‘That’s alright. We’ve had enough, haven’t we?’ she said

She slapped her partner on the knee. In a masculine way, Harry thought, and instantly recalled something Aune, the police psychologist, had said: that stereotypes were self-reinforcing because unconsciously you were looking for things to confirm them. That was why policemen thought – based on so-called experience – that all criminals were stupid, and criminals thought the same about all policemen.

Harry quickly put them in the picture. They stared at him in surprise.

‘This will undoubtedly be resolved quickly, but we are obliged to go through standard police procedures. For the moment we are simply trying to establish a timetable.’

They nodded with serious expressions on their faces.

‘Excellent,’ Harry said, trying out the Hole smile. That, at any rate, was what Ellen used to call the grimace he pulled whenever he tried to appear jolly and good-natured.

Ruth confirmed that they had spent the whole afternoon on their balcony. They had seen Lisbeth and Wilhelm Barli lying on the terrace until about 4.30 when Lisbeth went inside. Immediately afterwards Wilhelm had got the barbecue going. He had shouted something about potato salad and she had answered from indoors. Then he went in and came out again with the steaks (which Harry corrected to ‘chops’) about 20 minutes later. After a while – they agreed that it was at 5.15 – they saw Barli making a call on his mobile.

‘Sound carries over enclosed spaces like this,’ Ruth said. ‘We could hear another phone ringing inside the flat. Barli was obviously annoyed. At least, he slammed his phone down on the table.’

‘Apparently he was trying to ring his wife,’ Harry said.

He noted the immediate exchange of glances and regretted the ‘apparently’.

‘How long does it take to buy potato salad at the supermarket round the corner?’

‘At Kiwi? I can make it there and back in five minutes if there isn’t a queue.’

‘Lisbeth Barli doesn’t sprint,’ the partner said in a low voice.

‘So you know her?’

Ruth and the Trondheim Eagle exchanged looks as if to harmonise their responses.

‘No. But we certainly know who she is.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, you must have seen the big spread in Verdens Gang about Wilhelm Barli directing a musical at the National Theatre this summer.’

‘That was just a five-liner, Ruth.’

‘Certainly was not,’ snapped Ruth. ‘Lisbeth is to play the main role. Big picture and all that. You must have seen it.’

‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘Haven’t got round to… much reading of the papers this summer.’

‘There was a big row, wasn’t there. All the cultural elite thought it was scandalous putting on a summer show at the National Theatre. What’s the play called again? My Fat Lady?’

‘ Fair Lady,’ the Trondheim Eagle mumbled.

‘So you follow the theatre then?’ Harry intervened.

‘Bit of this and that. Wilhelm Barli is the type to keep himself busy with all sorts of things. Revues, films, musicals…’

‘He’s a producer. And she sings.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I’m sure you can remember Lisbeth from the time before they got married, when she was called Harang.’

Harry regretfully shook his head and Ruth released a deep sigh.

‘At that time she sang with her sister in Spinnin’ Wheel. Lisbeth was a real babe, a bit like Shania Twain. With a real belter of a voice on her.’

‘She wasn’t that well known, Ruth.’

‘Well, she sang on that programme of Vidar Lonn Arnesen’s. And they sold a stack of records.’

‘Cassettes, Ruth.’

‘I saw Spinnin’ Wheel at Momarkedet Country Festival. Pretty good stuff, you know. They should have recorded in Nashville and all that, but then she was discovered by Barli. He was going to make a musical star out of her. Certainly taken its time, though.’

‘Eight years,’ said the Trondheim Eagle.

‘Anyway, Lisbeth Harang stopped singing with Spinnin’ Wheel and married Barli. Money and beauty, ever heard that somewhere before?’

‘So the wheel stopped spinnin’?’

‘Eh?’

‘He’s asking about the band, Ruth.’

‘Oh, yeah. The sister sang solo, but Lisbeth was the real star. Think they’re playing holiday hotels and the Denmark ferries now. Sure they are.’

Harry got up.

‘Just one last routine question. Do you have any idea what Wilhelm and Lisbeth’s marriage was like?’

The Trondheim Eagle and Ruth exchanged further radar communication.

‘Sound carries over enclosed spaces like this, as we told you,’ Ruth said. ‘Their bedroom also looks out over the yard.’

‘You could hear them having a row?’

‘Not having a row.’

They held Harry’s gaze with meaningful expressions. A couple of seconds went by before he twigged what they meant and to his irritation he noticed that he was blushing.

‘It’s your impression then that the marriage worked especially well?’

‘His terrace door is left ajar all summer, so I joked that we should sneak up onto the roof, go round the square and jump down onto his terrace,’ Ruth grinned. ‘Spy on them a bit, why not? It’s not difficult, you just stand on the railing of our balcony and put a foot on the gutter and…’

The Trondheim Eagle nudged her partner in the ribs.

‘It’s not really necessary though,’ Ruth said. ‘After all, Lisbeth is a professional… what do you call it?’

‘Communicator,’ said the Trondheim Eagle.

‘Exactly. All the great imagery is in the vocal cords, you know.’

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

‘Real screamer,’ the Trondheim Eagle said with a tentative smile.

When Harry returned, the Ivans were still going through the flat. Officer Ivan was sweating and German Shepherd Ivan’s tongue was hanging out of its open mouth like a liver-coloured welcome carpet for VIPs.

Harry sat down carefully on one of the reclining arrangements and asked Wilhelm Barli to tell him everything right from the beginning. His account of the afternoon and the timings confirmed what Ruth and the Trondheim Eagle had said.

Harry recognised genuine despair in the husband’s eyes. And he began to suspect that if a crime had taken place, then this might – might – be one of the exceptions to the statistics. But most of all it strengthened his belief that Lisbeth would turn up soon enough. If it wasn’t the husband, it wasn’t anyone. Statistically speaking.

Beate returned and reported that people were at home in only two of the apartments in the building, and they hadn’t heard or seen a thing, not in the stairwell and not outside on the street.

There was a knock at the door and Beate opened up. It was one of the uniformed officers from the patrol car. Harry recognised him immediately. It was the same officer who had stood watch at Ullevalsveien. He turned to Beate without showing any awareness of Harry’s presence.

‘We’ve been talking to people on the street and at Kiwi. We’ve checked the entrance and the yard. Nothing. But it is the holiday period and the streets are almost deserted, so the lady could easily have been dragged into a car without anyone noticing a thing.’

Harry felt Wilhelm Barli, who was standing next to him, give a start.

‘Perhaps we ought to check with the Pakis who have shops in the area,’ the policeman said, sticking his little finger in his ear and revolving it.

‘Why them precisely?’ Harry asked.

The officer finally turned round and said with exaggerated stress on the last word: ‘Haven’t you read the crime statistics, Inspector?’

‘Indeed I have,’ Harry said. ‘And as far as I remember, shop owners are way down the list.’

The policeman studied his little finger.

‘I know a few things about Muslims that you also know, Inspector. For them, a woman who comes in wearing a bikini is begging to be raped. It’s almost a duty, you could say.’

‘Oh?’

‘That’s just the way their religion is.’

‘Now I think you’re confusing Islam with Christianity.’