Harry went into the street after eating at Olympen. The old, slightly dissipated hostelry he remembered had been renovated into an expensive Oslo West version of an Oslo East place, with large paintings of the town’s old working-class district. It wasn’t that it wasn’t attractive, with the chandeliers and everything. Even the mackerel had been good. It just wasn’t… Olympen.

He lit a cigarette and crossed Bots Park between Police HQ and the prison’s old, grey walls. He passed a man putting a tatty red poster on a tree and banging a staple gun against the bark of the ancient, and protected, linden. He didn’t seem to be aware of the fact that he was committing a serious offence in full view of all the windows at the front of the building which contained the biggest collection of police officers in Norway. Harry paused for a moment. Not to stop the crime, but to see the poster. It advertised a concert with Russian Amcar Club at Sardines. Harry could remember the long-dissolved band and the derelict club. Olympen. Harry Hole. This was clearly the year for the resurrection of the dead. He was about to move on when he heard a tremulous voice behind him.

‘Got’ny violin?’

Harry turned. The man behind him was wearing a new, clean G-Star jacket. He stooped forward as though there were a strong wind at his back, and he had the unmistakable bowed heroin knees. Harry was going to reply when he realised G-Star was addressing the poster man. But he carried on walking without answering. New wombos for units, new terms for dope. Old bands, old clubs.

The facade of Oslo District Prison, Botsen in popular parlance, was built in the mid-1800s and consisted of an entrance squeezed between two larger wings, which always reminded Harry of a detainee between two policemen. He rang the bell, peered into the video camera, heard the low buzz and shoved the door open. Inside stood a uniformed prison officer, who escorted him up the stairs, through a door, past two other officers and into the rectangular, windowless Visitors’ Room. Harry had been there before. This was where the inmates met their nearest and dearest. A half-hearted attempt had been made to create a homely atmosphere. He avoided the sofa, sat down on a chair, well aware of what went on during the few minutes the inmate was allowed to spend with a spouse or girlfriend.

He waited. Noticed he still had the Police HQ sticker on his lapel, pulled it off and put it in his pocket. The dream of the narrow corridor and the avalanche had been worse than usual last night, he had been buried and his mouth had been stuffed with snow. But that was not why his heart was beating now. Was it with expectation? Or terror?

The door opened before he had a chance to reach a conclusion.

‘Twenty minutes,’ the prison officer said, and left, slamming the door behind him.

The boy standing before him was so changed that for a second Harry had been on the point of shouting that this was the wrong person, this was not him. This boy was wearing Diesel jeans and a black hoodie advertising Machine Head, which Harry realised was not a reference to the old Deep Purple record but — having calculated the time difference — a new heavy metal band. Heavy metal was of course a clue, but the proof was the eyes and high cheekbones. To be precise: Rakel’s brown eyes and high cheekbones. It was almost a shock to see the resemblance. Granted he had not inherited his mother’s beauty — his forehead was too prominent for that, it lent the boy a bleak, almost aggressive appearance. Which was reinforced by the sleek fringe Harry had always assumed he had inherited from his father in Moscow. An alcoholic the boy had never really known properly — he was only a few years old when Rakel had brought him back to Oslo. Where later she was to meet Harry.

Rakel.

The great love of his life. As simple as that. And as complicated.

Oleg. Bright, serious Oleg. Oleg, who had been so introverted, who would not open up to anyone, apart from Harry. Harry had never told Rakel, but he knew more about what Oleg thought, felt and wanted than she did. Oleg and he playing Tetris on his Game Boy, both as keen as each other to smash the record. Oleg and he skating at Valle Hovin; the time Oleg wanted to become a long-distance runner and in fact had the talent for it. Oleg, who smiled, patient and indulgent, whenever Harry promised that in the autumn or spring they would go to London to see Tottenham playing at White Hart Lane. Oleg, who sometimes called him Dad when it was late, he was sleepy and had lost concentration. It was years since Harry had seen him, years since Rakel had taken him from Oslo, away from the grisly reminders of the Snowman, away from Harry’s world of violence and murder.

And now he was standing there by the door, he was eighteen years old, half grown up and looking at Harry without an expression, or at least one Harry could interpret.

‘Hi,’ Harry said. Shit, he hadn’t tested his voice; it came out as a hoarse rasp. The boy would think he was on the verge of tears or something. As if to distract himself, or Oleg, Harry pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes and poked one between his lips.

He peered up and saw the flush that had spread across Oleg’s face. And the anger. The explosive anger that appeared from nowhere, darkening his eyes and making the blood vessels on his neck and forehead bulge and quiver like guitar strings.

‘Relax, I won’t light it,’ Harry said, nodding to the NO SMOKING sign on the wall.

‘It’s Mum, isn’t it?’ The voice was also older. And thick with fury.

‘What is?’

‘She’s the one who sent for you.’

‘No, she didn’t, I-’

‘Course she did.’

‘No, Oleg, in fact she doesn’t even know I’m in the country.’

‘You’re lying! You’re lying as usual!’

Harry gaped at him. ‘As usual?’

‘The way you lie that you’ll always be there for us and all that crap. But it’s too late now. So you can just go back to… Timbuktu!’

‘Oleg! Listen to me-’

‘No! I won’t listen to you. You’ve got no business here! You can’t come and play dad now, do you understand?’ Harry saw the boy swallow hard. Saw the fury ebb, only for a new wave of blackness to engulf him. ‘You’re no one to us any more. You were someone who drifted in, hung around for a few years and then…’ Oleg made an attempt to snap his fingers, but they slipped off each other without a sound. ‘Gone.’

‘That’s not true, Oleg. And you know it.’ Harry heard his own voice, which was firm and sure now, telling him that he was as calm and secure as an aircraft carrier. But the lump in his stomach told him otherwise. He was used to being yelled at during interrogations, it made no difference to him, at best it made him even calmer and more analytical. But with this lad, with Oleg… against this he had no defence.

Oleg gave a bitter laugh. ‘Shall we see if I can do it now?’ He pressed his middle finger against his thumb. ‘Gone… there we are!’

Harry held up his palms. ‘Oleg…’

Oleg shook his head as he knocked on the door behind him, without taking his dark eyes off Harry. ‘Guard! Visit’s over. Lemme out!’

Harry remained in the chair for a few seconds after Oleg had gone.

Then he struggled to his feet and plodded out into a Bots Park bathed in sunshine.

Harry stood looking up at Police HQ. Pondering. Then he walked up to the custody block. But he stopped halfway, leaned back against a tree and pinched his eyes so hard he could feel he was squeezing out water. Bloody light. Bloody jet lag.

‘I just want to see them. I won’t take anything,’ Harry said.

The duty officer behind the counter at the custody block eyed Harry and wavered.

‘Come on, Tore, you know me.’

Nilsen cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, but are you working here again, Harry?’