you?'
'No,' said Harry.
'No?'
'Not for me. For them. For Sofia and her parents. And for others he may have raped and will rape.'
'Those are strong words.' Mathias smiled, but the smile faded with the silence. He coughed. 'You understand, I'm sure, that I have to mull this over first, Harry.'
'Was she raped last night or not?'
Mathias sighed. 'Harry, patient confidentiality is-'
'I know what confidentiality is,' Harry interrupted. 'I'm subject to it as well. When I ask you to make an exception in this case it's not because I take patient confidentiality lightly, but because I have made an assessment of the brutal nature of this crime and the potential danger of its recurrence. If you would trust me and rely on my assessment I would be grateful. If you don't you will have to try and live with it as best you can.'
Harry wondered how many times he had given this spiel in similar situations.
Mathias blinked and his face fell.
'It's good enough if you nod or shake your head,' Harry said.
Mathias Lund-Helgesen nodded.
It had done the trick again.
'Thank you,' Harry said, getting up. 'Things going well with Rakel and you and Oleg?'
Lund-Helgesen nodded again with a wan smile. Harry leaned forward and placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. 'Happy Christmas, Mathias.'
The last thing Harry saw as he went out of the door was Mathias Lund-Helgesen sitting in the chair with slumped shoulders, looking as though someone had given him a slap.
The last daylight leaked out between orange clouds over the spruce trees and housetops to the west of Norway's largest cemetery. Harry walked past the stone monument for Yugoslavia's war dead, the Norwegian Labour Party's plot, the gravestones for Prime Ministers Einar Gerhardsen and Trygve Bratteli to the Salvation Army's own plot. As expected, he found Sofia by the freshest grave. She was sitting erect in the snow wrapped up in a large Puffa jacket.
'Hi,' said Harry, settling down beside her.
He lit a cigarette and exhaled into the icy breeze, which carried the blue smoke away.
'Your mother said you'd just left,' Harry said. 'And you took the flowers your father had bought you. It wasn't hard to guess.'
Sofia didn't answer.
'Robert was a good friend, wasn't he? Someone you could rely on. And talk to. Not a rapist.'
'Robert was the one who did it,' she whispered lethargically.
'Your flowers are on Robert's grave, Sofia. I believe someone else raped you. And he did it again last night. And he may have done it several times.'
'Leave me in peace!' she screamed and struggled to her feet in the snow. 'Don't you lot listen?'
Harry held his cigarette in one hand, grabbed her arm with the other and pulled her down hard into the snow.
'This one's dead, Sofia. You're alive. Do you hear me? You're alive. And if you intend to continue living we'd better catch him now. If not, he'll carry on. You weren't the first and you won't be the last. Look at me. Look at me, I'm telling you!'
His sudden shout startled Sofia and she obeyed.
'I know you're scared, Sofia. But I promise you I'll get him. Whatever happens. I swear.'
Harry saw something stir in her eyes. And if he was right, it was hope. He waited. And then she breathed something inaudible.
'What did you say?' Harry asked, leaning forwards.
'Who will believe me?' she whispered. 'Who will believe me now.. . that Robert is dead?'
Harry placed a careful hand on her shoulders. 'Try. Then we'll see.'
The orange clouds had begun to turn red.
'He threatened to destroy everything for us if I didn't do as he ordered,' she said. 'He would make sure we were thrown out of the flat and would have to go back. But we have nothing to go back to. And if I had told them, who would have believed me? Who…?'
She paused.
'Except for Robert,' Harry said. Waiting.
Harry found the address on Mads Gilstrup's business card. He wanted to pay him a call. And, first of all, ask him why he had rung Halvorsen. From the address he saw he would have to drive past Rakel and Oleg who also lived on the Holmenkollen ridge.
As he passed he didn't slow down, but he did glance up the drive. The last time he drove past he had seen a Jeep Cherokee outside the garage and had assumed it was the doctor's. Now there was only Rakel's car. The window in Oleg's room was lit.
Harry drove up through the hairpin bends between the most expensive houses in Oslo until the road straightened and climbed further to a brow and past the capital's white obelisk, Holmenkollen ski jump. Beneath him lay the town and the fjord with a thin layer of icy mist floating between snow-covered islands. The short day that really consisted of just a sunrise and a sunset blinked, and down there lights were already being switched on, like Advent candles in the countdown to Christmas.
He had almost all the pieces of the jigsaw now.
After ringing Gilstrup's door bell four times without any success Harry gave up. On his way back to the car a man jogged over from a neighbouring house and asked Harry if he was a friend of Gilstrup's. Well, he didn't want to intrude into their private lives, but they had heard a loud bang inside the house this morning and Mads Gilstrup had lost his wife, hadn't he? Perhaps they ought to ring the police? Harry went back to the house, smashed the window beside the front door and an alarm went off.
While the alarm howled its two hoarse tones again and again Harry made his way to the lounge. For the benefit of the report he checked his watch and subtracted the two minutes Moller had wound it forward.
15.37.
Mads Gilstrup was naked and the back of his head was missing.
He lay on his side on the parquet floor in front of a lit screen and the rifle with the burgundy stock seemed to be growing out of his mouth. It had a long barrel and from what Harry could see Mads Gilstrup must have used his big toe to press the trigger. That not only required certain motor coordination skills but also a strong will to die.
Then the alarm stopped and Harry could hear the buzz of the projector which showed a quivering still of a bride and bridegroom in close-up on their way down the aisle. The faces, the white smile and the white dress were spattered with blood which had dried on the canvas in a grille pattern.
Stuffed under an empty bottle of cognac lay the suicide note. It was brief.
Forgive me, Father. Mads.
31
Monday, 22 December. The Resurrection.
He regarded himself in the mirror. When one day, maybe next year, they walked out of the little house in Vukovar in the morning, might this face be one the neighbours would greet with a smile and a zdravo? The way you greet familiar, safe faces. And good faces.
'Perfect,' said the woman behind him.
He assumed she meant the dinner suit he was parading in the mirror of the combined suit hire and dry cleaner's.
'How much?' he asked.
He paid her and promised the suit would be returned before twelve o'clock the next day.
