Distant cannons rumbled in the armada of clouds, and it was as dark as night when Harry got into his car. He started the engine and rang Hans Christian Simonsen.

‘Harry here. What are the current penalties for grave desecration?’

‘Er, four to six years, I would guess.’

‘Are you willing to risk that?’

A tiny pause. Then: ‘To what end?’

‘To catch the person who killed Gusto. And perhaps the person who’s after Oleg.’

‘And if I’m not willing?’

A very tiny pause. ‘I’m in.’

‘OK, find out where Gusto is buried and get some spades, a torch, nail scissors and two screwdrivers. We’ll do it tomorrow night.’

As Harry drove across Solli plass the rain came. It lashed the rooftops, lashed the streets, lashed the man standing in Kvadraturen opposite the open door to the bar.

The boy in reception sent Harry a dour look as he came in.

‘Would you like to borrow an umbrella?’

‘Not unless your hotel’s leaking,’ Harry said, running a hand through his brush-like hair and sending a fine spray through the air. ‘Any messages?’

The boy laughed as if it were a joke.

As Harry was climbing the stairs to the second floor he thought he heard footsteps further down and stopped. Listened. Silence. Either it had been the echo of his own steps he had heard, or else the other person had stopped as well.

Harry walked on slowly. In the corridor he increased his speed, inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. Scanned the darkened room and peered across the yard to the woman’s illuminated room. No one there. No one there, no one here.

He switched on the light.

As it came on he saw his reflection in the window. And someone else standing behind him. At once he felt a heavy hand squeeze his shoulder.

Only a phantom can be so fast and silent, Harry thought, whirling round, but he knew it was already too late.

‘I saw them. Once. It was like a wake.’

Cato still had his large, dirty hand resting on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry heard himself gasp and felt his lungs pressing against the inside of his ribs.

‘Who?’

‘I was talking to someone selling the devilry. His name was Bisken and he wore a leather dog collar. He came to me because he was frightened. The police had hauled him in for possession of heroin, and he had told Beret Man where Dubai lived. Beret Man had promised him protection and an amnesty if he would testify in court. And while I was standing there they came in a black car. Black suits, black gloves. He was old. Broad face. He looked like a white aborigine.’

‘Who?’

‘I saw him, but… he wasn’t there. Like a phantom. And when Bisken saw him he didn’t move, didn’t try to run or struggle when they took him with them. After they’d gone it was as if I’d dreamt it all up.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘Because I’m a coward. Have you got a ciggy?’

Harry gave him the pack, and Cato fell into the chair.

‘You’re chasing a ghost, and I don’t want to be involved.’

‘But?’

Cato shrugged and held out his hand. Harry passed him the lighter.

‘I’m an old, dying man. I have nothing to lose.’

‘Are you dying?’

Cato lit his cigarette. ‘It’s not acute, perhaps, but we’re all dying, Harry. I just want to help you.’

‘With what?’

‘Don’t know. What plans have you got?’

‘Can I trust you?’

‘Christ, no, you can’t trust me. But I’m a shaman. I can also make myself invisible. I can come and go without anyone noticing.’

Harry rubbed his chin. ‘Why?’

‘I told you why.’

‘I’m asking again.’

Cato looked at Harry, first with a reproachful glare. Then, when that didn’t help, he heaved a deep sigh of annoyance. ‘Perhaps I had a son once myself. One I didn’t treat as well as I should have. Perhaps it’s a new opportunity. Don’t you believe in fresh opportunities, Harry?’

Harry eyed the old man. The furrows in his face looked even deeper in the darkness, like valleys, like slashes from a knife. Harry thrust out his hand, and reluctantly Cato took the cigarettes from his pocket and handed them back.

‘I appreciate it, Cato. I’ll tell you if I need you. But what I’m going to do now is link Dubai to Gusto’s death. From there the tracks will lead directly on to the burner in the police and the killing of the undercover cop who was drowned in Dubai’s house.’

Cato slowly shook his head. ‘You have a pure and courageous heart, Harry. Perhaps you’ll go to heaven.’

Harry poked a cigarette between his lips. ‘So there’ll be a kind of happy ending after all then.’

‘Which has to be celebrated. May I offer you a drink, Harry Hole?’

‘Who’s paying?’

‘Me, of course. If you stump up. You can say hello to your Jim, I can say hello to my Johnnie.’

‘Get thee hence.’

‘Come on. Jim’s a good man deep down.’

‘Goodnight. Sleep well.’

‘Goodnight. And don’t sleep too well, in case-’

‘Goodnight.’

It had been there all the time, but Harry had succeeding in suppressing it. Up until now, up until Cato’s invitation. It was enough, it was impossible to ignore the gnawing now. It had started with the violin fix, that had set it in motion, had released the dogs again. And now they were baying and clawing, barking themselves hoarse and gnashing at his intestines. Harry lay on the bed with his eyes closed, listening to the rain and hoping sleep would come and carry him away.

It didn’t.

He had a phone number in his mobile he had apportioned two letters. AA. Alcoholics Anonymous. Trygve, an AA member and sponsor he had used several times before at critical points. Three years. Why start now, now there was everything to play for and he needed more than ever to be sober? It was madness. He heard a scream outside. Followed by laughter.

At ten past eleven he got up and left. He barely registered the rain splashing down on his skull as he crossed the street to the open door. And this time he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, for Kurt Cobain’s voice filled his auditory canals, the music like an embrace, and he stepped inside, sat on the stool by the counter and called to the barman.

‘Whis… key. Jim… Beam.’

The barman stopped wiping down the counter, put the cloth beside the corkscrew and lifted the bottle from the mirror shelf. Poured. Set the glass on the counter. Harry placed his forearms either side of the glass and stared into the golden-brown liquid. And for that moment nothing else existed.

Not Nirvana, not Oleg, not Rakel, not Gusto, not Dubai. Not Tord Schultz’s face. Not the figure that muffled the street noise as it came in. Nor the movement behind him. Nor the singing tone of the springs as the blade shot out. Nor the heavy breathing of Sergey Ivanov standing a metre from him with legs together and hands held low.

Sergey looked at the man’s back. He had both arms resting on the counter. It couldn’t be more perfect. The hour had come. His heart was pounding. Pounding wildly with fresh blood, as it had done the first time he had fetched the heroin packages from the cockpit. All fear was gone. Because he knew now, he was alive. He was alive and about to kill the man before him. Take his life, make it part of his own. The very idea of it made him grow; it was as though he had already consumed the enemy’s heart. Now. The movements. Sergey took a deep breath, stepped forward and placed his left hand on Harry’s head. As if in blessing. As if he were going to baptise him.

Sergey Ivanov couldn’t get a hold. Simply could not get a hold. The damn rain had soaked the man’s skull and hair, and the short spikes slipped through his fingers preventing him from snatching his head back. Sergey’s left hand shot forward again, grasped the man’s forehead and pulled it to him as he brought the knife round his throat. The man’s body jerked. Sergey slashed with the knife, felt it make contact, felt it slice through skin. There! The hot jet of blood on his thumb. Not as deep as he expected, but three more heartbeats and it would all be over. He raised his gaze to the mirror to see the fountain. He saw a bared row of teeth and beneath that a gaping wound from which blood was streaming down the front of the shirt. And the man’s eyes. It was that look — a cold, angry predatory glare — that made him realise the job was not yet done.