‘ Was murder, don’t you mean?’

‘Let me reformulate that: my profession, my area of expertise, is murder. And it’s still the only field I know something about.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘To practise my occupation. To investigate murders.’

Hagen arched an eyebrow. ‘You’d like to work for me again?’

‘Why not? Unless I’m very much mistaken I was one of the best.’

‘Correction,’ Hagen said, turning back to the window. ‘You were the best.’ And repeated in a lower tone: ‘The best and the worst.’

‘I fancy one of the narco murders.’

Hagen gave a dry smile. ‘Which one? We’ve had four in the last six months. We haven’t made an ounce of headway with any of them.’

‘Gusto Hanssen.’

Hagen didn’t answer, continued to study the people sprawled over the grass. And the thoughts came unforced. Benefit cheats. Thieves. Terrorists. Why did he see that instead of hard-working employees enjoying a few well-earned hours in the September sunshine? The police look. The police blindness. He half listened to Harry’s voice behind him.

‘Gusto Hanssen, nineteen years old. Known to police, pushers and users. Found dead in a flat in Hausmanns gate on 12 July. Bled to death after a shot to the chest.’

Hagen burst out laughing. ‘Why do you want the only one that’s cleared up?’

‘I think you know.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Hagen sighed. ‘But if I were to employ you again I would put you on one of the others. On the undercover cop case.’

‘I want this one.’

‘There are, in round figures, about a hundred reasons why you will never be put on that case, Harry.’

‘Which are?’

Hagen turned to Harry. ‘Perhaps it’s enough to mention the first. The case has already been solved.’

‘And beyond that?’

‘We don’t have the case. Kripos does. I don’t have any vacancies. Quite the opposite, I’m trying to make cuts. You’re not eligible. Should I go on?’

‘Mm. Where is he?’

Hagen pointed out of the window. Across the lawn to the grey-stone building behind the yellow leaves of the linden trees.

‘Botsen,’ Harry said. ‘On remand.’

‘For the moment.’

‘Visits out of bounds?’

‘Who traced you in Hong Kong and told you about the case? Was it-?’

‘No,’ Harry interrupted.

‘So?’

‘So.’

‘Who?’

‘I might have read about it on the Net.’

‘Hardly,’ Hagen said with a thin smile and lifeless eyes. ‘The case was in the papers for one day before it was forgotten. And there were no names. Only an article about a drugged-up junkie who had shot another junkie over dope. Nothing of any interest for anyone. Nothing to make the case stand out.’

‘Apart from the fact that the two junkies were teenage boys,’ Harry said. ‘Nineteen years old. And eighteen.’ His voice had changed timbre.

Hagen shrugged. ‘Old enough to kill, old enough to die. In the new year they would have been called up for military service.’

‘Could you fix up a chat for me?’

‘Who told you, Harry?’

Harry rubbed his chin. ‘Friend in Krimteknisk.’

Hagen smiled. And this time the smile reached his eyes. ‘You’re so damned kind, Harry. To my knowledge, you have three friends in the police force. Among them Bjorn Holm in Krimteknisk. And Beate Lonn in Krimteknisk. So which one was it?’

‘Beate. Will you fix me up with a visit?’

Hagen sat on the edge of his desk and observed Harry. Looked down at the telephone.

‘On one condition, Harry. You promise to keep miles away from this case. It’s all sunshine and roses between us and Kripos now, and I could do without any more trouble with them.’

Harry grimaced. He had sunk so low in the chair now he could study his belt buckle. ‘So you and the Kripos king have become bosom pals?’

‘Mikael Bellman stopped working for Kripos,’ Hagen said. ‘Hence, sunshine and roses.’

‘Got rid of the psychopath? Happy days…’

‘On the contrary.’ Hagen’s laugh was hollow. ‘Bellman is more present than ever. He’s in this building.’

‘Oh shit. Here in Crime Squad?’

‘God forbid. He’s been running Orgkrim for more than a year.’

‘You’ve got new wombos, I can hear.’

‘Organised crime. They merged a load of the old sections. Burglary, trafficking, narc. It’s all Orgkrim now. More than two hundred employees, biggest unit in the Crime Department.’

‘Mm. More than he had in Kripos.’

‘Yet his salary went down. And you know what that means when people take lower paid jobs?’

‘They’re after more power,’ Harry said.

‘He was the one who got the drugs market under control, Harry. Good undercover work. Arrests and raids. There are fewer gangs and there’s no in-fighting now. OD figures are, as I said, on the way down

…’ Hagen pointed a finger at the ceiling. ‘And Bellman’s on the way up. The boy’s going places, Harry.’

‘Me too,’ Harry said, rising to his feet. ‘To Botsen. I’m counting on there being a visitor’s permit in reception by the time I arrive.’

‘If we’ve got a deal?’

‘Course we have,’ Harry said, grabbing his ex-boss’s outstretched hand. He pumped it twice and made for the door. Hong Kong had been a good school for lying. He heard Hagen lift the telephone receiver, but as he reached the threshold he turned nonetheless.

‘Who’s the third?’

‘What?’ Hagen was looking down at the keypad while tapping with a heavy finger.

‘The third friend I have in the force?’

Unit Head Gunnar Hagen put the receiver to his ear, sent Harry a weary look and said with a sigh: ‘Who do you think?’ And: ‘Hello? Hagen here. I’d like a visitor’s permit… Yes?’ Hagen laid a hand over the receiver. ‘No problem. They’re eating now, but get there for around twelve.’

Harry smiled, mouthed a thank-you and closed the door quietly after him.

Tord Schultz stood in the booth, buttoning up his trousers and putting on his jacket. They had stopped short of examining orifices. The customs official — the one who had stopped him — was waiting outside. Standing there like an external examiner after a viva.

‘Thank you for being so cooperative,’ she said, indicating the exit.

Tord guessed they’d had long discussions about whether they would say ‘we’re sorry’ whenever a sniffer dog had identified someone, but no dope was found. The individual stopped, delayed, suspected and shamed would undoubtedly consider an apology appropriate. But should you complain about someone doing their job? Dogs identified innocent people all the time, and a complaint would be a partial admission that there was a flaw in the procedure, a failure in the system. On the other hand, they could see by his stripes that he was a captain. Not a three-striper, not one of the failed fifty-year-olds who had stayed in the right-hand seat as a first officer because they had messed up their career. No, he had four stripes, which showed that he had order, control; he was a man who was a master of the situation and his own life. Showed that he belonged to the airport’s Brahmin caste. A captain was a person who ought to welcome a complaint from a customs official, whether it was appropriate or not.

‘Not at all, it’s good to know someone is on the mark,’ Tord said, looking for his bag. In the worst-case scenario they had searched it; the dog hadn’t detected anything there. And the metal plates around the space where the package was hidden were still impenetrable for existing X-rays.

‘It’ll be here soon,’ she said.

There were a couple of seconds when they silently regarded each other.

Divorced, Tord thought.

At that moment another official appeared.

‘Your bag…’ he said.

Tord looked at him. Saw it in his eyes. Felt a lump grow in his stomach, rise, nudge his oesophagus. How? How?

‘We took out everything and weighed it,’ he said. ‘An empty twenty-six-inch’ Samsonite Aspire GRT weighs 5.8 kilos. Yours weighs 6.3. Would you mind explaining why?’

The official was too professional to smile overtly, but Tord Schultz still saw the triumph shining in his face. The official leaned forward a fraction, lowered his voice. ‘… or shall we?’