The head of Kripos asked Harry what he thought Tom Waaler’s motive might be in killing Ellen Gjelten.

Harry answered that Ellen was in possession of dangerous information. The same evening she was killed she left a message on Harry’s answerphone that she knew who Prince was. She knew the name of the ringleader behind the illegal importing of weapons and the person responsible for arming Oslo’s criminal community to the teeth with service handguns.

‘Unfortunately it was too late when I rang back,’ Harry said, trying to read the Chief Superintendent’s expression.

‘And Sverre Olsen?’ the Superintendent asked.

‘When we picked up Sverre Olsen’s trail, Prince killed him so that he wouldn’t be able to reveal the name of Ellen’s killer.’

‘And this Prince, you said, is…?’

Harry repeated Tom Waaler’s name and the head of Kripos nodded in silence and said: ‘One of our own then. One of our most respected detective inspectors.’

For the next ten seconds Harry felt as if he was sitting in a vacuum, with no air and no sound. He knew that his police career could finish right there on the spot.

‘Alright, Hole. I’ll meet this witness of yours before I make up my mind what our next step should be.’

The Superintendent stood up.

‘I assume that you understand, until further notice, this is a matter which must remain between you and me.’

‘How long are we supposed to stay here?’

Harry gave a start at the sound of the taxi driver’s voice. He had been asleep.

‘Go back,’ he said, taking a last look at the timber house.

As they went back down Kirkeveien his mobile phone rang. It was Beate.

‘We think we’ve found the weapon,’ she said. ‘And you were right. It is a handgun.’

‘In that case, congratulations to us both.’

‘Well, it wasn’t so difficult to find. It was in the rubbish bin under the sink.’

‘Make and number?’

‘A Glock 23. The number has been filed off.’

‘File marks?’

‘If you’re wondering whether they’re the same as the ones we find on most confiscated small arms in Oslo at the moment, the answer is yes.’

‘I see.’ Harry switched his mobile to his left hand. ‘What I don’t see is why you’re ringing to tell me all this. It’s not my case.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Harry. Moller said…’

‘Moller and the whole fucking Oslo Police Force can go to hell!’

Harry was taken aback by his own screeching voice. He saw the taxi driver’s V-shaped eyebrows loom up in the rear-view mirror.

‘Sorry, Beate. I… Are you still there?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’m just not quite myself at the moment.’

‘It can wait.’

‘What can?’

‘There’s no hurry.’

‘Come on.’

She sighed.

‘Did you notice the swelling Camilla Loen had on her eyelid?’

‘Indeed I did.’

‘I thought the murderer may have hit her, or that she got it when she fell, but it turned out it wasn’t a swelling.’

‘Oh?’

‘The pathologist pressed the lump. It was rock hard. So he pulled up her eyelid and do you know what he found on the top of her eyeball?’

‘Well, no,’ Harry said.

‘A small, reddish precious stone cut in the shape of a star. We think it’s a diamond. What do you think about that?’

Harry breathed in and checked the time. There were still three hours to go before they stopped serving at Sofie.

‘That it’s not my case,’ he said, switching off his phone.

6

Friday. Water.

There is a drought, but I saw the policeman coming away from the watering hole. Water for the thirsty. Rain water, river water, amniotic waters.

He didn’t see me. He staggered over to Ullevalsveien and tried to hail a taxi. No-one wanted to take him. He was like one of the restless souls wandering along the river bank without a ferryman to take him across. I have some experience of what that feels like. Being hounded by those you nourished. Being rejected when for once in your life it is you who needs help. Discovering that you’re being spat on and that you have no-one to spit on in return. Quietly considering what you must do. The paradox is, of course, that the taxi driver who takes pity on you, it is his throat you cut.

7

Tuesday. Dismissal

Harry went to the back of the shop, opened the glass door of the milk refrigerator and leaned in. He pulled up his sweaty T-shirt, closed his eyes and felt the cool air against his skin.

The forecast was for a tropical night and the few customers there were in the shop wanted grilled food, beer or mineral water.

Harry recognised her by the colour of her hair. She was standing with her back to him at the meat counter. Her broad backside filled her jeans to perfection. When she turned round he saw that she was wearing a zebra-striped top which was just as tight as her leopard-pattern top. Then Vibeke Knutsen changed her mind, put back the ready-cooked pieces of beef, pushed her shopping trolley to the freezer counter and picked out two packets of cod fillets.

Harry pulled down his T-shirt and closed the glass door. He didn’t want any milk. Nor did he want any meat or cod. Basically, he wanted as little as possible, just something he could eat, not because he was hungry, but for his stomach’s sake. His stomach had started to give him some trouble the night before. And he knew from experience that if he didn’t get some solid food down him now, he would not be able to keep down a drop of alcohol. In his trolley there was a loaf of wholemeal bread and a brown paper bag containing a bottle from the Vinmonopol over the road. He added half a chicken, a six-pack of Hansa and fidgeted around at the fruit counter before joining the checkout queue right behind Vibeke Knutsen. It wasn’t intentional, but then again perhaps it wasn’t quite by chance either.

She half turned without seeing him and wrinkled her nose as if there was a potent smell coming from somewhere, which was a possibility that Harry could not completely exclude. She asked the checkout girl for a pack of 20 Prince Mild cigarettes.

‘Thought you were trying to give them up.’

Vibeke turned round in surprise, scrutinised him and gave him three different smiles. The first one, fleeting, automatic. Then one of recognition. Then, after she had paid, one of curiosity.

‘And you’re going to have a party, I see.’

She put her purchases into a plastic bag.

‘Something like that,’ Harry mumbled, reciprocating her smile.

She tilted her head to the side. The zebra stripes moved.

‘Many guests?’

‘A few. All uninvited.’

The checkout girl handed him his change, but he nodded towards the collection box for the Salvation Army.

‘You could show them the door, couldn’t you?’ Her smile had reached her eyes now.

‘Course. But these particular guests are not so easy to get rid of.’

The bottle of Jim Beam clinked joyfully against the six-pack as he lifted his bags.

‘Oh? Old drinking pals?’

Harry threw a lingering look in her direction. She seemed to know what she was talking about. This struck him as even stranger because she was living with the type of person who gave the impression of being fairly austere. Or to be more precise: it was strange that such an austere person would be living with her.

‘I haven’t got any pals,’ he said.

‘Must be the ladies then. The type that doesn’t let go easily.’

He intended to hold the door open for her, but it turned out it was automatic. He had only been shopping there a few hundred times. They stood opposite each other on the pavement outside.

Harry didn’t know what to say. Perhaps this was why he came out with:

‘Three ladies. Perhaps they’ll go away if I drink enough.’

‘Eh?’

She shaded her eyes from the sun.