Ivarsson's expression slowly changed from questioning to furious. 'What is this twaddle? You promised to help me.'

Raskol studied the long, pointed nail of the little finger on his right hand. Then he nodded gravely, leaned over the table and waved Ivarsson closer. 'You're right,' he whispered. 'Here's a tip. Learn what life is about. Sit down and observe your child. It isn't easy to find the things you've lost, but it is possible.' He patted the PAS on the back and motioned towards the chessboard. 'Your turn, Politiavdelingssjef.'

***

Ivarsson was fuming with anger as he and Weber traipsed through the Culvert, a three-hundred-metre-long underground tunnel connecting Botsen prison with Police HQ.

'I trusted one of the race who discovered lying!' hissed Ivarsson. 'I trusted a bloody gypsy!' The echo ricocheted along the brick walls. Weber was racing along; he wanted to get out of the cold, damp tunnel. The Culvert was used to transport prisoners to and from questioning at Police HQ, and many were the rumours circulating about what had happened down here.

Ivarsson pulled his suit jacket tighter around him and stepped out. 'Promise me one thing, Weber: you won't breathe a word of this to anyone. Alright?' He turned towards Weber with a raised eyebrow: 'Well?'

The answer to Ivarsson's question was a qualified 'yes' inasmuch as they had just reached the point in the Culvert where the walls are painted orange and Weber heard a little 'pooff' sound. Ivarsson let out a terrified scream and fell to his knees in a pool of water, holding his chest.

Weber spun round and looked up and down the tunnel. No one. Then he turned back to the PAS, who was staring at his red-stained hand.

'I'm bleeding,' he groaned. 'I'm dying.'

Weber could see Ivarsson's eyes growing in his head.

'What is it?' Ivarsson asked, his voice tremulous with fear as he looked into Weber's open-mouthed stare.

'You'll have to go to the dry cleaner's,' Weber said.

Ivarsson cast his eyes downwards. The red dye had spread across the whole of his shirt front and parts of the lime-green jacket.

'Red ink,' Weber said.

Ivarsson pulled out the remains of the Den norske Bank pen. The micro-explosion had sheered it down the middle. He stayed on his knees with his eyes closed until his breathing was normal again. Then he fixed his eyes on Weber.

'Do you know what Hitler's greatest sin was?' he asked, stretching out his clean hand. Weber grabbed it and pulled Ivarsson to his feet. Ivarsson squinted down the tunnel the way they had come. 'Not doing a more thorough job on the gypsies.'

***

'Not a word to anyone about this,' Weber mimicked, with a chuckle. 'Ivarsson went straight to the garage and drove home. The ink will stain his skin for at least three days.'

Harry shook his head in disbelief. 'And what did you do to this Raskol?'

Weber shrugged. 'Ivarsson said he would have him put in solitary. Not that that would help in the slightest, I reckon. The man is…different. Talking about different, how are you and Beate getting on? Have you got any more than this fingerprint?'

Harry shook his head.

'That girl is special,' Weber said. 'I can recognise her father in her. She could be good.'

'She could. Did you know her father?'

Weber nodded. 'Good man. Loyal. Shame it all ended as it did.'

'Strange that such an experienced policeman would slip up like that.'

'I don't think it was a slip-up,' Weber said, rinsing a coffee cup in the sink.

'Oh?'

Weber mumbled.

'What did you say, Weber?'

'Nothing,' he growled. 'He must have had a reason. That's all I'm saying.'

***

'Bolde. com will be a server,' Halvorsen said. 'All I'm saying is that it isn't registered anywhere. It might be in a cellar in Kiev for example and have anonymous clients who send specialised porn to each other. What do I know? We mere mortals won't find people who don't want to be found in that jungle. You'll have to get hold of a bloodhound, a real specialist.'

The knock at the door was so feather-light Harry didn't hear it, but Halvorsen shouted: 'Come in.'

The door opened cautiously.

'Hi,' Halvorsen said with a smile. 'Beate, isn't it?'

She nodded and looked hastily across at Harry. 'I was trying to get hold of you. That mobile number of yours on the list…'

'He's lost his mobile,' Halvorsen said, getting up. 'Take a seat and I'll make you a Halvorsen espresso.'

She hesitated. 'Thank you, but there's something I have to show you in the House of Pain, Harry. Have you got time?'

'All the time in the world,' Harry said, leaning back in his chair. 'Weber had only bad news. No matching fingerprints. And Raskol tricked Ivarsson good and proper today.'

'Is that bad news?' It slipped out before Beate could stop herself. She covered her mouth in alarm. Harry and Halvorsen laughed.

'Nice to see you again, Beate,' Halvorsen said before she and Harry left. He didn't get an answer, just a searching look from Harry, and was left standing a little embarrassed in the middle of the floor.

***

Harry noticed a blanket rumpled up on the two-seater IKEA sofa in the House of Pain. 'Did you sleep here last night?'

'Just a nap,' she said and started the video player. 'Watch the Expeditor and Stine in this picture.'

She pointed to the screen where she had freeze-framed the robber with Stine leaning towards him. Harry could feel the hairs on his neck standing up.

'There's something about this, isn't there?' she said.

Harry scrutinised the robber. Then Stine. And he knew it was this still which had made him watch the video over and over again, searching all the time for something which was there but kept eluding him.

'What is it?' he asked. 'What is it you can see and I can't.'

'Try.'

'I've already tried.'

'Imprint the image on your retina, close your eyes and feel.'

'Honestly…'

'Come on, Harry.' She smiled. 'This is what investigating is, isn't it.'

He looked at her in mild surprise. Then he shrugged his shoulders and did as she said.

'What can you see, Harry?'

'The inside of my eyelids.'

'Concentrate. Tell me what jars.'

'There's something about him and her. Something…about the way they're standing.'

'Good. What about the way they're standing?'

'They're standing…I don't know. They're standing wrong somehow.'

'Wrong in what way?'

Harry had the same sinking feeling he'd had in Vigdis Albu's house. He saw Stine Grette sitting forward. As if to catch the robber's words. He was staring out of the holes of the balaclava and into the face of the person he was about to kill. What was he thinking? And what was she thinking? In this frozen moment in time, was she trying to discover who he was, this man under the balaclava?

'Wrong in what way?' Beate repeated.

'They…they…'

Gun in hand, finger on trigger. Everyone around turned to marble. She is opening her mouth. He can see her eyes over the sights. The barrel nudging her teeth.

'Wrong in what way?'

'They…they're too close.'

'Bravo, Harry!'

He opened his eyes. Amoeba-like specks sparkled and floated across his field of vision.

'Bravo?' he mumbled. 'What do you mean?'

'You've put words to what we've seen the whole time. You're absolutely correct, Harry. They're standing too close to each other.'