Hagen didn’t answer.

‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘So Bellman and Kripos have got that, too.’

Harry received the odd measured nod on his way through the corridors of the red zone on the sixth floor. A legend in the building he might have been, but he had never been a popular man.

They passed an office door on which someone had glued an A4 piece of paper saying ‘I SEE DEAD PEOPLE’.

Hagen cleared his throat. ‘I had to let Magnus Skarre take over your office. Everywhere else is bursting at the seams.’

‘No worries,’ Harry said.

They each took their paper cup of the infamous percolated coffee from the kitchenette.

Inside Hagen’s office Harry settled in the chair facing the POB’s desk, where he had sat so many times.

‘You’ve still got it, I see,’ Harry said, pointing with his head to the memento on the desk that, at first sight, resembled a white exclamation mark. It was a stuffed little finger. Harry knew it had once belonged to a Japanese Second World War commander. In retreat, the commander had cut off his finger in front of his men to apologise for not being able to return and pick up their dead. Hagen loved to use the story when he was teaching middle management about leadership.

‘And you still haven’t.’ Hagen nodded towards the hand, minus middle finger, Harry was using to hold the paper cup.

Harry conceded the point and drank. The coffee hadn’t changed, either. Liquefied tarmac.

Harry grimaced. ‘I need a team of three.’

Hagen drank slowly and put down the cup. ‘Not more?’

‘You always ask that. You know I don’t work with large teams of detectives.’

‘In that case I won’t complain. Fewer people means less chance of Kripos and the Ministry of Justice catching wind of our investigations into the double murder.’

‘Triple murder,’ Harry said with a yawn.

‘Hold on, we don’t know if Marit Olsen-’

‘Woman alone at night, abducted, murdered in an unconventional manner. The third time in little old Oslo. Triple. Believe me. But however many there are of us, you can take it from me that we will take bloody good care that our paths don’t cross those of Kripos.’

‘Yes,’ Hagen said. ‘I do know that. That’s why it’s a condition that if the investigation were to be brought to light, it has nothing to do with Crime Squad.’

Harry closed his eyes. Hagen went on.

‘Of course we will regret that some of our employees have been involved, but make it clear that this is something the notorious maverick Harry Hole initiated off his own bat, without the knowledge of the unit head. And you will confirm that version of events.’

Harry opened his eyes again and stared at Hagen.

Hagen met his stare. ‘Any questions?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Where’s the leak?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Who’s informing Bellman?’

Hagen rolled his shoulders. ‘I don’t have the impression that he has any systematic access to what we’re doing. He could have caught a sniff of your return in lots of places.’

‘I know Magnus Skarre has a habit of talking anywhere and anyhow.’

‘Don’t ask me any more questions, Harry.’

‘OK. Where should we set up shop?’

‘Right. Right.’ Gunnar Hagen nodded several times as if that were something they had already discussed. ‘As far as an office is concerned…’

‘Yes?’

‘As I said, the place is full to bursting, so we’ll have to find somewhere outside, but not too far away.’

‘Fine. Where then?’

Hagen looked out of the window. At the grey walls of Botsen.

‘You’re kidding,’ Harry said.

14

Recruitment

Bjorn Holm entered the conference room at Krimteknisk in the Bryn district of Oslo. Outside the windows, the sun was relinquishing its grip on the house fronts and casting the town into afternoon gloom. The car park was packed, and in front of the entrance to Kripos, across the road, there was a white bus with a soup dish on the roof and the Norwegian Broadcasting Company logo on its side.

The only person in the room was his boss, Beate Lonn, an unusually pale, petite and quiet-mannered woman. Had one not known any better, one might have thought a person like this would have problems leading a group of experienced, professional, self-aware, always quirky and seldom conflict-shy forensics officers. Had one known better, one would have realised she was the only person who could deal with them. Not primarily because they respected the fact that she stood erect and proud despite losing two policemen to the eternity shift, first her father and later the father of her child. But because, in their group, she was the best, and radiated such unimpeachability, integrity and gravity that when Beate Lonn whispered an order with downcast gaze and flushed cheeks, it was carried out on the spot. So Bjorn Holm had come as soon as he was informed.

She was sitting in a chair drawn up close to the TV monitor.

‘They’re recording live from the press conference,’ she said without turning. ‘Take a seat.’

Holm immediately recognised the people on the screen. How strange it was, it struck him, to be watching signals that had travelled thousands of kilometres out into space and back, just to show him what was happening right now on the opposite side of the street.

Beate Lonn turned up the volume.

‘You have understood correctly,’ said Mikael Bellman, leaning towards the microphone on the table in front of him. ‘For the present we have neither leads nor suspects. And to repeat myself once again: we have not ruled out the possibility of suicide.’

‘But you said-’ began a voice from the body of journalists present.

Bellman cut her off. ‘I said we regard the death as suspicious. I am sure you’re familiar with the terminology. If not, you should.. .’ He left the end of the sentence hanging in the air and pointed to a person behind the camera.

‘Stavanger Aftenblad,’ came the slow bleat of the Rogaland dialect. ‘Do the police see a connection between this death and the two in-?’

‘No! If you’d been following, you would have heard me say that we do not rule out a connection.’

‘I caught that,’ continued the slow, imperturbable dialect. ‘But those of us here are more interested in what you think rather than what you don’t rule out.’

Bjorn Holm could see Bellman giving the man the evil eye as impatience strained at the corners of his mouth. A uniformed woman officer at Bellman’s side placed her hand over the microphone, leaned in to him and whispered something. The POB’s face darkened.

‘Mikael Bellman is getting a crash course in how to deal with the media,’ said Bjorn Holm. ‘Lesson one, stroke the ones with hair, especially the provincial newspapers.’

‘He’s new to the job,’ Beate Lonn said. ‘He’ll learn.’

‘Think so?’

‘Yes. Bellman’s the type to learn.’

‘Humility’s hard to learn, I’ve heard.’

‘Genuine humility, that’s true. But to grovel when it suits you is basic to modern communication. That’s what Ninni’s telling him. And Bellman’s smart enough to appreciate that.’

On-screen, Bellman coughed, forced an almost boyish smile and leaned into the microphone. ‘I apologise if I sounded a bit brusque, but it’s been a long day for all of us, and I hope you understand that we are simply impatient to get back to the investigation into this tragic case. We have to finish here, but if any of you have any further questions, please direct them to Ninni, and I promise I will try to return to you later this evening. Before the deadline. Is that OK?’

‘What did I say?’ Beate laughed triumphantly.

‘A star is born,’ Bjorn said.

The picture imploded and Beate Lonn turned. ‘Harry called. He wants me to hand you over.’

‘Me?’ said Bjorn Holm. ‘To do what?’

‘You know very well what. I heard you were with Gunnar Hagen at the airport when Harry arrived.’