Halvorsen's chair. 'I've checked the Gilstrups' accounts and there is no link anywhere with Robert Karlsen or with Swiss bank accounts. The only unusual transaction was a cash withdrawal of five million kroner, in dollars, from one of the company accounts. I rang Albert Gilstrup and asked, and he said without any hesitation that they were the Christmas bonuses for the harbour masters in Buenos Aires, Manila and Bombay whom Mads visits in December. Quite a business those boys are in.'
'And Robert's account?'
'Incoming wages and minor outgoings throughout.'
'What about calls from the Gilstrups?'
'None to Robert Karlsen. But we came across something else while going through the itemised telephone bills. Guess who rang Jon Karlsen heaps of times and on occasion in the middle of the night?'
'Ragnhild Gilstrup,' Harry said, looking into Skarre's disappointed face. 'Anything else?'
'No,' Skarre said. 'Apart from a familiar number making an appearance. Mads Gilstrup rang Halvorsen the day he was attacked. Unanswered call.'
'I see,' Harry said. 'I want you to check one more account.'
'Whose?'
'David Eckhoff 's.'
'The commander? What shall I look for?'
'Don't quite know. Just do it.'
After Skarre had gone, Harry phoned Forensics. The female pathologist promised without any delay or fuss to fax a photograph of Christo Stankic's body for identification to a number at Hotel International in Zagreb.
Harry thanked her, put down the telephone and dialled the number of the same hotel.
'There's also the question of what to do with the body,' he said when he had been put through to Fred. 'The Croatian authorities don't know anything about a Christo Stankic and therefore have not requested his extradition.'
Ten seconds later he heard her schooled English.
'I would like to suggest another deal,' Harry said.
Klaus Torkildsen in Telenor Operations Centre for the Oslo region had one aim in life: to be left in peace. And since he was very overweight, always perspiring and for the most part grumpy, by and large his wish was fulfilled. With regard to the contact he was forced to have with others, he made sure there was maximum distance. That was why he sat alone a lot, enclosed in a room in the operations section with several hot machines and cooling fans where few, if any, knew exactly what he got up to; all they knew was that he was indispensable. The need for distance may also have been the motivation for him practising indecent exposure and thus on the odd occasion achieving satisfaction with a partner who was five to fifty metres away. However, Klaus Torkildsen's utmost desire was peace. And he had had enough hassle for this week. First it was that Halvorsen who wanted a line to a hotel in Zagreb monitored. Then Skarre needed a list of the conversations between a Gilstrup and a Karlsen. Both had referred to Harry Hole whom Klaus Torkildsen still owed a certain debt of gratitude. And that was the only reason he did not put down the telephone when Harry Hole himself called.
'There's something called the Police Answering Service,' Torkildsen said in a sulky tone. 'If you go by the book you should ring them if you need help.'
'I know,' Harry said. He didn't need to say any more. 'I've rung Martine Eckhoff four times without getting an answer,' Hole said. 'No one in the Salvation Army knows where she is, not even her father.'
'They're the last to know,' said Klaus, who knew nothing about that kind of thing, but it was the sort of knowledge you could acquire if you were a regular cinema-goer. Or, in Klaus Torkildsen's case, an extremely regular cinema-goer.
'She may have switched off her mobile, but I was wondering whether you could try to locate it for me. So that I know whether she's in town or not, at any rate.'
Torkildsen sighed. A pose, pure and simple, because he adored these little police jobs. Especially when they were of the shady variety.
'May I have her number?'
Fifteen minutes later Klaus rang back to say that her SIM card was definitely not in Oslo. Two base stations, both to the west of the E6 had received signals. He explained where the base stations were, and what range they had. As Hole thanked him and rang off at once, Klaus presumed he had been of some help and returned with relish to the day's cinema screening information.
Jon let himself into Robert's flat.
The walls still smelt of smoke, and there was a dirty T-shirt lying on the floor in front of the cupboard. As though Robert had been in and then popped out to the shop to buy coffee and cigarettes.
Jon put the black bag Mads had given him next to the bed and turned up the radiator. Threw off all his clothes, went into the shower and let the hot water beat down on his skin until it was red and nubbly. He dried himself, left the bathroom, sat down naked on the bed and stared at the bag.
He hardly dared open it. For he knew what was inside, behind the thick, smooth material. Perdition. Death. Jon thought he could smell the stench of decay already. He closed his eyes. He needed to think.
His mobile rang.
Thea must be wondering where he was. He didn't feel like talking to her now. But it kept ringing, insistent and inescapable, like Chinese water torture, and in the end he snatched the phone and said in a voice he could hear was shaking with anger: 'What is it?'
But there was no answer. He read the display but didn't recognise the number. Jon realised it was not Thea calling.
'Hello, this is Jon Karlsen,' he said, guarded.
Still nothing.
'Hello, who is it? Hello, I can hear someone is there. Who… ?'
Panic tiptoed up his spine.
'Hello?' he heard himself say in English. 'Who is this? Is that you? I need to speak to you. Hello!'
There was a click and the connection was cut.
Ridiculous, thought Jon. Probably a wrong number. He swallowed. Stankic was dead. Robert was dead. And Ragnhild was dead. They were all dead. Just the policeman was still alive. And him. He stared at the bag, felt the cold come creeping in and pulled the duvet over him.
After turning off the E6 and driving some way down the narrow roads in the snow-covered rural landscape, Harry looked up and saw the stars were out.
He had a strange trembling feeling that something was going to happen soon. And when he saw a shooting star tear a parabola through the base of the sky ahead of him he thought if omens existed, a planet perishing before his very eyes had to mean something.
He saw light in the windows on the ground floor of Ostgard.
Turning into the drive, he saw the electric car and the feeling that something was looming was reinforced.
He walked towards the house, observing the footprints in the snow. Stood by the door with his ear to it. There was the sound of low voices.
He knocked. Three quick taps. The voices died away.
Then he heard steps and her soft voice. 'Who is it?'
'It's Harry,' he said. 'Hole.' He added the latter so as not to awaken a third party's suspicion that he and Martine Eckhoff had too personal a relationship.
There was some fumbling with the lock, then the door opened.
His first and only thought was that she was pretty. She was wearing a soft, thick, white cotton blouse open at the neck and her eyes were radiant.
'I'm glad,' she laughed.
'I can see,' Harry smiled. 'And I'm glad, too.'
Then her arms were around his neck and he could feel her accelerated pulse.
'How did you find me?' she whispered in his ear.
'Modern technology.'
The heat from her body, the gleam in her eyes, the whole ecstatic welcome gave Harry an unreal sense of
