He nodded. She didn’t need to explain. That was how it had to be done.
She had cast an enquiring glance at the body of Lene Galtung. But Harry had shaken his head. He had weighed up the practical versus the moral considerations. The diplomatic consequences versus a mother having a grave to visit. The truth versus a lie that might have made life more liveable. Then he had got to his feet. Lifted Lene Galtung, almost collapsing under the weight of the slight, young woman. Stood on the edge of the abyss, closed his eyes, felt the longing, swayed for a second. And then let her go. Opened his eyes and watched her descent. She was already a dot. Then it was swallowed by the smoke.
‘People go missing in the Congo every single day,’ Kaja had said on the drive back from the volcano with Saul, and Harry had sat on the back seat holding her.
He knew it would be a short report. No traces. Vanished. They could be anywhere. And the answer to all the questions they would be asked would be this: people go missing in the Congo every single day. Even when she asked, the woman with the turquoise eyes. Because it would be simplest for them. No body, no internal inquiry, which was routine when officers had fired a shot. No embarrassing international incident. No dropping of the case, at least not at an official level, but the continued search for Leike would just be for appearances’ sake. Lene Galtung would be reported missing. She hadn’t had a plane ticket and the immigration authorities in the Congo hadn’t registered her entry into the country. It was for the best, Hagen would say. For all parties. At any rate, those parties which counted.
And the woman with the turquoise eyes would nod. Accept what she was told. But she might know anyway, if she listened to what he didn’t say. She could choose. Choose to hear him say her daughter was dead. That he had aimed between Lene’s eyes instead of what he assumed would be accurate, a bit further to the right. But he had wanted to be sure the bullet didn’t deviate so far to the right that he might shoot his colleague, the woman with whom he was working on this job. She could choose that or the lie that pushed sound waves up ahead, the ones that gave hope instead of a grave.
They changed planes in Kampala.
Sat in hard plastic chairs by the gate watching planes coming and going until Kaja fell asleep and her head slid down onto Harry’s shoulder.
She was woken by something happening. She didn’t know what, but something had changed. The room temperature. The rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat. Or the lines in his drained, pale face. She saw his hand putting the phone back in his jacket pocket.
‘Who was it?’ she asked.
‘Rikshospital,’ Harry said, his eyes going absent to her, slipping past her, disappearing out of the panoramic windows, to the horizon of the concrete runway and the dazzling, light blue sky.
‘He’s dead.’
PART TEN
91
Parting
It rained at Olav Hole’s funeral. the turnout was as Harry had expected: not as good as at Mum’s funeral, but not embarrassingly sparse.
Afterwards Harry and Sis stood outside the church receiving condolences from old relatives whose names they had never heard, old teaching colleagues they had never seen and old neighbours whose names they recognised, but not their faces. The only people whose turn to face the Grim Reaper was not imminent were Harry’s police colleagues: Gunnar Hagen, Beate Lonn, Kaja Solness and Bjorn Holm. Oystein Eikeland definitely looked as if he was on the point of checking out, but excused himself by saying he had been on a real bender the night before. And that Tresko, who couldn’t come, sent his regards and condolences. Harry scanned the church for the two he had seen on the bench at the very back, but they had obviously left before the coffin was borne out.
Harry invited everyone for meatballs and beer at Schroder’s. The small gathering had a lot to say about the weather, but little about Olav Hole. Harry finished up his apple juice, explained he had a prior arrangement, thanked everyone for coming and left.
He hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address in Holmenkollen.
There were still some snowflakes in the gardens at these heights.
As they drove up to the black timber house, Harry’s heart was beating hard. And, even harder, standing in front of the familiar door, after ringing and hearing the approach of footsteps. Familiar steps, too.
She looked as she always had. As she always would. The dark hair, the gentleness in her brown eyes, the slim neck. Sod her. She was so beautiful it hurt.
‘Harry,’ she said.
‘Rakel.’
‘Your face. I saw it in church. What happened?’
‘Nothing. They say it will heal fine,’ he lied.
‘Come in and I’ll make some coffee.’
Harry shook his head. ‘I have a taxi waiting down on the road. Is Oleg here?’
‘In his room. Do you want to see him?’
‘Another day. How long are you staying?’
‘Three days. Maybe four. Or five. We’ll see.’
‘Can I see you both soon? Would that be OK?’
She nodded. ‘I don’t know if I did the right thing.’
Harry smiled. ‘Well, who knows what that is?’
‘In church, I mean. We left before we… got in the way. You had other things to think about. Anyway, we went for Olav’s sake. You know that he and Oleg… well, they got on. Two reserved personalities. You can take nothing for granted.’
Harry nodded.
‘Oleg talks about you a lot, Harry. You mean more to him than you ever realised.’ She looked down. ‘More than I ever realised, too, perhaps.’
Harry cleared his throat. ‘So everything here is unchanged since… ?’
Rakel nodded quickly so he was spared from having to complete the impossible sentence. Since the Snowman had tried to kill them in this very house.
Harry gazed at her. He had only wanted to see her, hear her voice. Feel her eyes on him. He hadn’t wanted to ask her. He cleared his throat again. ‘There’s something I have to ask you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Can we go into the kitchen for a minute?’
They went in. He sat at the table opposite her. Explained slowly and at some length. She listened without interrupting.
‘He wants you to visit him at the hospital. He wants to ask you for forgiveness.’
‘Why should I agree?’
‘You have to answer that one for yourself, Rakel. But he hasn’t got much time left.’
‘I’ve read you can live for a long time with that disease.’
‘He hasn’t got much time left,’ Harry repeated. ‘Think about it. You don’t need to answer now.’
He waited. Saw her blink. Saw her eyes fill, heard the almost noiseless crying. She gasped for breath.
‘What would you do, Harry?’
‘I would say no. But then I’m a pretty bad human being.’
Her laughter mixed with the tears. And Harry wondered at how much it was possible to miss a sound, a certain oscillation of the air. How long you can yearn for a certain laugh.
‘I need to be off now,’ he said.
‘Why?’
