totally unpalatable to certain people. Only one of the authors was present, and he was given a hard time. Accusations of speculation and undocumented claims, of amateur journalism and worse, poured over the airwaves. The journalist, a handsome white-haired man in his forties, answered in such a measured voice that after only a few minutes Hanne was convinced by him. Having watched it for a quarter of an hour, she turned back to her work on the engine. The valves were always filthy after a long season.
Suddenly the programme caught her attention again. The presenter, who seemed to be biased in favour of the author, was directing a question at one of his critics. He wanted an assurance that nothing was undertaken by or purchased for the Intelligence Services without the money coming out of the official budget. The man, a grey character in a charcoal-grey suit, spread his arms expressively as he affirmed it.
“Where on earth would we get any other money from?” he asked rhetorically.
That terminated the discussion, and Hanne carried on working until Cecilie appeared in the doorway.
“Come on, I’m dying to go to bed,” she said with a smile.
WEDNESDAY 11 NOVEMBER
He was thoroughly peeved and fed up. His case, the Big Case, had run into the ground of late. He hadn’t been able to wheedle anything out of the police. The probable reason was that the police were stuck. So was he. His editor was displeased, and had ordered him back to normal duties. It bored him to have to go to the magistrate’s court and prise trivial details out of a taciturn police constable about stories that would hardly make a single column.
With his feet up on the desk he looked as sulky as an obstinate three-year-old. The coffee was bitter and only lukewarm. Even his cigarette tasted disgusting. And his notebook was empty.
He stood up so suddenly that he knocked the coffee cup over. Its dark contents quickly spread over newspapers, notes, and a paperback that was lying facedown to keep his place. Fredrick Myhreng stared at the mess for a few seconds before deciding to do absolutely nothing about it. He grabbed his coat and hurried off through the editorial offices before anyone had a chance to stop him.
The little shop was run by an old friend from his primary school. Myhreng called in now and then, to have an extra set of keys cut for his latest woman-they never returned them-or to have new heels put on his boots. What shoe repairs had to do with key-cutting was incomprehensible to him, but his school friend wasn’t the only one in the city running the same combination of business.
It was always “Hi” and “Great to see you” and “Take five.” Fredrick Myhreng had an uneasy feeling that the shopkeeper felt proud of knowing a journalist on a national paper, but went along with the ritual. The tiny premises were empty, and the owner was busy with a black and very worn winter boot.
“Another new woman, Fredrick! There’ll soon be a hundred sets of keys for that apartment of yours floating around town!”
He was grinning broadly.
“No, same woman as last time. I’ve come to ask for your help with something special.”
He produced a little metal box from his capacious pocket. Opening it, he carefully drew out the two Plasticine moulds. As far as he could see, the casts were undamaged. He held them out to his friend.
“So, you’ve started indulging in illegal activities?”
There was a hint of seriousness in his voice, and he went on:
“Is it a registered key? I don’t make copies of numbered keys. Not even for you, old chum.”
“No, it’s not numbered. You can see that from the cast.”
“The cast is no guarantee. For all I know, you might have smoothed off the impression of the number. But I’ll take your word for it.”
“Does that mean you can make a copy?”
“Yes, but it’ll take time. I haven’t got the equipment here. I use manufactured blanks, the same as most of the others do. Cut and grind them with this fancy little piece of computer-controlled machinery here.”
He gave an affectionate pat to a monster of a machine covered in buttons and switches.
“Come by in about a week’s time. Should be ready then.”
Fredrick Myhreng thanked him for being his saviour and was on his way out of the door when he turned and asked:
“Can you tell what sort of key it is?”
The key-cutter pondered for a moment.
“It’s small. Hardly for a big door. A cupboard, perhaps? Or maybe a locker. I’ll think about it!”
Myhreng sauntered back to the newspaper office, feeling rather more cheerful.
Perhaps the guy in the twilight zone would welcome some fresh air. Hanne Wilhelmsen was inclined to have another try, anyway. Reports from the prison seemed to indicate that the Dutchman had improved a bit. Though that wasn’t saying very much.
“Take the handcuffs off him,” she ordered, wondering silently whether young policemen were actually capable of thinking for themselves. The apathetic, skeletally thin figure before her wouldn’t be able to do much against two strong constables. It was doubtful whether he could actually run at all. His shirt hung loose on him, his protruding neck reminiscent of a Bosnian in Serb custody. His trousers must have fitted him once; now they were held up by a belt drawn tight into an extra hole that had been pierced in it, several centimetres beyond the other ones. The hole was off-centre, so the end of the belt projected upwards and then dangled down again under its own weight, like a failed erection. He wasn’t wearing any socks. He was pale, unkempt, and looked about ten years older than when she’d last seen him. She offered him a cigarette and a throat pastille. She had heard of his habit from Karen, and he gave her a weak smile.
“How are you?” she enquired in a friendly manner, without expecting a reply. Nor did she receive one.
“Is there anything I can get you? A Coke, something to eat?”
“A bar of chocolate.”
His voice was frail and cracked. Presumably he’d hardly spoken for several weeks. She ordered three bars of chocolate over the intercom. And two cups of coffee. She hadn’t put any paper in the typewriter. It wasn’t even plugged in.
“Is there anything at all you can tell me?”
“Chocolate,” he whispered.
They waited six minutes. Neither of them said a word. The chocolate and the coffee were served by one of the women from the office, slightly peeved at having to act as waitress. She was disarmed by Hanne’s expressions of gratitude.
To watch the Dutchman eating chocolate was a remarkable sight. First he opened the chocolate carefully along the glued join, trying not to damage the wrapper. Then he broke the bar meticulously into its manufactured segments, laid the wrapper on the desk, and moved them all an equal millimetre apart. He set about eating them in a pattern, like a children’s game, starting in one corner, then taking the one diagonally above it and working his way in a zigzag to the top. Resuming from there, he ate his way down in a similar formation till all the chocolate was gone. It took him five minutes. Finally he licked the wrapper clean, smoothed it out with his fingers, and folded it up to a precise design.
“I’ve already confessed,” he said eventually.
Hanne was startled; she had been totally absorbed by the eating ritual.
“No, strictly speaking you haven’t, not yet,” she said. Avoiding abrupt movements, she put into the typewriter the sheet of paper that she had already prepared with the requisite personal details in the top right-hand corner.
“You don’t need to make a statement,” she said calmly. “And you also have a right to have your lawyer here.”
She was going by the book. She thought she saw the glimmer of a smile cross his face when she mentioned his
