listen; she always had time to listen.
‘The police are at a complete loss,’ the crime writer said in the studio, and straightened her glasses. ‘It’s rare to see them in quite such disarray. From what I’ve gleaned, they’re dealing with a problem that would be more fitting in a good old-fashioned thriller than in the real world.’
The presenter leant forward. The picture cut to a camera that showed them both. They huddled together as if they were sharing a secret.
‘I see,’ said the man, in a grave tone.
‘The President is of course the subject of an extensive security operation, as many of the reports over the last twenty-four hours have shown. Among other things, the CCTV cameras in the corridors around…’
‘Don’t let it bother you,’ Hanne said quietly. ‘We can turn it off.’
Johanne had grabbed a cushion and was clutching it hard, without realising.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to listen.’
‘Are you sure?’
Johanne nodded and stared at the screen. Hanne looked at her for a few seconds, before giving the slightest of shrugs and returning to her book.
‘… in other words, a kind of “closed room” mystery,’ Wencke Bencke said and smiled. ‘No one goes into the room and no one comes out…’
‘How does she know that?’ Johanne asked. ‘How in the world does she always know what the police are doing? They can’t stand her down there and -’
‘The police HQ leaks more than a colander from IKEA,’ Hanne retorted. She finally seemed to be interested in the conversation on the TV. ‘It’s always been like that.’
Johanne caught herself studying her. Hanne had closed the book, which was about to fall off her lap without her noticing. The wheelchair rolled forwards a bit, and she picked up the remote control to turn up the volume. Her body was leaning forwards as if she was afraid of missing the slightest nuance of the crime writer’s story. She slowly took off her glasses, without her eyes leaving the screen for a second.
That’s how she must have been, once upon a time, Johanne thought in surprise. So alert and intense. Such a contrast to the indifferent character who had willingly imprisoned herself in this lavish flat in Oslo’s West End, and now spent her time reading novels. Hanne seemed younger now, almost youthful. Her eyes were shining, and she moistened her lips before carefully tucking her hair behind her ear. A diamond caught the light in a flash. When Johanne opened her mouth to say something, Hanne lifted a cautionary finger, with barely a movement.
‘And now we’ll go over to the government offices,’ the presenter said at last, and nodded his thanks to the writer, ‘where the Prime Minister is about to meet…’
‘You have to ring,’ Hanne Wilhelmsen said, and turned off the TV.
‘Ring? Who do I have to ring?’
‘You have to call the police. I think they’ve made a mistake.’
‘But… call them yourself then! I don’t know what… I don’t know any…’
‘Listen!’ Hanne turned the wheelchair to face her. ‘Call Adam.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’ve had an argument. I realised that much when you came here to hide. It must be serious, or you wouldn’t have upped and run with the baby. But I don’t give a damn. I’m not interested.’
Johanne realised that her mouth was open, and she closed it with an audible snap.
‘At any rate, this is more important,’ Hanne continued. ‘If what Wencke Bencke says is right, and there is every reason to assume that it is, they’ve made such a major mistake that…’
She hesitated, as if she didn’t dare to believe her own theory.
‘You’re the one who knows Oslo Police,’ Johanne said feebly.
‘No, I don’t know anyone any more. You have to phone. If you call Adam, he’ll know what to do.’
‘Tell me then,’ Johanne said, with some doubt in her voice. She put down the cushion. ‘What is it that’s so important? What have the police done?’
‘It’s more what they haven’t done,’ Hanne replied. ‘And as a rule, that’s worse.’
XI
Adam Stubo stood by the lifts on the third floor of the police headquarters, feeling anxious. He still hadn’t had the opportunity to phone home. The sense of apprehension that he had done something wrong by sneaking out of the sleeping house first thing that morning, without speaking to Johanne, got stronger with every hour that passed.
Warren Scifford must have eaten an enormous breakfast, as he had declined the offer of lunch twice. Adam was starving and had started to be irritated by the American’s apparently random visits to various offices at Gronlandsleiret 44. The man was communicating less and less with his Norwegian liaison. Sometimes he excused himself to make a phone call, but then moved too far away for Adam to catch any of the conversation. As he never knew how long Warren would be on the phone, he couldn’t take the opportunity to try to get hold of Johanne.
‘Have to go,’ Warren said and closed his mobile phone as he rushed over to Adam.
‘Where to now?’
Adam had been waiting for him for nearly quarter of an hour. But he still tried to be friendly.
‘I don’t need you. Not right now. I have to go back to the hotel. What’s your phone number?’
Adam took out a business card.
‘My mobile,’ he said, pointing. ‘Ring that number when you need me. Should I take you there? Call a car?’
‘The embassy has already sent one,’ Warren said lightly. ‘Thanks for all your help. So far.’
Then he ran towards the stairs and disappeared.
‘Adam? Adam Stubo?
A petite, slim woman walked over to him. Adam immediately noticed her shoes. The heels were so high that it was difficult to understand how she stayed on her feet. Her face lit up when she saw that it was really him. She stood up on her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
‘What a lovely surprise.’ Adam’s smile was genuine this time. ‘It’s been a long time, Silje. How are you?’
‘Pah…’ She inflated her cheeks and then let the air out slowly.
‘It’s very busy here, you know. Everyone’s working on the President’s case. I’ve been here for over twenty-four hours now, and I’ll be lucky if I get away within the next six or so. And you?’
‘Yeah, fine. I…’
Silje Sorensen looked up at him suddenly, as if she had just seen a new side of the handsome man who looked like he had been forced into a slightly too tight jacket. Adam stopped himself, at a loss, and pulled his nose.
‘Adam, you worked on the Munch thefts, didn’t you?’ she asked quickly. ‘And the Norwegian Cash Service robbery?’
‘Yes and no,’ Adam replied and looked around. ‘I worked on the Munch case, but not directly with the NOKAS robbery. But I-’
‘You know a lot about the armed robbery league. More than most, at least.’
‘Yes, I’ve worked with-’
‘Come with me!’
Police Sergeant Silje Sorensen took him by the arm and started to walk. He followed without really wanting to. The feeling of being treated like a stray dog mushroomed. He had himself worked in the police HQ when he was younger, but had never felt at home there, and he had no idea where Silje was taking him.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, out of breath, as she hurried down the corridor, her heels clacking on the floor.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure myself.’
‘No one’s sure of anything these days.’ She smiled.
They finally stopped outside a blue door with no name on it. Silje Sorensen knocked, then opened the door without waiting for an answer. Adam followed her in. A middle-aged man was sitting in front of three monitors and something that looked like a sound studio mixing desk. He swung round and muttered hello before turning back and
