Her fingers closed around his neck and pulled his head down as she hoisted herself up on tiptoes. Her eyes lost focus, became a glittering sea and then she shut them. Her lips were half open as they met his. She held him and he didn’t move, just felt the sweet dagger in his stomach, like a rush of morphine.

She let go of him.

‘Sleep well, Harry.’

He nodded.

She turned and walked away. He closed the door quietly behind him.

He cleared away the cups, rinsed the kettle and had just put it away when the doorbell rang.

He went to answer it.

‘I forgot something,’ she said.

‘What was that?’ he asked.

She lifted her hand and stroked his brow. ‘What you look like.’

He pulled her close. Her skin. The scent. He fell, a wonderful dizzying spiral downwards.

‘I want you,’ she whispered. ‘I want to make love to you.’

‘And I want you, too.’

They let go. Looked at each other. A sudden formality seemed to come between them, and for a moment it appeared to him that she had regrets. That he also had regrets. It was too much, too quickly. There were too many other things, there was too much clinker, too much baggage, too many good reasons. Nonetheless she took his hand, timid almost, whispered ‘Come on’ and led him up the stairs.

The bedroom was cold and smelt of parents. He switched on the light.

The spacious double bed was made with two duvets and pillows.

Harry helped her to change the bedlinen.

‘Which side is his?’ she asked.

‘This one,’ Harry pointed.

‘And he continued to sleep there after she was gone,’ she said, as if to herself. ‘Just in case.’

They undressed without peeking. Crept under the duvets and met there.

At first they lay close to each other, kissing, exploring, careful not to ruin anything before they knew how it would be. Listened to each other’s breathing and the odd isolated car rushing by. Then their kisses became greedier, their touching bolder, and he heard the excited hiss of her breath against his ear.

‘Are you frightened?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she groaned, grabbing hold of his erection, adjusting her hips and guiding him in, but he moved her hand and did it himself.

There was barely a sound, only a gasp as he penetrated her. He closed his eyes, lay still, enjoying the sensations. Then he began to move slowly, carefully. Opened his eyes, met hers. She seemed on the verge of tears.

‘Kiss me,’ she whispered.

Her tongue coiled around his, smooth underneath, rough on top. Faster and deeper, slower and deeper. She rolled him over without letting go of his tongue and sat astride him. She pressed against his stomach every time she came down on him. Then her tongue released his, and she leaned back and let out a moan. Twice, a deep animal noise that rose, and became high-pitched as she gasped for air and went quiet again. Her throat was thick with the scream that didn’t come. He raised his hand, placed his fingers against the quivering blue artery under the skin on her neck.

And then she screamed, as if in pain, in anger, in liberation. Harry felt his scrotum tighten and came. It was perfect, so unbearably perfect that he threw his hand in the air and banged the wall behind him with his fist. And, as though she had been given a lethal injection, she collapsed on top of him.

They lay like this, limbs strewn randomly, like the dead. Harry felt the blood rush in his ears and well-being surge through his body. That and something he could have sworn was happiness.

He slept and was woken by her getting back into bed and snuggling up close to him. She was wearing one of Olav’s vests. She kissed him, mumbled something and was gone, her breathing light and serene. Harry stared at the ceiling. Letting his thoughts churn, knowing there was no point resisting.

It had been so good. It hadn’t been so good since… since…

The blind wasn’t pulled down and at half past five cones of light from passing cars began to travel across the ceiling as Oslo woke and dragged itself off to work. He looked at her again. And then he was gone, too.

53

Heel Hook

When Harry woke it was nine o’clock, the room was bathed in daylight and there was no one lying beside him. There were four messages on his phone.

The first was from Kaja, saying she was on her way home to get changed for work. And thanking him for… he couldn’t hear what, just a shriek of laughter before she rang off.

The second was from Gunnar Hagen, who was wondering why Harry had not answered any of his calls and saying the press were on his back because of Tony Leike’s unjustified arrest.

The third was from Gunther, who repeated the Dirty Harry witticism and said the Leipzig police had not found Juliana Verni’s passport and therefore could not confirm whether it had been stamped in Kigali or not.

The fourth was from Mikael Bellman, who simply told Harry to be at Kripos for two. He assumed Solness had passed on his instructions.

Harry got up. He felt good. Better than good. Fantastic maybe. He listened to his body. OK, fantastic was an exaggeration.

Harry went downstairs, took out a packet of crispbreads and made the important phone call first.

‘You’re talking to Sos Hole.’ It was Sos, or Sis, as Harry called her. Her voice sounded so formal he had to smile.

‘And you’re talking to Harry Hole,’ he said.

‘Harry!’ She screamed his name two more times.

‘Hi, Sis.’

‘Dad said you were home! Why haven’t you rung before?’

‘I wasn’t ready, Sis. Now I am. Are you?’

‘I’m always ready, Harry. You know that.’

‘Yes, I do. Lunch in town before visiting Dad some time soon? My treat.’

‘Yes! You sound happy, Harry. Is it Rakel? Have you been speaking to her? I spoke to her yesterday. What was that sound? Harry?’

‘Just the crispbreads falling out of the packet onto the floor. What did she want?’

‘To ask about Dad. She’d heard he’s ill.’

‘Was that all?’

‘Yes. No. She said Oleg was fine.’

Harry swallowed. ‘Good. Let’s talk soon then.’

‘Don’t forget. I’m so happy you’re home, Harry! I have so much to tell you!’

Harry put the phone on the worktop and was bending down to pick up the crispbreads when the phone hummed again. Sis was like that, remembering things she should have said after they had rung off. He straightened up.

‘What is it?’

Sonorous clearing of throat. Then a voice introduced itself as Abel. The name was familiar, and Harry instantly ransacked his memory. There were the files of old murder cases, neatly organised with data that never seemed to be deleted: names, faces, house numbers, dates, sound of a voice, colour and year of a car. But he could suddenly forget the name of neighbours who had lived in his block for three years or when Oleg’s birthday was. They called that the detective memory.

Harry listened without interrupting.

‘I see,’ he said at length. ‘Thank you for ringing.’

He hung up and tapped in a new number.

‘Kripos,’ answered a weary receptionist. ‘You are trying to get through to Mikael Bellman.’

‘Yes. Hole from Crime Squad. Where’s Bellman?’

The receptionist informed him of the POB’s whereabouts.

‘Logical,’ Harry said.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she yawned.

‘That’s what he’s doing, isn’t it?’

Harry slipped the phone into his pocket. Stared out of the kitchen window. Crispbread crunched under his feet as he walked.

‘Skoyen Climbing Club’ it said on the glass door facing the car park. Harry pushed the door and entered. On his way in, he had to wait for a class of excited schoolchildren on their way out. He flipped off his boots by a shoe rack at the bottom of the stairs. In the large hall, there were half a dozen people climbing up the ten-metre-high walls, although they looked more like the artificial papier mache mountainsides of Tarzan films Harry and Oystein had seen at Symra cinema when they were kids. Except that these were peppered with multicoloured holds and pegs with loops and carabiner hooks. A discreet smell of soap and sweaty feet emanated from the blue mats on the floor that Harry walked across. He stopped beside a bow-legged, squat man staring intently up at the overhang above them. A rope went from his climbing harness to a man who at that moment was swinging like a pendulum from one arm eight metres above them. At the end of one arc he swung up a foot, threaded the heel under a pink, pear-shaped hold, put the other foot on a piece of the structure and clipped the climbing rope into the top anchor in one elegant sweeping movement.