‘Mm.’

‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’

‘And it’s true? It’s all over?’

‘Over.’ He mumbled into her hair. ‘Last day at work.’

‘Good,’ she said.

He could feel her body coming closer, filling all the small spaces between them.

‘Next week I start the new one. That’ll be good.’

‘The one you got via a pal?’ she asked, putting her hand on his neck.

‘Yes.’ The smell of her filled his head. ‘Oystein. Do you remember Oystein?’

‘The taxi driver?’

‘Yes. The exam for the taxi driver’s licence is on Tuesday. I’ve been mugging up street names in Oslo every single day.’

She laughed and kissed him on the mouth.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘I think you’re crazy.’

Her laughter rippled like a little brook in his ears. He wiped a tear off her cheek.

‘I have to go now,’ he said.

She tried to smile, but Harry saw that she wouldn’t be able to.

‘I won’t manage,’ she blurted out before the sobs shook her voice.

‘You’ll manage,’ Harry said.

‘I can’t manage… without you.’

‘That’s not true,’ Harry said, pulling her close. ‘You can manage very well without me. The question is: Can you manage with me?’

‘Is that the question?’ she whispered.

‘I know you’ll have to think about it.’

‘You don’t know anything.’

‘Have a think first, Rakel.’

She tilted back her head and he held the arch of her spine. She contemplated his face. Looking for changes, Harry thought.

‘Don’t go, Harry.’

‘I’ve got a meeting. If you like, I’ll drop by early tomorrow morning. We could…’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know. I have no plans. Or ideas. Does that sound OK?’

She smiled.

‘That sounds perfect.’

He looked at her lips. Hesitated. Then he kissed her and left.

‘Here?’ the policeman behind the wheel asked, looking in the mirror. ‘Isn’t it closed?’

‘Twelve till three in the morning on workdays,’ Harry said.

The driver pulled into the kerb outside the Boxer.

‘Are you coming too, boss?’

Moller shook his head.

‘He wants to talk to you on his own.’

Serving had long since finished and the last guests were in the process of leaving the bar.

The head of Kripos was sitting at the same table as on the previous occasion. His deep eye sockets lay in shadow. The beer in front of him was almost finished. A crack opened in his face.

‘Congratulations, Harry.’

Harry squeezed his way in between the bench and the table.

‘Really good work. But you must tell me how you worked out that Sven Sivertsen was not the Courier Killer.’

‘I saw a photo of Sivertsen in Prague and remembered that I’d seen a photo of Wilhelm and Lisbeth in the same place. On top of that, forensics examined the remains of the excrement under…’

The Chief Superintendent leaned across the table and placed his hand on Harry’s arm. His breath smelled of beer and tobacco.

‘I don’t mean proof, Harry. I mean the idea. The suspicion. Whatever made you link the clues with the right man. What was the moment of inspiration? What was it that made you formulate the thought?’

Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘You think all sorts of thoughts all the time. But…’

‘Yes?’

‘It all fitted too well.’

‘What do you mean?’

Harry scratched his chin. ‘Did you know that Duke Ellington used to ask the piano tuners not to tune the piano to perfect pitch?’

‘No.’

‘When a piano is tuned to perfection, it doesn’t sound good. There’s nothing wrong, it just loses some of the warmth, the feeling of genuineness.’

Harry poked at a piece of varnish on the table that was coming loose.

‘The Courier Killer gave us a perfect code that told us where and when. But not why. In this way he made us focus on actions rather than the motive. Every hunter knows that if you want to see your prey in the dark, you mustn’t focus on it directly, but beside it. It was when I stopped staring at facts that I heard it.’

‘Heard it?’

‘Yes. I could hear that these so-called serial killings were too perfect. They sounded right, but they didn’t sound genuine. The killings followed the formula down to the last detail; they gave us an explanation that was as plausible as any lie, but seldom as plausible as the truth.’

‘And you knew that?’

‘No, but I stopped being so myopic and my vision cleared.’

The head of Kripos nodded while staring down into the bulbous beer glass which he kept rotating between his hands on the table. It sounded like a grindstone in the quiet, almost deserted bar.

He cleared his throat.

‘I was wrong about Tom Waaler, Harry. And I apologise.’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘What I wanted to say to you is that I didn’t sign your dismissal papers. I would like you to continue working. I want you to know that you have my confidence. My complete and unreserved confidence. And I hope, Harry…’

He raised his head and an opening – a kind of smile – appeared in the lower half of his face.

‘… that I have yours.’

‘I’ll have to think about it,’Harry said.

The opening closed.

‘About the job,’ he added.

The head of Kripos smiled again. This time it also reached his eyes.

‘Of course. Let me buy you a beer, Harry. They’ve closed but if I say.’

‘I’m an alcoholic.’

The head of Kripos was caught off-balance for a moment. Then he chuckled.

‘Apologies. Thoughtless of me. But one other thing, Harry. Have you…’

Harry waited as the glass completed another circuit.

‘Have you thought about how you’re going to present this case?’

‘Present?’

‘Yes. In the report. And to the press. They’re going to want to talk to you. And they’ll put the whole service under the magnifying glass if this arms smuggling of Waaler’s comes out. For this reason it’s vital that you don’t say…’

Harry searched for his packet of cigarettes while the Chief Superintendent searched for words.

‘… that you don’t give them a version which leaves room for misinterpretation,’ he said finally.

Harry stretched his lips in a thin smile and looked at his last cigarette.

The head of Kripos made up his mind, resolutely downed the last of his beer and dried his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Did he say anything?’

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you thinking about Waaler?’

‘Yes. Did he say anything before he died? Anything about who his partners were? Who else was involved?’

Harry decided to save the last cigarette. ‘No, he didn’t say anything. Not a thing.’

‘Shame.’ The head of Kripos observed him with a blank expression. ‘What about these film recordings that were done? Do they reveal anything of that kind?’

Harry met the head of Kripos ’s blue eyes. As far as Harry knew, the head of Kripos had been in the police force all his working life. His nose was as sharp as an axe blade, his mouth a straight line and surly, and his hands large and coarse. He was part of the bedrock of the Force: solid but secure granite.

‘Who knows?’ Harry answered. ‘There’s not much to worry about anyway. Since in this case it will be a version that leaves no room for…’ Harry finally poked the dry crust of varnish free. ‘… misinterpretation.’

As if on cue, the lights in the bar began to flicker.

Harry stood up.

They looked at each other.

‘Do you need a lift?’ the head of Kripos asked.

Harry shook his head.

‘I’ll go for a stroll.’

The head of Kripos shook Harry’s hand firmly and at length. Harry was going towards the door when he stopped and turned round.

‘By the way, Waaler did say one thing.’

The head of Kripos ’s white eyebrows fell.

‘Oh?’ he said cautiously.

‘Yes. He asked for mercy.’

Harry took the shortcut through Our Saviour’s Cemetery. The rain was dripping from the trees. The drops hit the leaves beneath with small sighs before they fell to the ground and the thirsty earth absorbed them. He walked on the path between the graves and heard the dead talking in mumbles. He stopped and listened. Gamle Aker church hall stood ahead of him, dark and dormant. There was the whispering sound of wet tongues and cheeks. He took the left fork and went out through the gate towards Telthus hill.