Harry blinked. ‘Who killed him then?’

The old man straightened up. In his right hand he was holding a revolver. It was a large, ugly object and looked even older than its owner.

‘You should know better than to come to me without a weapon, Harry.’

Harry didn’t answer. The MP5 was at the bottom of a water-filled cellar, the rifle was at Truls Berntsen’s flat.

‘Who killed Gusto?’ Harry repeated.

‘It could have been anyone.’

Harry seemed to hear a creak as the old man’s finger curled around the trigger.

‘It’s not very difficult to kill, Harry. Don’t you agree?’

‘I do,’ Harry said, lifting his foot. There was a whistle under the sole of his foot as the thin nylon cord shot up towards the curtain pole holder.

Harry saw the question marks in the old man’s eyes, saw his brain working lightning-fast with the half-digested bits of information.

The light that didn’t work.

The chair that was in the middle of the room.

Harry who hadn’t searched him.

Harry who hadn’t moved a centimetre from where he was sitting.

And perhaps now he could see the nylon cord in the semi-gloom as it ran from under Harry’s shoe via the curtain pole holder to the ceiling lamp fitting right above his head. Where there was no longer a lamp but the only thing Harry had taken from Blindernveien apart from the priest’s collar. Which was all he had in his mind as he lay on Rudolf Asayev’s four-poster bed, soaking wet, gasping for breath as black dots jumped in and out of his vision and he was sure he was going to pass out any second, but fought to stay conscious, to stay on this side of the darkness. Then he had got up, and taken the zjuk, which was beside the Bible.

Rudolf Asayev hurled himself to the left, thus the steel nails embedded in the brick did not pierce his head but the skin between the collarbone and the shoulder muscle, which continued down to a juncture of nerve fibres, the cervico-brachial plexus, with the result that when, two hundredths of a second later, he pulled the trigger, the muscle in his upper arm was paralysed, causing his revolver to drop seven centimetres. The powder hissed and burned for the thousandth of a second the bullet needed to leave the barrel of the old Nagant. Three thousandths of a second later the bullet bored into the bed frame between Harry’s calves.

Harry got up. Flicked the security catch to the side and pressed the release button. The shaft quivered as the blade sprang out. Harry swung his hand, low, past the hip, with a straight arm, and the long, thin knife blade entered midway between the coat lapels, down the priest’s shirt. He felt the material and skin give, then the blade slid in up to the hilt without any resistance. Harry let go of the knife knowing that Rudolf Asayev was a dying man as the chair tipped back and the Russian hit the floor with a groan. He kicked the chair away, but stayed where he was, curled up like an injured but still dangerous wasp. Harry stood astride him, bent down and pulled the knife out of his body. Looked at the abnormally deep red colour of the blood. From the liver, maybe. The old man’s left hand scrabbled across the floor, round the paralysed right arm, searching for the pistol. And for one wild moment Harry wished the hand would find it, give him the pretext he needed to…

Harry kicked the pistol away, heard it thud against the wall.

‘The iron,’ whispered the old man. ‘Bless me with my iron, my boy. It’s burning. For both of our sakes, bring this to an end.’

Harry closed his eyes for a brief instant. Could feel he had lost it. It was gone. The hatred. The wonderful, white hatred which had been the fuel that had kept him going. He had run out of it.

‘No, thank you,’ Harry said. Stepped over and away from the old man. Buttoned up the wet coat. ‘I’m going now, Rudolf Asayev. I’ll ask the boy in reception to ring for an ambulance. Then I’ll call my ex-boss and tell him where they can find you.’

The old man chuckled and red bubbles formed at the corner of his mouth. ‘The knife, Harry. It’s not murder, I’m already dead. You won’t end up in hell, I promise you. I’ll tell them at the gate not to drag you in.’

‘It’s not hell that frightens me.’ Harry put the wet Camel pack in his coat pocket. ‘I’m a policeman. Our job is to bring alleged lawbreakers to justice.’

The bubbles burst when the old man coughed. ‘Come on, Harry, your sheriff’s badge is made of plastic. I’m ill. The only thing a judge can do is give me custody, kisses, hugs and morphine. And I committed so many murders. Rivals I hanged from bridges. Employees, like that pilot we used the brick on. The police, too. Beret Man. I sent Andrey and Peter to your room to shoot you. You and Truls Berntsen. And do you know why? To make it look like you two had shot each other. We had left the weapon as proof. Come on now, Harry.’

Harry wiped the knife blade on the bed sheet. ‘Why did you want to kill Berntsen? After all, he worked for you.’

Asayev turned onto his side and he seemed to be able to breathe better. He lay like that for a couple of seconds before answering. ‘He stole a stockpile of heroin from Alnabru behind my back. It wasn’t my heroin, but when you discover your burner is so greedy you can’t trust him and at the same time he knows enough about you to bring you down, you know the sum of the risks has become too great. And then businessmen like me eliminate the risk, Harry. We saw a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. You and Berntsen.’ He chuckled. ‘Like I tried to murder your boy in Botsen. Feel the hatred now, Harry? I almost murdered your boy.’

Harry stopped by the door. ‘Who killed Gusto?’

‘Humanity lives by the gospel of hatred. Follow the hatred, Harry.’

‘Who are your contacts in the police and on the City Council?’

‘If I tell you, will you help me to bring this to an end?’

Harry looked at him. Nodded quickly. Hoped the lie wasn’t transparent.

‘Come closer,’ whispered the old man.

Harry bent down. And suddenly the old man’s hand, like a stiff claw, had grabbed his lapels and pulled him close. The whetstone voice wheezed softly in his ear.

‘You know I paid a man to confess to the murder of Gusto, Harry. But you thought it was because I couldn’t kill Oleg as long as he was being held in a secret location. Wrong. My man in the police force has access to the witness protection programme. I could have had Oleg stabbed to death just as easily where he was. But I had changed my mind. I didn’t want him to get away so…’

Harry tried to tear himself away, but the old man held him tight.

‘I wanted him hung upside down with a plastic bag over his head,’ the voice rumbled. ‘His head in a clear plastic bag. Water running down his feet. Water following the body all the way down into the bag. I wanted to film it. With sound so that you could hear the screams. And afterwards I would have sent you the film. And if you let me go this is still my plan. You’ll be surprised how quickly they release me for lack of evidence, Harry. And then I’ll find him, Harry, I swear I will, you just keep an eye on your post for when the DVD comes.’

Harry acted instinctively, swung his hand. Felt the blade gain purchase. Go deep. He twisted it. Heard the old man gasp. Continued to twist. Closed his eyes and felt intestines and organs curling round, bursting, turning inside out. And when at last he heard the old man scream, it was Harry’s own scream.

Harry was woken by the sun shining on one side of his face. Or was it a noise that had woken him?

He carefully opened one eye and peered around him.

Saw a living-room window and blue sky. No noise, not now at any rate.

He breathed in the smell of smoke-ingrained sofa and raised his head. Remembered where he was.

He had left the old man’s room for his own, calmly packed his canvas suitcase, exited the hotel via the back stairs and taken a taxi to the only place he could be sure no one would find him: the house belonging to Nybakk’s parents in Oppsal. It didn’t look as if anyone had been there since he left, and the first thing he did was to ransack the drawers in the kitchen and bathroom until he had a packet of painkillers. He had taken four tablets, washed the old man’s blood off his hands and gone down to the cellar to see if Stig Nybakk had made a decision.