Nothing would be a problem. And as his pulse slowed he could feel his calm return. The calm he had lost, the calm his terror had repressed. And again he could feel himself looking forward, looking forward to the completion of his task, to becoming at one with the story that was already told.

For this was the place, the place for the ambush. Sergey had seen the eyes of the policeman when he was staring at the bottles. It was the same look his father had when he returned home from prison. Sergey was the crocodile in the billabong, the crocodile that knew the man would take the same path to get something to drink, that knew it was only a question of waiting.

Harry lay on the bed in room 301, he blew smoke at the ceiling and listened to her voice on the phone.

‘I know you’ve done worse things than planting evidence,’ she said. ‘So, why not? Why not for a person you love?’

‘You’re drinking white wine,’ he said.

‘How do you know it’s not red wine?’

‘I can hear.’

‘So, explain why you won’t help me.’

‘May I?’

‘Yes, Harry.’

Harry stubbed out the cigarette in the empty coffee cup on the bedside table. ‘I, lawbreaker and discharged police officer, consider that the law means something. Does that sound weird?’

‘Carry on.’

‘Law is the fence we’ve erected at the edge of the precipice. Whenever someone breaks the law they break the fence. So we have to repair it. The guilty party has to atone.’

‘No, someone has to atone. Someone has to take the punishment to show society that murder is unacceptable. Any scapegoat can rebuild the fence.’

‘You’re gouging out chunks of the law to suit you. You’re a lawyer. You know better.’

‘I’m a mother, I work as a lawyer. What about you, Harry? Are you a policeman? Is that what you’ve become? A robot, a slave of the anthill and ideas other people have had? Is that where you are?’

‘Mm.’

‘Have you got an answer?’

‘Well, why do you think I came to Oslo?’

Pause.

‘Harry?’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t cry.’

‘I know. Sorry.’

‘Don’t say sorry.’

‘Goodnight, Harry. I…’

‘Goodnight.’

Harry woke. He had heard something. Something that drowned the sound of his running footsteps in the corridor and the avalanche. He looked at his watch. 01.34. The broken curtain pole leaned against the window frame and formed the silhouette of a tulip. He got up and went to the window and peered down into the backyard. A bin lay on its side, still rattling around. He rested his forehead against the glass.

22

It was early, and the morning rush-hour traffic was creeping along at a whisper towards Gronlandsleiret as Truls walked up to Police HQ. He caught sight of the red poster on the linden tree just before he arrived at the doors with the curious portholes. Then he turned, walked calmly back. Past the slow-moving queues in Oslo gate to the cemetery.

The cemetery was as deserted as usual at this time. At least with respect to the living. He stopped in front of the headstone to A. C. Rud. There were no messages written on it, ergo it had to be pay day.

He crouched down and dug the earth beside the stone. Caught hold of the brown envelope and pulled it out. Resisted the temptation to open it and count the money there and then, stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He was about to get up, but a sudden sense that he was being watched made him stay in the crouch for a couple of seconds, as if meditating about A. C. Rud and the transient nature of life or some such bullshit.

‘Stay where you are, Berntsen.’

A shadow had fallen over him. And with it a chill, as if the sun was hidden behind a cloud. Truls Berntsen felt as though he were in free fall, and his stomach lurched into his chest. So this was what it would be like. Being exposed.

‘We have a different type of job for you this time.’

Truls felt terra firma beneath his feet again. The voice. The slight accent. It was him. Truls glanced to his side. Saw the figure standing with bowed head two gravestones away, apparently praying.

‘You have to find out where they’ve hidden Oleg Fauke. Look straight ahead!’

Truls stared at the stone in front of him.

‘I’ve tried,’ he said. ‘But the move hasn’t been recorded anywhere. Nowhere I can access at any rate. And no one I’ve spoken to has heard anything about the guy, so my guess is they’ve given him another name.’

‘Talk to those in the know. Talk to the defence counsel. Simonsen.’

‘Why not the mother? She must-’

‘No women!’ The words came like a whiplash. Had there been other people in the cemetery they would surely have heard them. Then, calmer: ‘Try the defence counsel. And if that doesn’t work…’

In the ensuing pause Berntsen heard the whoosh through the cemetery treetops. It must have been the wind; that was what had suddenly made everything so cold.

‘… then there’s a man called Chris Reddy,’ the voice continued. ‘On the street he’s known as Adidas. He deals in-’

‘Speed. Adidas means amphet-’

‘Shut up, Berntsen. Just listen.’

Truls shut up. And listened. The way he had shut up whenever anyone with a similar voice had told him to shut up. Listened when they told him to dig muck. Told him…

The voice gave an address.

‘You’ve heard a rumour that Adidas has been going round boasting he shot Gusto Hanssen. So you take him in for questioning. And he makes a no-holds-barred confession. I’ll leave it to you to agree on the details so that it’s a hundred per cent credible. First, though, try to make Simonsen talk. Have you understood?’

‘Yes, but why would Adidas-’

‘Why is not your problem, Berntsen. Your sole question should be “how much”.’

Truls Berntsen swallowed. And kept swallowing. Dug shit. Swallowed shit. ‘How much?’

‘That’s right, yes. Sixty thousand.’

‘Hundred thousand.’

No answer.

‘Hello?’

But all that could be heard was the whisper of the morning congestion.

Bernsten sat still. Glanced to the side. No one there. Felt the sun beginning to warm him again. And sixty thousand was good. It was.

There was still mist on the ground as Harry swung up in front of the main building on Skoyen farm at ten in the morning. Isabelle Skoyen stood on the steps, smiling and slapping a little riding whip against the thigh of her black jodhpurs. While Harry was getting out of the car he heard the gravel crunch under her boots.

‘Morning, Harry. What do you know about horses?’

Harry slammed the car door. ‘I’ve lost a lot of money on them. Does that help?’

‘So you’re a gambler as well?’

‘As well?’

‘I’ve done a bit of detective work too. Your achievements are offset by your vices. That, at least, is what your colleagues claim. Did you lose the money in Hong Kong?’

‘Happy Valley racecourse. It only happened once.’

She began to walk towards a low, red building, and he had to quicken his pace to keep up with her. ‘Have you ever done any riding, Harry?’

‘My grandfather had a sturdy old horse in Andalsnes.’

‘Experienced rider then.’

‘Another one-off. My grandfather said horses weren’t toys. He said riding for pleasure showed a lack of respect for working animals.’

She stopped in front of a wooden stand holding two narrow leather saddles. ‘Not a single one of my horses has ever seen or will ever see a cart or plough. While I saddle up I suggest you head over there…’ She pointed to the farmhouse. ‘You’ll find some suitable clothes belonging to my ex-husband in the hall wardrobe. We don’t want to ruin your elegant suit, do we?’

In the wardrobe Harry found a sweater and a pair of jeans that were in fact big enough. The ex-husband must have had smaller feet, though, because he couldn’t get any of the shoes on, until he found a pair of used blue Norwegian Army trainers at the back.