Harry waited until he had topped the crest and was out of sight before heading south-west towards Madserud alle. Adrenalin had kept him going, but now he could feel his muscles stiffening. For a second, things went black and he thought he had lost consciousness. But then he was back, and a sudden feeling of nausea engulfed him, followed by overwhelming giddiness. He looked down. Blood was oozing from under his jacket sleeve and dripping between his fingers, like strawberry jam off a slice of bread at his grandfather’s house. He wasn’t going to last the distance.

He craned his head. Saw a figure pass through the light under the lamp at the top of the hill. A big man, but with a light running style. Tight-fitting black clothes. Not a police uniform. Could it be a Delta guy? In the middle of the night at such short notice? Because someone was digging in a cemetery?

Harry swayed but managed to steady himself. He had no hope of outrunning anyone in this state. He had to find a place to hide.

Harry aimed for one of the houses in Madserud alle. Left the path, sprinted down a grass slope, had to stretch out his arms so as not to fall, continued across the tarmac road, jumped over the low picket fence, carried on into the apple trees and round the back of the house. Where he threw himself into the long, wet grass. Took a deep breath, felt his stomach constrict, braced himself to vomit. Concentrated on breathing as he listened.

Nothing.

But it was just a matter of time before they would be here. And he needed a decent bandage for his neck. Harry got to his feet and walked to the terrace of the house. Peered through the glass in the door. Dark living room.

He kicked in the glass and slipped his hand inside. Good old naive Norway. The key was in the door. He slid into the gloom.

Held his breath. The bedrooms were probably on the first floor.

He switched on a table lamp.

Plush chairs. Cabinet TV. Encyclopedia. A table covered with family photographs. Knitting. So elderly occupants. And old people sleep well. Or was it badly?

Harry found the kitchen, switched on the light. Searched the drawers. Cutlery, cloths. Tried to remember where they had always kept that kind of thing when he was small. Opened the second-bottom drawer. And there it was. Standard tape, parcel tape, gaffer tape. He grabbed the roll of gaffer tape and opened two doors before he found the bathroom. Pulled off his jacket and shirt, held his head over the bath and the hand-held shower over his neck. Watched the white enamel gain a red filter in a second. Then he dried himself with the T-shirt and squeezed the edges of the wound together with his fingers while winding the silver tape round his neck several times. Tested to make sure it wasn’t too tight. After all he needed some blood to go to the brain. Put on his shirt. Another attack of dizziness. He sat down on the edge of the bath.

He noticed a movement. Raised his head.

From the doorway an elderly woman’s pale face was staring at him with enlarged, frightened eyes. Over her nightdress she was wearing a red, quilted dressing gown. It gave off a strange sheen and electric static whenever she moved. Harry guessed it was made of some synthetic material that no longer existed, was banned, carcinogenic, asbestos or something.

‘I’m a police officer,’ Harry said. Coughed. ‘Ex-police officer. And in a bit of trouble right now.’

She said nothing, just stood there.

‘Of course I’ll pay for the broken glass.’ Harry lifted his jacket off the bathroom floor and took out his wallet. Put some notes on the sink. ‘Hong Kong dollars. They’re… better than they sound.’

He essayed a smile and saw a tear running down wrinkled cheeks.

‘Oh dear,’ Harry said, feeling panic, a sense that he was on the slide, losing control. ‘Don’t be frightened. I really won’t do anything to you. I’ll leave this minute, OK?’

He forced his arm into the jacket sleeve and walked towards her. She backed away, taking tiny, shuffling steps, but not releasing him from her gaze. Harry held up the palms of his hands and made swiftly for the terrace door.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And sorry.’

Then he pushed open the door and went onto the terrace.

The power of the explosion suggested it was a heavy-calibre weapon. Then came the sound of the shot, the primer blast, and that was the confirmation. Harry fell to his knees as the next bullet splintered the back of the garden chair beside him.

A very heavy calibre.

Harry scrabbled back into the living room.

‘Keep down!’ he shouted as the living-room window shattered. Glass tinkled onto the parquet floor, the TV and the table covered with family photographs.

Bent double, Harry ran through the living room, the hall, to the front door. Opened it. Saw the muzzle of flame from the open door of a black limousine under a street lamp. He felt a stinging pain on his face, and a high-pitched, piercing metallic sound rang out. Harry turned automatically and saw that the wall-mounted doorbell had been shot to pieces. Large white splinters of wood stuck out.

Harry retreated. Lay down on the floor.

A heavier calibre than any of the police weapons. Harry thought of the tall figure he had seen running across the ridge. That had not been a police officer.

‘You’ve got something in your cheek…’

It was the woman; she had to shout over the shrill ringing of the bell that had got stuck. She was standing behind him, at the back of the hall. Harry groped with his fingers. It was a splinter of wood. He pulled it out. Had time to think it was lucky it was on the same side as the scar: it shouldn’t reduce his market value to any dramatic extent. Then there was another bang. This time it was the kitchen window. He was running out of Hong Kong dollars.

Over the ringing he could hear sirens in the distance. Harry raised his head. Through the hallway and living room he saw that lights had come on in the surrounding houses. The street was illuminated like a Christmas tree. He was going to be a floodlit moving target whichever route he took. The options were being shot or arrested. No, not even that. They heard the sirens as well, and knew time was running out for them. And he hadn’t returned fire, so they must have assumed he was unarmed. They would follow him. He had to get away. He pulled out his mobile. Shit, why hadn’t he taken the trouble to file his number under T? It wasn’t as if his contacts list was exactly full.

‘What’s the number of directory enquiries again?’ he shouted.

‘The number… for… directory enquiries?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well.’ She stuck a pensive finger in her mouth, tucked the red asbestos gown underneath her as she sat down on a wooden chair. ‘There’s 1880. But I think they’re nicer on 1881. They’re not as quick or stressed. They take their time and have a chat if you’ve-’

‘Enquiries 1880,’ said a nasal voice in Harry’s ear.

‘Asbjorn Treschow,’ Harry said. ‘With a c and an h.’

‘We’ve got an Asbjorn Berthold Treschow in Oppsal, Oslo, and an Asbjo-’

‘That’s him! Could you give me his mobile number?’

Three seconds of an eternity later a familiar crabby voice answered.

‘I don’t want any.’

‘Tresko?’

Protracted pause without an answer. Harry visualised his fat friend’s astonished face.

‘Harry? Long time-’

‘Are you at work?’

‘Yes.’ The extended e indicated suspicion. No one rang Tresko for no reason.

‘I need a quick favour.’

‘Yes, I suppose you do. Doh, what about the hundred kroner you borrowed? You said-’

‘I need you to turn off the electricity in the Frogner Park / Madserud alle area.’

‘You what?’

‘We’ve got a police emergency here. There’s a guy gone nuts with a gun. We need cover of darkness. Are you still at the substation in Montebello?’

Another pause.

‘So far, but are you still a cop?’