‘Thought it was an unwritten rule that undercover officers weren’t allowed to work here in the cafe.’

‘I don’t think he was working, Harry. He sat alone at the table over there, supposedly reading Klassekampen. It might sound rather vain, but I think he came here to watch moi.’ She coquettishly laid her hand flat against her chest.

‘You still attract lonely police officers, I suppose.’

She laughed. ‘I was the one who checked you over, or have you forgotten?’

‘A girl from a Christian family like you?’

‘In fact his staring made me go all clammy, but he stopped when my pregnancy became visible. Anyway, that night he slammed the door after him, and I watched him head for Hausmanns gate. The crime scene was only a few hundred metres away from here. Straight afterwards rumours began to circulate that Gusto had been shot. And that Oleg had been arrested.’

‘What do you know about Gusto, apart from the fact that he was attractive to women and came from a foster-family?’

‘He was called the Thief. He sold violin.’

‘Who did he work for?’

‘He and Oleg used to sell for the bikers up in Alnabru, Los Lobos. But they joined Dubai, I think. Everyone who was approached did. They had the purest heroin, and when violin made an appearance it was the Dubai pushers who had it. And I suppose it still is.’

‘What do you know about Dubai? Who is he?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t even know if it is a who or a what.’

‘So visible on the streets and yet so invisible behind the scenes. Does nobody know?’

‘Probably, but those who do won’t say.’

Someone called Martine’s name.

‘Stay where you are,’ Martine said, struggling up from the chair. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’

‘Actually, I’ve got to be off,’ Harry said.

‘Where?’

There was a second’s silence as they both realised he didn’t have a sensible answer to her question.

Tord Schultz sat at the kitchen table by the window. The sun shone low, and there was still enough daylight for him to see everyone walking on the road between the houses. But he couldn’t see the road. He took a bite of bread with cervelat.

Planes flew over rooftops. Landed and took off. Landed and took off.

Tord Schultz listened to the various engine sounds. It was like a timeline: the old engines that sounded right, which had the exact growl, the warm glow, which evoked the good memories, which gave meaning, which were a soundtrack to when things had a meaning: job, punctuality, family, a woman’s caresses, recognition from colleagues. The new generation of engines moved more air, but were hectic, flew faster on less fuel, had greater efficiency, less time for inessentials. Also the essential inessentials. He glanced at the big clock on the fridge again. It ticked like a frightened little heart, fast and frenetic. Seven. Twelve hours left. Soon it would be dark. He heard a Boeing 747. The classic. The best. The sound grew and grew until it was a roar making the windowpanes tremble and the glass clink against the half-empty bottle on the table. Tord Schultz closed his eyes. It was the sound of optimism about the future, raw power, well-founded arrogance. The sound of invincibility to a man in his best years.

After the noise was gone and it was suddenly still in the house he noticed that the silence was different. As if the air had a different density.

As if it were occupied.

He turned right round, to the living room. Through the door he could see the weight-training bench and the furthest end of the coffee table. He looked at the parquet floor, at the shadows from the part of the living room he couldn’t see. He held his breath and listened. Nothing. Just the clock ticking on the fridge. So he took another bite of the bread, a swig from the glass and leaned back in the chair. A big plane was on the way in. He could hear it coming from behind. It drowned the sound of time ticking away. And he was thinking it would have to pass between the house and the sun as a shadow fell over him and the table.

Harry walked along Urtegata and down Platous gate to Gronlandsleiret. Heading for Police HQ on autopilot. He stopped in Bots Park. Looked at the prison, at the solid grey walls.

‘Where?’ she had asked.

Was he really in any doubt as to who killed Gusto Hanssen?

An SAS plane left Oslo for Bangkok, direct, every day before midnight. Flew from there to Hong Kong five times a day. He could go to Hotel Leon right now. Pack his bag and check out. It would take precisely five minutes. The airport express to Gardermoen. Buy a ticket at the SAS counter. A meal and newspapers in the relaxing, impersonal transit atmosphere of an airport.

Harry turned. Saw the red concert poster from the day before was gone.

He continued down Oslo gate and was walking past Minne Park by Gamlebyen cemetery when he heard a voice from the shadows by the gate.

‘Two hundred to spare?’ it said in Swedish.

Harry half stopped, and the beggar stepped out. His coat was long and ragged, and the beam from the spotlight caused his large ears to cast shadows over his face.

‘I assume you’re asking for a loan?’ Harry said, fishing out his wallet.

‘Collection,’ Cato said, extending his hand. ‘You’ll never get it back. I left my wallet at Hotel Leon.’ There wasn’t a whiff of spirits or beer on the old man’s breath, just the smell of tobacco and something that reminded him of childhood, playing hide-and-seek at his grandfather’s, when Harry hid in the wardrobe and inhaled the sweet, mouldy smell of clothes that had hung there for years. They must have been as old as the house itself.

Harry located a five-hundred note and handed it to Cato.

‘Here.’

Cato stared at the money. Ran his hand over it. ‘I’ve been hearing this and that,’ he said. ‘They say you’re police.’

‘Oh?’

‘And that you drink. What’s your poison?’

‘Jim Beam.’

‘Ah, Jim. A pal of my Johnnie. And you know the boy, Oleg.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Prison’s worse than death, Harry. Death is simple, it liberates the soul. But prison eats away at your soul until there is nothing human left of you. Until you become a phantom.’

‘Who told you about Oleg?’

‘My congregation is large and my parishioners are numerous, Harry. I listen. They say you’re hunting that person. Dubai.’

Harry checked his watch. There was usually plenty of room on the flights at this time of the year. From Bangkok he could also go to Shanghai. Zhan Yin had texted that she was alone this week. They could go to the country house together.

‘I hope you don’t find him, Harry.’

‘I didn’t say I was-’

‘Those who do, die.’

‘Cato, tonight I’m going to-’

‘Have you heard about the Beetle?’

‘No, but-’

‘Six insect legs that bore into your face.’

‘I have to go, Cato.’

‘I’ve seen it myself.’ Cato dropped his chin onto his priest’s collar. ‘Under Alvsborg Bridge by Gothenburg harbour. A policeman searching for a heroin gang. They smacked a brick studded with nails in his face.’

Harry realised what the man was talking about. Zjuk. The Beetle.

The method had originally been Russian and used on informers. First of all, the informer’s ear was nailed to the floor beneath a roof beam. Then six long nails were hammered halfway into a brick, the brick was tied to a rope slung around the beam and the informer held the rope end between his teeth. The point — and the symbolism — was that so long as the informer kept his mouth shut he was alive. Harry had seen the result of zjuk carried out by the Tapei Triad on a poor sod they found in a backstreet of Tanshui. They had used broad nail heads that didn’t make such big holes on their way in. When the paramedics came and pulled the brick off the dead man the face came with it.

Cato stuffed the five-hundred note in his trouser pocket with one hand and placed the other on Harry’s shoulder.