Then he went back to concentrating on the Aftenposten article about the woman who had disappeared one bright, sunny morning before the weekend and still had not turned up. The journalist, Roger Gjendem, quoted Chief Inspector Bjarne Moller who had confirmed that the police had discovered one of the woman’s shoes under a car directly outside where she lived and that this strengthened suspicions that a crime had taken place. However, as yet they had nothing concrete to this effect.

Harry flicked through the paper on the way to his pigeonhole where he picked up the reports on the last two days’ search for Lisbeth Barli. There were five messages on his answerphone, all except one from Wilhelm Barli. Harry ran through the messages, which were almost identical: that they had to deploy more men, that he knew of a clairvoyant and that he wanted to go to the press and offer a reward to anyone who could help the police find Lisbeth.

The last message was someone breathing. That was all.

Harry rewound the tape and played it again.

And then again.

It was impossible to be sure whether it was a man or a woman. Even more impossible to hear if it was Rakel. The display showed that they had received the call at 11.10 p.m. from an ‘unknown number’, just as when Rakel called from her phone in Holmenkollveien. If it was her, why didn’t she try his home number or his mobile?

Harry went through the reports. Nothing. He read them one more time. Still nothing. He cleared his brain and started from the beginning again.

When he was finished he looked at his watch and went out to the pigeonholes to see if anything else had arrived. He took a detective’s report with him, put an envelope addressed to Bjarne Moller in the correct pigeonhole and went back into his office.

The detective’s report was concise and to the point: nothing.

Harry rewound the answerphone tape, pressed play and turned up the volume. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He tried to remember her breathing. Feel her breath.

‘Irritating when they don’t say who they are, isn’t it.’

It wasn’t the words but the voice that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. He turned round slowly in his chair, which screamed in anguish.

Tom Waaler was standing leaning against the doorframe with a smile on his face. He was eating an apple and proffered the bag.

‘Dunno what they are. Australian? Taste wonderful.’

Harry shook his head without taking his eyes off him.

‘May I come in?’ Waaler asked.

When Harry didn’t answer, he stepped in and closed the door behind him. He walked round the desk and sat himself down in the other office chair. He leaned backwards and chomped noisily away at the inviting red apple.

‘Have you noticed that you and I are almost always the first two to arrive at work, Harry? Strange, isn’t it? Since we’re also the last two to go home.’

‘You’re sitting in Ellen’s chair,’ Harry said.

Waaler patted the arm of the chair.

‘It’s about time you and I had a chat, Harry.’

‘Chat away,’ Harry said.

Waaler held the apple up to the light in the ceiling and screwed up one eye. ‘Isn’t it depressing not having a window in your office?’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘There is a rumour going round that you’re leaving,’ Waaler said.

‘Rumour?’

‘Well, rumour is perhaps an exaggeration. I have my sources, let’s put it that way. You’ve probably been looking around for other work – security companies, insurance companies, debt collection maybe? Must be lots of places where they need an investigator with a bit of a background in law.’

Strong, white teeth sank into the flesh of the apple.

‘Perhaps not so many places where they require a work record with notes on drunkenness, unauthorised absences, abuse of authority, insubordination to superiors and disloyalty to the force.’

His jaw muscles were grinding and chewing.

‘But – but,’ Waaler said. ‘Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing if they don’t employ you. None of them offers particularly interesting challenges, so to speak. Not for someone who, despite everything, has been an inspector and was reckoned to be one of the very best in his field. And they don’t pay particularly well, either. And that’s what it’s about in the final analysis, isn’t it? Being paid for your services. Getting enough money to pay for food and rent. Enough for a beer and a bottle of cognac. Or is it whisky?’

Harry noticed that he was clenching his teeth so hard that his fillings were beginning to ache.

‘The best thing,’ Waaler continued, ‘would undoubtedly be to treat yourself to a few extras over and above purely basic needs, providing you had earned sufficient money, that is. Such as the occasional holiday trip with your family to Normandy, for example.’

Harry felt his head fizzing, as if a fuse had blown.

‘You and I are different in many ways, Harry, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t respect you as a professional. You are goal-orientated, smart, creative and your integrity is unimpeachable. That’s what I’ve always thought. Above all else, though, you are mentally tough. In a society where competition gets harder and harder there is a need for this quality. Unfortunately, the competition doesn’t always use the means that we might desire, but if you want to be a winner you have to be willing to employ the same means as your competitors. There is one more thing…’

Waaler lowered his voice.

‘You have to play in the right team, the team you can win something with.’

‘What are you after, Waaler?’

Harry could feel his voice trembling.

‘I want to help you.’ Waaler stood up. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, you know…’

‘Like what?’

‘Like this, that you and I are enemies. Like this, that the Chief Super has to sign those papers. You know.’

Waaler walked over to the door.

‘And like this, that you can never afford to do something nice for yourself and those you love…’

He rested his hand on the door handle.

‘Think about it, Harry. There’s only one thing that can help you in the jungle out there.’

A bullet, Harry thought.

‘You yourself,’ Waaler said, and was gone.

11

Sunday. Departure.

She lay in bed smoking a cigarette. She studied him as he stood in front of the low chest of drawers, watched his shoulder blades moving under the waistcoat and making it glisten in shades of black and blue. She shifted her gaze to the mirror and watched the gentle, self-assured movements of his hands tying his tie. She liked his hands, liked to see them moving.

‘When will you be back?’ she asked.

Their eyes met in the mirror. His smile. That too was gentle and self-assured. She thrust out a sulky bottom lip.

‘As quickly as I can, Liebling.’

No-one said ‘darling’ the way he did. Liebling. In his strange accent and with that singing intonation that had almost made her like the German language again.

‘On the evening flight tomorrow, I hope,’ he said. ‘Will you be there to meet me?’

She couldn’t stop herself smiling. He laughed. She laughed. Damn him, he always managed it.

‘I’m sure you’ve got a throng of women waiting for you in Oslo,’ she said.

‘I hope so.’

He buttoned up his waistcoat and took his jacket off the hanger in the wardrobe.

‘Did you iron the handkerchiefs, Liebling?’

‘I put them in your suitcase with the socks,’ she said.

‘Excellent.’

‘Have you got a rendezvous with any of them?’

He laughed, went across to the bed and bent down over her.

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’ She put her arms around his neck. ‘I think there’s a woman’s scent on you every time you come home.’

‘That’s because I’m never away long enough for your scent to fade, Liebling. How long ago is it now since I first discovered you? Twenty-six months. I’ve had your scent on me for twenty-six months now.’