exciting? Or because there seemed to be so many repressed emotions? Or because he looked so helpless. The incident with the woman Harry snubbed on the landing ought to have frightened her off, but for some reason or other the opposite was the case; she had become more intent than ever to… yes, what did she want actually? Martine groaned when the voice announced that the phone subscriber had switched off or was in area with poor coverage. She rang enquiries, got the number of his landline in Sofies gate and called. Her heart leapt when she heard his voice, but it was only an answering machine. She had the perfect excuse for popping by on her way home from the office and now he wasn't there! She left another message. Saying she had to give him the ticket for the Christmas concert in advance because she would be helping at the concert hall from the morning onwards.
She put down the phone and at that moment became aware that someone was standing in the doorway observing her.
'Rikard! Don't do that. You frightened me.'
'Sorry. I was on my way home and just poked my head in to see if I was the last. Shall I drive you home?'
'Thank you, but-'
'You've got your jacket on. Come on and then you don't have to bother with the alarm.' Rikard laughed his staccato laugh. Martine had managed to set off the new alarm twice last week when she had been last to leave, and they'd had to pay the security company to come out.
'OK,' she said. 'Thank you.'
'Not at all…' Rikard sniffled.
His heart was pounding. He could smell Harry Hole now. With infinite care he opened the door and groped for the light switch on the wall. In his other hand he held the gun, pointing it at the bed he could more or less make out in the dark. He breathed in and flicked the light switch; the bedroom was flooded in light. The room was bare – just a basic bed which was tidy and unoccupied. Like the rest of the flat. He had already searched the other rooms. And now he was in the bedroom and could feel his pulse beginning to calm down. Harry Hole was not at home.
He put his gun in the pocket of the filthy denim jacket and felt it crush the urinal block he had taken from the toilet in Oslo Central Station, which was next to the public telephone he had used to find out Hole's Sofies gate address.
It had been easier to enter the building than he had thought. After ringing twice at the main door without receiving an answer, he had been on the point of giving up. But then he pushed the door and although it was closed it had not snapped shut. Must have been the cold. On the second floor Hole's name was scribbled on a strip of masking tape. He had put his cap against the glass pane above the lock and hit it with the barrel of his gun; it had cracked with a crisp crack.
The sitting room faced the backyard so he took the risk of switching on a lamp. He looked around. Simple and spartan. Tidy.
But his Trojan Horse, the man who could lead him to Jon Karlsen, was not there. For the time being. But he hoped he had a weapon or ammunition. He started with the places it would be natural to imagine a policeman might keep a gun, in drawers or cupboards or under the pillow. On finding nothing, he carried out a systematic room-to-room search, but without any success. Then he began the random search that is manifest proof that you have in fact given up and are desperate. Under a letter on the telephone table he found a police ID card with a photo of Harry Hole. He pocketed it. He moved books and records which he noticed were arranged in alphabetical order on the shelves. There was a stack of papers on the coffee table. He flicked through them and stopped at a photograph with a motif he had seen in many variants: dead man in a uniform. Robert Karlsen. He saw the name Stankic. One form had Harry's name at the top; his eyes ran down it and stopped at a cross by a familiar expression. Smith amp; Wesson. 38. The signatory had written his name with grandiose flourishes. A gun licence? A request form?
He gave up. So Harry Hole had the gun on him.
He went into the cramped but clean bathroom and turned on the tap. The hot water made him tremble. The soot from his face turned the sink black. Then he turned on the cold tap and the coagulated blood on his hands dissolved and the sink went red. He dried himself and opened the cabinet above the sink. Found a roll of gauze which he tied around his hand and the wound from the glass.
There was something missing.
He saw a short bristle beside the tap. As if after a shave. But there was no razor, no shaving foam. Or a toothbrush, toothpaste or a toilet bag. Was Hole on his travels, in the middle of a murder inquiry? Or perhaps he lived with a girlfriend?
In the kitchen, he opened the fridge, which contained a milk carton with a sell-by date six days away, a jar of jam, white cheese, three tins of stew and a freezer compartment with sliced rye bread in a plastic wrapper. He took the milk, the bread, two of the tins and switched on the stove. There was a newspaper with today's date lying beside the toaster. Fresh milk, latest newspaper. He began to lean towards the travel theory.
He had taken a glass from the high wall cupboard and was about to pour some milk when a sound made him drop the carton on the floor.
The telephone.
He watched the milk spread across the red terracotta tiles while listening to the insistent ringing in the hall. Three mechanical clicks followed five beeps and a woman's voice filled the room. The words came fast and the tone seemed cheerful. She laughed, then put down the phone. There was something about that voice.
He placed the opened tins of stew in the hot frying pan as they had done during the siege. Not because they didn't have plates, but so that everyone knew they had equal portions. Then he went into the hall. The small, black answering machine was flashing red and showed a number 2. He pressed PLAY. The tape started.
'Rakel,' a woman's voice said. It sounded a bit older than the one that had just spoken. After a couple of sentences she handed over to a boy who excitedly chatted away. Then the last message came again. And he knew for certain he had not been imagining that he had heard the voice before. It was the girl on the white bus.
When the messages were finished, he stood looking at the two colour photographs stuck to the wall under the mirror. In one, Hole, a darkhaired woman and a boy were sitting on a pair of skis in the snow squinting at the camera. The other was faded and old, and showed a small girl and boy, both in bathing costumes. She seemed to have Down's syndrome – he was Harry Hole.
He sat in the kitchen eating at his leisure and listening to the sounds in the stairwell. The glass pane was patched up with the transparent tape he found in the drawer of the telephone table. After eating he went to the bedroom. It was cold. He sat on the bed and ran a hand over the soft bedclothes. Smelt the pillow. Opened the wardrobe. He found a pair of grey boxer shorts and a folded white T-shirt with a drawing of a kind of eight-armed Shiva with the word FRELST, redeemed, underneath and JOKKE amp; VALENTINERNE above. The clothes smelt of soap. He undressed and put them on. Lay down on the bed. Closed his eyes. Thought of the photograph of Hole. Of Giorgi. Put the gun under the pillow. Even though he was absolutely exhausted he could feel an erection on the way. His dick pressed against the tight-fitting but soft cotton. And he went to sleep in the secure knowledge that he would wake up if anyone opened the front door.
'Expect the unexpected.'
That was the motto of Sivert Falkeid, the leader of Delta, the police Special Forces Unit. Falkeid stood on a ridge behind the container, a walkie-talkie in his hand and the swish of taxis and juggernauts heading home for Christmas on the motorway in his ears. Beside him stood Chief Inspector Gunnar Hagen with the collar of his green
