Harry walked over to him.

‘Violin, a quarter.’

The boy looked down at Harry without taking his hands from the pockets of his zip hoodie and nodded.

‘Well?’ Harry said.

‘You’ll have to wait, boraz.’ The boy spoke with a Pakistani accent which Harry presumed he dropped when he was eating his mother’s meatballs in their one hundred per cent Norwegian home.

‘I haven’t got time to wait for you to get a group together.’

‘Chillax, it’ll be quick.’

‘I’ll pay you a hundred more.’

The boy measured Harry with his eyes. And Harry knew roughly what he was thinking: an ugly businessman in a weird suit, regulated consumption, scared to death that colleagues and family will chance by. A man asking to be screwed.

‘Six hundred,’ the boy said.

Harry sighed and nodded.

‘ Idra,’ the boy said and began to walk.

Harry presumed the word meant he had to follow.

They rounded the corner and went through an open gate into a backyard. The dope man was black, probably a North African, and he was leaning against a stack of wooden pallets. His head was bobbing up and down to the beat of the music from an iPod. One earplug hung down by his side.

‘Quarter,’ said Rick Ross in the Arsenal shirt.

The dope man took something from a deep pocket and passed it to Harry palm down so that it couldn’t be seen. Harry looked at the bag he’d been given. The powder was white, but with tiny, dark flecks.

‘I have a question,’ Harry said, putting the bag into his jacket pocket.

The other two braced themselves, and Harry saw the dope man’s hand move behind his back. He guessed he had a small-calibre pistol in his trouser waistband.

‘Either of you seen this girl?’ He held up the photo of the Hanssen family.

They peered and shook their heads.

‘I’ve got five thousand for anyone who can give me a lead, a rumour, anything.’

They looked at each other. Harry waited. Then they shrugged and turned back to Harry. Perhaps they allowed the question because they had experienced this before, a father searching for his daughter in Oslo’s junkie community. Nonetheless, they lacked the requisite cynicism or imagination to invent a story to cash in on a reward.

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘But say hello to Dubai for me and tell him I have some information that may be of interest. Concerning Oleg. Say he can come to Hotel Leon and ask for Harry.’

The next moment it was out. And Harry was right, it looked like a Cheetah-series Beretta. Nine millimetre. Snub-nosed, nasty piece of work.

‘Are you baosj?’

Kebab Norwegian. Police.

‘No,’ Harry said, trying to swallow the nausea that always rose whenever he looked down the muzzle of a gun.

‘You’re lying. You don’t shoot violin, you’re an undercover cop.’

‘I’m not lying.’

The dope man nodded to Rick Ross, who went to Harry and pulled up the sleeve of his jacket. Harry tried to take his eyes off the gun. There was a low whistle. ‘Looks like Norskie here shoots up after all,’ Rick Ross said.

Harry had used a standard sewing needle, which he’d held over a lighter flame. He’d made deep incisions and wriggled it around in four or five places on his forearm and rubbed ammonium soap into the wounds to give them a more inflamed red colour. Finally he had perforated the vein on his elbow so that blood appeared under the skin and created some impressive bruises.

‘I think he’s lying anyway,’ the dope man said, moving his legs apart and grabbing the stock of the gun with both hands.

‘Why? Look, he’s got a syringe and aluminium foil in his pocket as well.’

‘He’s not frightened.’

‘What the fuck do you mean? Look at the guy!’

‘He’s not frightened enough. Hey, baosj, show us a syringe now.’

‘Have you gone schitz, Rage?’

‘Shut up!’

‘Chillax. Why so angry?’

‘Don’t think Rage liked you using his name,’ Harry said.

‘You shut up too! A shot! And use your own bag.’

Harry had never melted or injected before, at least not when sober, but he had used opium and knew what was involved: melting the substance into a fluid form and drawing it into a syringe. How difficult could that be? He crouched down, poured powder into the foil, some fell to the ground and he licked his finger, dabbed it up and rubbed it into his gums, tried to seem keen. It tasted bitter like other powders he had tested as a policeman. But there was another taste as well. An almost imperceptible tang of ammonium. No, not ammonium. He remembered now, the tang reminded him of the smell of overripe papaya. He flicked the lighter, hoping they attributed his slight clumsiness to the fact that he was working with a gun to his head.

Two minutes later he had the syringe charged and ready.

Rick Ross had regained his gangsta coolness. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and was posing with legs wide, arms crossed and head tipped back.

‘Shoot,’ he commanded. He twitched and held up a defensive palm. ‘Not you, Rage!’

Harry looked at the two of them. Rick Ross had no marks on his bare forearms, and Rage looked a bit too alert. Harry pumped his left fist up towards his shoulder twice, flicked his forearm and inserted the needle at the prescribed thirty-degree angle. And hoped it looked professional to someone who did not inject himself.

‘Ahh,’ Harry groaned.

Professional enough for them not to think about how far the needle penetrated a vein or just the flesh.

He rolled his eyes and his knees gave way.

Professional enough for them to fall for a faked orgasm.

‘Don’t forget to tell Dubai,’ he whispered.

Then he staggered to the street and swayed westwards towards the Royal Palace.

Only in Dronningens gate did he straighten up.

In Prinsens gate he got the delayed effect. Caused by those parts of the drug that had found blood, that had reached the brain via the roundabout routes of capillaries. It was like a distant echo of the rush from a needle straight into an artery. Yet Harry felt his eyes filling with tears. It was like being reunited with a lover you thought you would never see again. His ears filled, not with heavenly music, but heavenly light. And all at once he knew why they called it violin.

It was ten o’clock at night, and the lights were out in the Orgkrim offices, and the corridors were empty. But in Truls Berntsen’s office the computer screen cast a blue light on the policeman sitting with his feet on the desk. He had put fifteen hundred on Man City to win and was about to lose it. But now they had a free kick. Eighteen metres and Tevez.

He heard the door open, and his right index finger automatically hit the escape button. But it was too late.

‘Hope it’s not my budget paying for streaming.’

Mikael Bellman took a seat on the only other chair. Truls had noticed that as Bellman had risen through the ranks he had changed the pronunciation they had grown up with in Manglerud. It was only when he talked to Truls that he sometimes went back to their roots.

‘Have you read the paper?’

Truls nodded. Since there had been nothing else to read he had kept going after the crime and sport pages were finished. He had seen a good deal about the council secretary Isabelle Skoyen. She had begun to be photographed at premieres and social events after Verdens Gang had run a profile that summer of her entitled ‘The Street Sweeper’. She had been credited as the architect behind the clean-up of Oslo’s streets, at the same time launching herself as a national politician. At any rate her steering committee had made progress. Truls thought he had noticed her neckline plunging in step with opposition support, and her smile in the photographs was soon as broad as her backside.

‘I’ve had a very unofficial conversation with the Police Commissioner,’ Bellman said. ‘She’s going to appoint me as Chief of Police, reporting to the Minister of Justice.’