‘What happened?’

‘The pressure built up.’

‘I mean to you.’

‘I’m talking about me.’ She fancied she saw a hint of a smile. ‘I exploded and started drinking on the plane. I was ordered off in Hong Kong.’

‘There are several flights to Manila.’

‘I realised that apart from volcanoes Manila has nothing that Hong Kong doesn’t have.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as distance from Norway.’

Kaja nodded. She had read the reports on the Snowman case.

‘And most importantly,’ he said, pointing with a chopstick, ‘Hong Kong’s got Li Yuan’s glass noodles. Try them. That’s reason enough to apply for citizenship.’

‘That and opium?’

It was not her style to be so direct, but she knew she would have to swallow her natural shyness. This was her one shot at achieving what she had come to do.

He shrugged and concentrated on the noodles.

‘Do you smoke opium regularly?’

‘Irregularly.’

‘And why do you do that?’

He answered with food in his mouth. ‘So that I don’t drink. I’m an alkie. There, for example, is another advantage of Hong Kong compared with Manila. Lower sentences for dope. And cleaner prisons.’

‘I knew about your alcoholism, but are you a drug addict?’

‘Define drug addict.’

‘Do you have to take drugs?’

‘No, but I want to.’

‘Why?’

‘To numb the senses. This sounds like a job interview for a job I don’t want, Solness. Have you ever smoked opium?’

Kaja shook her head. She had tried marijuana a few times backpacking around South America but had not been particularly fond of it.

‘But the Chinese have. Two hundred years ago the British imported opium from India to improve the trade balance. They turned half of China into junkies just like that.’ He flicked the fingers of his free hand. ‘And when, sensibly enough, the Chinese authorities banned opium, the British went to war for their right to drug China into submission. Imagine Colombia bombing New York because the Americans confiscated a bit of cocaine on the border.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘I see it as my duty, as a European, to smoke some of the shit we have imported into this country.’

Kaja could hear herself laughing. She really needed to get some sleep.

‘I was tailing you when you did the deal,’ she said. ‘I saw how you do it. There was money in the bottle when you put it down. And opium afterwards. Isn’t that right?’

‘Mm,’ Harry said with a mouth full of noodles. ‘Have you worked at the Narc Unit?’

She shook her head. ‘Why the baby’s bottle?’

Harry stretched his arms above his head. The soup bowl in front of him was empty. ‘Opium stinks something awful. If you’ve got a ball of it in your pocket or in foil, the narco dogs can sniff you out even in a huge crowd. There is no money back on baby’s bottles, so no chance of some kid or some drunk nicking it during a handover. That has happened.’

Kaja nodded slowly. He had started to relax, it was just a question of persisting. Anyone who hasn’t spoken their mother tongue for a while gets chatty when they meet a compatriot. It’s natural. Keep going.

‘You like horses?’

He was chewing on a toothpick. ‘Not really. They’re so bloody moody.’

‘But you like betting on them?’

‘I like it, but compulsive gambling is not one of my vices.’

He smiled, and again it struck her how his smile transformed him, made him human, accessible, boyish. And she was reminded of the glimpse of open sky she had caught over Melden Row.

‘Gambling is a poor winning strategy long term. But if you have nothing left to lose, it’s the only strategy. I bet everything I had, plus a fair bit I didn’t have, on one single race.’

‘You put everything you had on one horse?’

‘Two. A quinella. You pick out the two horses to come first and second, regardless which of the two is the winner.’

‘And you borrowed money from the Triad?’

For the first time she saw astonishment in Harry’s eyes.

‘What makes a serious Chinese gangster cartel lend money to an opium-smoking foreigner who has nothing to lose?’

‘Well,’ Harry said, producing a cigarette, ‘as a foreigner you have access to the VIP box at Happy Valley racecourse for the first three weeks after your passport has been stamped.’ He lit his cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling fan, which was turning so slowly that the flies were taking rides on it. ‘There are dress codes, so I had a suit made. The first two weeks were enough to give me a taste for it. I met Herman Kluit, a South African who earned himself a fortune in minerals in Africa. He taught me how to lose quite a lot of money in style. I simply loved the concept. The evening before race day in the third week Kluit invited me to dinner, at which he entertained the guests by exhibiting his collection of African torture instruments from Goma. And that was where I got insider info from Kluit’s chauffeur. The favourite for one of the races was injured, but this titbit was being kept secret because it was going to run anyway. The point was that it was such a clear favourite that a minus pool came into question, that is, it would be impossible to earn any money by betting on it. However, there was money to be earned by hedging your bets with several of the others. For example, with quinellas. But, of course, that would require quite a bit of capital if you were going to earn anything. I was given a loan by Kluit on the basis of my honest face. And a made-to-measure suit.’ Harry studied the glow of his cigarette and seemed to be smiling at the thought.

‘And?’ Kaja asked.

‘And the favourite won by six lengths.’ Harry shrugged. ‘When I explained to Kluit that I didn’t own a bean he seemed genuinely sorry and explained politely that, as a businessman, he was obliged to stick to his business principles. He assured me that these did not include the use of Congolese torture weapons, but quite simply selling debts to the Triad with a discount. Which, he conceded, was not a lot better. But in my case he would wait thirty-six hours before he sold so that I could get out of Hong Kong.’

‘But you didn’t go?’

‘Sometimes I’m a bit slow on the uptake.’

‘And afterwards?’

Harry opened his hands. ‘This. Chungking.’

‘Future plans?’

Harry shrugged and went to stub out his cigarette. And Kaja was reminded of the record cover Even had shown her with the picture of Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols. And the music playing in the background, ‘No fu-ture, no fu-ture.’

He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You’ve heard what you need, Kaja Solness.’

‘Need?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you?’ He stood up. ‘Do you think I babble on about opium and debts because I’m one lonely Norwegian meeting another?’

She didn’t answer.

‘It’s because I want you to appreciate that I am not the man you all need. So that you can go back without feeling you haven’t done your job. So that you don’t get into trouble in stairwells, and I can sleep in peace without wondering whether you will lead my creditors straight to me.’

She looked at him. There was something severe, ascetic, about him, yet this was contradicted by the amusement dancing in his eyes, saying that you didn’t need to take everything so seriously. Or to be more exact: that he didn’t give a flying fuck.

‘Wait.’ Kaja opened her bag and took out a small, red booklet, passed it to him and observed the reaction. Saw incredulity spread across his face as he flicked through it.

‘Shit, looks just like my passport.’

‘It is.’

‘I doubt Crime Squad had the budget for this.’

‘Your debts have sunk in value,’ she lied. ‘I got a discount.’

‘I hope for your sake you did because I have no intention of returning to Oslo.’

Kaja subjected him to a long stare. Dreading it. There was no way out now. She was being forced to play her final card, the one Gunnar Hagen had said she should leave to last if the old bastard proved obdurate.