Bjarne Mшller stood staring into his shopping basket. He remembered the reason now. He liked the alcoholic, obstreperous, stubborn bastard.

7

White King

Harry nodded to one of the regulars and sat down at a table under the narrow, wavy window panes looking out onto Waldemar Thranes gate. On the wall behind him hung a large painting of a sunny day in Youngstorget with women holding parasols and being cheerily greeted by men promenading in top hats. The contrast with the forever autumnally gloomy light and the almost devout afternoon quiet in Restaurant Schrшder could not have been greater.

'Nice that you could come,' Harry said to the corpulent man already sitting at the table. It was easy to see he was not one of the regulars. Not by the elegant tweed jacket, nor by the bow tie with red dots, but because he was stirring a white mug of tea on a cloth smelling of beer and perforated with blackened cigarette burns. The unlikely customer was Stеle Aune, a psychologist, one of the country's finest in his field and an expert to whom the police had had frequent recourse. Sometimes with pleasure and sometimes regret, as Aune was a thoroughly upright man who preserved his integrity and in a court of law never pronounced on matters which he could not support to the hilt with scientific evidence. However, since there is little evidence for anything in psychology, it often happened that the prosecution witness became the defence's best friend, the doubts he sowed generally working in favour of the accused. Harry, in his capacity as a police officer, had used Aune's expertise in murder cases for so long that he regarded him as a colleague. In his capacity as an alcoholic, Harry had put himself so totally in the hands of this warm-hearted, clever and becomingly arrogant man that-if cornered-he would have called him a friend.

'So this is your refuge?' Aune said.

'Yes,' Harry said, raising an eyebrow to Maja at the counter, who responded at once by scuttling through the swing doors into the kitchen.

'And what have you got there?'

'Japone. Chilli.'

A bead of sweat rolled down Harry's nose, clung for a second to the tip, then fell onto the tablecloth. Aune studied the wet stain with amazement.

'Sluggish thermostat,' Harry said. 'I've been in the gym.'

Aune screwed up his nose. 'As a man of science, I ought to applaud you, I suppose, but as a philosopher I would question putting your body through that kind of unpleasantness.'

A steel coffee jug and a mug landed in front of Harry. 'Thanks, Maja.'

'Pangs of guilt,' Aune said. 'Some people can only deal with it by punishing themselves. Like when you go to pieces, Harry. In your case alcohol isn't a refuge but the ultimate way to punish yourself.'

'Thank you. I've heard you put forward that diagnosis before.'

'Is that why you train so hard? Bad conscience?'

Harry shrugged.

Aune lowered his voice: 'Is Ellen playing on your mind?'

Harry's eyes shot up to meet Aune's. He put the mug of coffee to his lips slowly and took a long drink before putting it down again with a grimace. 'No, it's not the Ellen Gjelten case. We're getting nowhere, but it's not because we've done a bad job. That I do know. Something will turn up. We just have to bide our time.'

'Good,' Aune said. 'It's not your fault Ellen was killed. Keep that uppermost in your mind. And don't forget: all your colleagues consider that the right man was arrested.'

'Maybe, maybe not. He's dead and can't answer.'

'Don't let it become an idйe fixe, Harry.' Aune poked two fingers into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat, pulled out a silver pocket watch and cast a rapid glance at it. 'But I scarcely imagine you wanted to speak about guilt?'

'No, I didn't.' Harry took a wad of photographs from his inside pocket. 'I'd like to know what you think about these.'

Aune held out his hand and began to leaf through the pile. 'Looks like a bank raid. My understanding is this is not a Crime Squad matter.'

'You'll understand when you see the next picture.'

'Indeed? He's holding up one finger to the camera.'

'Sorry, the next one.'

'Ooh. Does she…?'

'Yes, you can hardly see the flame as it's an AG3, but he has just fired. Look there, the bullet has just entered the woman's forehead. In the next picture it exits the back of her head and bores into the woodwork beside the glass partition.'

Aune put down the photos. 'Why do you always have to show me grisly pictures, Harry?'

'So that you know what we're talking about. Look at the next one.'

Aune sighed.

'The robber's got his money there,' Harry said, pointing. 'All he has to do now is escape. He's a pro, calm, precise, and there's no reason to intimidate anyone or force anyone to do anything. Yet he opts to delay his escape for a few seconds to shoot the bank cashier. Simply because the branch manager was six seconds too slow emptying the ATM.'

Aune formed slow figures of eight in his tea with the spoon. 'And now you're wondering what his motive is?'

'Well, there's always a motive, but it's difficult to know which side of rationality to look. First reactions?'

'Serious personality disorder.'

'But everything else he does seems so rational.'

'A personality disorder doesn't mean he is stupid. Sufferers are just as good, frequently better, at achieving their aims. What distinguishes them from us is that they want different things.'

'What about drugs? Is there a drug which can make an otherwise normal person so aggressive that he wants to kill?'

Aune shook his head. 'Drugs will only emphasise or weaken latent tendencies. A drunk who kills his wife also has a propensity to beat her when sober. Wilful murders like this one are almost always committed by people with a particular predisposition.'

'So what you're saying is that this guy is barking?'

'Or pre-programmed.'

'Pre-programmed?'

Aune nodded in assent. 'Do you remember the robber who was never caught, Raskol Baxhet?'

Harry shook his head.

'Gypsy,' Aune said. 'There were rumours going round about this mysterious figure for a number of years. He was supposed to be the real brains behind all the major robberies of security vans and financial institutions in Oslo in the eighties. It took a number of years for the police to accept that he actually existed and even then they never managed to produce any evidence against him.'

'Now I have a vague recollection,' Harry said. 'But I thought he'd been arrested.'

'False. The closest they got was two robbers who pledged they would give evidence against Raskol, but they disappeared under curious circumstances.'

'Not unusual,' Harry said, taking out a packet of Camel cigarettes.

'It's unusual when they're in prison.'

Harry gave a low whistle. 'I still think that's where he ended up.'

'That is true,' Aune said. 'But he wasn't arrested. Raskol gave himself up. One day he appears at the Police HQ reception desk, saying he wants to confess to a string of old bank robberies. Naturally, this creates a tremendous commotion. No one understands a thing, and Raskol refuses to explain why he is giving himself up. Before the case comes to court, they ring me up to check he is of sound mind and that his confessions will stand up. Raskol agrees to talk to me on two conditions. One, that we play a game of chess-don't ask me how he knew I was an active player. And, two, that I take a French translation of The Art of War with me, an ancient Chinese book about military strategy.'

Aune opened a box of Nobel Petit cigarillos.

'I had the book sent from Paris and took a chess set along. I was let into his cell and greeted a man with all the outward appearance of a monk. He asked if he could borrow my pen, flicked through the book and with a jerk of his head indicated that I could set out the board. I put the pieces in position and led with Rйti's opening-you don't attack your opponent until you control the centre, frequently effective against medium-calibre players. Now it's impossible to see from a single move that this is what I'm thinking, but this gypsy peers over the book at the board, strokes his goatee, looks at me with a knowing smile, makes a note in the book…'