Ring Bjarne Moller. Get them to come here. Go with Moller over to the students’ house. Question Sven Sivertsen there. Record his testimony against Tom Waaler immediately. Listen to Moller giving the order for Inspector Waaler’s arrest. Then go home. Home to Rakel.

He could see the rotary dryer in his peripheral vision.

He swore, tore the cigarette in half, put the filter between his lips and lit it at the second attempt. Why was he so stressed? There was nothing left to do. It was finished, over.

He turned towards the rotary dryer.

It stooped a little to one side, but the post set in the tarmac had obviously taken the brunt of it. Only one of the strings that Wilhelm Barli was hanging on had broken. His arms hung to both sides, his wet hair clung to his face and his eyes were wrenched upwards, as if in prayer. It struck Harry that it was a strangely beautiful sight. With his naked body partly shrouded by the wet sheet he resembled a figurehead set up on the bows of a galleon. Wilhelm had got what he wanted. A grand finale.

Harry picked up his mobile phone and pressed in his PIN code. His fingers would hardly obey him. They would soon be stone. He keyed in Bjarne Moller’s number. He was about to press the call button when the telephone gave a warning shriek. The display showed that there was a message on his answerphone. So what? It wasn’t Harry’s phone. He hesitated. Instinct told him that he should phone Moller first. He closed his eyes. And pressed.

A woman announced that he had one message. There was a bleep followed by a few seconds’ silence. Then a voice whispered:

‘Hi, Harry. It’s me.’

It was Tom Waaler.

‘You turned your phone off, Harry. That wasn’t wise. Because I have to talk to you, you know.’

Tom’s mouth was so close to the receiver that Harry felt he was standing right next to him.

‘Apologies for having to whisper, but we don’t want to wake him, do we. Can you guess where I am? I think perhaps you can. Perhaps you ought to have anticipated it even.’

Harry sucked on his cigarette without realising that it had gone out.

‘It’s a bit dark in here, but there’s a picture of a football team over the bed. Let’s see. Tottenham Hotspur? There’s a little machine on his bedside table. GameBoy. Listen now. I’m holding the phone over his bed.’

He heard the calm, regular breathing of a little boy sleeping soundly in a black timber-clad house in Holmenkollveien.

‘We have our eyes and ears everywhere, Harry, so don’t try to phone or talk to anyone. Just do exactly as I say. Ring this number and talk to me. Do anything else and the boy is dead. Do you understand?’

Harry’s heart began pumping blood round his paralysed body and slowly the numbness was replaced by almost unbearable pain.

42

Monday. The Devil’s Star.

The windscreen wipers whispered and the tyres hissed.

The Escort aquaplaned through the crossing. Harry drove as fast as he dared, but the rain was coming down like stair-rods onto the tarmac in front of him and he knew that the remaining tread on the tyres was only really of a cosmetic nature.

He accelerated and took the next crossing on amber. Fortunately there were no cars on the streets. He snatched a glance at his watch.

Twelve minutes left. It was eight minutes since he had been standing in the central yard in Sannergata, mobile in hand, and dialling the number he was forced to dial. Eight minutes since the voice had whispered in his ear:

‘At last.’

Harry said all he wanted to, but couldn’t stop himself adding: ‘If you lay a hand on him, I’ll kill you.’

‘Well, well. Where are you and Sivertsen?’

‘No idea,’ Harry had said staring at the rotary dryer. ‘What do you want?’

‘I just want to meet you. Find out why you want to break the deal we made. Find out if you’re unhappy about something that we can put right. It’s not too late, Harry. I’m willing to stick my neck right out to get you in the team.’

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Let’s meet. I’ll come to you.’

Tom Waaler gave a low laugh.

‘I want to meet Sven Sivertsen as well. And I think it’s a better idea if I come to you. So give me the address. Now.’

Harry hesitated.

‘Have you heard what it sounds like when you cut someone’s throat, Harry? First of all there’s the squeak as the steel cuts into the skin and cartilage, then a wheezing sound like the saliva sucker at the dentist’s. It comes from the severed trachea. Or is it the oesophagus? I can never tell the difference.’

‘Student block. Room 406.’

‘Christ. The crime scene? I should’ve thought of that.’

‘You should’ve.’

‘OK, but if you’re thinking of calling anyone or setting up a trap, forget it, Harry. I’m bringing the boy with me.’

‘No! Don’t… Tom… please.’

‘Please? Did you say “please”?’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘I picked you up from the gutter and gave you a chance. And you stabbed me in the back, please. It’s not my fault I have to do what I’m doing. It’s yours. Remember that, Harry.’

‘Listen -’

‘In twenty minutes. Leave the door open and sit on the floor where I can see you with your hands over your heads.’

‘Tom!’

Waaler had rung off.

Harry tore at the wheel and felt the tyres lose their grip. They floated on the water, sideways on. For a moment it was as if he and the car were hovering in a dream where all the laws of physics were suspended. It only lasted for the one second, but it was enough for Harry to have the liberating sensation that everything was over, that it was too late to do anything. Then the tyres regained their grip and he was back.

The car swerved outside the student building and pulled up in front of the exit door. Harry switched off the ignition. Nine minutes left. He got out and walked round the car. He opened the boot and threw away half-empty bottles of windscreen wash and filthy rags. Grabbed a roll of black insulation tape. As he went up the stairs he pulled the gun out from the waistband of his trousers and unscrewed the silencer. He hadn’t checked the weapon, but assumed that a Czech gun would stand the occasional 15-metre fall from a roof terrace. He stopped outside the lift door on the fourth floor. The handle was as he remembered: metal with a round solid wooden cap over the end. Just large enough to hide a gun minus silencer, if one was taped to the inside. He loaded the weapon and secured it with two strips of tape. If things went as planned from the beginning, he would need it. The hinges creaked as he opened the lid to the disposal chute beside the lift, but the silencer fell into the dark without a sound. Four minutes left.

He unlocked the door to room 406.

There was a clank of iron against the radiator.

‘Good news?’

Sven had an almost imploring tone. His breath smelled bad as Harry unlocked the handcuffs.

‘No,’ Harry answered.

‘No?’

‘He’s coming with Oleg.’

Harry and Sven sat on the floor in the corridor, waiting.

‘He’s late,’ Sven said.

‘Yes.’

Silence.

‘Iggy Pop songs beginning with C,’ Sven said. ‘You start.’

‘Pack it in.’

‘“China Girl”.’

‘Not now.’

‘It helps. “Candy”.’

‘“Cry For Love”.’

‘“China Girl”.’

‘You’ve already said that one, Sivertsen.’

‘There are two versions.’

‘“Cold Metal”.’

‘Are you scared, Harry?’

‘Scared to death.’

‘Me too.’

‘Good. That increases our chances of survival.’

‘By how much? Ten per cent? Twenty…’

‘Shh.’

‘Is that the lift…?’ Sivertsen whispered.

‘It’s on its way up. Take slow, deep breaths.’

They heard the lift come to a halt with a low groan. Two seconds passed. Then the rattle of the grille door. A long drawn-out creak told Harry that Waaler was opening the lift door with caution. Low mumbling. The sound of the disposal chute lid being opened. Sven cast Harry a questioning glance.