‘I understand you want to protect your son. But what about the other guy? He also had a father, Harry. They call it self-sacrifice when parents fight for their children, but really they’re protecting themselves, the ones who have been cloned. And that doesn’t require any moral courage; it’s just genetic egotism. As a child my father used to read the Bible to us, and I thought Abraham was a coward when God told him to sacrifice his son and he obeyed. Growing up, I understood that a truly selfless father is willing to sacrifice his child if it serves a higher goal than father and son. For that does exist.’

Harry threw his cigarette down in front of him. ‘You’re mistaken. Oleg is not my son.’

‘He isn’t? Why are you here then?’

‘I’m a policeman.’

Cato laughed. ‘Sixth commandment, Harry. Don’t lie.’

‘Isn’t that the eighth?’ Harry trod on the smouldering cigarette. ‘And as far as I recall, the commandment says you shouldn’t bear false witness against your neighbour, which would mean it’s fine to lie a bit about yourself. But perhaps you didn’t complete your theology studies?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Jesus and I have no formal qualifications. We are men of the Word. But like all medicine men, fortune-tellers and charlatans we can sometimes inspire false hopes and genuine comfort.’

‘You’re not even a Christian, are you?’

‘Let me say here and now that faith has never done me any good, only doubt. So that is what has become my testament.’

‘Doubt.’

‘Exactly.’ Cato’s yellow teeth glistened in the darkness. ‘I ask: Is it so certain that a God doesn’t exist, that he doesn’t have a design?’

Harry laughed quietly.

‘We’re not so different, Harry. I have a false priest’s collar; you have a false sheriff’s badge. How unshakeable is your faith in your gospel actually? To protect those who have found their way and make sure those who have lost theirs are punished according to their sins? Aren’t you also a doubter?’

Harry tapped a cigarette from the packet. ‘Unfortunately there is no doubt in this case. I’m going home.’

‘If that is so, I wish you a good trip. I have a service to hold.’

A car hooted and Harry turned automatically. Two headlights blinded him before sweeping round the corner. The brake lights resembled the glow of cigarettes in the darkness as the police vehicle slowed down to enter the Police HQ garages. And when Harry turned back Cato had gone. The old priest seemed to have melted into the night; all Harry could hear were footsteps heading for the cemetery.

In fact it did take only five minutes to pack and check out of Hotel Leon.

‘There’s a small discount for customers who pay cash,’ said the boy behind the counter. Not everything was new.

Harry flicked through his wallet. Hong Kong dollars, yuan, US dollars, euros. His mobile phone rang. Harry lifted it to his ear while fanning out the notes and offering them to the boy.

‘Speak.’

‘It’s me. What are you doing?’

Shit. He had planned to wait and phone her from the airport. Make it as simple and brutal as possible. A quick wrench.

‘I’m checking out. Can I ring you back in a couple of minutes?’

‘I just wanted to say that Oleg has contacted his solicitor. Erm… Hans Christian, that is.’

‘Norwegian kroner,’ said the boy.

‘Oleg says he wants to meet you, Harry.’

‘Hell!’

‘Sorry? Harry, are you there?’

‘Do you take Visa?’

‘Cheaper for you to go to an ATM and withdraw cash.’

‘Meet me?’

‘That’s what he says. As soon as possible.’

‘That’s not possible, Rakel.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because-’

‘There’s an ATM only a hundred metres down Tollbugata.’

‘Because?’

‘Take my card, OK?’

‘Harry?’

‘First of all, it’s not possible, Rakel. He’s not allowed visitors, and I won’t get round that a second time.’

‘And second of all?’

‘I don’t see the point, Rakel. I’ve read the documents. I…’

‘You what?’

‘I think he shot Gusto Hanssen, Rakel.’

‘We don’t take Visa. Have you got anything else? MasterCard, American Express?’

‘No! Rakel?’

‘Then let’s say dollars and euros. The exchange rate’s not very favourable, but it’s better than the card.’

‘Rakel? Rakel? Shit!’

‘Something the matter, herr Hole?’

‘She rang off. Is this enough?’

12

I stood in skippergata watching the rain bucket down. The winter had never managed to get a grip, and there had been a lot of rain instead. Although it had not dampened demand. Oleg, Irene and I turned over more in one day than I had done in a whole week for Odin and Tutu. To the nearest round figure, I earned six thousand a day. I had counted all the Arsenal shirts in the centre. The old boy must have been making more than two million kroner a week, and that was a conservative calculation.

Every night, before we settled up with Andrey, Oleg and I carefully added up all the takings and made it tally with the goods. There was never as much as a krone missing. It wouldn’t have been worth it.

And I could trust Oleg one hundred per cent, I don’t think he had the imagination to think of stealing, or else he had not understood the concept. Or perhaps his head and his heart were too full of Irene. It was almost comical to see him wagging his tail when she was around. And how utterly blind she was to his adoration. Because Irene could see only one thing.

Me.

It neither bothered me nor pleased me, that was just how it was and always had been.

I knew her so well, knew exactly how I could make her little OMO-pure heart thump, her sweet mouth smile and — if that was what I wanted — her blue eyes fill with big tears. I could have let her go, opened the door and said there you are. But I’m a thief, and thieves don’t give away anything they think they might be able to convert into cash. Irene belonged to me, but two million a week belonged to the old boy.

It’s funny how six thousand a day develops legs when you take crystal meth like ice cubes in your drinks and wear clothes that are not bought from Cubus. That was why I was still dossing in the rehearsal room with Irene, who slept on a mattress behind the drums. But she was managing, didn’t touch so much as a spiked fag, ate veggie shit and had opened a fricking bank account. Oleg was living with his mother, so he must have been rolling in money. He had cleaned himself up, was doing some studying and had even begun to train at Valle Hovin.

While I was standing in Skippergata and thinking and doing mental arithmetic I saw a figure coming towards me in the pouring rain. Glasses misted up, thin hair plastered to his skull, wearing the type of all-weather jacket your fat, ugly girlfriend bought you both for Christmas. Well, either the girlfriend was ugly or she didn’t exist. I could see that from his gait. He limped. They’ve probably invented a word to camouflage it, but I call it a club foot, but then I say ‘spastic’ and ‘negro’ as well.

He stopped in front of me.

Now the thing is, I was no longer surprised at the kind of people who bought heroin, but this man definitely did not belong to the usual category of punter.

‘How much-?’

‘Three hundred and fifty for a quarter.’

‘-would you pay for a gram of heroin?’

‘Pay? We sell, fuckwit.’

‘I know. Just doing a bit of research.’

I looked at him. A journalist? A social worker? Or perhaps a politician? While I was working for Odin and Tutu a similar sort of bozo had come over and said he was on the council and some committee called RUNO, and asked me very politely whether I would go to a meeting about ‘Drugs and Youth’. They wanted to hear ‘voices from the street’. I turned up for a laugh and listened to them rabbit on about European Cities Against Drugs and a big international plan for a drug-free Europe. I was given a soft drink and a bun and laughed until I cried. But the person leading the meeting was this MILF, peroxide blonde, with features like a man, huge jugs and the voice of a sergeant major. For a moment I wondered whether she’d had more than her tits done. After the meeting she came over to me, said she was secretary to the Councillor for Social Services and that she would like to talk more about these things, could we meet at her place if I had ‘the opportunity’ one day. She was a MILF without the M, it turned out. Lived alone on a farm, wore tight riding breeches when she opened the door and wanted ‘it’ to take place in a stable. Didn’t bother me if she’d really had her dick done. They had tidied up nicely and installed a pair of milkers that bounced up a storm. But there’s something odd about screwing a woman who howls like a model aircraft two metres from sturdy, ruminating horses, which watch you with a semi-interested stare. Afterwards I had to pick straw from between my buttocks, and I asked her if she had a thousand kroner to lend me. We continued to meet until I started to earn six thousand a day, and between shags she had time to explain that a secretary did not sit writing letters for her councillor but dealt with practical politics. Even if she was a slave right now she was the person who made things happen. And when the right people understood that, it would be her turn to be a councillor. What I learned from her talk about the City Hall was that all politicians — high or low — wanted the same two things: power and sex. In that order. Whispering ‘cabinet minister’ in her ear at the same time as getting two fingers up could make her squirt all the way to the pigsty. I’m not kidding. And in the face of the guy in front of me I could read some of the same sick, intense longings.