‘It was Bellman who took Truls Berntsen along to Orgkrim,’ Harry said. ‘Is it conceivable that Berntsen is doing the burner jobs under Bellman’s instructions?’

‘You’re aware of what we’re moving into here, Harry?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘And from now on you don’t have anything to do with it, Beate.’

‘Try bloody stopping me!’ The phone diaphragm crackled. Harry couldn’t remember Beate Lonn ever swearing before. ‘This is my police force, Harry. I don’t want people like Berntsen dragging it down into the dirt.’

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘But let’s not draw any hasty conclusions. The only evidence we have is that Bellman met Gusto. We don’t even have anything concrete on Truls Berntsen yet.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to start somewhere else. And if it’s what I hope it is, the pieces will topple against each other like dominoes. The problem is staying free long enough to launch the plan.’

‘Do you mean to say you have a plan?’

‘Of course I have a plan.’

‘A good plan?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But a plan?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’

‘Not half.’

I was racing into Oslo on the E18 when I realised how deep the mess I had landed myself in was.

Bellman had tried to drag me upstairs. To the bedroom. Where he had the pistol he chased me with. He was willing to fricking liquidate me to keep my mouth shut. Which could only mean he was up to his knees in shit. So, what would he do now? Get me busted of course. For stealing a car, drug dealing, not paying the hotel bill, there was quite a selection. Put me behind bars before I could blab to anyone. And as soon as I was banged up and gagged, there was little doubt about what would happen: they would make it look either like suicide or like another inmate had nobbled me. So the stupidest thing I could do would be to drive around in this car that they probably already had on their radar. So I put my foot down. The place I was going was on the east of town, and I could avoid going through the centre. I drove up the hill, headed for the quiet residential areas. Parked some distance away and started walking.

The sun had appeared again, and people were out and about, pushing prams, with disposable barbecues in those net bags hanging from the handles. Grinning at the sun as if it were happiness itself.

I chucked the car keys into a garden and walked up to the flats.

Found the name on the doorbell and rang.

‘It’s me,’ I said when he eventually answered.

‘I’m a bit busy,’ said the voice in the intercom.

‘And I’m a drug addict,’ I said. It was meant as a joke, but I felt the impact of the words. Oleg thought it was funny when for a laugh I occasionally asked punters whether perhaps they were suffering from drug addiction and wanted some violin.

‘What do you want?’ the voice asked.

‘I want some violin.’

The punters’ line had become mine.

Pause.

‘Haven’t got any. Run out. No base to make any more.’

‘Base?’

‘Levorphanol base. Do you want the formula as well?’

I knew it was the truth, but he had to have some. Had to. I pondered. I couldn’t go to the rehearsal room, they were bound to be waiting for me. Oleg. Good old Oleg would let me in.

‘You’ve got two hours, Ibsen. If you haven’t come to Hausmanns gate with four quarters I’ll go straight to the cops and tell all. There’s nothing for me to lose any more. Do you understand? Hausmanns gate 92. You go straight in and it’s on the second floor.’

I tried to imagine his face. Terrified, sweating. The poor old perv.

‘Fine,’ he said.

That was the way. You just have to make them understand the gravity of the situation.

Harry was swallowing the rest of his coffee and staring into the street. Time to move on.

On his way across Youngstorget to the kebab shops in Torggata he received a call.

It was Klaus Torkildsen.

‘Good news,’ he said.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘At the time in question Truls Berntsen’s phone was registered at four of the base stations in Oslo city centre, and that locates his position in the same area as Hausmanns gate 92.’

‘How big is the area we’re talking about?’

‘Erm, a kind of hexagonal area with a diameter of eight hundred metres.’

‘OK,’ Harry said, absorbing the information. ‘What about the other guy?’

‘I couldn’t find anything in his name exactly, but he had a company phone registered at the Radium Hospital.’

‘And?’

‘And, as I said, it’s good news. That phone was in the same area at the same time.’

‘Mm.’ Harry entered a door, walked past three occupied tables and stopped in front of a counter on which was displayed a selection of unnaturally bright kebabs. ‘Have you got his address?’

Klaus Torkildsen read it out, and Harry jotted it down on a serviette.

‘Have you got another number for that address?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I was wondering if he had a wife or a partner.’

Harry heard Torkildsen typing on a keyboard. Then came the answer: ‘No. No one else with that address.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Have we got a deal then? We’ll never speak again?’

‘Yes. Apart from one final thing. I want you to check Mikael Bellman. Who he’s spoken to over recent months, and where he was at the time of the killing.’

Loud laughter. ‘The head of Orgkrim? Forget it! I can hide or explain away a search for a lowly officer, but what you’re asking me to do would get me sacked on the spot.’ More laughter, as if the idea were really a joke. ‘I expect you to keep your end of the bargain, Hole.’

The line went dead.

When the taxi arrived at the address on the serviette a man was waiting outside.

Harry stepped out and went over to him. ‘Ola Kvernberg, the caretaker?’

The man nodded.

‘Inspector Hole. I rang you.’ He saw the caretaker steal a glance at the taxi which was waiting. ‘We use taxis when there are no patrol cars.’

Kvernberg examined the ID card the man held up in front of him. ‘I haven’t seen any signs of a break-in,’ he said.

‘But someone’s rung in, so let’s check. You’ve got a master key, haven’t you?’

Kvernberg nodded and unlocked the main door while the policeman studied the names on the bells. ‘The witness maintained he’d seen someone climbing up the balconies and breaking into the second floor.’

‘Who rang in?’ asked the caretaker on his way up.

‘Confidential matter, Kvernberg.’

‘You’ve got something on your trousers.’

‘Kebab sauce. I keep thinking about getting them cleaned. Can you unlock the door?’

‘The pharmacist’s?’

‘Oh, is that what he is?’

‘Works at the Radium Hospital. Shouldn’t we ring him at work before we enter?’

‘I’d rather see if the burglar’s here so we can arrest him, if you don’t mind.’

The caretaker mumbled an apology and hastened to unlock the door.

Hole went into the flat.

It was obvious that a bachelor was living here. But a tidy one. Classical CDs on their own CD shelf, in alphabetical order. Scientific journals about chemistry and pharmacy stacked in high but neat piles. On one bookshelf there was a framed photograph of two adults and a boy. Harry recognised the boy. He was stooping a little to one side with a sullen expression. He can’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. The caretaker stood by the front door watching carefully, so for appearances’ sake Harry checked the balcony door before going from room to room. Opening drawers and cupboards. But there was nothing compromising on view.

Suspiciously little, some colleagues would say.

But Harry had seen it before; some people don’t have secrets. Not often, it’s fair to say, but it happened. He heard the caretaker shifting weight from foot to foot in the bedroom door behind him.

‘No signs of a break-in or anything taken,’ Harry said, walking past him towards the exit. ‘Maybe a false alarm.’