Harry stood as the tiny procession left the church.

'Funny, these gypsies, aren't they, Hole?' The words resounded around the church. Harry turned. It was Ivarsson, black suit, tie and smile. 'When I was growing up, we had a gypsy gardener. Ursari, they travelled round with dancing bears, you know. Josef he was called. Music and pranks all the time. But death, you see…These people have an even more strained relationship with death than we have. They are scared stiff of mule-spirits of the dead. They believe they return. Josef used to go to a woman who would chase them away. Only women can do that apparently. Come on.'

Ivarsson touched Harry's arm lightly. Harry had to grit his teeth to resist the impulse to shake it off. They walked down the church steps. The noise of the traffic in Kirkeveien drowned the peeling of the bells. A black Cadillac with the rear door open waited for the funeral procession in Schшnings gate.

'They take the coffin to Vestre crematorium,' Ivarsson said. 'Burning the body, that's a Hindu custom they took with them from India. In England, they burn the deceased's caravan, but they're not allowed to lock the widow in any more.' He laughed. 'They're allowed to take personal effects. Josef told me about the gypsy family of a demolition man in Hungary. They put his dynamite in the coffin and blew the whole of the crematorium sky high.'

Harry took out a pack of Camels.

'I know why you're here, Hole,' Ivarsson said without relaxing the smile. 'You wanted to see if the occasion would throw up a chat with him, didn't you.' Ivarsson motioned with his head to the procession and the tall, thin figure stepping out slowly as the other three tripped along, trying to keep up.

'Is he the one called Raskol?' Harry asked, inserting a cigarette between his lips.

Ivarsson nodded. 'He's her uncle.'

'And the others?'

'Friends, apparently.'

'And the family?'

'They don't acknowledge the deceased person.'

'Oh?'

'That's Raskol's version. Gypsies are notorious liars, but what he says squares with Josef's stories about their thinking.'

'And it is?'

'Family honour is everything. That's why she was thrown out. According to Raskol, she had been married off to a Greek-speaking gringo-gypsy in Spain when she was fourteen, but before the marriage was consummated she'd hopped it with a gadjo.'

'Gadjo?'

'A non-gypsy. A Danish sailor. Worst thing you can do. Brings shame on the whole family.'

'Mm.' The unlit cigarette jumped up and down in Harry's mouth as he spoke. 'I understand you've got to know this Raskol pretty well?'

Ivarsson wafted away imaginary smoke. 'We've had the odd chat. Skirmishes. I would call them. Substantial talks will come after our part of the deal has been kept, in other words, when he has attended this funeral.'

'So, he hasn't said a lot so far?'

'Nothing of any import to the investigation, no. But the tone has been positive.'

'So positive that I see the police are helping to carry his kin to her resting place?'

'The priest asked if Li or I would be one of the bearers to make the numbers up. That's OK, we're here to keep an eye on him anyway. And we will continue. To keep an eye on him, that is.'

Harry squinted into the piercing autumn sun.

Ivarsson turned towards him. 'Let me make one thing clear, Hole. No one is allowed to speak to Raskol until we've finished with him. No one. For three years I've tried to make a deal with the man who knows everything. And now I have it. No one will be allowed to screw up. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'Tell me, Ivarsson, since we're having a tкte-а-tкte here,' Harry said, plucking a flake of tobacco from his mouth. 'Has this case turned into a competition between you and me?'

Ivarsson raised his face to the sun and chuckled. 'Do you know what I would have done if I were you?' he said with closed eyes.

'What's that?' Harry said when the silence was no longer tolerable.

'I would have sent my suit to the dry cleaner's. You look as if you've been lying in a rubbish tip.' He put two fingers to his brow. 'Have a good day.'

Harry stood alone on the steps smoking as he watched the uneven passage of the white coffin along the pavement.

***

Halvorsen spun round on his chair when Harry came in.

'Great you're here. I've got some good news. I…shit, what a smell!'

Halvorsen held his nose and said with shipping forecast intonation: 'What happened to your suit?'

'Slipped in a rubbish skip. What's the news?'

'Ooh…yes, I thought the photo might have been of a holiday area in Sшrland, so I e-mailed it to all the police stations in Aust-Agder. And, bingo, an officer from Risшr rang straight away to say he knew the beach well. But do you know what?'

'Er, no, actually.'

'It wasn't in Sшrland, but in Larkollen!'

Halvorsen looked at Harry with an expectant grin and added, when Harry failed to react: 'In Шstfold. Outside Moss.'

'I know where Larkollen is, Halvorsen.'

'Yes, but this officer comes from-'

'People from Sшrland go on holiday, too. Did you ring Larkollen?'

Halvorsen rolled his eyes in desperation. 'Yes, of course. I rang the camping site and two places where they rent chalets. And the only two grocery shops.'

'Any luck?'

'Yep.' Halvorsen beamed again. 'I faxed the photo and one of the guys running the grocery shop knew who she was. They've got one of the most fantastic chalets in the area. He drives deliveries up there now and then.'

'And the lady's name is?'

'Vigdis Albu?'

'Albu? Elbow?'

'Yep. There are just two of them in Norway. One was born in 1909. The other is forty-three years old and lives at Bjшrnetrеkket 12 in Slemdal with Arne Albu. And hey presto-here's the telephone number, boss.'

'Don't call me that,' Harry said, grabbing the telephone.

Halvorsen groaned. 'What's up? Are you in a bad mood or something?'

'Yes, but that's not why. Mшller is the boss. I'm not a boss, OK?'

Halvorsen was about to say something when Harry imperiously held up a hand: 'Fru Albu?'

***

Someone had needed a lot of time, money and space to build the Albus' house. And a lot of taste. Or as Harry saw it: a lot of bad taste. It looked as if the architect-if such there were-had tried to fuse Norwegian chalet tradition with Southern US plantation style and a dash of pink suburban bliss. Harry's feet sank in the shingle drive leading past a trim garden of ornamental shrubs and a little bronze hart drinking from a fountain. On the ridge of the garage roof there was an oval copper sign emblazoned with a blue flag containing a yellow triangle on a black triangle.

The sound of a dog barking furiously came from behind the house. Harry walked up the broad steps between the pillars, rang the bell and half-expected to be met by a black mama in a white apron.

'Hello,' she twittered at roughly the same time as the door was flung open. Vigdis Albu was the image of one of those women off the fitness adverts Harry occasionally saw on TV when he came home at night. She had the same white smile, bleached Barbie hair and a firm, well-toned, upper-class body packed into running tights and a skimpy top. And she'd had a boob job, but at least she'd had the sense not to exaggerate the size.

'Harry-'

'Come in!' She smiled with the merest suggestion of wrinkles around her large, blue, discreetly made-up eyes.

Harry stepped into a large hallway populated with fat, ugly, carved wooden trolls reaching up to his hips.

'I'm just washing,' Vigdis Albu explained. She flashed a white smile and carefully wiped away the sweat with a forefinger so as not to streak her mascara.