'Thank you for the offer, but I still reserve the right to talk to whoever I think fit.' Harry listened to Albu's breathing before adding: 'I hope you understand.'

'Listen here-'

'I'm afraid this is not a topic for discussion. I'll contact you or your wife if there is something I need to know.'

'Wait a minute! You don't understand. My wife gets…very upset.'

'You're right, I don't understand. Is she ill?'

'Ill?' said Albu with surprise in his voice. 'No, but-'

'Then I suggest we conclude this conversation now.' Harry saw himself in the mirror. 'These are not my working hours. Good evening.'

He put down the telephone and looked in the mirror again. It was gone now, the little smile, the glee that Spite gives. The Small-mindedness. The Self-righteousness. The Sadism. The four 'S's of revenge. There was something else, too, though. Something looked wrong. Something was missing. He studied the reflected image. Perhaps it was just the way the light fell.

Harry sat down in front of the computer while thinking that he would have to tell Aune about the four 'S's. He collected that sort of thing. The e-mail he had received came from an address he had never seen before: furie@bolde. com. He clicked on it.

As he was sitting there, a chill spread through Harry Hole's body that would linger for a good year.

It happened while he was reading from the screen. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and the skin around his body tightened like shrinking clothes.

Shall we play? Let's imagine you've been to dinner with a woman and the next day she's found dead. What do you do?

The telephone chirruped its lament. Harry knew it was Rakel. He let it ring.

17

Arabia's Tears

Halvorsen was very surprised to see Harry as he entered their office.

'Here already? You are aware it's only-'

'Couldn't sleep,' Harry mumbled, sitting in front of the computer screen with crossed arms. 'These machines are so bloody slow.'

Halvorsen peered over his shoulder. 'It all depends on the data transfer rate when you're on the Net. You're using a standard ISDN line now, but, rejoice, we'll soon be on broadband. Looking for articles in Dagens Nжringsliv?'

'Eh?…Yes.'

'Arne Albu? Did you talk to Vigdis Albu?'

'Yes.'

'What have they actually got to do with the bank robbery?'

Harry didn't look up. He hadn't said it was anything to do with the robbery, but he hadn't said it wasn't either, so it was quite natural for his colleague to make the assumption. Harry was spared answering him as at that moment Arne Albu's face filled the screen. By far the broadest smile Harry had seen today presided over the tightly knotted tie. Halvorsen smacked his lips and read aloud:

'Thirty million for family business. Today Arne Albu can salt away thirty million kroner after the hotel chain Choice bought up all the shares in Albu AS yesterday. Albu says he wants to devote more time to his family, which was the biggest reason for him selling his successful company. "I want to see my children grow up," Albu said when interviewed. "The family is my most important investment." '

Harry pressed PRINT.

'Don't you want the rest of the article?'

'No, I just want the picture,' Harry said.

'Thirty mill in the bank and now he's started holding up banks, too?'

'I'll explain later,' Harry said, rising from his chair. 'In the meantime, I wonder if you could explain to me how you find out who sends an e-mail.'

'The address is in the e-mail.'

'And that's in the telephone book, is it?'

'No, but you can find out which mail server sent it. That's in the address. The server has a list of which clients own which addresses. Very simple. Have you received an interesting e-mail?'

Harry shook his head.

'Give me the address and I'll find it for you in no time,' Halvorsen said.

'OK. Have you heard of a server called bolde. com?'

'No, but I'll check it out. What's the rest of the address?'

Harry hesitated. 'Forgotten,' he said.

Harry requisitioned a car from the garage and drove slowly through Grшnland. A biting wind swirled the leaves which had dried on the pavement in yesterday's sun. People walked with their hands buried in their pockets and their heads drawn in between their shoulders.

In Pilestredet Harry tucked in behind a tram and found the NRK news broadcast on the radio. They didn't say anything about the Stine Grette case. There were fears that hundreds of thousands of refugee children would not survive the tough Afghan winter. An American soldier had been killed. There was an interview with his family. They wanted revenge. Bislett was closed to traffic and there was a diversion.

***

'Yes?' One syllable on the door intercom was enough to establish that Astrid Monsen had a bad cold.

'Harry Hole. Thank you for your help so far. I wondered if it would be possible to ask a couple more questions. Have you got time?'

She sniffled twice before answering. 'What about?'

'I would prefer not to stand out here and ask.'

Two more sniffs.

'Is this not a convenient time?' Harry asked.

The lock buzzed and Harry shoved open the door.

Astrid Monsen was standing in the corridor with a shawl over her shoulders and her arms crossed as Harry came up the stairs.

'I saw you at the funeral,' Harry said.

'I thought at least one of her neighbours should put in an appearance,' she said. She sounded as if she was talking through a megaphone.

'I wonder if you recognise this person?'

Reluctantly she took the dog-eared photograph. 'Which one?'

'Any of them, in fact.' Harry's voice resounded up and down the stairwell.

Astrid Monsen stared at the picture. At length.

'Well?'

She shook her head.

'Sure?'

She nodded.

'Mm. Do you know if Anna had a partner?'

'One?'

Harry breathed in deeply. 'Do you mean there were many?'

She shrugged. 'You can hear every sound in this house. The stairs creaked, let's put it that way.'

'Anything serious?'

'I have no idea.'

Harry waited. She didn't pause for long: 'A note with a name on was stuck next to her post box this summer. I don't know if it was serious though…'

'No?'

'I think it was her handwriting on the note. It just said ERIKSEN.' There was a hint of a smile on her thin lips. 'Perhaps he had forgotten to tell her his Christian name. At any rate, the note was gone after a week.'

Harry looked down over the banisters. The stairs were steep. 'A week's better than nothing, though, isn't it?'

'For some maybe,' she said, resting her hand on the door handle. 'I have to go now. I've just received an e-mail, I can hear.'

'It's not going anywhere, is it?'

She was overpowered by another fit of sneezing. 'I have to answer it,' she said with tear-filled eyes. 'It's the author. We're discussing my translation.'

'Then I'll be quick,' Harry said. 'I just want you to look at this, too.'

He passed her a sheet of paper. She held it, cast an eye over it and looked up at Harry suspiciously.

'Just have a good look,' Harry said. 'Take all the time you need.'

'Quite unnecessary,' she said, returning the sheet.

***

It took Harry ten minutes to walk from Police HQ to Kjшlberggata 21A. In its time the run-down brick building had been a tannery, a printing press, a forge and probably several other things too. A reminder that Oslo had once had industry. Now Krimteknisk had taken it over. Despite new lighting and a modern interior, the building still had an industrial feel to it. Harry found Weber in one of the large, cold rooms.