with this Leike, don’t you?’
‘I have?’ she burst out, incredulous.
‘Keep it down, dear. You were the one who tipped me off about what Harry had dug up on Leike. Told me he was going to arrest him. I trusted you. I trusted you so much that I arrested Leike on the basis of your tip-off and subsequently as good as told the press the case was in the bag. And now this shit has exploded in our bloody faces. The guy has a watertight alibi for at least two of the murders. We’re going to have to let him go at some point today. Daddy-in-law Galtung is no doubt already considering the lawyers from hell to sue us, and the Minister of Justice will want to know how the fuck we could have committed such a blunder. And now the head on the block won’t be yours, Hole’s or Hagen’s, but mine, Solness. Do you understand? Mine alone. And we’re going to have to do something about that. You’re going to have to do something about it.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Not much, a trifle, and we’ll sort out the rest. I want you to take Harry out. Tonight.’
‘Out? Me?’
‘He likes you.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Didn’t I tell you I saw you two sitting and smoking on the veranda?’
Kaja went pale. ‘You arrived late, but you didn’t say anything about having seen us.’
‘You were so preoccupied with each other you didn’t hear the car, so I parked and watched. He likes you, my love. Now I want you to take him somewhere. For a couple of hours, no more.’
‘Why?’
Mikael Bellman smiled. ‘He’s spending too much time sitting at home. Or lying. Hagen should never have given him time off; people like Hole can’t deal with it. And we don’t want him to drink himself to death up in Oppsal, do we now. Take him to eat somewhere. Cinema. A beer. Just make sure he isn’t at home between eight and ten. And be careful. I don’t know if he’s sharp or just paranoid, but he examined my car very closely the night he left yours. Alright?’
Kaja didn’t answer. Mikael’s smile was the one she could dream about in the long periods when he wasn’t there, when job and family obligations prevented him from meeting her. So how come the same smile now made her feel as if her stomach was being turned inside out?
‘You… you weren’t thinking of…’
‘I’m thinking of doing whatever I have to,’ Mikael said, looking at his watch.
‘Which is?’
He shrugged. ‘What do you think? Swapping the head on the block, I reckon.’
‘Don’t ask me to do this, Mikael.’
‘But I’m not asking you, dear. I’m ordering you.’
Her voice was barely audible. ‘And if… if I were to refuse?’
‘Then I’ll not only crush Hole, I’ll crush you, too.’
The light from the ceiling fell on the tiny white patches on his face. So handsome, she thought. Someone should paint him.
The marionettes are dancing as they should now. Harry Hole found out I rang Elias Skog. I like him. I think perhaps we could have been friends if we had met when we were children or in our teens. We have a couple of things in common. Like intelligence. He is the only detective who seems to have the ability to see behind the veil. That also means, of course, I will have to be careful with him. I am looking forward to seeing how this develops. With childlike glee.
PART FIVE
46
Red Beetle
Harry opened his eyes and stared up at a large, square red beetle crawling towards him between the two empty bottles while purring like a cat. It stopped, then purred again, tapped its way a further five centimetres towards him along the glass coffee table leaving a tiny trail in the ash. He stretched out his hand, grabbed it and put it to his ear. Heard his own voice sound like a rock being crushed. ‘Stop ringing me, Oystein.’
‘Harry…’
‘Who the hell is this?’
‘It’s Kaja. What are you doing?’
He looked at the display to make sure the voice was telling the truth. ‘Resting.’ He felt his stomach preparing to evacuate its contents. Again.
‘Where?’
‘On the sofa. I’ll ring off now unless it’s important.’
‘Would that mean you’re at home in Oppsal?’
‘Well, let me see. The wallpaper’s right anyway. Kaja, I have to go.’
Harry threw the phone to the end of the sofa, lurched to his feet, stooped to find his centre of gravity and staggered forwards using his head as a navigation aid and battering ram. It led him into the kitchen without any collisions of consequence, and he placed his hands on both sides of the sink before the fountain of vomit gushed from his mouth.
Opening his eyes again, he saw that the plate rack was still in the sink. The thin, yellowish green vomit was running down a single upright plate. Harry turned on the tap. One of the advantages of being an alcoholic back off the wagon was that by day two your sick stops blocking the drain.
Harry drank a little water from the tap. Not much. Another advantage the experienced alcoholic possesses is a knowledge of what his stomach can tolerate.
He went back to the living room, legs akimbo, as if he had just filled his pants. Which, as a matter of fact, he had not yet checked. He lay down on the sofa and heard a low croak coming from the far end. A small voice from a miniature person was calling his name. He groped between his feet and put the red mobile to his ear again.
‘What’s up?’
He wondered what he should do with the gall that was burning his throat like lava, cough it up or swallow it. Or let it burn, as he deserved.
He listened as she explained she wanted to see him. Would he meet her at Ekeberg restaurant? Like now. Or in an hour’s time.
Harry looked at the two empty bottles of Jim Beam on the coffee table and then at his watch. Seven. The Vinmonopol was closed. Restaurant bar.
‘Now,’ he said.
He clicked off, and the phone rang again. He looked at the display and pressed answer. ‘Hi, Oystein.’
‘Now you’re answering! Shit, Harry, I was beginning to wonder if you’d done a Hendrix.’
‘Can you drive me to Ekeberg restaurant?’
‘What the hell d’you think I am? A sodding taxi driver?’
Eighteen minutes later Oystein’s car stood outside the steps to Olav Hole’s house and he called through the opened window with a grin. ‘Need any help locking the bloody door, you drunken sot?’
‘Dinner?’ Oystein exclaimed as they drove by Nordstrand. ‘To fuck her or because you have fucked?’
‘Calm down. We work together.’
‘Exactly. As my ex-wife used to say: “You want what you see every day.” She must have read it in a glossy mag. Only she didn’t mean me, but that bastard at the office.’
‘You haven’t been married, Oystein.’
‘Could have been. The guy wore a Norwegian sweater and a tie and spoke nynorsk. Not dialect, but fucking national-romantic Nynorsk, Ivar Aasen style, I kid you not. Can you imagine what it’s like to sleep alone thinking that right now your could-have-been-wife is busy shagging on a desk. You visualise a coloured sweater and a bare
