Cars formed an apparently impenetrable wall down towards the T-junction in front of Kafй Lorry in Hegdehaugsveien.

'We should have taken Uranienborgveien,' Harry said. 'Or Kirkeveien.'

'Shame you're not driving,' Beate said, forcing the front offside wheel up onto the pavement, leaning on the horn and accelerating. People jumped out of the way.

'Hello?' Harry said on the mobile phone. 'You've just collected a green skip from Bogstadveien by the Industrigata crossroads. Where is it going? Yes. I'll wait.'

'Let's take a chance on Alnabru,' Beate said and swung out into the crossroads in front of a tram. The wheels spun on the steel rails until they got a grip on the tarmac. Harry had a vague feeling of dйjа vu.

They had come to Pilestredet when the man from Oslo Waste Management came back to say that they couldn't contact the driver on his mobile, but the skip was probably on its way to Alnabru.

'Fine,' Harry said. 'Can you ring Metodica and ask them not to empty the contents of the skip into the incinerator until we…Your office is closed from 11.30 to 12.00? Careful! No, I was talking to the driver. No, my driver.'

In the Ibsen tunnel Harry called Police HQ and asked them to send a patrol car to Metodica, but the closest available car was at least fifteen minutes away.

'Fuck!' Harry threw the mobile phone over his shoulder and smacked the dashboard.

At the roundabout between Byporten and Plaza Beate sneaked into the space between a red bus and a Chevy van, straddling the white line. When she came down the raised intersection known as the traffic machine doing 110 km/h and performed a controlled skid on screaming tyres, into the hairpin bend on the fjord side of Oslo Central station, Harry realised that all hope was not yet lost.

'Who was the mad bastard who taught you to drive?' he asked, holding on tight as they swerved in and out between cars on the three-lane motorway leading to Ekeberg tunnel.

'Self-taught,' Beate said.

In the middle of the Vеlerenga tunnel a large, ugly, diesel-vomiting lorry loomed up ahead of them. It lumbered into the right-hand lane; on the back, held in place by two yellow arms, was a green skip bearing the words OSLO WASTE MANAGEMENT.

'Yess!' Harry shouted.

Beate swung in front of the lorry, slowed down and activated the right indicator. Harry rolled down the window, stretched out a hand holding his ID and waved the lorry into the side of the road with the other.

***

The driver had no objection to Harry taking a look inside the skip, but wondered if they shouldn't wait until they were in the Metodica yard, where they could empty the contents onto the ground.

'I don't want the bottle to be smashed!' Harry yelled over the noise of passing traffic from the back of the lorry.

'I was thinking about your nice suit,' the driver said, but by then Harry had already scrambled up into the skip. The next moment, a rumble of thunder could be heard from inside, and the driver and Beate heard Harry roundly cursing. Then quite a bit of rooting around. And finally another 'Yess!' before he reappeared over the top of the skip with a white plastic bag held above his head like a trophy.

'Give the bottle to Weber immediately and tell him it's urgent,' Harry said as Beate started the car. 'Say hello from me.'

'Will that help?'

Harry scratched his head. 'No. Just say it's urgent.'

She laughed. Not very much, nor heartfelt, but Harry noted the laughter.

'Are you always so enthusiastic?' she asked.

'Me? What about you? You were ready to drive us into an early grave for this evidence, weren't you?'

She smiled, but didn't answer. Checked the mirror before returning to the carriageway.

Harry glanced at his watch. 'Damn!'

'Late for a meeting?'

'Do you think you could drive me to Majorstuen church?'

'Of course. Is that why you're wearing the black suit?'

'Yes. A…friend of mine.'

'Then perhaps you'd better try and get rid of the brown stain on your shoulder first.'

Harry craned his head. 'From the skip,' he said, brushing at it. 'Has it gone now?'

Beate passed him a handkerchief. 'Try a little spit. Was it a close friend?'

'No. Or yes…for a while perhaps. But you have to go to funerals, don't you.'

'Do you?'

'Don't you?'

'I've only been to one funeral all my life.'

They drove in silence.

'Your father?'

She nodded.

They passed the intersection at Sinsen. At Muselunden, the large area of grass below Haraldsheimen, a man and two boys had a kite in the air. All three stood looking at the blue sky and Harry saw the man give the string to the taller of the two boys.

'We still haven't caught the man who did it,' she said.

'No, we haven't,' Harry said. 'Not yet.'

***

'God giveth and God taketh away,' the priest said, peering down over the empty rows of benches and at the tall man with cropped hair who had just tiptoed in, looking for a seat at the very back. He waited as the echo of a loud, heart-rending sob died away under the arched ceiling. 'But on occasion it can seem as if He is merely taking.'

The priest stressed 'taking' and the acoustics lifted the word and carried it to the back of the church. The sobbing grew in volume again. Harry watched. He had thought that Anna, who was so extroverted and bubbly, would have had lots of friends, but Harry counted only eight people, six in the front row and two further back. Eight. Yes, well, how many would go to his funeral? Eight people was perhaps not such a bad turnout.

The sobbing came from the front row where Harry could see three heads wrapped in bright scarves and three bare-headed men. The other two were a man sitting to the left and a woman in the middle. He recognised the globe-shaped afro of Astrid Monsen.

The organ pedals creaked, then the music began. A psalm. The grace of God. Harry closed his eyes and felt how tired he was. The notes from the organ rose and sank, the high notes trickled like water from the ceiling. The frail voices sang for forgiveness and mercy. He longed to immerse himself in something which could warm and conceal him. The Lord shall come to judge the quick and the dead. God's vengeance. God as Nemesis. The low organ notes caused the unoccupied wooden benches to vibrate. The sword in one hand and the scales in the other, punishment and justice. Or no punishment and no justice. Harry opened his eyes.

Four men were carrying the coffin. Harry recognised Officer Ola Li behind two swarthy men in Armani suits, white shirts open at the neck. The fourth person was so tall he made the coffin tip. The suit hung loosely on the thin body, but he was the only one of the four who did not seem weighed down by the coffin. Harry's eye was particularly caught by the man's face. Narrow, finely formed with large, pained, brown eyes set in deep hollows in the cranium. The black hair was swept back in a long plait, leaving the high, shiny forehead bared. The sensitive, heart-shaped mouth was enwreathed by a long, well-groomed beard. It was as if Christ had stepped down from the altar behind the priest. And there was something else: there are very few faces you can say this about, but this face was radiant. As the four men approached Harry down the aisle, he tried to see what made it radiant. Was it grief? Not pleasure. Goodness? Evil?

Their eyes met for a brief moment as they passed. Behind them followed Astrid Monsen with eyes downcast, a middle-aged accountant-like man and three women, two older and one younger, dressed in colourful skirts. They sobbed and wailed, rolling their eyes and wringing their hands in silent accompaniment.