‘And my motivation is that if I don’t sign I will be charged with drug smuggling and possession?’
Bellman pressed his fingertips together and rocked back in the chair.
‘Correct. But more important for your motivation is perhaps the fact that I can see to it that you’re held on remand with immediate effect. Shame since I know you would have liked to be at the hospital with your father who, I understand, has little time left. Very sad business.’
Harry leaned back against the sofa. He knew he ought to have been angry. The old – the younger – Harry would have been. But what this Harry wanted most was to bury himself in the sweat- and vomit-stained sofa, close his eyes and hope they would go, sling their hooks, Bellman, Kaja, the shadows by the window. But his brain continued its automatic acquired reasoning.
‘Quite apart from me,’ he heard himself say, ‘why would Leike bear out this version? He knows it was Kripos who arrested him, who questioned him.’
Harry knew the answer before Bellman spelt it out.
‘Because Leike knows that there will always be an unpleasant shadow hanging over someone who has been arrested. Especially unpleasant for someone such as Leike, who at this moment is trying to win the trust of investors, of course. The best way to rid himself of this shadow is to endorse a version that maintains the arrest was down to a loose cannon, an isolated unprofessional element in the police force who ran amok. Agreed?’
Harry nodded.
‘Anyway, as far as the force is concerned…’
‘I am protecting the name of the entire force by assuming all the guilt,’ Harry said.
Bellman smiled. ‘I’ve always held you to be a relatively intelligent man, Hole. Does that mean that we have reached an understanding?’
Harry considered. If Bellman went now he could see whether there really were a few drops of whiskey left in the bottle. He nodded.
‘Here’s the press statement. I want your name there.’ Bellman pushed pen and paper across the coffee table. It was too dark to read. That didn’t matter. Harry signed.
‘Good,’ said Bellman, taking the piece of paper and getting up. The light from a street lamp outside fell onto his face, causing the warpaint to shine. ‘This is best for all of us. Think about it, Harry. And get some rest.’
The victor’s merciful attentions, Harry thought, closing his eyes and feeling Morpheus welcome him into his arms. Then he opened his eyes again, struggled to his feet and followed Bellman down the steps. Kaja was still standing with arms crossed beside her car.
Harry saw Bellman send a nod of acknowledgement to Kaja, who responded with a shrug of the shoulders. Watched him cross the street, get into a car, the same one he had seen in Lyder Sagens gate that evening, watched him start the engine and drive off. Kaja had come to the foot of the steps. Her voice was still thick with tears.
‘Why did you hit Bjorn Holm?’
Harry turned to go in, but she was faster, taking two steps at a time. She came between him and the door and blocked the way. Her breathing was accelerated and hot against his face.
‘You hit him when you knew he was innocent. Why?’
‘Go now, Kaja.’
‘I’m not going!’
Harry looked at her. Knowing it was something he could not explain. How much it had hurt and surprised him when he realised the ramifications. Hurt him enough to make him lash out, punch the astonished, innocent moon- shaped face, the very reflection of his own gullible naivety.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked and heard the metallic tone, the fury creeping into his voice. ‘I really believed in you, Kaja. So I should congratulate you. Congratulate you on a job well done. Can you go away now?’
He saw the tears well up in her eyes again. Then she stepped aside, and he staggered in and slammed the door behind him. Remained in the hall in the soundless vacuum after the bang, in the good silence, the void, the wonderful nothingness.
47
Fear of the Dark
Olav Hole blinked into the darkness.
‘Is that you, Harry?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
‘It’s night, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s night.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m alive.’
‘Let me put on the light.’
‘No need. I’m going to tell you something.’
‘I recognise the tone. I’m not sure I want to hear.’
‘You’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow anyway.’
‘And you have a different version you want to tell me?’
‘No, I just want to be first.’
‘Have you been drinking, Harry?’
‘Do you want to hear?’
‘Your grandfather drank. I loved him. Drunk or sober. There are not many people who can say that about a drunken father. No, I don’t want to hear.’
‘Mm.’
‘And I can say that to you, too. I have loved you. Always. Drunk or sober. You weren’t even difficult. Although you were always argumentative. You were at war with most people, not least with yourself. But loving you, Harry, is the easiest thing I have done.’
‘Dad…’
‘There’s no time to talk about trivia, Harry. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, Harry, I feel as if I have, but sometimes we think things so often that we simply believe they have been said aloud. I’ve always been proud of you, Harry. Have I told you that often enough?’
‘I…’
‘Yes?’ Olav Hole listened in the dark. ‘Are you crying, son? That’s fine. Do you know what made me proudest? I’ve never told you this, but when you were in your teens one of your teachers rang us. He said you’d been fighting in the playground again. With two of the boys from the class above, but this time it hadn’t turned out so well – they’d had to send you to hospital to have your lip sewn and a tooth taken out. I stopped your pocket money, remember? Anyway, Oystein told me about the fight later. You flew at them because they’d filled Tresko’s rucksack with water from the school fountain. If I remember correctly you didn’t even like Tresko much. Oystein said the reason you’d been hurt so badly was because you didn’t give in. You got up time after time and in the end you were bleeding so much that the big boys became alarmed and went on their way.’
Olav Hole laughed quietly. ‘I didn’t think I could tell you at the time, it would only have been asking for more fights, but I was so proud I could have wept. You were brave, Harry. You were scared of the dark, but that didn’t stop you going there. And I was the world’s proudest dad. Did I ever say that, Harry? Harry? Are you there?’
Free. The champagne bottle smashed against the wall, and the bubbles ran down the wallpaper like boiling cerebral matter, over the pictures, the newspaper cuttings, the printout off the Net showing Harry Hole accepting the blame. Free. Free of blame, free to send the world into hell again. I tread on the broken glass, tread it into the floor, hear it crunch. And I’m barefoot. I skid on my own blood. Laughing until I howl. Free. Free!
