He had.

Harry had gone back up, undressed, hung his clothes to dry in the bathroom, found a blanket and fallen asleep on the sofa before his mind could start churning.

Harry rose and went to the kitchen. Took two painkillers and washed them down with a glass of water. Opened the fridge and looked inside. There was a lot of gourmet food; he had clearly been feeding Irene well. The nausea from the previous day returned, and he knew it would be impossible to eat. Went back to the living room. He had seen the drinks cabinet yesterday as well. Had given it a wide berth before finding somewhere to sleep.

Harry opened the cabinet door. Empty. He breathed out with relief. Fumbled in his pocket. The sham wedding ring. And at that moment heard a sound.

The same one he thought he had heard when he was waking up.

He went over to the open cellar door. Listened. Joe Zawinul? He descended and headed for the storeroom door. Peered through the wire. Stig Nybakk was twirling slowly, like an astronaut, weightless in space. Harry wondered if the mobile phone vibrating in Stig’s trouser pocket could be functioning as a propeller. The ringtone — the four, or actually three, notes from ‘Palladium’ by Weather Report — sounded like a call signal from the beyond. And that was exactly what Harry was thinking as he took out the phone, that it was Nybakk ringing, wanting to talk to him.

Harry looked at the number on the display. And pressed the answer button. He recognised the voice of the receptionist at the Radium Hospital. ‘Stig! Hello! Are you there? Can you hear me? We’ve been trying to reach you, Stig. Where are you? You should have been here for a meeting, several meetings. We’re worried. Martin was at your house, but you weren’t there either. Stig?’

Harry hung up and put the phone in his pocket. He would need it; Martine’s had been ruined in the swim.

From the kitchen he fetched a chair and sat on the veranda. Sat there with the morning sun on his face. Took out his pack of smokes, stuck one of the stupid black cigarettes into his mouth and lit up. It would have to do. He dialled the number he knew so well.

‘Rakel.’

‘Hi. It’s me.’

‘Harry? I didn’t recognise your number.’

‘I’ve got a new phone.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear your voice. Did everything go OK?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said and had to smile at the happiness in her voice. ‘Everything went OK.’

‘Is it hot?’

‘Very hot. The sun’s shining, and I’m about to have breakfast.’

‘Breakfast? Isn’t it four o’clock or thereabouts?’

‘Jet lag,’ Harry said. ‘Couldn’t sleep on the plane. I’ve found us a great hotel. It’s in Sukhumvit.’

‘You’ve no idea how much I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Harry.’

‘I-’

‘No, wait, Harry. I mean it. I’ve been awake all night thinking about it. This is absolutely right. That is, we’ll find out if it is. But this is what’s right about it. Finding out. Oh, imagine if I’d said no, Harry.’

‘Rakel-’

‘I love you, Harry. Love you. Do you hear me? Can you hear how flat, strange and fantastic the word is? You really have to mean it to pull it off — like a bright-red dress. Love you. Is that a bit OTT?’

She laughed. Harry closed his eyes and felt the most wonderful sun in the world kiss his skin and the most wonderful laughter in the world kiss his eardrums.

‘Harry? Are you there?’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘It’s so strange. You sound so near.’

‘Mm. I’ll soon be very near, darling.’

‘Say that again.’

‘Say what?’

‘Darling.’

‘Darling.’

‘Mmmm.’

Harry could feel he was sitting on something. Something hard in his back pocket. He took it out. The sun made the veneer on the ring shine like gold.

‘Rakel,’ he said, stroking the black notch with the tip of his finger. ‘How would you feel about getting married?’

‘Harry, don’t mess about.’

‘I’m not messing about. I know you could never imagine marrying a debt collector from Hong Kong.’

‘No, not at all. Who should I imagine marrying then?’

‘I don’t know. What about a civilian, an ex-police officer, who lectures at Police College about murder investigations?’

‘Doesn’t sound like anyone I know.’

‘Perhaps someone you might get to know. Someone who could surprise you. Stranger things have happened.’

‘You’re the one who’s always said people don’t change.’

‘So if now I’m someone who says people can change, there’s the proof that it is possible to change.’

‘Glib bastard.’

‘Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that I’m right. People can change. And it is possible to put things behind you.’

‘To outstare the ghosts that haunt you?’

‘Then what would you say?’

‘To what?’

‘To my hypothetical question of getting married.’

‘Is that supposed to be a proposal? Hypothetical? On the phone?’

‘Now you’re stretching it a bit. I’m just sitting in the sun and chatting with a charming woman.’

‘And I’m ringing off!’

She hung up, and Harry slumped down on the kitchen chair with closed eyes and a fat grin. Sun-warmed and pain-free. In fourteen hours he would see her. He imagined Rakel’s expression when she came to the gate in Gardermoen and saw him sitting there waiting for her. Her face as Oslo shrank beneath them. Her head gliding onto his shoulder as she fell asleep.

He lay like that until the temperature plummeted. He half opened one eye. The edge of a cloud had drifted in front of the sun, nothing more.

Closed the eye again.

Follow the hatred.

When the old man had said that Harry had at first thought he meant Harry should follow his own hatred and kill him. But what about if he had meant something else? He had said it straight after Harry asked who had killed Gusto. Had that been the answer? Did he mean that if Harry followed the hatred it would lead him to the murderer? In which case there were several candidates. But who had the greatest reason to hate Gusto? Irene, of course, but she had been locked up when Gusto was killed.

The sun was switched back on, and Harry decided he was reading too much into the old man’s words, the job was over, he should relax, he would soon need another tablet. And he should ring Hans Christian to say that Oleg was finally out of danger.

Another thought struck Harry. Truls Berntsen, a rogue officer at Orgkrim, could not possibly have access to the data in the witness protection programme. It had to be someone else. Someone higher up.

Hold on there, he thought. Hold on for Christ’s sake. They can all go to hell. Think about the flight. The night flight. The stars over Russia.

Then he went back to the cellar, considered whether to cut down Nybakk, rejected the idea and found the jemmy he had been looking for.

The main door to Hausmanns gate 92 was open, but the door to the flat had been resealed and locked. Perhaps because of the recent confession, Harry thought, before inserting the jemmy between the door and the frame.

Inside, everything seemed untouched. The stripes of morning sunlight lay across the sitting-room floor like piano keys.

He deposited the little canvas suitcase against the wall and sat on one of the mattresses. Checked to see that he had the plane ticket in his inside pocket. Glanced at his watch. Thirteen hours to take-off.

Looked around. Closed his eyes. Tried to envisage the scene.

A man wearing a balaclava. Who didn’t say a word because he knew they would recognise his voice.

A man who had visited Gusto here. Who didn’t take anything from him, except his life. A man who hated.

The bullet had been a nine by eighteen millimetre Makarov, in all likelihood therefore the killer had used a Makarov gun. Or a Fort-12. At a pinch an Odessa if they were becoming standard equipment in Oslo. He had stood there. Fired. Left.

Harry listened, hoping the room would talk to him.