‘Well, the Makarov is the favourite gun for organised crime in former Soviet countries. And the Fort 12, which is used by the police in Ukraine. Plus a couple more.’

‘True. We found the empty cartridges on the floor with powder residue. The Makarov powder has a different mix of saltpetre and sulphur, and they also use a bit of spirit, like in sulphurless powder. The chemical compound of the powder on the empty cartridge and around the entry wound matches the residue on Oleg’s hand.’

‘Mm. And the weapon?’

‘Hasn’t been recovered. We had divers and teams searching in and around the river, with no success. That doesn’t mean the gun isn’t there, with all the mud and sludge… well, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘Two of the guys who lived here said that Oleg was flashing a pistol and boasting it was the type the Russian mafia used. Neither of them is gun-savvy, but after being shown pictures of about a hundred guns both are supposed to have picked out an Odessa. And it uses, as you probably know…’

Harry nodded. Makarov, nine by eighteen millimetre. It was unmistakable. The first time he had seen an Odessa, he had been reminded of the old futuristic-looking pistol on the cover of Foo Fighters, one of many CDs that had ended up with Rakel and Oleg.

‘And I assume they’re rock-solid witnesses with only a tiny little drug problem?’

Beate didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Harry knew she knew what he was doing, grasping at straws.

‘And Oleg’s blood and urine samples,’ Harry said, straightening his jacket sleeves, as if it were important, here and now, that they didn’t ride up. ‘What did they reveal?’

‘Violin was an active ingredient. Being high might be seen as a mitigating circumstance of course.’

‘Mm. That presupposes he was high before he shot Gusto Hanssen. But what about the motive then?’

Beate sent Harry a vacant stare. ‘The motive?’

He knew what she was thinking: is it possible to imagine one addict killing another for anything other than dope? ‘If Oleg was already high why would he kill anyone?’ he asked. ‘Drug-related murders like this one are as a rule a spontaneous, desperate act, motivated by a craving for drugs or the start of withdrawal symptoms.’

‘Motive’s your department,’ Beate said. ‘I’m in Forensics.’

Harry breathed in. ‘OK. Anything else?’

‘I imagined you would want to see the photos,’ Beate said, opening a slim leather case.

Harry took the pile of photographs. The first thing to strike him was Gusto’s beauty. There was no other expression for it. Handsome, attractive didn’t cover it. Even dead, with closed eyes and his shirt soaked in blood, Gusto Hanssen still had the indefinable but evident beauty of a young Elvis Presley, the kind of looks that appeal to both men and women, like the androgynous beautification of idols you find in every religion. He thumbed through. After several full-length shots the photographer had taken close-ups of the face and the bullet wounds.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to a picture of Gusto’s right hand.

‘He had blood under his fingernails. We took swabs, but I’m afraid they were destroyed.’

‘Destroyed?’

‘It can happen, Harry.’

‘Not in your department.’

‘The blood was destroyed on the way to DNA testing in the Pathology Unit. In fact, we weren’t that upset. The blood was quite fresh, but still congealed enough for it not to be relevant to the time of the murder. And, inasmuch as the victim was a needle addict, it was highly probable it was his own. But…’

‘… But if not, it’s always interesting to know who he had been fighting with that day. Look at his shoes…’ He showed Beate one of the full-length shots. ‘Aren’t they Alberto Fascianis?’

‘Had no idea you knew so much about shoes, Harry.’

‘One of my clients in Hong Kong manufactures them.’

‘Client, eh? And to my knowledge original Fasciani shoes are manufactured only in Italy.’

Harry shrugged. ‘Impossible to see the difference. But if they are Fascianis they don’t exactly match the rest of his clothes. Looks like an outfit doled out by the Watchtower.’

‘The shoes could be stolen,’ Beate said. ‘Gusto Hanssen’s nickname was the Thief. He was famous for stealing anything he came across, not least dope. There’s a story going round that he stole a retired sniffer dog in Sweden and used it to sniff out drug stashes.’

‘Perhaps he found Oleg’s,’ Harry said. ‘Has he said anything under questioning?’

‘Still as silent as a clam. The only thing he says is it’s all a black void. He doesn’t even remember being in the flat.’

‘Perhaps he wasn’t.’

‘We found his DNA, Harry. Hair, sweat.’

‘He did live and sleep here.’

‘On the body, Harry.’

Harry fell silent, stared into the distance.

Beate raised a hand, perhaps to put on his shoulder, but changed her mind and let it drop. ‘Have you had a chat with him?’

Harry shook his head. ‘He threw me out.’

‘He’s ashamed.’

‘Guess so.’

‘I mean it. You’re his idol. It’s humiliating for him to be seen in this state.’

‘Humiliating? I’ve dried the boy’s tears, I’ve blown on his grazes. Chased away trolls and left the light on.’

‘That boy no longer exists, Harry. The present Oleg doesn’t want to be helped by you now; he wants to live up to you.’

Harry stamped on the floorboards while looking at the wall. ‘I’m not worth it, Beate. He knows that.’

‘Harry…’

‘Shall we go down to the river?’

Sergey stood in front of the mirror with both arms hanging down by his sides. Flicked the safety catch and pressed the button. The blade shot out and reflected the light. It was an attractive knife, a Siberian switchblade, or ‘the iron’ as the urkas — the criminal class in Siberia — called it. It was the world’s best weapon to stab with. A long, slim shaft with a long, thin blade. The tradition was that you were given it from an older criminal in the family when you had done something to deserve it. However, traditions were receding; nowadays you bought, stole or pirated the knife. This knife, though, had been a present from his uncle. According to Andrey, ataman had kept the knife under his mattress before it was given to Sergey. He thought about the myth that if you put the iron under the mattress of a sick person it absorbed the pain and suffering and transferred them to the next person stabbed with it. This was one of the myths the urkas loved so much, like the one that claimed if anyone came into the possession of your knife he would soon meet with an accident and death. Old romanticism and superstition, which were on their way out. Nonetheless, he had received the gift with enormous, perhaps exaggerated, reverence. And why shouldn’t he? He owed his uncle everything. He was the one who had got him out of the trouble he had landed in, organised his papers so that he could come to Norway; his uncle had even sorted out the cleaning job at Gardermoen for him. It was well paid, and easy to find, but apparently it was the type of work Norwegians declined; they preferred to draw social security. And the minor offences Sergey brought with him from Russia were no problem either; his uncle had had his criminal record doctored. So Sergey had kissed his benefactor’s blue ring when he was given the present. And Sergey had to admit that the knife in his hand was very beautiful. A dark brown handle made from deer horn inlaid with an ivory-coloured Orthodox cross.

Sergey pushed from the hip the way he had been taught, could feel he was properly poised, and thrust upwards. In and out. In and out. Fast, but not so fast that the blade did not enter to the hilt, each and every time.

The reason it had to be with the knife was that the man he was going to kill was a policeman. And when policemen are killed the hunt afterwards was always more intensive, so it was vital to leave as few clues as possible. A bullet could always be traced back to places, weapons or people. A slash from a smooth, clean knife was anonymous. A stabbing wasn’t quite as anonymous, it could reveal the length and shape of the blade, that was why Andrey had told him not to stab the policeman in the heart, but to cut his carotid artery. Sergey had never cut anyone’s throat before, nor stabbed anyone in the heart, just knifed a Georgian in the thigh for no more than being a Georgian. So he had decided he needed something to train on, something living. His Pakistani neighbour had three cats, and every morning he walked into the entrance hall the smell of cat piss assailed his nostrils.