Harry got up from the chair, found the slip of paper with her telephone number on beside the answerphone and tapped the number into his mobile. It rang four times before there was an answer at the other end.

'Hi, Harry.'

'Hi. How did you know it was me?'

A low, deep laugh. 'Where have you been these last years, Harry?'

'Here. And there. Why's that? Have I said something stupid again?'

She laughed even louder.

'Aha, you can see my number on the display. How stupid I am.'

Harry could hear how lame he sounded, but it didn't matter. The most important thing was to say what he had to and ring off. End of story. 'Listen, Anna, about that date of ours this evening…'

'Don't be childish, Harry!'

'Childish?'

'I'm in the process of making the curry of the millennium. And if you're frightened I'm going to seduce you, I have to disappoint you. I just think we owe each other a couple of hours over a dinner to chat. Remember old times. Clear up a few misunderstandings. Or perhaps not. Maybe have a laugh. Can you remember japone chilli?'

'Well, yes.'

'Great. Eight sharp then, OK?'

'Well…'

'Good.'

Harry stood staring at the phone.

8

Jalalabad

'I'm going to kill you soon,' Harry said, squeezing harder on the cold steel of the gun. 'I just want you to know first. Let you think about it. Mouth open!'

Harry was talking to wax dolls. Immobile, soulless, dehumanised. Harry was sweating inside the mask now and the blood was throbbing in his temples, each throb leaving a dull pain. He didn't want to see people around him, didn't want to meet their accusatory eyes.

'Put the money in a bag,' he said to the faceless person in front of him. 'And put the bag above your head.'

The faceless one began to laugh, and Harry turned the gun round to hit him over the head with the butt, but missed. Now the others in the bank started to laugh and Harry observed them through the unevenly cut holes in the mask. They suddenly seemed familiar. The girl by the second counter resembled Birgitta. And he would swear the coloured man by the ticket dispenser was Andrew. And the white-haired lady with the pram…

'Mother,' he whispered.

'Do you want the money or not?' the faceless one said. 'Twenty-five seconds to go.'

'I decide how long this takes!' Harry roared, jabbing the barrel into his open black mouth. 'It was you. I knew it was all the time. You're going to die in six seconds. Fear for your life!'

A tooth hung on a thread from the gum and blood ran from the faceless one's mouth, but he spoke as if he were unaware: I cannot defend the commitment of time and resources with personal considerations and emotions. Somewhere the frenetic tones of a telephone sounded.

'Fear for your life! Fear for your life as she did!'

'Don't let it become an idйe fixe, Harry.' Harry felt the mouth chewing the gun barrel.

'She was a colleague, you bastard! She was my best…' The mask stuck to Harry's mouth and made it difficult to breathe. But the voice of the faceless one went on regardless: 'Gave her the heave-ho.'

'…friend.' Harry squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He opened his eyes.

Harry's first thought was that he had just dropped off. He was sitting in the same green chair looking into the lifeless TV screen. The coat was new though. It lay over him, covering half his face; he could taste the wet material in his mouth. And daylight filled the room. Then he felt the sledgehammer. It hit a nerve behind his eyes, time and time again, with merciless precision. The result was both a dramatic and a familiar pain. He tried to rewind the tape. Did he end up at Schrшder's? Had he started drinking at Anna's? But it was all as he dreaded: a void. He remembered sitting in the sitting room after talking to Anna on the phone, but after that it was a blank. At that moment the contents of his stomach rose. Harry leaned over the edge of the chair and heard the vomit splashing on the parquet floor. He groaned, closed his eyes and tried to shut out the sound of the telephone ringing and ringing. When the answerphone cut in, he had fallen asleep.

***

It was as if someone had been snipping away at his time and had discarded the scraps. Harry woke up again, but delayed opening his eyes to find out if there was any improvement. None that he could detect. The only differences were that the sledgehammers were now spread over a wider area, he stank of vomit and he knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. He counted to three, got up, staggered the eight steps into the bathroom with his head down by his knees and emptied his stomach. He stood clutching the toilet bowl as he struggled to regain his breath. To his surprise, he saw that the yellow matter running down the white porcelain contained microscopic red and green particles. He managed to catch one of the red bits between his forefinger and thumb, took it over to the tap where he washed it and held it up to the light. Then he cautiously placed it between his teeth and chewed. He pulled a face as he tasted the burning juices of japone chilli. He washed his face and stood up straight. And caught sight of the huge black eye in the mirror. The light in the sitting room stung his eyes as he played back the message on the answerphone.

'This is Beate Lшnn. Hope I'm not disturbing, but Ivarsson said I should ring everyone immediately. There's been another bank robbery. Den norske Bank in Kirkeveien, between Frogner park and the Majorstuen crossroads.'

9

The Fog

The sun had disappeared behind a layer of steel-grey clouds which had crept in very low over Oslo fjord, and the southerly wind was gusting near to gale force, like an overture to the rain that had been forecast. Roof gutters whistled and awnings flapped all along Kirkeveien. The trees were completely stripped now; it was as though the last colours had been sucked out of the town and Oslo had been left in black and white. Harry bent into the wind and put his hands in his pockets to hold onto his coat. He noted that the bottom button had decamped, probably during the evening or night, and it wasn't the only thing to have gone missing. When he went to call Anna for some help reconstructing the night, he discovered he had lost his mobile phone, too. And on ringing her from a fixed line, he heard a voice which vaguely reminded him of an announcer from the past. It said the person he was trying to contact was unavailable at the moment, but he could leave his number or a message. He hadn't bothered.

Harry was soon on the mend and found it surprisingly easy to resist the urge to continue drinking, to take the all too short walk to Vinmonopolet or Schrшder's. Instead he took a shower, dressed and walked from Sofies gate past Bislett stadium, via Pilestredet, past Stenspark and across Majorstuen. He wondered what he had been drinking. In the absence of the obligatory abdominal pains autographed by Jim Beam, a fog lay over him coating all his senses, and even the fresh blasts of wind were unable to lift it.

Two police patrol cars with rotating blue lights stood outside the branch of Den norske Bank. Harry flashed his ID to one of the uniformed officers, ducked under the police tape and went to the entrance where Weber was talking to one of his men from Krimteknisk, the forensics department.

'Good afternoon, Inspector,' Weber said, emphasising the 'afternoon'. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Harry's shiner. 'Missus started beating you?'

Harry couldn't come up with any repartee, so he flipped a cigarette out of the packet instead: 'What have we got here then?'