The Divisional Commander rocked on his heels and waited.

‘With all respect to the taxi driver,’ the head of Kripos said finally, ‘I’m not so sure there is a “why” in this case. At least, not a rational “why”. All of us here know that Hole is psychologically unstable and an alcoholic. That’s why he’s being dismissed.’

‘Even crazy people have motives, Torleif.’

There was the sound of someone discreetly clearing their throat.

‘Yes, Waaler.’

‘Batouti.’

‘Batouti?’

‘The Egyptian pilot who deliberately crashed a full passenger plane to avenge himself on the airline who had demoted him.’

‘What are you getting at, Waaler?’

‘I ran after Harry and talked to him in the car park after we’d arrested Sivertsen on Saturday evening. It was obvious that he was bitter, both for being dismissed and because he thought we’d cheated him out of the credit he was due for arresting the Courier Killer.’

‘Batouti…’

The Divisional Commander shaded his eyes from the first rays of sun to hit his window.

‘You haven’t said anything yet, Bjarne. What do you think?’

Bjarne Moller stared up at the silhouette in front of the window. He had such pains in his stomach that he not only felt that he was going to explode, he hoped he would. From the moment he was woken up in the night and informed about the kidnapping he had waited for someone to give him a good shake and tell him he was having a nightmare.

‘I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t understand what’s going on.’

The Divisional Commander nodded slowly.

‘If it leaks out that we’ve kept this under wraps we’ll be crucified,’ he said.

‘A concise summary, Lars,’ the head of Kripos said. ‘But if it leaks out that we’ve let a serial killer go, we’ll also be crucified. Even if we find him again. There’s still one way of resolving this problem on the quiet. Waaler has, I’m led to understand, a plan.’

‘And what is it, Waaler?’

Tom Waaler put his left hand round his clenched fist.

‘Let’s put it this way,’ he said. ‘It’s absolutely clear to me that we cannot afford to fail, so I may have to use some unconventional methods. Bearing possible repercussions in mind, I’m going to suggest that you know nothing about the plan.’

The Divisional Commander swivelled round with a mildly astonished expression on his face.

‘That’s very generous of you, Waaler, but I’m afraid we cannot agree to -’

‘I insist.’

The Divisional Commander frowned.

‘You insist? Are you aware of the risks, Waaler?’

Waaler opened the palms of his hands and examined them.

‘Yes, but it’s my responsibility. I ran the investigation and worked closely with Hole. As the person in charge I ought to have seen the signs before and done something. At any rate, after the conversation in the car park.’

The Divisional Commander gave Waaler a searching look. He turned back to the window and stayed there as a rectangle of light crept across the floor. Then he raised his shoulders and shook himself as if he were freezing cold.

‘You’ve got until midnight,’ he said to the window pane. ‘Then the news of the disappearance will be announced to the press. And this meeting never took place.’

On the way out Moller noticed the head of Kripos squeeze Waaler’s hand and flash him a warm smile of gratitude. The way you thank a colleague for loyalty, Moller mused. The way you tacitly appoint a Crown Prince.

Police Officer Bjorn Holm from Forensics felt a complete fool standing there with a microphone in his hand looking at the Japanese faces staring expectantly back at him. His palms were sweaty, and not just from the heat. Quite the contrary, the temperature in the air-conditioned luxury bus standing outside Hotel Bristol was several degrees lower than the temperature in the morning sun outside. It was from having to speak into a microphone. In English.

He had been introduced by the guide as a Norwegian police officer and an old man with a smile on his face had pulled out his camera as if Bjorn Holm was an integral part of the sightseeing tour. He looked at his watch: 7.00. He had more groups to see, so it was simply a question of pressing on. He took a deep breath and started the sentence he had rehearsed on the way:

‘We have checked the schedules with all the tour operators here in Oslo,’ Holm said. ‘And this is one of the groups that visited Frogner Park around five o’clock on Saturday. What I want to know is: how many of you took pictures there?’

No reaction.

Holm was disconcerted and glanced over to the guide.

He bowed with a smile, relieved him of the microphone and gave the passengers what Holm could only assume was roughly the same message he had given, in Japanese. He concluded with a small bow. Holm surveyed all the outstretched arms. They were going to have a busy day at the photo lab.

Roger Gjendem was humming a song about ‘turning Japanese’ as he locked his car. The distance from the car park to Aftenposten ’s new offices in the Post House was short, but still he knew he would jog in, not because he was late, quite the opposite. The reason was that Roger Gjendem was one of the lucky few who looked forward to going to work every day, who could not wait until he had all the familiar things around him that reminded him of work: the office with the telephone and the computer, a pile of the day’s newspapers, the hum of colleagues’ voices, the gurgling coffee machine, the gossip in the smokers’ room, the alert atmosphere at the morning meeting. He had spent the previous day outside Olaug Sivertsen’s house with nothing more than a picture of her in the window to show for it. But it was good. He liked difficult tasks. And there were more than enough of those in the crime section. A crime junkie. That was what Devi had called him. He didn’t like her using those words. Thomas, his little brother, was a junkie. Roger was a hard worker who had studied political science and happened to like working as a crime reporter. That apart, she had a point of course, in that there were aspects of the job that were reminiscent of an addiction. After working with politics he had subbed in the crime section of the paper and it was not long before he felt the rush that only the daily adrenalin kick of stories about life and death can give. The same day he talked to the chief editor and was immediately transferred on a permanent basis. The editor had obviously seen it happen to others before him. And from that day on Roger jogged from his car to work.

On this day, however, he was pulled up before he got into his stride.

‘Good morning,’ said the man who had appeared from nowhere and who now stood in front of him. He was wearing a short, black leather jacket and aviator sunglasses even though it was fairly dark in the multi-storey car park. Roger knew a policeman when he saw one.

‘Good morning,’ Roger said.

‘I’ve got a message for you, Gjendem.’

The man’s arms hung straight down. His hands were covered in black hair. Roger thought that he would have appeared more natural if he had kept them in the pockets of his leather jacket. Or behind his back. Or folded in front of him. As it was, you had the impression he was about to use his hands for something, but it was impossible to guess what.

‘Yeah?’ Roger asked. He heard the echo of his own ‘e’ vibrate briefly between the walls, the sound of a question mark.

The man leaned forward.

‘Your brother’s doing time in Ullersmo,’ the man said.

‘So what?’

Roger knew that the morning sun was shining outside in Oslo, but down in the car catacombs it had suddenly turned ice cold.

‘If you care about what happens to him, you need to do us a favour. Are you listening, Gjendem?’

Roger nodded in amazement.

‘If Inspector Harry Hole rings you, we want you to do the following. Ask where he is. If he won’t tell you, arrange to meet him. Say that you won’t risk printing his story until you’ve met him face to face. The meeting must be arranged before midnight tonight.’