‘I thought methadone was liquid and came in bottles.’

‘The methadone used in the so-called medicine-assisted rehabilitation of drug addicts comes in bottles. So I rang up St Olav’s Hospital. They research opioids and opiates and told me that methadone pills are used for the treatment of pain.’

‘And in violin?’

‘They said it was possible that modified methadone could be used in its manufacture, yes.’

‘That only means violin is not made from scratch, but how does that help us?’

Beate curled her hand round the beer glass. ‘Because there are very few producers of methadone pills. And one of them is based in Oslo.’

‘AB? Nycomed?’

‘The Radium Hospital. They have their own research institute and have manufactured a methadone pill to treat severe pain.’

‘Cancer.’

Beate nodded. One hand transported the glass to her mouth while the other picked up something lying on the table.

‘From the Radium Hospital?’

Beate nodded again.

Harry picked up the pill. It was round, small and had an R stamped into the brown glazing.

‘Do you know what, Beate?’

‘No.’

‘I think Norway has created a new export.’

‘Do you mean to say that someone in Norway is producing and exporting violin?’ Rakel asked. She was leaning with her arms crossed against the door frame of Oleg’s room.

‘There are at least a couple of facts that suggest someone might be,’ Harry said, keying in the next name on the list he had been given by Torkildsen. ‘Firstly, the ripples spread outwards from Oslo. No one at Interpol had seen or heard about violin before it appeared in Oslo, and it is only now that you can find it on the streets of Sweden and Denmark. Secondly, the substance contains chopped-up methadone pills which I swear are made in Norway.’ Harry pressed search. ‘Thirdly, a pilot was arrested at Gardermoen with something which might have been violin, but was then swapped.’

‘Swapped?’

‘In which case we have a burner in the system. The point is that this pilot was leaving the country for Bangkok.’

Harry smelt the aroma of her perfume and knew she had moved from the door and was standing by his shoulder. The sheen from the computer screen was the only light in the dark room.

‘Foxy. Who’s that?’ Her voice was next to his ear.

‘Isabelle Skoyen. City Council. One of the people Gusto rang. Or to be precise, she rang him.’

‘The blood donor T-shirt’s a size too small for her, isn’t it?’

‘It’s probably part of a politician’s job to advertise giving blood.’

‘Are you actually a politician if you’re just a council secretary?’

‘Anyway, the woman says she’s AB rhesus negative, and then it’s simply your civic duty.’

‘Rare blood, yes. Is that why you’ve been looking at that picture for so long?’

Harry smiled. ‘There were lots of hits here. Horse breeder. “The Street Sweeper.”’

‘She’s the one credited with putting all the drug gangs behind bars.’

‘Not all of them obviously. I wonder what she and Gusto could have had to talk about.’

‘Well, she heads the Social Services Committee’s work against drugs, so maybe she used him to gather general information.’

‘At half past one in the morning?’

‘Whoops!’

‘I’d better ask her.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you’d like that.’

He craned his head towards her. Her face was so close he could hardly focus on her.

‘Do I hear what I think I hear, my love?’

She laughed softly. ‘Not at all. She looks cheap.’

Harry inhaled slowly. She hadn’t moved. ‘And what makes you think I don’t like cheap?’ he asked.

‘And why are you whispering?’ Her lips moved so close to his he could feel the stream of air with her words.

For two long seconds the computer’s fan was all that could be heard. Then she suddenly straightened up. Sent Harry an absent-minded, far-off look and placed her hands against her cheeks as if to cool them down. Then she turned and left.

Harry leaned back, closed his eyes and cursed softly. Heard her clattering about in the kitchen. Breathed in a couple of times. Decided that what had just happened, had not happened. Tried to collect his thoughts. Then he went on.

He googled the remaining names. Some came up with ten-year-old results of skiing competitions or a report of a family get-together, others not even that. They were people who no longer existed, who had been withdrawn from modern society’s almost all-embracing floodlights, who had found shady nooks where they sat waiting for the next dose or else nothing.

Harry sat looking at the wall, at a poster of a guy with plumage on his head. ‘Jonsi’ was written underneath. Harry had a vague memory that it had something to do with the Icelandic band Sigur Ros. Ethereal sounds and relentless falsetto singing. Quite a long way from Megadeath and Slayer. But of course Oleg may have changed his taste. Or have been influenced. Harry settled back with his hands behind his head.

Irene Hanssen.

He had been surprised by the list of calls. Gusto and Irene had spoken on the phone almost every day, then abruptly stopped. After that he hadn’t even tried to ring her. As if they had fallen out. Or maybe Gusto had known that Irene could not be reached by phone. But then, a few hours before he was shot, Gusto had rung the landline at her home address. And had got an answer. The conversation had lasted one minute and twelve seconds. Why did he think that was odd? Harry tried to unravel his way back to where the thought had originated. But had to give up. He dialled the landline number. No answer. Tried Irene’s mobile. A voice told him that the account was temporarily blocked. Unpaid bills.

Money.

It started and finished with money. Drugs always did. Harry tried to remember the name Beate had told him. The pilot who had been arrested with powder in his hand luggage. The police memory still worked. He typed TORD SCHULTZ into directory enquiries.

A mobile number came up.

Harry opened a drawer in Oleg’s desk to find a pen. He lifted Masterful Magazine and his eye fell on a newspaper cutting in a plastic folder. He immediately recognised his own, younger face. He took out the folder and flicked through the other cuttings. They were all of cases Harry had worked on and where Harry’s name had been mentioned or his picture appeared. There was also an old interview in a psychology journal where he had answered — not without some irritation he seemed to remember — questions about serial killings. Harry closed the drawer. Cast around. He felt a need to smash something. Then he switched off the computer, packed the little suitcase, went into the hall and put on his suit jacket. Rakel came out. She brushed an invisible speck of dust from his lapel.

‘It’s so strange,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages, I had just begun to forget you, and then, here you are again.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Is that a good thing?’

A fleeting smile. ‘I don’t know. It’s both good and bad. Do you understand?’

Harry nodded and pulled her to him.

‘You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,’ she said. ‘And the best. Even now, merely by being here, you can make me forget everything else. No, I’m not sure that’s good.’

‘I know.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing to the suitcase.

‘I’m checking in to Hotel Leon.’

‘But…’

‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Goodnight, Rakel.’

Harry kissed her on the forehead, opened the door and went out into the warm autumn evening.

The boy in reception said he didn’t need to fill in another registration form and offered Harry the same room as last time, 301. Harry said that was fine so long as they fixed the broken curtain pole.

‘Is it broken again?’ the boy said. ‘It was the previous lodger. He had a bit of a temper, I’m afraid.’ He passed Harry the room key. ‘He was a policeman as well.’