‘I see,’ said the caretaker, locking up after them. ‘What would you have done if there had been a thief there? Taken him in the taxi?’

‘We’d have probably called for a patrol car,’ Harry smiled, pulling up and examining the boots on the stand by the door. ‘Tell me, aren’t these two boots very different sizes?’

Kvernberg rubbed his chin while scrutinising Harry.

‘Yes, maybe. He’s got a club foot. May I have another look at your ID?’

Harry passed his card to him.

‘The expiry date-’

‘The taxi’s waiting,’ Harry said, snatching the card back and setting off down the stairs at a jog. ‘Thanks for your help, Kvernberg!’

I went to Hausmanns gate, and, course, no one had fixed the locks, so I went straight up to the flat. Oleg wasn’t there. Nor anyone else. They were out getting stressed. Gotta getta fix, gotta getta fix. Several junkies living together, and the place looked like it. But there was nothing there, of course, just empty bottles, used syringes, bloodstained wads of cotton wool and empty fag packets. Fricking burnt earth. And it was while I was sitting on a filthy mattress and cursing that I saw the rat. When people describe rats they always say a huge rat. But rats are not huge. They’re quite small. It’s just that their tails can be quite long. OK, if they feel threatened and stand up on two legs they can seem bigger than they are. Apart from that, they’re poor creatures who get stressed the same as us. Gotta getta fix.

I heard a church bell ring. And I told myself that Ibsen would be coming.

Had to come. Shit, I felt so bad. I had seen them standing and waiting when we went to work, so happy to see us it was moving. Trembling, their banknotes at the ready, reduced to being amateur beggars. And now I was there myself. Sick with longing to hear Ibsen’s lame shuffle on the stairs, to see his idiotic mush.

I had played my cards like a fool. I wanted a shot, nothing else, and all I had achieved was to bring the whole pack of them down on me. The old boy and his Cossacks. Truls Berntsen with his drill and crazed eyes. Queen Isabelle and her fuck-buddy-in-chief.

The rat scampered along the skirting board. Out of sheer desperation I checked under the carpets and mattresses. Under one mattress I found a picture and a piece of steel wire. The picture was a crumpled and faded passport photo of Irene, so I guessed this had to be Oleg’s mattress. But I couldn’t understand what the wire was for. Until it slowly dawned on me. And I felt my palms go sweaty and my heart beat faster. After all, I had taught Oleg to make a stash.

Hans Christian Simonsen way between tourists up the slope of the Italian white marble that made the Opera House look like a floating iceberg at the end of the fjord. When he was atop the roof he looked around and caught sight of Harry Hole sitting on a wall. He was on his own, as the tourists by and large went to the other side to enjoy the view of the fjord. But Harry was sitting and staring inwards at the old, ugly parts of town.

Hans Christian sat down beside him.

‘HC,’ Harry said without looking up from the brochure he was reading. ‘Did you know that this marble is called Carrara marble and that the Opera House cost every Norwegian more than two thousand kroner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know anything about Don Giovanni?’

‘Mozart. Two acts. An arrogant young rake, who believes he is God’s gift to women and men, cheats everyone and makes everyone hate themselves. He thinks he is immortal, but in the end a mysterious statue comes and takes his life as they are both swallowed up by the earth.’

‘Mm. There’s the premiere of a new production in a couple of days. It says here that in the final scene the chorus sings, “ Such is the end of the evil-doer: the death of a sinner always reflects his life.” Do you think that’s true, HC?’

‘I know it isn’t. Death, sad to say, is no more just than life is.’

‘Mm. Did you know a policeman was washed ashore here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything you don’t know?’

‘Who shot Gusto Hanssen?’

‘Oh, the mysterious statue,’ Harry said, putting down the brochure. ‘Do you want to know who it is?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Not necessarily. The important thing to prove is who it isn’t, that it isn’t Oleg.’

‘Agreed,’ said Hans Christian, studying Harry. ‘But hearing you say that doesn’t tally with what I’ve heard about the zealous Harry Hole.’

‘So perhaps people change after all.’ Harry smiled quickly. ‘Did you check the progress of the investigation with your police solicitor pal?’

‘They haven’t gone public with your name yet, but it has been sent to all airports and border controls. Put it this way, your passport’s not worth a lot.’

‘That’s the Mallorca trip up in smoke.’

‘You know you’re wanted, yet you meet in Oslo’s number-one tourist attraction?’

‘Tried-and-tested small-fry logic, Hans Christian. It’s safer in the shoal.’

‘I thought you considered loneliness safer.’

Harry took out his pack of cigarettes, shook and held it out. ‘Did Rakel tell you that?’

Hans Christian nodded and took a cigarette.

‘How long have you two been together?’ Harry asked with a grimace.

‘A while. Does it hurt?’

‘My throat? Little infection perhaps.’ Harry lit Hans Christian’s cigarette. ‘You love her, don’t you.’

The solicitor inhaled in a way which suggested to Harry that he had hardly smoked since the parties of his student days.

‘Yes, I do.’

Harry nodded.

‘But you were always there,’ Hans Christian said, sucking on the cigarette. ‘In the shadows, in the wardrobe, under the bed.’

‘Sounds like a monster,’ Harry said.

‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ Hans Christian said. ‘I tried to exorcise you, but I failed.’

‘You don’t need to smoke the whole cigarette, Hans Christian.’

‘Thank you.’ The solicitor threw it away. ‘What do you want me to do this time?’

‘Burglary,’ Harry said.

They drove straight after the onset of darkness.

Hans Christian picked up Harry from Bar Boca in Grunerlokka.

‘Nice car,’ Harry said. ‘Family car.’

‘I had an elkhound,’ Hans Christian said. ‘Hunting. Cabin. You know.’

Harry nodded. ‘The good life.’

‘It was trampled to death by an elk. I consoled myself with the thought that it must be a good way for an elkhound to die. In service as it were.’

Harry nodded. They drove up to Ryen and snaked round the bends to Oslo’s best viewing points in the east.

‘It’s right here,’ Harry said, pointing to an unlit house. ‘Park at an angle so that the headlights are shining at the windows.’

‘Shall I…?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘You wait here. Keep your phone on and ring if anyone comes.’

Harry took the jemmy with him and walked up the shingle path to the house. Autumn, sharp night air, the aroma of apples. He had a moment of deja vu. He and Oystein creeping into a garden and Tresko on the lookout by the fence. And then suddenly out of the dark a figure came hobbling towards them wearing an Indian headdress and squealing like a pig.

He rang.

Waited.

No one came.

Nonetheless Harry had the feeling someone was at home.

He slotted the jemmy inside the crack by the lock and carefully applied his weight. The door was old with soft, damp wood and an old-fashioned lock. Then he used his other hand to insert his ID card on the inside of the crooked snap latch. Pressed harder. The lock burst open. Harry slid inside and closed the door behind him. Stood in the darkness holding his breath. Felt a thin thread on his hand, probably the remains of a spider’s web. There was a damp, abandoned smell. But also something else, something acrid. Illness, hospital. Nappies and medicine.

Harry switched on his torch. Saw a bare coat stand. He continued into the house.

The sitting room looked as if it had been dusted with powder; the colours seemed to have been sucked out of the walls and the furniture. The cone of light moved across the room. Harry’s heart stopped when it was reflected back from a pair of eyes. Then went on beating. A stuffed owl. As grey as the rest of the room.