Harry Hole held the glass in his hand. Listened to the almost inaudible hiss of ice cubes melting. Didn’t drink. He was broke, at the end of the line, and was going to drag this drink out and enjoy it. His gaze settled on one of the pictures behind the bar. It was a photograph of one of the favourite authors of his youth, Charles Bukowski, outside Creatures. Ben had told him it was from the seventies. Bukowski was standing with his arm around a buddy, at what looked like dawn; both were wearing Hawaiian shirts, their eyes swimming, pinpricks for pupils, and grinning triumphantly, as though they had just reached the North Pole after a gruelling journey.

Harry lowered his eyes to look at the credit card which Ben had tossed on the bar in front of him.

Maxed out. Emptied. Nothing left. Mission accomplished. Which had been this, to drink until there was indeed nothing left. No money, no days, no future. All that remained was to see if he had the courage — or the cowardice — to round it all off. There was an old Beretta handgun underneath the mattress in his room back at the boarding house. He had bought it for twenty-five dollars from a homeless guy living in one of the blue tents down on Skid Row. There were three bullets in it. He laid the credit card in the flat of his hand and curled his fingers around it. Turned to look out the window. Watched the old lady as she strutted out to the parking lot. She was so small. Slight, delicate and strong as a sparrow. Beige trousers and a short matching jacket. There was something 1980s about her archaic, but tasteful, clothing style. Walking the same way as how she swept into the bar every morning. Making an entrance. For an audience of between two and eight people.

‘Lucille is here!’ Ben would proclaim before, unbidden, he began mixing her usual poison, whiskey sour.

But it wasn’t the way she took a room that reminded Harry of his mother, who had died at the Radium Hospital when he was fifteen, putting the first bullet hole through his heart. It was the gentle, smiling, yet sad look in Lucille’s eyes, like that of a kind, but resigned soul. The concern she displayed for others when she asked for the latest news about their health problems, love lives, and their nearest and dearest. And the consideration she showed by letting Harry sit in peace at the far end of the bar. His mother, that taciturn woman who was the family’s control tower, its nerve centre, who pulled the strings so discreetly one could easily believe it was his father who called the shots. His mother, who had always offered a safe embrace, had always understood, whom he had loved above all else and who therefore had become his Achilles heel. Like that time in second grade when there had been a gentle knock on the classroom door and his mother was standing there with the lunch box he had left at home. Harry had brightened up automatically at the sight of her, before hearing some of his classmates laugh, whereupon he had marched out to her in the hall and, in a fury, had told her she was embarrassing him, she had to leave, he didn’t need food. She had merely smiled sadly, given him the lunch box, stroked his cheek and left. He didn’t mention it later. Of course, she had understood, the way she always did. And when he went to bed that night, he also understood. She was not the reason he had felt uncomfortable. It was the fact they had all seen it. His love. His vulnerability. He had thought about apologising several times over the following years, but that would probably just have felt stupid.

A cloud of dust rose up on the gravelled area outside, enveloping for a moment Lucille, who was holding her sunglasses in place. He saw the passenger door of the white Camaro open, and a man in sunglasses and a red polo shirt emerge. He walked to the front of the car, blocking Lucille’s path to her own.

He expected to observe a conversation between the two. But instead the man took a step forward and grabbed hold of Lucille’s arm. Began pulling her towards the Camaro. Harry saw the heels of her shoes dig into the gravel. And now he also saw that the Camaro didn’t have American number plates. In that instant he was off the bar stool. Running towards the door, he burst it open with his elbow, was blinded by sunlight and almost stumbled on the two steps down from the porch. Realised he was far from sober. Then zeroed in on the two cars. His eyes gradually adjusting to the light. Beyond the parking lot, on the other side of the road winding its way up the green hillside, lay a sleepy general store, but he couldn’t see any other people apart from the man and Lucille, who was being dragged towards the Camaro.

‘Police!’ he shouted. ‘Let her go!’

‘Please stay out of this, sir,’ the man called back.

Harry surmised the man must have a similar background to his own, only policemen employed polite language in this type of situation. Harry also knew that a physical intervention was unavoidable, and that the first rule in close combat was simple: don’t wait, he who attacks first and with maximum aggression wins. So he didn’t slow down, and the other man must have realised Harry’s intention, because he let go of Lucille and reached for something he had behind him. His hand swung back around. In it he held a shiny handgun Harry recognised instantly. A Glock 17. Now pointed directly at him.

Harry slowed down but continued moving forwards. Saw the other man’s eye aiming from behind the gun. His voice was half drowned out by a passing pickup on the road.

‘Run back to where you came from, sir. Now!’

But Harry carried on walking towards him. Became aware he was still holding the credit card in his right hand. Was this how it ended? In a dusty parking lot in a foreign country, bathed in sunlight, broke and half drunk, while trying to do what he hadn’t been able to do for his mother, hadn’t been able to do for any of those he had ever cared about?

He almost closed his eyes and squeezed his fingers around the credit card, so his hand formed a chisel.

The title of the Leonard Cohen song swirled through his mind: ‘Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.’

Fuck that, the hell it wasn’t.

‘I think I know where to find him.’

‘Drop it, Bratt. Resorting to old heroes as soon as you’re under pressure comes across as an implicit disparagement of the people actually at your disposal in Crime Squad. What will it do to their self-esteem and motivation if you say you want to bring in a wreck without a badge? That’s what we call poor leadership, Bratt.’

‘OK,’ Katrine said and swallowed hard.

‘All right, I appreciate that you think it’s OK. Was there anything else?’

Katrine thought for a moment. So Melling could actually be antagonised and bare her teeth after all. Good. She looked at the crescent moon hanging above the treetops. Last night, Arne, the young man she had been dating for almost month, told her that in two weeks there would be a total lunar eclipse, a so-called blood moon, and they should mark the occasion. Katrine had no clue what a blood moon was, but apparently it occurred every second or third year, and Arne was so eager that she hadn’t had the heart to say maybe they shouldn’t plan something as far in the future as two weeks, seeing as they barely knew each other. Katrine had never been afraid of conflict or of being direct, something she had probably inherited from her father, a policeman from Bergen who’d had more enemies than that city had rainy days, but she had learned to choose her battles and the timing of them. But now, having thought about it, she understood that unlike a confrontation with a man she didn’t know whether she had any future with, this was one she had to face. Now rather than later.

‘Yes, actually,’ Katrine said. ‘Would it also be OK to say that at the press conference if anyone asks? Or to the parents of the next girl who is killed?’

‘Say what?’

‘That the Oslo Police District is declining the assistance of a man who has cleared up three serial killer cases in the city and apprehended the three culprits? On the grounds we think it may impact on the self-esteem of some colleagues?’

A long silence arose, and Katrine could not hear any chat in the background now either. Finally, Bodil Melling cleared her throat.

‘You know what, Katrine? You’ve been working hard on this case. Go ahead and hold that press conference, get some sleep at the weekend, and we’ll talk on Monday.’

After they hung up, Katrine called the Forensic Medical Institute. Rather than go through the proper channels, she called the direct line of Alexandra Sturdza, the young forensic medical officer, who had neither partner nor child, and wasn’t too averse to long working hours. And sure enough, Sturdza replied that she and a colleague would take a look at the body the following day.

Afterwards, Katrine stood looking down at the dead woman. Maybe it was the fact that in a man’s world she had got where she was on her own that would not allow her to set aside her contempt for women who willingly depended on men. That Susanne and Bertine lived off men was not the only circumstance that bound them, but also that they had shared the same man, one more than thirty years their senior, the property mogul Markus Røed. Their lives and existences relied on other people, men with the money and the jobs they themselves did not have, providing for them. In exchange, they offered their bodies, youth and beauty. And — insofar as their relationship was exposed — their selected host could enjoy the envy of other men. But, unlike children, women like Susanne and Bertine lived with the knowledge that love was not unconditional. Sooner or later their host would ditch them, and they would have to seek out a new man to feed upon. Or allow themselves to be fed upon, depending on how you viewed it.

Was that love? Why not, simply because it was too depressing to think about?

Between the trees, in the direction of the gravel road, Katrine saw the blue light of the ambulance, which had arrived noiselessly. She thought about Harry Hole. Yes, she had received a sign of life in April, a postcard — of all things — with a picture of Venice Beach, postmarked Los Angeles. Like a sonar pip from a submarine in the depths. The message had been short. ‘Send money.’ A joke, she wasn’t sure. Since then there had been silence.

Complete silence.

The final verse of the lullaby, which she had not reached, played in her head.

Blueman, Blueman, answer me, bleat with your familiar sound. Not yet, my Blueman, can you die on your boy.

The press conference took place as usual in the Parole Hall at Police HQ. The clock on the wall showed three minutes to ten, and while Mona Daa, VG’s crime reporter, and the others waited for the police representatives to take to the podium, Mona could conclude that the attendance was good. Over twenty journalists, and on a Friday evening. She’d had a brief discussion with her photographer on why double murders sold twice as well as single ones, or if it was a case of diminishing returns. The photographer believed that quality was more important than quantity, that as the victim was a young, ethnic Norwegian, of above-average attractiveness, she would generate more clicks than — for example — a drug-addicted couple in their forties with previous convictions. Or two — yes, even three — immigrant boys from a gang.

Mona Daa didn’t disagree. So far only one of the missing girls was confirmed killed, but realistically it was only a matter of time before it turned out the other had suffered the same fate, and both were young, ethnic Norwegians and pretty. It didn’t get any better. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. If it was an expression of extra concern for the young, innocent and defenceless individual. Or if other factors played a part, factors pertaining to the usual things that got clicks: sex, money and a life the readers wished they themselves had.

Speaking of wanting what others had. She looked at the guy in his thirties in the row in front. He was wearing the flannel shirt all the hipsters were supposed to be wearing this year and a porkpie hat à la Gene Hackman in The French Connection. It was Terry Våge from Dagbladet, and she wished she had his sources. Ever since the story broke, he’d had his nose in front of the others. It was Våge, for instance, who had first written about Susanne Andersen and Bertine Bertilsen having been at the same party. And Våge who had quoted a source as saying both girls had had Røed as a sugar daddy. It was annoying, and for more reasons than simply that he was competition. His very presence here was annoying. As though he had heard her thoughts, he turned and looked right at her. Smiling broadly, he touched a finger to the brim of his idiotic hat.

‘He likes you,’ the photographer said.

‘I know,’ she said.

Våge’s interest in Mona had begun when he made his improbable comeback to newspaper journalism as a crime reporter, and she had made the mistake of being relatively friendly towards him at a seminar on — of all things — press ethics. Since the other journalists avoided him like the plague, her attitude must have come across as inviting. He subsequently got in touch with Mona for ‘tips and advice’, as he termed it. As if she had any interest in acting as a mentor for a competitor — indeed, had any desire to have anything to do with someone like Terry Våge; after all, everybody knew there had to be something in the rumours doing the rounds on him. But the more stand-offish she was, the more intense he became. On the phone, social media channels, even popping up in bars and cafes, as though from nowhere. It had, as usual, taken a little time before she understood it was her he was interested in. Mona had never been the boys’ first pick, stocky and broad-faced as she was, with what her mother had called ‘sad hair’ and a congenital hip defect which gave her a crablike gait. God knows if it was an attempt to compensate, but she had begun training with weights, grown even more stocky, but had taken one hundred and twenty kilos in the deadlift and a third place in the national bodybuilding championships. And because she’d had to learn that a person — or at least she — didn’t get anything for free, she had developed a pushy charm, a sense of humour, and a toughness which the Barbie dolls of this world could just forget about, and which had won her the unofficial throne of crime queen — and Anders. Out of the two, she valued Anders higher. Well, just about. No matter: even though the type of attention from other men which Våge displayed was unfamiliar and flattering, it was out of the question for Mona to explore it any further. And she was of the opinion that she — if not in so many words, then in tone and body language — must have made this clear to Våge. But it was as though he saw and heard what he wanted. Sometimes when she looked into those wide-open, staring eyes of his, she wondered whether he was on something or if he was all there. One night he had shown up at a bar, and when Anders went to use the men’s room, he had said something to her, in a voice so low it couldn’t be heard above the music, but still not quite low enough. ‘You’re mine.’ She had pretended not to hear, but he just stood there, calm and confident, wearing a sly smile, as if it were now a secret they shared. Fuck him. She couldn’t stand drama, so she hadn’t mentioned it to Anders. Not that Anders wouldn’t have handled it just fine, she knew he would, but still she hadn’t said anything. What was it Våge imagined? That her interest in him, the new alpha male in their little pond, would grow in proportion with his position as a crime reporter who was always one step ahead of the others? Because he was, that wasn’t open to discussion any longer. So yes, if she wanted something someone else had, it was to be leading the race again, not downgraded to one of the pack chasing behind Terry Våge.

‘Where does he get it from, do you think?’ she whispered to the photographer.

He shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s making it up again.’

Mona shook her head. ‘No, there’re good grounds to believe what he’s writing now.’

Markus Røed and Johan Krohn, his lawyer, had not even attempted to refute any of what Våge had written, and that was confirmation enough.

But Våge had not always been the king of crime. The story lingered about him, always would. The girl’s stage name was Genie, a retro glam act à la Suzi Quatro, for those who remembered her. The matter had occurred about five or six years prior, and the worst part of it was not that Våge had manufactured pure lies about Genie and had them put in print, but the rumour he had dropped Rohypnol into her drink at an after-party in order to have sex with the teenager. At the time, he had been a music journalist for a free newspaper and had obviously become infatuated with her, but had — in spite of his eulogising her in review after review — been turned down repeatedly. Nevertheless he had continued showing up at gigs and after-parties. Right up to the night when — if the rumours were to be believed — he had spiked her drink and carried her off to his room, which he had booked at the same hotel as the band were staying at. When the boys in the band realised what was happening, they barged into the hotel room where Genie lay unconscious and in a state of half-undress on Terry Våge’s bed. They had given Terry such a beating that he suffered a skull fracture and was hospitalised for a couple of months. Genie and the band must have figured Våge had had punishment enough, or may not have wanted to risk prosecution themselves; in any case, the matter was not reported to the police by any of the parties involved. But it was the end of the glowing reviews. In addition to panning her every new release, Terry Våge wrote about Genie’s infidelity, drug abuse, plagiarism, underpayment of band members, and false information on applications for grants for tour support. When a dozen or so stories were referred to the Press Complaints Commission, and it turned out that Våge had simply made half of them up, he was sacked and became persona non grata in the Norwegian media for the next five years. How he had managed to make it back in was a mystery. Or maybe not. He had realised he was finished as a music journalist, but had been behind a crime blog that gathered more and more readers, and eventually Dagbladet said that one could not exclude a young journalist from their field just because he had made some mistakes early in his career, and had taken him on as a freelancer — a freelancer who currently got more column inches than any of the newspaper’s permanent reporters.

Våge finally turned away from Mona when the police made their entrance and took their places on the podium. Two from Oslo Police, Katrine Bratt — the inspector from Crime Squad — and Head of Information Kedzierski, a man with a Dylanesque mane of curly hair; and two from Kripos, the terrier-like Ole Winter and the always well-dressed Sung-min Larsen, sporting a fresh haircut. So Mona assumed they had already decided that the investigation would be a joint effort on behalf of the Crime Squad, in this case the Volvo, and Kripos, the Ferrari.

Most of the journalists held their mobiles up in the air to record sound and pictures, but Mona Daa took notes by hand and left the photographs to her colleague.

As expected, they didn’t learn much other than a body had been found in Østmarka, in the hiking area around Skullerud, and that the deceased had been identified as the missing woman Susanne Andersen. The case would be treated as a possible murder, but they had, as yet, no details to make public about the cause of death, sequence of events, suspects and so on.

The usual dance ensued, with the journalists peppering those on the podium with questions while they, Katrine Bratt in the main, repeated ‘no comment’ and ‘we can’t answer that’.

Mona Daa yawned. She and Anders were supposed to have a late dinner as a pleasant start to the weekend, but that wasn’t going to happen. She noted down what was said, but had the distinct feeling of writing a summary she had written before. Maybe Terry Våge felt the same. He was neither taking notes nor recording anything. Just sitting back in his chair, observing it all with a slight, almost triumphant, smile. Not asking any questions, as though he already had the answers he was interested in. It seemed the others had also run dry, and when Head of Information Kedzierski looked like he was drawing breath to bring things to a close, Mona raised her biro in the air.

‘Yes, VG?’ The head of Information had an expression that said this better be short, it’s the weekend.

‘Do you feel that you have the requisite competence should this turn out to be the type of person who kills again, that is to say if he’s—’

Katrine Bratt leaned forward in her chair and interrupted her: ‘As we said, we don’t have any sound basis to allow us to state that there’s any connection between this death and any other possible criminal acts. With regard to the combined expertise of the Crime Squad and Kripos, I dare say it’s adequate given what we know about the case so far.’

Mona noted the inspector’s caveat of what we know. And that Sung-min Larsen seated in the chair next to her had neither nodded at what Bratt said nor given any indication of his view on this expertise.

The press conference drew to a close, and Mona and the others made their way out into a mild autumn night.

‘What do you think?’ the photographer asked.

‘I think they’re happy they have a body,’ Mona said.

‘Did you say happy?’

‘Yeah. Susanne Andersen and Bertine Bertilsen have both been dead for weeks, the police know that, but they haven’t had a single lead to go on apart from that party at Røed’s. So, yeah, I think they’re happy they’re starting the weekend with at least one corpse that might give them something.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re a cold fish, Daa.’

Mona looked up at him in surprise. Considered it for a moment.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

Alexandra was not a regular smoker, but had a vague belief in cigarettes smoking out any potential demons from the dead that had taken up residence within. She inhaled and looked out over Oslo. Over the fjord, glittering like silver beneath a pale, cloudless sky. Over the low hills, where the colours of autumn burned in red and yellow.

‘Fuck, it’s nice here,’ she said with a sigh.

‘You make it sound like you wish it wasn’t,’ Helge said, taking over the cigarette from her.

‘I hate getting attached to things.’

‘Things?’

‘Places. People.’

‘Men?’

‘Especially men. They take away your freedom. Or rather, they don’t take it, you bloody well give it away like a wuss, as if you’re programmed to. And freedom is worth more than men.’

‘You sure?’

She snatched the cigarette back and took a long, angry drag. Blew the smoke out just as hard and gave a harsh, rasping laugh.

‘Worth more than the men I fall for anyway.’

‘What about that cop you mentioned?’

‘Oh, him.’ She chuckled. ‘Yeah, I liked him. But he was a mess. His wife had kicked him out and he drank all the time.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘His wife died and he skipped the country. Tragic business.’ Alexandra stood up abruptly. ‘Right, we better finish up and get the body back in the refrigerator. I want to party!’

They returned to the autopsy room, collected the last samples, filled out the rest of the fields on the form and tidied up.

‘Speaking of parties,’ Alexandra said. ‘You know the party this girl and the other one were at? That was the same party I was invited to, the one I then invited you to.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Don’t you remember? A friend of one of Røed’s neighbours asked me. She said the party was taking place on the best rooftop terrace in Oslobukta. Told me it would be crawling with the well-heeled, with celebrities and party people. Said they’d prefer women came in skirts. Short skirts.’

‘Ugh,’ Helge said. ‘Don’t blame you for not going.’

‘Fuck that, course I would’ve gone! If I hadn’t had so much work on here that day. And you would have come with.’

‘Would I?’ Helge smiled.

‘Of course.’ Alexandra laughed. ‘I’m your fag hag. Can’t you picture it, you, me and the beautiful people?’

‘Yes.’

‘You see, you are gay.’

‘What? Because?’

‘Tell me truthfully, Helge. Have you ever slept with a man?’

‘Let me see...’ Helge wheeled the table with the corpse towards one of the cold lockers. ‘Yes.’

‘More than once?’

‘Doesn’t mean I’m gay,’ he said, opening the large metal drawer.

‘No, that’s only circumstantial evidence. The proof, Watson, is that you tie your sweater over one shoulder and under the other arm.’

Helge chuckled, grabbed one of the white cloths on the instrument table and flicked it at her. Alexandra smiled as she ducked down behind the top end of the table. She remained like that, stooped over, her eyes fixed on the body.

‘Helge,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Yeah.’

‘I think we’ve missed something.’

‘What?’

Alexandra reached out towards Susanne Andersen’s head, lifted the hair and pulled it to the side.

‘What is it?’ Helge asked.

‘Stitches,’ Alexandra replied. ‘Fresh stitches.’

He came round the other side of the trolley. ‘Hm. Guess she must have hurt herself then?’

Alexandra lifted away more hair, followed the stitches. ‘These weren’t carried out by a trained doctor, Helge, no one uses thread this thick or stitches this loosely. This was just done in a hurry. And look, the stitches continue all the way round the head.’

‘As though she’s...’

‘As though she’s been scalped,’ Alexandra said, feeling a cold shudder go through her. ‘And then the scalp has been sewn back on.’

She looked up at Helge, saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall. ‘Will we...’ he began. ‘Will we check what’s... underneath?’

‘No,’ Alexandra said firmly, straightening up. She had taken home enough nightmares from this job, and the pathologists earned two hundred thousand kroner a year more than her, they could earn it.

‘This is outside our field of competence,’ she said. ‘So it’s the kind of thing Dieners like you and me leave to the grown-ups.’

‘OK. And OK to partying tonight too, by the way.’

‘Good,’ Alexandra said. ‘But we need to finish the report and send it along with the photos to Bratt at Crime Squad. Oh fuck!’

‘What is it?’

‘I just realised that Bratt is bound to ask me to run an express DNA analysis when she reads about that saliva or whatever it is. In which case I won’t make it out on the town tonight.’

‘Come on, you can say no, everyone needs time off, even you.’

Alexandra put her hands on her hips, tilted her head to one side and looked sternly at Helge.

‘Right.’ He sighed. ‘Where would we be if everyone just took time off?’

Harry Hole woke up. The bungalow lay in semi-darkness, but a white strip of sunlight, coming from under the bamboo blind, stretched across the coarse wooden floor, via the stone slab serving as a coffee table, and over to the kitchen worktop.

A cat was sitting there. One of Lucille’s cats; she had so many of them up in the main house that Harry couldn’t tell one from the other. The cat looked like it was smiling. Its tail was waving slowly as it calmly observed a mouse scuttling along the wall, stopping now and then to stick its snout in the air to sniff, before continuing. Towards the cat. Was the mouse blind? Did it lack a sense of smell? Had it eaten some of Harry’s marijuana? Or did it believe, like so many others seeking happiness in this city, that it was different, special? Or that this cat was different, that it meant well and wouldn’t just eat him?

Harry reached for the joint on the nightstand while keeping his eyes on the mouse, who was headed straight towards the cat. The cat struck, sinking its teeth into the mouse and lifting it up. It writhed a few moments in the predator’s jaws before going limp. The cat laid its prey on the floor, then viewed it with its head cocked slightly to one side, as though undecided on whether to eat the mouse or not.

Harry lit up the joint. He had come to the conclusion that joints didn’t count with regard to the new drinking regimen he had embarked upon. Inhaled. Watched the smoke curl upward to the ceiling. He had dreamt about the man behind the wheel of the Camaro again. And the number plate that read Baja California Mexico. The dream was the same, he was chasing them. So not exactly hard to interpret. Three weeks had passed since Harry had stood in the parking lot outside Creatures with a Glock 17 aimed at him, fairly certain his imminent demise was a second or two away. Which had been just fine by him. So it was strange that the only thing that had been in his head after those two seconds had elapsed, and every day since, was not to die. It had begun with the hesitation on the part of the man in the polo shirt; perhaps he was considering the possibility that Harry was a mental case, a manageable obstacle to be overcome, who didn’t need shooting. He would hardly have had more time to think before Harry’s chisel punch struck him in the throat and put him down for the count. Harry had physically felt the man’s larynx give way. He had lain squirming on the gravel like a worm, his hands to his throat and eyes bulging while he gasped desperately for air. Harry had picked the Glock up off the ground and stared at the man in the car. Due to the tinted windows he hadn’t seen much, only the outline of a face, and that the man looked to be wearing a white shirt buttoned right up to the neck. And that he was smoking a cigarette or a cigarillo. The man made no move, just looked calmly out at Harry, as though evaluating him, committing him to memory. Harry heard someone shout ‘Get in!’ and noticed Lucille had started her own car and pushed open the door on the passenger side.

Then he had jumped in. Down the rabbit hole.

The first thing he asked as she turned down towards lower ground and Sunset Boulevard, was who she owed money to and how much.

The first answer — ‘The Esposito family’ — didn’t mean much to him, but the next — ‘Nine hundred and sixty thousand dollars’ — confirmed what the Glock had already told him. That she wasn’t in a little trouble but a lot. And that from now on that trouble included him.

He explained that under no circumstances could she go back home, and asked if there was anyone whose place she could lay low at. She said, yes, she had a lot of friends in Los Angeles. But after thinking about it for a minute, she said none of them would be willing to run the risk for her. They stopped at a petrol station, and Lucille called her first husband, whom she knew had a house he hadn’t used in several years.

And that was how they had ended up on this property, with its dilapidated house, overgrown garden and guest bungalow. Harry had installed himself in the bungalow with his newly acquired Glock 17 because from there he had a view of both gates, and because it was fitted with an alarm that went off should anyone break into the main house. Any prospective intruders wouldn’t hear that alarm, meaning hopefully he could take them from the rear, given that he would be coming from the outside. Up until now, he and Lucille had hardly left the property, just short trips for the absolute essentials: alcohol, food, clothes and cosmetics — in that order. Lucille had taken up residence on the first floor of the main house, which after just a week was full of cats.

‘Aw, in this town they’re all homeless,’ Lucille told him. ‘You put some food out on the stoop a few days in a row, leave the front door open, some more food in the kitchen, and before you know it you’ve got enough pet friends for an entire lifetime.’

Yet not quite enough it seemed, because three days previously Lucille decided she couldn’t endure the isolation any longer. She had taken Harry to a former Savile Row tailor she knew, to an elderly hairdresser in Rosewood Avenue and then — most important of all — to John Lobb’s shoe store in Beverly Hills. Yesterday, Harry had picked up the suit while Lucille got ready, and a few hours later they had gone to eat at Dan Tana’s, the legendary Italian restaurant where the chairs were as worn out as the clientele, but where Lucille seemed to know everybody and had beamed all evening.

It was seven o’clock. Harry inhaled and stared at the ceiling. Listened for sounds that shouldn’t be there. But all he heard was the first cars on Doheny Drive, which was not the widest street, but popular because it had fewer traffic lights than the roads running parallel. It reminded him of lying in bed in his apartment in Oslo, listening to the sounds of the city waking outside the open window. He missed it, even the ill-tempered ringing and the shrill screech of a braking tram. Particularly the shrill screech.

But Oslo was behind him now. Following Rakel’s death he had sat at the airport, looked at the departure board, and rolled a dice that determined his destination would be Los Angeles. He had figured it was as good as anywhere. He had lived in Chicago for a year while attending the FBI’s course for serial homicides, and thought he was familiar with American culture and their way of life. But not long after arrival, he realised that Chicago and LA were two different planets. One of Lucille’s movie friends, a German director, had described Los Angeles with bluster in a broad accent at Dan Tana’s the night before.

‘You land at LAX, the sun is shining and you’re picked up by a limousine which drives you to a place where you lie down by a swimming pool, get a cocktail, fall asleep and wake up to discover that twenty years of your life have gone by.’

That was the director’s LA.

Harry’s introduction to LA had been four nights at a dirty, cockroach-infested motel room without air con in La Cienega, prior to his renting an even cheaper room in Laurel Canyon, also without air con, but with larger cockroaches. But he had settled in somewhat after discovering Creatures, the neighbourhood bar, where the liquor was cheap enough for him to deem it possible to drink himself to death.

But after staring down the barrel of a Glock 17 this desire to die had ceased. As had the drinking. That type of drinking at any rate. If he was to be capable of keeping watch and looking out for Lucille, he would have to be somewhat sober. He had, therefore, decided to test out the drinking regimen his childhood friend and drinking partner Øystein Eikeland had recommended, although frankly it sounded like bullshit. The method was called Moderation Management, and was supposed to turn you into a substance user, meaning a substance abuser who exercises moderation. The first time he had told Harry about it, the two of them had been sitting in Øystein’s taxi at a rank in Oslo. His enthusiasm had been such that he had hammered on the steering wheel while proclaiming its virtues.

‘People have always derided the alcoholic who swears that from now on he’s only going to have a drink in social settings, right? Because they don’t think that’s possible, they’re sure it isn’t, almost as if you’d be defying the law of gravity for, like, alcoholism, yeah? But you know what? It is possible to drink to just the right level of drunkenness even for a full-blown alkie like you. And me. It’s possible to programme yourself to drink to a certain point and stop. All you have to do is decide beforehand where to draw the line, how many units. But, it goes without saying, you have to work at it.’

‘You have to drink a lot before you get the hang of it, you mean?’

‘Yeah. You’re smirking, Harry, but I’m serious. It’s about that sense of achievement, of knowing that you can. And then it’s possible. I’m not kidding, I can offer the world’s best substance abuser as living proof.’

‘Hm. I presume we’re talking about that overrated guitarist you like so much.’

‘Hey, have some respect for Keith Richards! Read his biography. He gives you the formula right there. Survival is about two things. Only the purest, best dope, it’s the stuff mixed in with it that kills you. And moderation, in both drugs and alcohol. You know exactly how much you need to get sufficiently drunk, which in your case means pain-free. More liquor after doesn’t help soothe the pain more, now does it?’

‘Suppose not.’

Lucille shooed one of the cats off the four-poster bed, stood up, drew the curtains and sat down at the make-up mirror. Studied her face. She had recently seen a picture of Uma Thurman, she was over fifty now, but looked like a thirty-year-old. Lucille sighed. The task seemed more insurmountable for each passing year, but she opened the Chanel tub, dipped her fingertips in and began spreading foundation from the centre of her face outwards. Saw how the increasingly loose skin was being pushed together in folds. And asked herself the same question she asked every morning. Why? Why begin every day in front of the mirror for at least half an hour in order to look like you’re not close to eighty but perhaps... seventy? And the answer was the same every morning too. Because she — like every other actor she knew — needed to do whatever it took to feel loved. If not for who they were, then for who they — with make-up, costume and the right script — pretended to be. It was an illness which ageing and lower expectations never quite managed to cure.

Lucille put on her musk perfume. There were those who thought musk was such a masculine aroma that it didn’t belong in a perfume for women, but she had used it with great success ever since she was a young actress. It made her stand out, it was a fragrance you didn’t forget easily. She tied her dressing gown and walked downstairs, taking care to avoid two cats who had settled on the staircase.

She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Almost immediately, one of the cats rubbed against her legs in an attempt to curry favour. No doubt it smelled the tuna fish, but it was easy to imagine there was a sliver of affection there as well. At the end of the day, it was more important to feel loved than to be loved. Lucille took out a tin, turned to the kitchen counter and gave a start as she caught sight of Harry. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his back leaned against the wall and those long legs of his stretched out in front of him. He was squeezing the grey titanium finger on his left hand. His blue eyes were squinting. He had the bluest eyes she had seen since Steve McQueen.

Harry shifted in the chair.

‘Breakfast?’ she asked, opening the tin.

Harry shook his head. He tugged at his titanium finger. But it was the hand he was tugging with that caught her eye. She swallowed. Cleared her throat.

‘You’ve never said it but you’re really a dog person, aren’t you?’

He shrugged.

‘Speaking of dogs, did I ever tell you I was supposed to co-star with Robert De Niro in Mad Dog and Glory? Do you remember that movie?’

Harry nodded.

‘Really? Then you’re one of the few. But Uma Thurman got the part. And she and Bobby, Robert that is, started dating. Which was pretty unusual, given that he mostly went for black women. There must have been something about the roles that brought them together, we actors do go so very into what we do, we become those we play. So if I’d gotten the role like I’d been promised, then Bobby and I would have become an item, you get me?’

‘Mm. So you’ve said.’

‘And I would have been able to hang on to him. Not like Uma Thurman, she...’ Lucille upended the tin can onto a plate. ‘Did you read how everyone “praised” her after she came forward and spoke about how Weinstein, that pig, had tried it on with her? Wanna know what I think? I think when you’re Uma Thurman, millionaire actor, and you’ve known what Weinstein’s been up to without blowing the whistle, that when you finally step forward to kick a man when he’s down, who other less powerful and braver women have brought down, that you shouldn’t be praised. When, for years, you’ve tacitly allowed all those young, hopeful actors to walk into Weinstein’s office alone because you with all your millions, by speaking out might — might — miss out on yet another million-dollar role, then I think you should be publicly whipped and spat upon.’

She paused.

‘Something wrong, Harry?’

‘We need to find a new place,’ he said. ‘They’ll find us.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘A private detective found us within twenty-four hours.’

‘Private detective?’

‘I just spoke to him. He’s gone.’

‘What did he want?’

‘To offer me a job as a private investigator for a wealthy guy who’s suspected of a murder in Norway.’

Lucille swallowed hard. ‘And what did you say?’

‘I said no.’

‘Because?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Because I’m tired of running, maybe.’

She placed the plate on the ground and watched the cats crowd around. ‘I’m well aware that you’re doing it for my sake, Harry. You’re heeding that old Chinese proverb about how once you’ve saved someone’s life you’re responsible for it forever.’

Harry gave a crooked smile. ‘I didn’t save your life, Lucille. They were after the money you owe, and they’re not going to kill the only person who can get it for them.’

She smiled back. Knew he was saying that so she wouldn’t be scared. Knew that he knew that they knew she could never get her hands on one million dollars.

She took hold of the kettle to fill it with water, but realised she couldn’t be bothered, and let go of it. ‘So you’re tired of running.’

‘Tired of running.’

She remembered the conversation they’d had one night while drinking wine and watching a VHS copy of Romeo and Juliet she had found in a drawer. For once, she had wanted to talk about him and not herself, but he hadn’t said much. Only that he had fled to LA from a life in ruins, a wife who’d been murdered, a colleague who’d taken his own life. No details. And she had understood there was no point in digging any further. It had actually been a pleasant almost wordless evening. Lucille propped herself up on the kitchen counter.

‘Your wife, you never told me her name.’

‘Rakel.’

‘And the murder. Was it solved?’

‘In a sense.’

‘Oh?’

‘For a long time I was the prime suspect, but finally the investigation identified a known offender. One I’d put behind bars before.’

‘So... the man who killed your wife did it to take revenge... on you?’

‘Let’s just say that the man who killed her... I’d taken his life from him. So he took mine from me.’ He got to his feet. ‘Like I said, we need a new hiding place, so pack a bag.’

‘We’re leaving today?’

‘When private detectives are looking for someone they leave behind tracks of their own. And that visit to the restaurant last night was probably a bad idea.’

Lucille nodded. ‘I’ll make some calls.’

‘Use this,’ Harry said. He placed a mobile on the kitchen counter, obviously newly purchased and still wrapped in plastic.

‘So he took away your life but let you live,’ she said. ‘Did he get his revenge?’

‘The best kind,’ Harry said, striding towards the door.

‘“Life on Mars”?’ Prim said.

The girl on the other side of the table looked at him with incomprehension.

Prim burst into laughter. ‘No, the song, I mean. It’s called “Life on Mars”.’

He nodded in the direction of the TV where David Bowie’s voice emanated from the sound bar below it into the large loft. From the windows he had a view over Oslo’s central west side and towards Holmenkollen Ridge, glittering like a chandelier out there in the night. But right now he only had eyes for his dinner guest. ‘A lot of people don’t like the song, they think it’s a little odd. The BBC called it a cross between a Broadway musical and a Salvador Dalí painting. Perhaps. But I agree with the Daily Telegraph who named it the best song of all time. Imagine! The best. Everybody loved Bowie, not because he was a lovable person, but because he was the best. That’s why people who haven’t been loved are willing to kill to be the best. They know that will change everything.’

Prim took hold of the wine bottle standing on the table between them, but instead of pouring from where he sat, he got up and walked around to her side.

‘Did you know that David Bowie was a stage name, that his real name was Jones? I’m not actually called Prim, it’s just a nickname, but only my family call me that. But I’d like to think that when I get married my wife will also call me Prim.’

He was standing directly behind her and, while filling her glass, he stroked her long, fine hair with his free hand. Had it been a couple of years ago, even a couple of months ago, he would not have dared touch a woman like this for fear of rejection. Now he had no such doubts, he was in total control. Having his teeth fixed had helped, of course, as well as starting to go to a proper hairdresser and taking advice on which clothes to buy. But it wasn’t that. It was something he exuded, something they were unable to resist, and knowing that endowed him with a confidence which was in itself such a strong aphrodisiac it alone could have carried him, that placebo effect that was self-perpetuating with every turn as long as he kept the cycle going.

‘I’m probably old-fashioned and naive,’ he said, walking back to his side of the table. ‘But I believe in marriage, that there’s a person out there who’s the right one for each of us, I really do. I was at the National Theatre recently seeing Romeo and Juliet, and it was so beautiful I cried. Two souls nature intended to be inextricably linked. Just look at Boss over there.’

He pointed to an aquarium atop a low bookshelf. A single shimmering gold-and-green fish was swimming within. ‘He has his Lisa. You can’t see her, but she’s there, the two of them are one and will be until they both die. Yes, one will die because the other dies. Like in Romeo and Juliet. Isn’t that beautiful?’

Prim sat down and slid his hand across the table towards her. She seemed weary tonight, empty, off. But he knew how to brighten her up, all he had to do was flick a switch.

‘I could fall in love with someone like you,’ he said.

Her eyes lit up immediately, and he could feel the warmth from them. But he also felt a little pang of guilt. Not in manipulating her in this way but because he was lying. He might fall in love, but not with her. She was not the one, the Woman who was meant for him. She was a stand-in, someone he could use to practise on, test approaches out on, say the right things to, in the right tone of voice. Trial and error. Erring now didn’t really matter, it was on the day he would declare his love to the Woman that everything had to be properly in tune, perfect.

He had also used her to rehearse the act itself. Well, used might not be the right word — she had been the more active of the two. He had met her at a party where there were so many others above him in the pecking order that, upon seeing her peering over his shoulder, he realised he would only get the chance to say a few words before she was gone. He had, however, been effective, had complimented her on her body, and asked which gym she went to. When she answered tersely SATS in Bislett, he said it was strange he hadn’t seen her as he went there himself three days a week, but perhaps they went on different days? She made a curt reply about going there in the mornings, and looked annoyed when he said he did too, so on which days did she train?

‘Tuesdays and Thursdays,’ she replied, as though to conclude the conversation, and turned her attention to a man in a tight-fitting black shirt who had wandered over in their direction.

The following Tuesday, he had been standing outside the gym when she came out. Pretended he happened to be passing and had recognised her from the party. She didn’t remember him, had smiled and was about to be on her way. But then she stopped, turned right round to face him, giving him her full attention as they stood there on the street. Looked at him as though only now really becoming aware of him, no doubt wondering how it could have escaped her notice at the party. He did the talking, she wasn’t exactly the most communicative. Not verbally, at least — her body language told him what he needed to know. It was only when he said they should meet up that she spoke.

‘When?’ she said. ‘Where?’

And when he told her, she just nodded in response. It was that simple.

She came as arranged. He had been nervous. So much could go wrong. But she was the one who took the initiative, who unbuttoned his clothes, fortunately without saying too much.

He knew this could happen, and even though he and the Woman he loved had not exchanged any promises, this was a form of infidelity, was it not? A betrayal of love, at least. But he had convinced himself that it was a sacrifice on the altar of love, something he did for Her, that he performed the deed because he needed all the practice he could get, so that on the day it counted he would meet the requirements She demanded of a lover.

But now the woman on the other side of the table had served her purpose.

Not that he hadn’t enjoyed making love to her. But any repeat of it was out of the question. And — if he was being honest — he didn’t like her smell or her taste. Should he say it out loud? Tell her this was where they would part ways? He stared down at his plate in silence. When he looked up again she had tilted her head a little to the side, still with that inscrutable smile in place, as though she were viewing his monologue as an amusing performance. And suddenly he felt like a prisoner. A prisoner in his own home. Because he couldn’t just get up and leave, he had nowhere else to go. And he couldn’t very well ask her to leave, could he? She didn’t look like she was planning on going anywhere just yet, not at all, and the almost unnatural intensity of the gleam in her eyes dazzled him, made him lose perspective. It occurred to him there was something warped and confused about the entire situation. She had taken control, and without uttering a single word. What was it she actually wanted?

‘What...’ he began. Cleared his throat. ‘What is it you actually want?’

She made no reply, just tilted her head slightly more to the side. Looked like she was emitting silent laughter, with teeth shining blue-white in that beautiful mouth of hers. And then Prim noticed something he hadn’t seen until now. That she had the mouth of a predator. And it struck him: this was a game of cat and mouse. And it was he, not she, who was the mouse.

Where had that absurd thought come from?

Nowhere. Or, the place where all his crazy thoughts came from.

He was frightened, but knew he mustn’t show it. He tried to breathe calmly. He had to go. She had to go.

‘This was nice,’ he said, folding his napkin and putting it on the plate. ‘Let’s do it again sometime.’

Harry was standing in the duty-free in front of the shelf of whiskey bottles when a text pinged to let him know the car Krohn had arranged was waiting for him outside the arrivals hall. Harry answered ‘OK’, and — while he had the phone out — tapped on K.

Rakel sometimes joked about the fact he had so few friends, colleagues and contacts that one initial was all he needed for each.

‘Katrine Bratt.’ Her voice sounded tired, drowsy.

‘Hi, it’s Harry.’

‘Harry? Really?’ It sounded like she had sat up in bed. ‘I saw it was an American number, so I—’

‘I’m in Norway now. Just landed. Did I wake you?’

‘No. Or yeah, sort of. We have a possible double homicide, so I was working late. My mother-in-law is here looking after Gert, so I’m catching up on some sleep. Jesus, you’re alive.’

‘Apparently. How are things?’

‘OK. Not too bad, actually, considering the circumstances. I was just talking about you last Friday. What are you doing in Oslo?’

‘A couple of things. I’m going to visit Ståle Aune.’

‘Shit, yeah, I heard. Cancer of the pancreas, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t have the details. Have you time for a coffee?’

He noticed there was a moment’s hesitation before she replied: ‘Why don’t you come over here instead and have dinner?’

‘At your place, you mean?’

‘Yeah, sure. My mother-in-law is a terrific cook.’

‘Well. If it’s OK, then...’

‘Six o’clock? Then you’ll get to say hello to Gert too.’

Harry shut his eyes. Tried to recall the dream. Volvo Amazon. The whimpering child. She knew. Of course she knew. Had she realised that he knew as well? Did she want him to know?

‘Six o’clock is great,’ he said.

They hung up, and he looked at the shelf of whiskey bottles again.

There was a shelf of cuddly toy animals right behind it.

‘You look good,’ Harry said.

‘You look... tanned,’ Katrine replied.

Both of them laughed, she opened the door fully and they hugged. The smell of mutton and cabbage stew filled the apartment. He handed her the bouquet of flowers he had purchased at the Narvesen kiosk on the way.

‘Have you begun buying flowers now?’ Katrine asked, accepting them with a grimace.

‘Was mostly to impress your mother-in-law.’

‘Well, the suit certainly will.’

Katrine went into the kitchen to put the flowers in water, and Harry walked towards the living room. He saw the toys on the parquet floor and heard the child’s voice before he saw the boy. He was sitting with his back to Harry, talking sternly to a teddy bear.

‘You have to do wike me, you know. You have to go aweep.’

Harry tiptoed in and crouched down. The boy began to sing in a low voice while tilting his head with airy, fair curls from side to side. ‘Bueman, Bueman, my buck...’

He must have heard something, perhaps a creaking in the floor, because the boy suddenly turned round, a smile already on his face. A child who still thinks all surprises are good surprises, Harry thought.

‘Hi!’ the boy said loudly and warmly, seemingly unalarmed that a large man with a grey beard, who was a complete stranger, had snuck up on him from behind.

‘Hi,’ Harry said, reaching into his suit pocket. Pulled out a teddy bear. ‘This is for you.’

He held it out, but the boy took no notice of the teddy, just stared wide-eyed at Harry.

‘Aw you Santa Cwaus?’

Harry had to laugh, but that didn’t faze the boy either, who happily laughed along with him. He took hold of the teddy bear. ‘What’s his name?’

‘He doesn’t have a name yet, so you need to give him one.’

‘Then I wi caw him... what’s you name?’

‘Harry.’

‘Hawny.’

‘No. Eh...’

‘Yeah, then he’s cawed Hawny.’

Harry turned and saw Katrine standing with her arms folded in the doorway looking at them.

In the conference room on the sixth floor of Police HQ, Katrine was about to wrap up the morning meeting of the investigative team. There were sixteen people sitting in front of her, eleven from Crime Squad and five from Kripos. Of the sixteen, ten were detectives, four were analysts, and two worked in Krimteknisk, the Forensics Unit. Katrine Bratt had gone through the findings of the Crime Scene Unit and the Forensic Medical Institute’s preliminary post-mortem, showing photos from both. Watched her audience stare at the bright screen while shifting uneasily on hard chairs. The Crime Scene Unit hadn’t found much, something they regarded as a discovery in itself.

‘It seems he might know what we’re looking for,’ one of the forensics officers said. ‘Either he’s cleaned up after himself or he’s just been very lucky.’

The only concrete evidence they had were shoeprints on the soft ground from two people, one matching the shoes Susanne was wearing, the other made by a heavier individual wearing a size 42, probably a male. The tracks indicated they had been walking close to one another.

‘As though he’s forced Susanne with him into the woods?’ asked Magnus Skarre, one of the veterans of Crime Squad.

‘Could be, yes,’ the forensics expert confirmed.

‘The Forensic Medical Institute carried out a preliminary post-mortem over the weekend,’ Katrine said, ‘and there’s good and bad news. The good news is that they found a tiny amount of residue from spit or mucus on one of Susanne’s breasts. The bad news is we can’t be certain it came from the killer, given that Susanne’s upper body was clothed when we found her. So if he did assault her, he must have dressed her again, which would be unusual. Anyway, Sturdza was kind enough to run an express DNA analysis on the residue, and the even worse news is that there was no match with any profile in the database of known offenders. So if it didn’t come from the killer, we’re talking...’

‘A needle in a haystack,’ Skarre said.

No one laughed. No one groaned. Just silence. After three weeks in the proverbial wilderness, late nights, threatened cancellation of autumn breaks and friction on domestic fronts, the discovery of a body had extinguished one hope and sparked another. Of leads. Of solving the case. This was now officially a murder investigation, and it was Monday, a new week, with new opportunities. But the faces staring back at Katrine were drained, drawn and tired.

She had been expecting that. And had therefore saved the last slide in order to wake them up.

‘This was discovered when they were concluding the preliminary post-mortem,’ she said, as the next photo came up on the screen. When she had received it from Alexandra on Saturday, Katrine’s first association had been with the monster from the film Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Everyone in the room stared in silence at the head with the rough stitches. That was the extent of the reaction. Katrine cleared her throat.

‘Sturdza writes that it appears as though Susanne Andersen has recently received a cut to the head from just above the hairline over the forehead all the way around. And that the wound has been sewn shut again. We don’t know if that might have occurred prior to her disappearance, but Sung-min spoke to Susanne’s parents yesterday.’

‘As well as to a friend who met Susanne the night before she went missing,’ Sung-min said. ‘None of them had any knowledge of her having received stitches to her head.’

‘So we can assume this is the work of her killer. The pathologist will be performing a full clinical autopsy today, so hopefully we’ll find out more.’ She checked the time. ‘Anyone want to add something before we get started on today’s assignments?’

A female detective spoke up. ‘Now we know that one of the girls was forced off the path and into the forest, shouldn’t we intensify our search for Bertine in the woody areas along the footpaths around Grefsenkollen?’

‘Yes,’ Katrine said. ‘That’s already under way. Anything else?’

The faces looking back at her resembled those of fed-up schoolkids just looking forward to break time. If that. Last year someone had suggested they hire a former world champion cross-country skier who gave so-called inspirational speeches aimed at the business sector, about how to get over the mental hump everyone meets sooner or later in a 50-kilometre race. For his services, the national hero in question quoted a fee only a private sector company could pay. Katrine had said they could just as well have a single mother in full-time employment give the talk, and that it was the worst suggestion she had heard about how to use the departmental budget. Now she wasn’t quite so sure.

The young taxi driver looked in confusion at the pieces of paper Harry was holding out.

‘It’s called money,’ Harry said.

The taxi driver took the notes and studied the numbers on them. ‘I don’t have... like... eh...’

‘Change.’ Harry sighed. ‘That’s all right.’

Harry began making his way towards the entrance of Bjerke Racecourse as he stuffed the receipt in his back pocket. The twenty minutes from the Radium Hospital had cost as much as a plane ticket to Málaga. He needed a car, preferably one with a driver, as soon as possible. But first and foremost he needed a policeman. A corrupt one.

He found Truls Berntsen in Pegasus. The large restaurant had space for a thousand patrons, but today — the weekly lunchtime race day — only the tables with a view of the track were filled to capacity. There was one table with a customer seated alone, as though he exuded a smell. But a closer look might reveal the reason was in his eyes and also his bearing. Harry pulled out one of the empty chairs and looked out at the racetrack where horses trotted around pulling sulkies with drivers atop, while from the loudspeakers information was spat out in a continuous, monotone voice.

‘That was quick,’ Truls said.

‘Taxi,’ Harry replied.

‘Must be flush then. We could have done this over the phone.’

‘No,’ Harry said, sitting down. They had exchanged exactly twelve words when Harry called. Yes? Harry Hole here, where are you? Bjerke Racecourse. On my way.

‘Is that so, Harry? Have you got involved in shady business?’ Truls let out his grunting laughter, which along with his weak chin, protruding brow and general passive-aggressive demeanour had earned him the nickname Beavis. He and the cartoon character also shared a nihilistic outlook and an almost admirable absence of any sense of social responsibility or morality. The subtext of his question was of course if Harry had also got involved in shady business.

‘I might have an offer for you.’

‘The kind I can’t refuse?’ Truls said, casting a dissatisfied glance out at the track, where the announcer was listing the order of finishers.

‘Unless your betting selection comes in, yeah. You’re out of work, I hear. And have gambling debts.’

‘Gambling debts? Says who?’

‘It’s not important. You’re unemployed, in any case.’

‘I’m not that unemployed. I’m receiving a salary without doing shit. So as far as I’m concerned they can take as long as they like trying to find some evidence, I couldn’t give a toss.’

‘Mm. I heard it was something to do with the skimming of a cocaine seizure at Gardermoen?’

Truls snorted. ‘Me and two others from Narcotics picked up the stuff. This weird, green cocaine. Customs reckoned it was green because it was so pure, as if they were like walking crime labs or something. We delivered it to Seizures who discovered there was a small anomaly in the weight in relation to what Gardermoen had reported. So they sent it for analysis. And the analysis showed that the cocaine, which was just as green as before, had been stepped on. So then they think we cut some of the cocaine with something else green, but screwed up by getting the weight slightly wrong. Or rather me, as I was the only one alone with the dope for a few minutes.’

‘So not only do you risk being fired but prison time?’

‘Are you stupid, or something?’ Truls grunted. ‘They don’t have anything close to proof. A few morons from Customs who think the green stuff looked and tasted like pure cocaine? A difference of a milligram or two in weight that everyone knows could be down to all sorts of things? They’ll bang on about it for a while, and then the case will be dismissed.’

‘Mm. So you’re ruling out them finding another guilty party?’

Truls leaned his head back slightly, looked at Harry as though taking aim at him. ‘I’ve got some stuff involving horses to take care of here, Harry, so if there was something you wanted to talk about?’

‘Markus Røed has hired me to investigate the case of the two girls. I want you on the team.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Truls stared at Harry in surprise.

‘What do you say?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘No idea. I’m a bad cop, and you know that better than most.’

‘All the same, we’ve saved each other’s lives on at least one occasion. According to an old Chinese proverb that means we have a responsibility for one another for the rest of our lives.’

‘Really?’ Truls sounded unsure.

‘Plus,’ Harry said, ‘if you’re only suspended, then you still have full access to BL96?’

Harry noticed Truls flinch when he heard mention of the makeshift, antiquated system for investigation reports in use since 1996.

‘So?’

‘We need access to all the reports. Tactical, technical, forensics.’

‘Right. So this is...?’

‘Yep, shady business.’

‘The kind of thing that can get cops kicked off the force.’

‘If it’s discovered, definitely. And that’s why it’s well paid.’

‘Yeah? How well?’

‘Give me a number and I’ll pass it along.’

Truls looked at Harry for a long time, thoughtfully. Lowered his gaze to the betting slip on the table in front of him. Crumpled it up in his hand.

As Harry entered the square in front of Oslo Central Station, he caught sight of Øystein Eikeland standing by the tiger statue, stamping his feet on the flagstones. Øystein was wearing a Vålerenga top, but the rest was pure Keith Richards. The hair, the wrinkles, scarf, eyeliner, cigarette, the emaciated frame.

As with Aune, Harry didn’t hug his childhood friend too hard, as though afraid even more of the people in his life would go to pieces.

‘Wow,’ Øystein said. ‘Nice suit. What were you doing over there? Running prostitutes? Selling coke?’

‘No, but I can see you are,’ Harry said, looking around. The people on the square were mostly commuters, tourists and office workers, but there were few places in Oslo where the sale of drugs took place as openly as here. ‘I have to admit I didn’t see that coming.’

‘No?’ Øystein said, adjusting his sunglasses, the hug having knocked them out of position. ‘I did. Should have started years ago. Not only does it pay better than driving a cab, it’s healthier too.’

‘Healthier?’

‘Gets me closer to the source. Everything going into this body now is high-quality stuff.’ He ran his hands down his sides.

‘Mm. And in moderate doses too?’

‘Course. How ’bout you?’

Harry shrugged. ‘At the moment, I’m trying out your Moderation Management programme. Not sure it’ll work out in the long run, but we’ll see.’

Øystein tapped a finger to his temple.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Harry said, and saw a young man in a parka standing a little further off staring at him. Even at this distance Harry could see that his eyes were blue and so wide open that the whites were visible all the way around his irises. He had both hands stuffed down in the deep pockets as though holding something.

‘Who’s that guy?’ Harry asked.

‘Oh, that’s Al. He can see you’re a cop.’

‘Pusher?’

‘Yeah. Nice guy, but odd. Bit like yourself.’

‘Me?’

‘Better looking than you of course. And smarter.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, you’re smart in your own way, Harry, but that guy he’s like nerd smart. You start talking about something and he knows everything about it, like he’s studied it or something, you know. What you got in common is both of you have that thing the ladies fall for. That whole charismatic loneliness schtick. And he’s a creature of habit, just like you.’

Harry saw Al turn away as though he didn’t want to show Harry his face.

‘Stands here from nine to five, off at the weekends,’ Øystein continued. ‘As if he had, like, a regular job. Likeable, as I said, but cautious, almost paranoid. Happy to talk shop, but won’t say anything about himself, exactly like you. Except this guy won’t even tell you his name.’

‘So Al is...’

‘I gave him the name from the Paul Simon song. “You Can Call Me Al”, y’know?’

Harry grinned.

‘You seem a bit jumpy and all yourself,’ Øystein said. ‘You OK?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I might have got a little paranoid myself over there.’

‘Yo,’ a voice sounded. ‘Got any coke?’

Harry turned and saw a boy in a hoodie.

‘You think I’m a dealer?’ Øystein hissed, ‘Get off home and do your homework!’

‘Aren’t you?’ Harry asked, as they watched the boy wander towards the guy in the parka.

‘Yeah, but not for kids that young. I leave that to Al and the West Africans on Torggata. Besides, I’m like a high-class hooker, mostly call-out.’ Øystein grinned, revealing a row of rotten teeth, and flashed a new, shiny Samsung mobile phone. ‘Deliveries to the door.’

‘Does that mean you have a car?’

‘Sure do. Bought that old Merc I was driving. Got it cheap from the taxi company owner. He said the customers were complaining about the smell of smoke, that he couldn’t get rid of it, and told me it was my fault. Hehe. I also forgot to remove the taxi sign from the roof, so I can drive in the bus lane. Speaking of the smell of smoke, you got a cig?’

‘I quit. And it looks to me like you have your own anyway.’

‘Yours always tasted better, Harry.’

‘Well. That’s over now.’

‘Yeah, I gather that’s the kind of thing California can do to a man.’

‘The car parked far away?’

‘Is this a joke?’ the pathologist asked from behind her face mask.

Alexandra stared in disbelief at the open cranium of the corpse on the table in front of them. It was usual during a full autopsy for the pathologist to saw a round incision in the skull and examine the brain. And beside them, on the table of instruments, lay the usual tools: the manual and the electric bone saws, along with the T-shaped skull key that they used to remove the top of the skull. What was unusual was that none of these instruments had been used on Susanne Andersen. It had not been necessary. Because after they had cut the stitches, removed the scalp and placed the toupée of Susanne’s long, blonde hair on another table, it had become clear that someone had beaten them to it. The skull had already been sawn open. The pathologist had tilted back the top of the skull, like a hinged lid. And now she was asking if it was supposed to be a joke.

‘No,’ Alexandra whispered.

Mona Daa was sitting at her desk reading a piece by a blogger named Hedina about social pressure and beauty standards. The language was poor and clunky at times, but it had a direct orality which made it easy to digest, like sitting at a cafe table listening to a friend babble on about everyday problems. The blogger’s ‘sage’ thoughts and advice were so banal and predictable that Mona didn’t know whether to yawn or snarl.

Using hackneyed phrases drawn from similar blogs, as though they were her own watchwords and ideas, Hedina employed them with sincerity and indignation to describe the frustration of living in a world where looks were regarded as paramount, and bemoaned how that created so many insecurities in young women. It was of course a paradox that Hedina herself posted soft-porn pictures of beautiful, slim, breast-augmented Hedina, but that discussion had come up time and time again, and eventually — after winning every battle — exhausted reason had lost the war to stupidity. And speaking of stupidity, the reason Mona Daa had now wasted half an hour of her life reading Hedina’s blog was that Julia, the editor, had, due to people off sick and a lull in the Susanne case, assigned Mona to comment on the comments on Hedina’s comments. Julia had, without a hint of irony, told Mona to count which comments there were most of, the positive or the negative, and let that determine whether the heading for the article should begin with ‘praised for’ or ‘criticised for’. With a slightly — but not too — sexy picture of Hedina as clickbait below.

Mona was mortified.

Hedina wrote that all women are beautiful, it was just a matter of each and every one finding their own unique beauty and trusting in it. Only in this way would you stop comparing yourself with others, stop giving rise to the belief of losing in the beauty stakes, to eating disorders, depression and destroyed lives. Mona wanted to write what was obvious, that if everyone is beautiful, then no one is beautiful, because beauty is what stands out in a positive way. And that when she was growing up, a few movie stars and perhaps a classmate were privileged to be beautiful in the original meaning of the word, and it didn’t bother her or her friends significantly to be in the large majority of the ordinary and non-beautiful. There were other more important things to focus on and an ordinary appearance didn’t ruin anyone’s life. It was people like Hedina who accepted the premise that all women wanted and should want to be ‘beautiful’ as unquestionably true that created losers. If seventy per cent of the women around you have, through surgery, diet, make-up and exercise, achieved an appearance the other thirty per cent aren’t able to, it’s these ordinary women, who previously managed just fine, who are suddenly in a minority and have been given a reason to suffer from ever so slight depression.

Mona sighed. Would she have thought and felt this way if she herself had been born with the looks of a Hedina? Even though Hedina hadn’t been born the way she looked in pictures either? Perhaps not. She didn’t know. She only knew there was nothing she hated more than having to give column inches to a blogger with no brain and half a million followers.

A breaking-news notification popped up on her screen.

And Mona Daa realised that there was one thing she hated more. Being overtaken and left in the dust by Terry Våge.

It was nine thirty when Harry walked into the bar on the top floor of the Thief.

He sat down at the counter. Tried to moisten his tongue enough to order. It was the anticipation of this drink that had kept him going until now. It was only supposed to be the one, but at the same time he knew that this plan too would soon unravel.

He looked at the cocktail menu the bartender had put down in front of him. Some of the drinks were named after films, and he assumed that actors or directors from those films had been guests here.

‘Do you—’ he began in Norwegian.

‘Sorry, English.’

‘Do you have Jim Beam?’ he asked in English.

‘Certainly, sir, but might I recommend our own specially made—’

‘No.’

The bartender looked at him. ‘Jim Beam it is.’

Harry looked at the clientele and at the city outside. At the new Oslo. Not the rich Oslo, but the filthy rich Oslo. Only the suit and shoes he was wearing belonged here. Or maybe not. A couple of years ago he had come by to check out this place, and before backing out the door, he had seen the lead singer from Turbonegro sitting at a table. He had looked as lonely as Harry was feeling now. He took out his phone. She was listed as A. He tapped in a message.

I’m in town. Can we meet?

Then he put the phone down on the bar, noticed a figure slipping in beside him and heard a soft American voice order ginger beer in an accent he couldn’t quite place. He glanced at the mirror behind the bar. The bottles on the shelf hid the man’s face, but Harry managed to see something bright white around his neck. A clerical collar of the sort visible all the way around, and which they called a dog collar in the USA. The priest was served his beer and disappeared.

Harry was halfway through his drink when the reply from Alexandra Sturdza came.

Yeah, I saw in the paper that you were back. Depends what you mean by meet.

A coffee at the Forensic Med, he typed. After 12 tomorrow for instance.

He had to wait a long time. She probably understood this wasn’t an attempt to get back into the warmth of her bed again, which she had so generously offered after Rakel had kicked him out. Generosity he had been unable to reciprocate in the end, despite how uncomplicated things had been between them. It had been all the rest, everything outside of Alexandra’s bed, he hadn’t been able to handle. Depends what you mean by meet. The worst part was that he wasn’t entirely sure if the answer was that it was solely about the job in hand. Because he was lonely. He knew of no one who needed to be alone as much as he did; Rakel had called it ‘limited social capacity’ and she had also been the only person he could — and wanted to — spend time with without picturing a finishing tape up ahead, knowing that he would be set free at some point. You could of course be alone without being lonely, and lonely without being alone, but now he was lonely. And alone.

Maybe that was why he had been hoping for an unequivocal yes instead of this depends. Had she got a boyfriend? Why not? Would make sense, really. Although the guy would be in for a wild ride.

Only when he had paid for the drink and was on the way down to his room did the phone vibrate again.

1 p.m.

‘She’s sitting there,’ the old lady in the white coat said, pointing into the laboratory. Harry saw a back, also in a white coat, sitting on a high stool hunched over a microscope.

He walked over, stood behind the back and coughed quietly.

The woman turned impatiently, and Harry saw a face that was hard, closed, still concentrated on work. But it changed to a sudden sunrise when she saw it was him.

‘Harry!’ She stood up and threw her arms around his neck.

‘Alexandra,’ Harry said, slightly perplexed; he’d been unsure what sort of reception he could expect.

‘How did you get all the way in here?’

‘I was here a little early, and Lilly at reception remembered me, so she—’

‘Well, what do you think?’ Alexandra proudly stood up straight, even twirled a little.

Harry smiled. ‘You still look fantastic. Like a cross between a Lamborghini—’

‘Not me, you idiot! The laboratory.’

‘Oh. Yeah, it’s new, I see.’

‘Isn’t it amazing? Now we can do everything here that we used to have to send abroad. DNA, chemistry, biology, we cover so much that when Krimteknisk lack analysis capacity, they just send it up here. We’re allowed to use the lab for personal research as well. I’m working on my doctoral thesis on DNA analysis at the moment.’

‘Impressive,’ Harry said, letting his gaze sweep over trays of test tubes, flasks, computer screens, microscopes, and machines whose functions he had no clue about.

‘Helge, say hello to Harry!’ Alexandra called out, and the other person in the room turned on his stool, smiled and waved before returning to his microscope.

‘We’re competing to see who gets their doctorate first,’ Alexandra whispered.

‘Mm. Sure you have time for a coffee in the canteen?’

She slipped her hand under his arm. ‘I know a better place. Come on.’

‘We learn to lie as children between the ages of two and four, and by the time we’ve reached adulthood, we’ve become experts,’ Aune said, adjusting his pillow. ‘Believe me.’

Harry saw Øystein grin and Truls frown in confusion. Aune went on.

‘A psychologist called Richard Wiseman believes most of us tell a lie or two each day. Proper lies, that is, not just white, your-hair-looks-lovely lies. What are the chances of us being found out? Well, Freud contended that no mortal could keep a secret, that if the lips are sealed, then the fingertips chatter. But he was wrong. Or rather, the listener isn’t capable of sorting through the different ways a liar gives themselves away, because they vary from person to person. That’s why a lie detector was needed. They had one in China three thousand years ago. The suspected criminal had his mouth filled with grains of rice and was asked if he was guilty. If he shook his head, he was asked to spit out the rice, and if any grains remained in his mouth, the logic was that it was dry due to his being nervous, and therefore guilty. Useless, of course, because you could, after all, be nervous due to fear of becoming nervous. And similarly useless is the polygraph which John Larson invented in 1921, and is, in principle, the lie detector in use to this very day, even though everyone knows it’s a piece of junk. Even Larson regretted inventing it in the end, calling it his Frankenstein monster. Because it lives...’ Aune raised his hands and clawed at the air with his fingers. ‘But it lives due to so many people believing it works. Because it’s fear of the lie detector which can sometimes actually force a confession, whether true or false. Once, in Detroit, the police captured a suspect, put his hand on the photocopier they’d convinced him was a lie detector and asked him questions as the machine spat out A4 sheets with HE IS LYING written on them, until the man became so terrified he confessed everything.’

Truls snorted.

‘But God knows if he was guilty,’ Aune said. ‘That’s why I prefer the method they used in ancient India.’

The door opened, and Sethi and his bed were wheeled in by two nurses.

‘Listen, Jibran, you’ll like this too,’ Aune said.

Harry had to smile. Aune, the most popular lecturer at Police College, holding forth again.

‘The suspects were admitted one by one into a room that was pitch-dark, and told to feel their way in the darkness until they found a donkey which was standing in there and then to pull it by the tail. If they’d lied under questioning the donkey would shriek or bray or whatever it is donkeys do. Because this particular donkey was, the priest informed them, a holy donkey. What he didn’t tell them was that the tail was smeared with soot. So when the suspects came back out and said that, yes, they had pulled the donkey’s tail, all they needed to do was check their hands. If they were clean, it meant the person had been afraid the donkey would expose the fact he had lied, and he was sent to the gallows or whatever they used in India at the time.’

Aune glanced over at Sethi, who had taken out a book, but nodded ever so slightly.

‘And if he had soot on his hands,’ Øystein said, ‘then all it meant was the guy wasn’t a complete moron.’

Truls grunted and slapped his thighs.

‘The question,’ Aune said, ‘is whether Røed walked out of there with soot on his hands or not.’

‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘what we carried out was probably more of a cross between the old photocopier trick and the holy donkey. I’m pretty certain Røed believed this was a lie detector.’ He pointed at the table with Truls’s laptop and the leads and electrodes they had borrowed from down on the third floor, where they were used for ECG monitoring. ‘So, I do think he was wary of lying. But he passed the donkey test in my opinion. He showed up and took what he believed to be a real test. That in itself indicates he doesn’t have anything to hide.’

‘Or,’ Øystein said, ‘he knows how to fool a lie detector and wants to use that to mislead us.’

‘Mm. I don’t think Røed is trying to deceive us. He didn’t want Truls on the team. Understandably so, as the whole project would lose credibility if it became known. It was only when we convinced him about how much it meant to gain access to the police reports that he agreed. Yes, he wants some names to make his investigation appear serious on paper and in a press release, but finding out the truth is even more important to him.’

‘You think?’ Øystein said. ‘Then why refuse to give a DNA sample to the police?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘As long as there’s no reasonable suspicion, the police can’t force anyone to take a DNA test, and Krohn says volunteering a test is tantamount to an implicit agreement that there is reasonable suspicion. Anyway, Alexandra has promised me an answer within days.’

‘And you’re sure the profile won’t match the saliva found on Susanne?’ Aune asked.

‘I’m never sure of anything, Ståle, but I crossed Røed off my list of suspects when he knocked on the door of my hotel room today.’

‘So what do you want with the DNA analysis?’

‘To be sure. And have something we can give to the police.’

‘So they don’t arrest him?’ Truls asked.

‘So we have information to offer them, and they might give us something in return. Something not in the reports.’

Øystein smacked his lips loudly. ‘That’s, like, smart.’

‘So with Røed out of the running and a brain that’s been removed,’ Aune said, ‘do you still believe the killer is someone with a connection to the victims?’

Harry shook his head.

‘Good,’ Aune said, rubbing his hands. ‘Then maybe we can finally start looking at psychopaths, sadists, narcissists and sociopaths. In short, the more interesting portion of humanity.’

‘No,’ Harry said.

‘All right,’ Aune said, looking miffed. ‘You don’t think the perpetrator is to be found within their ranks?’

‘Yes, I do, but I don’t think we’ll find him there. We’re going to look where we are best equipped to find something.’

‘Which is somewhere we assume he isn’t?’

‘Exactly.’

The three men looked at Harry with incomprehension.

‘It’s pure mathematics,’ Harry said. ‘Serial killers pick their victims at random and cover their tracks. The probability of finding them in the space of a year is less than ten per cent, even for the FBI. For the four of us, with the resources we have? Let’s just put it at two per cent, to be kind. If, on the other hand, the killer is to be found among the victims’ acquaintances and there’s an understandable motive, the chances are seventy-five per cent. Let’s say there’s an eighty per cent probability the killer is in the category Ståle wants us to look at, let’s say it is a serial killer. If we focus on that category and exclude the victims’ acquaintances, then the chances of us succeeding are...’

‘One point six per cent,’ Øystein said. ‘And the probability of success if we concentrate on people the victim knew is fifteen per cent.’

The others turned in surprise to Øystein, who flashed them a broad, brown grin. ‘Have to have a head for numbers in my job, you know.’

‘Pardon me,’ Aune said. ‘I hear the numbers, but to be honest it feels slightly counter-intuitive.’ He registered the look Øystein gave him. ‘Contrary to common sense. To look where we don’t think they are, I mean.’

‘Welcome to police investigation,’ Harry said. ‘Try to think of it this way. If the four of us find the guilty party... fantastic, jackpot. If we don’t then we’ve done what detectives do on most of their working days, we’ve contributed to the total investigation by eliminating some people from our inquiries.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Aune said. ‘What you’re saying is rational, but you aren’t so rational, Harry. You’re not the type to do work based on percentages. Yes, the professional side of you sees that all the circumstantial evidence points to a serial killer. So you’re of the opinion it’s a serial killer, but you believe something else. Because your gut tells you so. That’s why you’ve come up with this calculation, you want to convince yourself and us that the right thing to do is follow the gut instincts of Harry Hole. Am I right?’

Harry looked at Aune. Nodded.

‘My mother knew God didn’t exist,’ Øystein said. ‘But she was still a Christian. So who are we going to, like, eliminate as suspects?’

‘Helene Røed,’ Harry said. ‘And the guy selling coke at the party.’

‘Helene, I understand,’ Aune said, ‘but why the drug dealer?’

‘Because he’s one of the few people at the party who hasn’t been identified. And because he turned up in a face mask and sunglasses.’

‘So what? Maybe he hasn’t been vaccinated. Or suffers from mysophobia. Sorry, Øystein, a fear of bacteria.’

‘Maybe he was sick and didn’t want to infect people,’ Truls said. ‘But did all the same. The reports say both Susanne and Bertine had a high temperature a couple of days after the party and at any rate, felt unwell.’

‘But now we’re overlooking the most obvious reason,’ Aune said. ‘A drug dealer is, after all, involved in something which is highly illegal, so it’s hardly remarkable he should wear a mask.’

‘Øystein,’ Harry said. ‘Explain.’

‘OK. If you sell... let’s say cocaine, then you’re not that worried about being identified. The police know pretty much who is selling on the street anyway and they don’t care, it’s the men behind the scenes they want. And if the police bust you, it happens during the transaction, and then a mask isn’t gonna be much use to you. So it’s the other way round — if you’re going to sell on the street, then you want the customers to recognise your face and remember that you sold them good shit the last time. And if you offer home deliveries, which it sounds like this guy does, then it’s even more important that the customer sees and trusts your honest face.’

Truls grunted a laugh.

‘Do you think you can find out who the guy at the party was?’ Harry asked.

Øystein shrugged. ‘I can try. There aren’t many Norwegians at the home-delivery end of the business.’

‘Good.’

Harry paused, closed his eyes before opening them again, as though he were keeping to a script and had mentally turned a page.

‘Since we’re going to stick with the hypothesis that the killer knew at least one of the victims, let’s take a look at what might actually support this idea. Susanne Andersen heads right across the city, from the lively west side of the city centre to a place where there’s no evidence to suggest she knows anyone, where as far as anyone is aware she hasn’t been before and where not much happens on a Tuesday night...’

‘Some nights fuck all happens,’ Øystein said. ‘I grew up nearby.’

‘So what was she doing there?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Øystein said. ‘She was meeting the guy who did her in.’

‘OK, then we’ll work based on that,’ Harry said.

‘Cool,’ Øystein said. ‘The country’s leading expert agrees with me.’

Harry gave a crooked smile and rubbed the back of his neck. He would soon need the one drink he had left today; he had dispatched the other two on the way from the Forensic Medical Institute when he and Øystein had made a pit stop at Schrøder’s.

‘While I’m at it,’ Øystein said, ‘I was wondering about something. The guy took Susanne for a walk in Østmarka, and that worked for him, yeah? The, like, perfect murder. Isn’t it bloody odd that he takes Bertine to Grefsenkollen? Never change a winning formula — wouldn’t that go for murderers too?’

‘It’s probably true of serial killers,’ Aune said. ‘Unless repeating the approach means increasing the risk of being discovered. And Susanne had already been reported missing around Skullerud, so there were police and search parties in the area.’

‘Yeah, but they went home as soon as it was dark,’ Øystein said. ‘No one could have known another girl would disappear. No, the guy wouldn’t have been taking much of a risk bringing her to Skullerud. And he obviously knew the area well.’

‘I don’t know,’ Aune said. ‘Perhaps it was simply that Bertine agreed to take a walk with him, but she insisted on Grefsenkollen?’

‘But it’s further from where she lives to Grefsenkollen than to Skullerud, and in the reports it says that nobody the police spoke with had any knowledge of Bertine ever being in Grefsenkollen.’

‘Maybe she had heard good things about Grefsenkollen,’ Aune said. ‘It offers views at least. As opposed to Østmarka, where it’s just forest and small hills.’

Øystein nodded thoughtfully. ‘OK. But there is one other thing I don’t get.’

He focused on Aune, since Harry seemed to have dropped out of the conversation and was sitting with his fingers to his forehead, staring at the wall.

‘Bertine could have walked only so far from the car, right? And they’ve been searching for two weeks now, so I don’t understand why the dogs can’t find her. Do you know how good dogs smell? I mean, what a good sense of smell they have? In one of the reports Truls got there’s a tip-off from a farmer in Wenggården in Østmarka. He got in touch with the police a week ago to say that his lame old bulldog was lying in the living room barking like it only does when there’s a carcass nearby. I know Østmarka, and that farm is at least six bloody kilometres away from where they found Susanne Andersen. If a dog can smell a corpse from that far away, why can’t they find Bertine—’

‘It can’t.’

All four men turned in the direction the voice was coming from.

Jibran Sethi lowered his book. ‘If it had been a bloodhound or an Alsatian, then yes. But a bulldog has a very poor sense of smell for a canine. They’re actually at the bottom of the list. That’s what happens when we breed dogs to fight bulls, and not to hunt as nature intended.’ The vet raised his book again. ‘Perverse, but that’s the sort of thing we do.’

‘Thanks, Jibran,’ Aune said.

The vet gave him a brief nod.

‘Maybe he’s buried Bertine,’ Truls said.

‘Or dumped her in one of the lakes up there,’ Øystein added.

Harry sat looking at the vet while the voices of the other three men sounded like they were fading out. Felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

‘Harry!’

‘What?’

It was Aune. ‘We said: “What do you think?”’

‘I think... do you have the number of the farmer who sent in that tip-off, Øystein?’

‘No. But we have his name, and Wenggården, so it’s no problem to find it.’

‘Parasites,’ Prim said, lifting the fork to his mouth. ‘We die of them and live off them.’ He chewed. The food had a spongy consistency and didn’t taste of much, even with all the spices. He raised his glass of red wine to his guest before washing down the mouthful and swallowing hard. He placed his palm on his chest, waiting for the food to go down before continuing. ‘And we’re all parasites. You. Me. Everyone out there. Without hosts like us the parasites would die, but without the parasites we would also die. Because there are good parasites and there are malign parasites. The good ones come from blowflies, for instance, which deposit their parasite eggs into a corpse so that the larvae eat it up in no time.’ With a grimace, Prim cut off another piece and commenced chewing on it. ‘If they didn’t, we’d literally be wading in corpses and carcasses. No, I’m not joking! The maths is simple. We would, in the space of a few months, have died from the noxious gases from corpses if not for the blowfly. Then you have the interesting parasites which are neither particularly useful nor do any great harm. Among these you have, for example, Cymothoa exigua. The tongue-eating louse.’

Prim stood up and walked over to the aquarium.

‘It’s such an interesting parasite that I deposited a few in Boss’s tank here. What happens is that the louse attaches itself to the tongue of the fish and sucks blood from it until the tongue eventually decomposes and disappears. Then the louse attaches itself to the stub of the tongue, sucks more blood, grows and develops into a completely new tongue.’

Prim’s hand shot down into the water and grabbed the fish. He brought it over to the table, squeezed the fish’s mouth so it was forced open, and held it up in front of her face.

‘Do you see it? Do you see the louse? Can you see that it has eyes and a mouth of its own? Yes?’

He walked quickly back and released the fish back into the aquarium.

‘The louse — which I’ve named Lisa — functions just fine as a tongue, so no need to feel so sorry for Boss. Life goes on, as they say, and he has company now. It’s a lot worse to cross paths with the malign parasites. Ones like this one here are packed with...’

He pointed at the large pink slug he had placed on the dining table between them.

Katrine was listening to Sung-min.

Closing her eyes, she pictured the crime scene while he spoke. Answered that, no, she didn’t need to see it herself, she would dispatch a couple of detectives, then study photos of the scene. And, yes, she apologised for not being available by phone. She had switched it off while putting the child to bed and must have performed a very good rendition of ‘Blueman’, because she had fallen asleep too.

‘Maybe you’re working too hard,’ Sung-min said.

‘You can scratch maybe,’ Katrine said. ‘But that goes for all of us. Let’s call a press conference for tomorrow at ten. I’ll get Forensics to prioritise this.’

‘All right. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Sung-min.’

Katrine rang off and sat staring at the phone.

Bertine Bertilsen was dead. That was as expected. Now she had been found. That was as hoped. The place and way she had been found confirmed the suspicion that it was the same killer. That was as feared. Because that meant there might be more murders.

Katrine heard a whimper from behind the open door to his bedroom. She told herself she would stay sitting where she was listening for more, but wasn’t able, stood up from the kitchen chair and tiptoed over to the doorway. It was quiet in there, just the sound of Gert’s steady slumberous breathing. She had lied to Sung-min. She had read that on average we hear two hundred lies every day, most of them white fortunately, the sort that keep the social wheels turning. This had been one of them. It was true she had switched off the phone to put the child to bed, but not about falling asleep herself. She hadn’t switched it back on because Arne usually called right after Gert’s bedtime, knowing that was when he would catch her. That was nice, of course it was. After all, he just wanted to hear how her day had been. Listen to her small joys and petty frustrations. Lately — with the missing girls — she had been mostly sharing her frustrations, naturally enough. But he had listened patiently, asked follow-up questions that showed he was interested, did everything a good, supportive friend and potential boyfriend should do. It was just that tonight she really wasn’t in the mood, she needed to be alone with her thoughts. Had decided to serve up the same white lie about having fallen asleep when Arne asked tomorrow. She had been thinking about Harry and Gert. How she was going to solve it. Because she had seen it in Harry’s eyes, the same helpless love she had seen in Bjørn’s when they looked at their son. Bjørn’s son and Harry’s son. How much should and could she include Harry in things? For herself, she wanted to have as little as possible to do with Harry and Harry’s life. But what about Gert? What right did she have to take yet another father from him? Hadn’t she herself had an unstable drunkard for a father, one she had loved in her own way and would not have been without?

She had switched the mobile back on before going to bed, hoping there wouldn’t be any messages. But there were two. The first, from Arne, was a declaration of love of the kind the younger generation obviously had a lower threshold for:

Katrine Bratt, you are the Woman, and I am the Man who loves you. Goodnight.

She saw it had been sent recently and that he hadn’t actually tried to call her while the phone was off, so he had probably been busy with something.

The other was from Sung-min and conformed to a style she was more familiar with:

Bertine found. Call me.

Katrine went into the bathroom and picked up her toothbrush. Looked in the mirror. You are the Woman, yeah, right. But OK, on a good day it might be warranted. She squeezed the toothpaste out of the tube. Her thoughts returned to Bertine Bertilsen and Susanne Andersen. And the woman — without a name yet — who might be the next in line.

Katrine looked down at the bodies of Susanne and Bertine. As always, it struck her how forsaken corpses looked when laid out like this, how it could make you believe in the existence of a soul. Something she definitely didn’t believe in, but — which was after all the incentive behind all religions and mysticism — hoped for. The two women were naked, their skin shades of white, blue, and also black, due mainly to blood and bodily fluids having sunk to the lowest-lying parts of the body. Decomposition had set in, and Bertine’s lack of a head reinforced the feeling they were looking at statues, lifeless objects given form by something living. There were seven living people in the autopsy room: Katrine and the pathologist, Skarre from Crime Squad, Sung-min Larsen, a female detective from Kripos, Alexandra Sturdza and another post-mortem technician.

‘We haven’t found any signs of violence or a struggle prior to death,’ the pathologist said. ‘Causes of death. Susanne received a cut across the throat, severing her carotid artery. Bertine was probably strangled. I say probably because many of the indications we would have found if we had her head are absent. But the marks on the lower part of her neck indicate asphyxiation with a strap or cord resulting in hypoxia. There were no traces of any substances in their blood or urine to suggest they were drugged. Congealed spit and mucus was found on one of the victim’s nipples.’

She pointed to the body of Susanne.

‘It has, as far as I know, already been analysed...’

‘Yes,’ Alexandra said.

‘Beyond that, we haven’t found DNA material on the victims. As there is a suspicion of rape, we’ve paid particular attention to looking for traces of that. There are no marks from fingers holding tightly on the arms, legs or throat, no bite marks or suction marks. No wounds or bruising to the wrists or ankles. One victim has no head, so we can’t say anything about her auricle.’

‘Pardon?’ the female detective from Kripos said.

‘The outer ear,’ Alexandra said. ‘Wounding is common there with victims of violence.’

‘Or possible petechiae,’ the pathologist said, pointing at Susanne’s head. ‘The first victim didn’t exhibit it.’

‘Small, discoloured spots around the eyes or the palate,’ Alexandra explained.

‘Neither victim has visible injury to their labia minora,’ the pathologist continued.

‘The inner pudenda,’ Alexandra translated.

‘Nor were there any scratch marks from fingernails on the neck or grazing to the knees, hips or back. Otherwise, there are microscopic marks in Bertine’s vagina, but they’re of an order that may just have well occurred due to consensual sex. In short, there is no physical evidence on either of them pointing to rape.’

‘Which isn’t to say that rape can’t have taken place,’ Alexandra added.

The look the pathologist gave Alexandra made Katrine suspect she might be having words with her younger colleague about role understanding after they had left.

‘So, no injuries,’ Katrine said. ‘And no semen. What then makes you so sure they both had intercourse?’

‘Prophylactic,’ said the other post-mortem technician, Helge something-or-other, a sweet guy who hadn’t said anything so far, and who Katrine had instinctively understood was at the bottom of the pecking order out of the three.

‘A condom?’ Skarre said.

‘Yes,’ Helge replied. ‘When we don’t find semen, we look for signs of a condom. Primarily traces of nonoxynol-9, the substance in the lubricant, but evidently this was a type without lubricant. Instead, we found traces from the fine powder on the condom which prevents the latex from sticking to itself. The composition of the powder is unique to every manufacturer. The powder on this brand — Bodyful — was the same for Susanne and Bertine.’

‘Is that a common powder?’ Sung-min asked.

‘Neither common nor uncommon,’ Helge said. ‘Of course, it’s entirely possible they didn’t have intercourse with the same man, but...’

‘I see,’ Sung-min said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Based on these findings, is there any way to tell when intercourse occurred?’ Katrine asked.

‘No,’ the pathologist said firmly. ‘Everything we’ve told you, minus the details about the condom powder, you can find in the report we placed in the case file on BL96 just before you arrived. OK?’

The ensuing pause was interrupted by Helge, his voice more cautious now.

‘We might not be able to say exactly when, but—’ he cast a quick glance at the pathologist, as if seeking permission, before continuing — ‘it seems safe to assume that in both cases intercourse occurred not long before they died. Possibly after.’

‘Go on.’

‘Had they been alive for some time after intercourse, their bodily functions would have disposed of traces of the condoms. A living body would do that over the course of a few days, perhaps three. But semen and condom powder would last longer in a dead body. It...’ He swallowed, gave a small smile. ‘Yeah, that was all.’

‘Any more questions?’ the pathologist asked. She waited a couple of seconds before clapping her hands together. ‘Well. Like the title of the movie: If more bodies turn up, just give us a call.’

Only Skarre laughed. Katrine wasn’t sure if it was because he was the only one of them old enough to remember the movie, or if morbid humour worked best when there weren’t corpses present.

She felt her phone vibrate and looked at the display.

Katrine had to pull hard on the steering wheel of the fifty-year-old Volvo Amazon as she swung up in front of the entrance to the Radium Hospital.

She drew up beside the tall man with the beard.

Saw Harry hesitate before opening the door and sitting down in the passenger seat.

‘You kept the car,’ he said.

‘Bjørn loved it so much,’ she said, patting the dashboard. ‘And he took good care of it. Runs like clockwork.’

‘It’s a classic car,’ Harry said. ‘It’s also dangerous.’

She smiled. ‘You’re thinking of Gert? Relax, I only use it in the city. My father-in-law comes by and tinkers on it, and... it smells of Bjørn.’

She could tell what he was thinking. This is the car Bjørn shot himself in. Yes, it was. The car Bjørn had loved, and had driven out of the city, to a straight stretch of road alongside a field in Toten. A place he had fond memories of perhaps. It was night and he had moved to the back seat. Some believed it was because his idol, Hank Williams, had died in the back seat of a car, but she suspected it was because he didn’t want to mess up the driver’s seat. So that she could continue using it. So that she had to continue using it. Yes, she knew it was crazy. But if this was her self-imposed punishment for fooling a good man into believing that their child was his, a man who had always been good, way too good, then so what? He loved her to bits and always doubted that she really loved him, he had even gone as far as asking her straight out why she hadn’t chosen a man in her own league. No, this was a punishment she gladly accepted.

‘Good you could get here so quick,’ he said.

‘I was just up the road at the Forensic Medical Institute. So, what’s up?’

‘I just realised my usual driver isn’t quite sober, and I need to go to a place where you can get me in.’

‘Doesn’t sound very promising. Where were you thinking?’

‘The crime scenes,’ he said. ‘I want to see them.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Come on. We found Bertine for you.’

‘I realise that, but I made it clear we don’t reward tip-offs.’

‘Yes, you did. Is it still cordoned off?’

‘Yes, so no, you can’t go there on your own either.’

Harry looked at her with something like quiet desperation. She recognised that look, recognised those damned pale blue eyes, now a little wider than usual, the body he wasn’t able to keep quite still in the seat. It was ants under his skin, it was the mania. Or was it something more? She had never seen him so worked up before, as though this case were a matter of life or death. Which of course it was, but not his life or death. Or? No, of course it was just the mania. Meaning he must — must — hunt.

‘Mm. Drive me to Schrøder’s then.’

Or drink.

She sighed. Checked the time. ‘Suit yourself. All right if I collect Gert from kindergarten on the way?’

He raised an eyebrow. Gave her a look as if to say he suspected her of having an agenda. Which of course she might have, it was never wrong to remind a man he had a child. She put the car in gear and was letting the temperamental clutch out when her phone rang. She looked at the display and put the car back into neutral.

‘Sorry, I have to take this, Harry. Yes, Bratt speaking.’

‘Have you read what Dagbladet have written now?’ Compared to most people the Chief Superintendent didn’t even sound annoyed. But Katrine was using the Bodil Melling yardstick and knew her boss was furious.

‘If by now you mean—’

‘It went up on their website six minutes ago, it’s this Våge again. He’s written that forensic examination has revealed that both girls had sex just prior to or after they were killed, and that a condom was used, probably so as not to leave any DNA behind. How does he know that, Bratt?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, then let me tell you. We have someone leaking information to Våge.’

‘Sorry,’ Katrine said. ‘I was imprecise. How is obvious. What I mean is I don’t know who the leak is.’

‘And when are you planning on finding out?’

‘Hard to say, boss. At the moment my priority is finding a killer who, for all we know, may be looking for his next victim.’

There was silence at the other end. Katrine closed her eyes and cursed herself. She would never learn.

‘I’ve just had Winter on the phone, and he rules out anyone at Kripos. I’d be inclined to agree with him. So, you’re the one who needs to find the person concerned and shut their mouth, Bratt. You hear me? This makes us all look like idiots. I’m calling the Police Chief now before he calls me to ask about it. Keep me informed.’

Melling hung up. Katrine shifted her gaze to Harry’s phone, which he was holding up for her. It was Dagbladet’s website. She skimmed Våge’s comments.

‘The guy really has it in for Røed,’ she said.

‘Have you?’ Harry asked.

‘Have we what?’

‘Speculated if the murders were arranged so as to look like they were a sexually motivated murder?’

She shrugged. ‘Not that I’ve heard. I bet it’s Våge’s own speculation, and he’s attributing it to a source because he knows it can never be checked.’

‘Mm.’

They drove down towards the motorway.

‘What do you lot think?’ she asked.

‘Well. Most of the team think it’s a rapist and serial killer, and that the link between the two victims is coincidental.’

‘Because?’

‘Because Markus Røed has an alibi and contract killers don’t have sex with their victims. What do your lot think?’

Katrine checked the traffic in the mirror. ‘OK, Harry, I’ll give you something. What Våge didn’t write is that one of the post-mortem technicians found the same type of condom powder in both girls. So it’s the same perpetrator.’

‘Interesting.’

‘What he also didn’t write is that the medical examiners aren’t ruling out that the girls were raped, even though they didn’t find any clear physical indicators. They only do in one in three cases. Minor injuries in just half the rapes. The remainder they find nothing.’

‘Do you think that’s what’s happened here?’

‘No. I think it’s because the victims were dead before intercourse took place.’

‘Mm. The thrill begins with death.’

‘What?’

‘Something Aune says. With sadists, their sexual excitement begins with the suffering and ceases when the victim dies. With necrophiliacs their excitement begins when the victim is dead.’

‘OK, but then you were rewarded a little all the same.’

‘Thanks. What do you make of the boot prints at the scenes?’

‘Who said there were boot prints?’

Harry shrugged. ‘The crime scenes are in the forest, so I presume the ground is soft. It’s hardly rained over the past few weeks, so obviously there’ll be boot prints.’

‘They have the same pattern,’ Katrine said, after some hesitation. ‘The victim’s and the suspected perpetrator’s footprints are close to one another, as if he was holding her or was threatening her with a weapon.’

‘Mm. Or just the opposite.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Maybe they walked with their arms around each other. Like a couple. Or two people about to engage in mutual, consensual sex.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘If I was threatening someone, I’d walk behind them.’

‘You believe the girls knew their killer?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. What I don’t believe in are coincidences. Susanne went missing four days after the party at Røed’s building, and Bertine one week after that. They met the perpetrator there. There was a man at the party I’m guessing you don’t have on that guest list.’

‘Oh?’

‘A guy in a face mask and sunglasses selling cocaine?’

‘No one’s mentioned anyone like that to us, no. Not so strange, perhaps, if he was selling cocaine to the guests.’

‘Or because you soon forget faceless people. He wasn’t selling to the guests, rather handing out samples of something we think was close to pure cocaine to a few guests.’

‘How do you know?’

‘That’s not important. What is important is that he was in contact with both Susanne and Bertine. Do you know of anyone else at the party who talked to both girls?’

‘Just Markus Røed.’ Katrine put the indicator on and checked the mirror again. ‘You think this guy chatted up both of them at the party and arranged to go for a walk in the woods with them?’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know, but I can’t see how it makes sense. It’s one thing Susanne heading off with a guy she’s just met at a party for an adventure in the forest. One who’s been dealing coke into the bargain. But that Bertine a week later voluntarily accompanies a man like that, one she barely knows, into the forest at Skullerud when it’s been in the newspapers that Susanne was last seen in Skullerud? At that stage Bertine would also have been aware that the three of them had been at the same party. No, Harry, I don’t buy it.’

‘OK. So what do you think?’

‘I think we’re looking at a serial rapist.’

‘Serial killer.’

‘Absolutely. Quick murders, necrophilia. A brain cut out, a head cut off, a body hung up like a slaughtered animal. That’s what I’d call a ritual murder carried out by a serial killer.’

‘Mm.’ Harry said. ‘Why condom powder?’

‘What?’

‘In these kinds of sexual offence cases you look for lubricant, not powder, when you’re trying to identify the condom, isn’t that right?’

‘Yes, but there wasn’t any lubricant used here.’

‘Exactly. You’ve worked in Vice. Don’t serial rapists — those of them smart enough to use a condom — use lubricant?’

‘Yes, but these are criminal maniacs, Harry, they don’t have a set script, and you’re just splitting hairs.’

‘You’re right,’ Harry said. ‘But I’ve yet to see or hear anything that means we can rule out that Bertine and Susanne had consensual sex with the perpetrator right before he killed them.’

‘Apart from it being... highly unusual. No? You’re the expert on serial killers here.’

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, it’s unusual. Murder after rape isn’t so unusual, either as part of the killer’s sexual fantasy or to avoid being identified. But murder after consensual sex only occurs in exceptional cases. A narcissist could kill if he’s been humiliated in relation to the act, if he’s unable to perform, for instance.’

‘The traces of a condom indicate that he managed to perform, Harry. I’ll be right back.’

Harry nodded. They had stopped on lower Hegdehaugsveien, and he watched Katrine as she walked quickly towards the gate where children in snowsuits hung over the fence waiting to be collected.

She disappeared beyond the gate, but after a few minutes she and Gert appeared, walking hand in hand. He heard the sound of an eager child’s voice. He had been a quiet child himself, apparently.

The car door opened.

‘Hi Hawny.’ Gert leaned forward from the back seat and gave Harry a hug from behind before Katrine pulled him back into the child seat.

‘Hello, old chap,’ Harry said.

‘Old chap?’ Gert said, looking at his mother.

‘He’s messing with you,’ Katrine said.

‘You messing, Hawny!’ Gert laughed heartily, and glancing in the mirror Harry gave a start as he glimpsed something familiar. Not himself. Not his father. But his mother. He had Harry’s mother’s smile.

Katrine got in behind the wheel.

‘Schrøder’s?’ she said.

Harry shook his head. ‘I’ll get out at your place, then walk.’

‘To Schrøder’s?’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘I want to ask you for a favour.’

‘OK?’

‘You know these cross-country skiers and people who walk to the South Pole and charge a ton of money to give talks and inspire people?’

It was five minutes to ten and Katrine and Sung-min were standing outside the conference room, each with a cup of coffee in their hands. Others on the investigation team mumbled morning greetings as they passed on their way into the morning meeting.

‘Right,’ Sung-min said. ‘So, Hole thinks the perpetrator is a cocaine dealer who was at the party?’

‘Sounds like that,’ Katrine said, checking her watch. He had said he would be there early, now it was four minutes to.

‘If the cocaine was so pure, maybe he smuggled it in himself. Along with other things.’

‘What do you mean?’

Sung-min shook his head. ‘Just an association. There was an empty bag of anti-parasitic powder lying not far from the scene. It must have been smuggled in as well.’

‘Oh?’

‘The powder’s banned. Contains powerful toxins against a whole range of intestinal worms, including the serious types.’

‘Serious?’

‘Parasites that can kill dogs and are transmissible to humans. I’ve heard of a couple of dog owners who have contracted it. Attacks the liver, very unpleasant.’

‘You’re saying the killer could be a dog owner?’

‘Who feeds his pet an anti-parasitic cure in the great outdoors before killing and raping his victim? No.’

‘So why...?’

‘Yeah, why. Because we’re grasping at straws. You’ve seen the videos where American traffic cops stop motorists for being a little over the speed limit or having a broken tail light? How cautiously they approach the car, as though someone violating a traffic regulation dramatically increases the likelihood of them being hardened criminals?’

‘Yes, and I know why. Because it does dramatically increase the likelihood of them being hardened criminals. Lots of research on that.’

Sung-min smiled. ‘Exactly. Rule-breakers. That’s all.’

‘OK,’ Katrine said, checking the time again. What had happened? She had seen in Harry’s eyes that there was a danger of him falling completely off the wagon. But he usually still stuck to his word. ‘If you’ve got the bag, you should drop it in to Krimteknisk.’

‘I found it far from the scene,’ Sung-min said. ‘We could’ve picked up a thousand things within that radius which, with a little imagination, might be connected to the murder.’

One minute to ten.

She spotted the officer she had sent down to reception to meet him. And — towering a head taller behind him — Harry Hole. He looked more rumpled than his suit, and it was as if she could see the alcohol on his breath before she smelled it. Katrine noticed how Sung-min automatically straightened up next to her.

Katrine drained the rest of the coffee cup. ‘Shall we get started?’

‘Rough night?’ the woman asked, holding the door open for Harry.

Helene Røed was smaller than he had expected. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a black polo neck. Her blonde hair was held in place by a simple hairband. He concluded she was as pretty as the photographs.

‘Is it that obvious?’ he said, stepping inside.

‘Sunglasses at ten in the morning?’ she said, showing him into what he already could make out to be a huge apartment. ‘And that suit is too nice to look like that,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said.

She laughed, led him into a large room with a living area and an open kitchen with an island.

Daylight flooded in from every side. Concrete, wood, glass, he assumed everything was of the highest quality.

‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘I was going to ask what kind, but you look like the sort who’ll drink anything.’

‘Anything,’ Harry said with a crooked smile.

She pressed a button on the shiny metal espresso machine which began to grind the beans as she rinsed a filter holder under the tap. Harry let his gaze drift over the items attached by magnets to the double-doored fridge. A calendar. Two pictures of horses. A ticket bearing the logo of the National Theatre.

‘You’re going to see Romeo and Juliet tomorrow?’ he said.

‘Yes. It’s a fantastic production! I was at the first night with Markus. Not that he’s interested in the theatre, but he’s a sponsor so we get a lot of tickets. I handed out loads of the tickets for that production at the party, I think people simply must see it, but I still have two or three lying around. Have you ever seen Romeo and Juliet?’

‘Yeah, sort of. A film version.’

‘Then you have to see this.’

‘I...’

‘You do! Just a sec.’

Helene Røed disappeared, and Harry let his eyes wander over the rest of the fridge door.

Pictures of two children with their parents, taken on holiday it looked like. Harry guessed Helene was the children’s auntie. No pictures of Helene herself or Markus, together or on their own. He walked over to the windows which went from floor to ceiling. A view over the whole of Bjørvika and the Oslo Fjord, the Munch Museum being the only obstruction. He heard Helene approaching with brisk steps.

‘Apologies for the museum,’ she said, handing Harry two tickets. ‘We call it Chernobyl. Not every architect is able to ruin an entire city district with a single building, but Estudio Herreros was, I’ll give them that.’

‘Mm.’

‘Just go ahead with what you came for, Hole, I’m good at multitasking.’

‘OK. For the most part, I’d like you to tell me about the party. About Susanne and Bertine, of course, but in particular the man who brought the cocaine.’

‘Right,’ she said. ‘So you know about him.’

‘Yes.’

‘I presume no one is going to jail because of a little coke on the table?’

‘No. Anyway, I’m not a policeman.’

‘That’s right. You’re Markus’s boy.’

‘I’m not that either.’

‘Sure, Krohn told me you’ve been given carte blanche. But you know how it is. The person paying the bills is the person in control at the end of the day.’ She smiled, with a hint of contempt which Harry wasn’t sure was directed at him or at the man paying. Or perhaps at herself.

Helene Røed told him about the party while she made coffee. Harry noted that what she said matched both her husband’s and Øystein’s accounts. The man with the green cocaine had shown up pretty much out of nowhere and approached her and Markus on the roof terrace. Might have gatecrashed the party, but if so, he wasn’t the only one.

‘He was wearing a face mask, sunglasses and a baseball cap, so he did look rather dodgy in that gathering. He insisted Markus and I test his powder, but I told him that wasn’t going to happen, that Markus and I had promised each other never to touch the stuff again. Then, after just a few minutes, I noticed Markus and a few of the others were missing. I was already a little suspicious, because one of the people who’d popped up at the party was the guy Markus usually buys his blow from. I walked into the apartment. And it was so pathetic...’

She closed her eyes and placed her palm on her forehead. ‘Markus was leaning over the table with a straw already up his nose. Breaking his promise right there in front of me. And then that cocaine nose of his causes him to sneeze and ruin it for him.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Harry. ‘I wish I could laugh about it.’

‘The dealer with the face mask, he tried to gather together enough powder from the floor to make a line for Markus, I understand.’

‘Yeah. Or maybe he was just trying to tidy up. He even wiped Markus’s snot off the table.’ She nodded towards the large glass table in front of the sofa in the living area. ‘He probably wanted to make a good impression, have Markus as a regular customer, who doesn’t? You may have noticed that Markus isn’t exactly the type to haggle. He prefers to overpay than underpay, it gives him a sense of power. Or rather, it gives him power.’

‘You mean power is important to him?’

‘Isn’t it important to everyone?’

‘Well. Not to me. Granted, that’s just self-analysis.’

They had sat down at the dining table, across from each other. Helene Røed was looking at Harry in a way that made him think she was assessing the situation. Assessing how much she should say. Assessing him.

‘Why do you have a metal finger?’ she asked, nodding towards his hand.

‘Because a man cut off the finger I had. It’s a long story.’

Her gaze didn’t flinch. ‘You smell of stale alcohol,’ she said. ‘And vomit.’

‘Sorry. I had a rough night and haven’t got round to getting fresh clothes.’

She smiled vaguely, as though to herself. ‘Do you know the difference between a handsome man and an attractive man, Harry?’

‘No. What is it?’

‘I’m asking because I don’t know.’

Harry met her eyes. Was she flirting?

She shifted her gaze to the wall behind him. ‘Do you know what I found attractive about Markus? I mean, apart from his surname and his money.’

‘No.’

‘That he seemed attractive to other people as well. Isn’t that strange? How that sort of thing is self-reinforcing?’

‘I know what you mean.’

She shook her head as though in resignation. ‘Markus has no talents apart from one. He can send out the signal that he’s in charge. He’s like that boy or girl in school who, without anyone understanding why, takes the lead and decides who is in and who is out. When, like Markus, you’re sitting on that social throne, then you have power, and power begets power. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing more attractive than power. You understand, Harry? It isn’t calculated opportunism that makes women fall for power, it’s biology. Power is sexy, full stop.’

‘OK,’ Harry said. She probably wasn’t flirting.

‘And when, like Markus, you’ve learned to like that power, then you’re terrified of losing it. Markus is good with people, but because he and his family have power, he’s probably more feared than liked. And that bothers him. Because it’s important for him to be liked. Not by the people who don’t matter, he couldn’t care less about them, but by those he wants to identify with, those he sees as his equals. He went to BI Norwegian Business School because he wanted to take over the family’s property business, but there was more partying than studying, and in the end, he had to go abroad to get a qualification. People think he’s good at his job because money has been accumulated, but if you’ve been in property for the last fifty years, it’s been impossible not to make money. Markus was actually one of the few who almost managed to run his company into the ground all the same, but the bank bailed him out at least twice. And money tells the only success story people are capable of hearing. Myself included.’ She sighed. ‘He had a regular table at a club where men with money pick up girls who like men with money and do as they’re told. It sounds banal, and it is. I knew that Markus had a marriage behind him, but it had been years ago, and that he’d been single since. I figured he hadn’t met the right woman. And that was me.’

‘Was it?’

She shrugged. ‘I was right for him, I suppose. A bombshell thirty years his junior to be shown off, capable of conversing with people his age without it becoming embarrassing, and keeping things in order at home. The question was probably more if he was the right one for me. It took a long time before I asked myself that question.’

‘And?’

‘And now I live here, and he lives in a man cave in Frogner.’

‘Mm. Yet the two of you were together on both of the Tuesdays the girls went missing.’

‘Were we?’

Harry thought he saw something challenging in her eyes. ‘That’s what you told the police.’

She smiled briefly. ‘Yes, then I suppose we were.’

‘Are you trying to let me know you weren’t telling the truth?’

She shook her head with a resigned expression.

‘Is it you or Markus that is most in need of an alibi?’ Harry asked, and followed her reaction closely.

‘Me? You think I could have...’ The look of astonishment on her face disappeared and her laughter resounded in the room.

‘You have a motive.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t have a motive. I’ve let Markus run around, the only condition I set was that he doesn’t embarrass me. Or let them take my money.’

‘Your money?’

‘His, ours, mine, whatever. I don’t think those two girls had any plans like that. And they weren’t exactly high-maintenance either. Anyway, you’ll realise soon enough that I really don’t have any motive. My lawyer sent a letter to Krohn this morning stating that I want a divorce, and that I want half of everything. You see? I don’t want him, they can take Markus, whoever is so inclined. I just want my riding school.’ She laughed coldly. ‘You look surprised, Harry?’

‘Mm. A movie producer in Los Angeles told me that your first marriage is the most expensive college. That it’s where you learn to ensure there’s a prenuptial agreement in your next marriage.’

‘Oh, Markus has a prenup. Both with me and his ex, he’s not stupid. But because of what I know, he’ll give me what I ask for.’

‘And what is it you know?’

She smiled broadly. ‘That’s my leverage, Harry, so I can’t tell you that. The chances are I’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement. I hope to God someone finds out what he’s done, but if they do it’ll be without my help. I know that sounds cynical, but right now I need to save myself not the world. Sorry.’

Harry was about to say something but thought better of it. She wasn’t going to be manipulated or persuaded.

‘Why did you agree to this meeting?’ he asked instead. ‘If you knew you weren’t going to tell me anything?’

She thrust out her bottom lip, nodded. ‘Good question. You tell me. That suit of yours will have to go to the dry cleaner’s, by the way. I’ll give you one of Markus’s, you’re around the same size.’

‘Sorry?’

Helene had already got to her feet and was walking further into the apartment. ‘I’ve put aside a few suits he’s too fat to fit into any more, which I was going to give to the Salvation Army,’ she called out.

While she was gone, he stood up and went over to the fridge. He saw now that there was a photo of Helene after all; she was holding the bridle of one of the horses. The theatre ticket was for the following day. He looked at the calendar. Noticed ‘horse ride Valdres’ written in for next Thursday. Helene returned with a black suit and a garment bag.

‘Thank you for the thought but I prefer to buy my own clothes,’ Harry said.

‘The world needs more reusing,’ she said. ‘And this is a Brioni Vanquish II, it’d be a crime to throw it away. Come on, do the planet a favour.’

Harry looked at her. He hesitated. But something told him to humour her. He took off his jacket and put on the other one.

‘Well, you’re slimmer than he was, even back then,’ Helene said, her head cocked to one side. ‘But you’re the same height and your shoulders are just as broad, so it works.’

She held out the trousers. Didn’t turn round as he changed.

‘Perfect,’ she said, threading the garment bag over the hanger with the other suit. ‘I thank you on behalf of future generations. If there’s nothing else, I have a Zoom meeting now.’

Harry nodded as he accepted the garment bag.

Helene walked him out to the hall and held the door open for him. ‘Actually, I just remembered the one good thing about the Munch Museum,’ she said. ‘Which is Edvard Munch. Go take a look at The Yellow Log. And have a nice day.’

‘I can only issue you with a warrant if there is probable cause for suspicion.’

‘I know that,’ Sung-min said, quietly cursing section 192 of the Criminal Procedure Act, as he held the phone to his ear and stared at the wall of the windowless office. How had Hole endured working in here all those years? ‘But I think there’s more than a fifty per cent chance of us finding something illegal there. He was sweating, wouldn’t look me in the eye, and then he put a blanket over something he most definitely wanted hidden in the office.’

‘I understand, but your suspicion alone is not enough. The section states there must be concrete evidence.’

‘But—’

‘You also know that as a prosecutor I can only grant you a search warrant if there is a danger in delaying. Is there? And will you be able to explain why it was urgent afterwards?’

Sung-min sighed heavily. ‘No.’

‘Any evidence of other offences which could be used as a pretext?’

‘None.’

‘Does the person concerned have previous convictions?’

‘No.’

‘Have you anything at all?’

‘Listen. The word “smuggling” appears both in connection with the party at Røed’s and at the crime scene where I found that bag. You know me, and you know I don’t believe in coincidences. I have a strong feeling in my gut here. Do you want the request in writing?’

‘I’ll save you the work and tell you no here and now. But you called first, so you were probably aware what the outcome would be. This isn’t like you. You say you’ve got nothing at all? Just a gut feeling?’

‘Gut feeling.’

‘When did you start getting those?’

‘I’m trying to learn.’

‘Imitate us ordinary mortals, you mean?’

‘Autism and autistic traits are two different things, Chris.’

The police lawyer laughed. ‘Fine. Are you coming over to eat tomorrow?’

‘I’ve bought a bottle of Château Cantemerle 2009.’

‘Your taste is too elevated and your habits too exclusive for me, darling.’

‘But you can also learn, dear.’

They hung up. Sung-min noticed he had received a text message from Katrine with a link to Dagbladet. He tapped on the link and leaned back in the chair while he waited for it to download. The walls of the office were so thick they affected the coverage. And why hadn’t Hole replaced this broken chair? His back was already sore.

Sung-min felt the need to swear and thought it a shame he wasn’t in the habit of it. That he should consider starting.

Satan’s cunt!

Mona Daa was on the treadmill.

She hated running on the treadmill.

And right now that was the very reason she was running on the treadmill. She could feel the sweat dripping down her back and see her reddened cheeks in the gym’s mirrored wall. Carcass was coming through the earphones, from a playlist Anders had compiled, and according to him it was from their early period when they played grindcore, not that melodious shit that came later. It just sounded like raging noise to her and, at the moment, that was exactly what she needed. Her feet pounded upon the rubber belt rotating beneath, which kept coming and coming, the same shit over and over.

Våge had done it again. A cannibal. Jesus Christ! Jesus fucking Christ!

She saw someone approaching from behind.

‘Hello, Daa.’

It was Magnus Skarre. The detective from Crime Squad.

Mona switched off the machine and pulled out her earphones.

‘How might I help the police?’

‘Help?’ Skarre threw out his arms. ‘Can’t I just be popping in?’

‘Never seen you in here before, and you’re not wearing gym gear. Was there something you wanted to know or something you wanted to plant?’

‘Hey, hey, take it easy.’ Skarre laughed. ‘I just thought I’d update you. Always pays to have a good relationship with the press, right? Give and take and all that.’

Mona remained standing up on the treadmill, she liked the height difference. ‘In that case, I’d like to know what you want to take before you give, Skarre.’

‘Nothing, this time. But we might have use for something further down the line.’

‘Thanks, but in that case the answer’s no. Anything else?’

Skarre looked like a little boy who’d had his toy gun taken away. Mona realised she was playing a high-stakes game. Or rather: that she was so angry she wasn’t thinking clearly.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Bad day. What is it?’

‘Harry Hole,’ he said. ‘He called up a witness, gave a false name and claimed to work for the Oslo Police.’

‘Oh.’ She changed her mind and stepped down from the treadmill. ‘How do you know?’

‘I took the witness’s statement. It was the guy with the dog that caught the scent of Bertine’s corpse. He said that prior to our visit, someone had rung, from us, to check a tip, an officer Hans Hansen. Only thing is we don’t have anyone by that name. So, I got the number which the farmer still had on his phone and checked. And you know what, I didn’t even have to contact the phone company, it was Harry Hole’s number. Talk about being caught with your pants down, eh?’ Skarre grinned.

‘And I can quote you on that?’

‘No, are you mad?’ He laughed again. ‘I’m a “reliable source”, isn’t that what you call it?’

Yes, Mona thought. Except you’re neither reliable nor a source. Mona was aware that Skarre didn’t harbour warm feelings for Harry Hole. According to Anders the reason for this wasn’t particularly complicated. Skarre had always worked in Hole’s shadow, and Hole had never tried to conceal the fact he thought Skarre was a jerk. But it seemed like a long way from there to a personal vendetta like this.

Skarre shifted his weight, cast a glance towards the girls attending the spinning class in the room next door. ‘But if you want confirmation on what you’ve dug up, you could contact the Chief Superintendent.’

‘Bodil Melling?’

‘Precisely. I’m guessing she’d give you a comment too.’

Mona Daa nodded. This was good. Good and dirty. But whatever, she finally had something Våge didn’t have, and she couldn’t afford to be fussy. Not now.

Skarre was grinning. Like a customer in a whorehouse, Mona thought. And tried to block out what that made her.

The Aune group had gathered, but Aune himself had given word that his family were coming at three, so everyone needed to be gone by then. Harry had been filling them in on his visit to Helene Røed.

‘So now you’re walking around in your boss’s suit,’ Øystein said. ‘And your mate’s sunglasses.’

‘Plus, I have this,’ Harry said, holding up the cat mask. ‘And you still can’t find anything about Villa Dante online?’

Truls stared at his phone, grunted and shook his head. With the same minimal expression as when he had accepted the brown envelope of cash Harry had discreetly handed him when he arrived.

‘What I’m wondering, is where Våge has got this cannibalism stuff from,’ Aune said.

Harry saw Truls look up, meet his eyes and give him an imperceptible shake of his head.

‘Was wondering that myself,’ Øystein said. ‘Doesn’t say jackshit about eating human flesh in the reports.’

‘I have a feeling Våge has lost his source,’ Harry said. ‘And has begun making things up. Like that business about Bertine having had her tattoo cut off and sewn back on — that wasn’t true.’

‘Maybe,’ Aune said. ‘Våge did resort to fabrications previously in his career, and it is strange how consistent we humans are. Even though we’re punished for a pattern of behaviour and should learn, we still tend to employ the same poor solutions when problems arise. It’s not unlikely that Våge has found the attention he’s received of late so intoxicating that he’s unwilling to let go of it and is resorting to something that has worked in the past. Or worked for a while, at least. Although I’m not discounting the possibility Våge may be right about the cannibalism. But given the circumstances, it’s obvious he’s making things up and has been familiarising himself with the literature on serial killers.’

‘Isn’t he implying...’ Øystein began, as his eyes scanned down through Våge’s article on the screen of his phone again.

The others looked at him.

‘Isn’t he actually implying that the killer himself is the source?’

‘That’s a bold but interesting interpretation,’ Aune said. ‘But our work for the day is done and the weekend awaits, gentlemen. My wife and daughter will be here soon.’

‘What will we do over the weekend, boss?’ Øystein asked.

‘I don’t have any particular work for you,’ Harry said. ‘But I’ve borrowed Truls’s laptop and I’m going to go through police reports.’

‘Thought you’d already read them.’

‘Skimmed them. Now I’m going to study them. Come on, let’s go.’

Aune asked Harry to wait and he remained standing by the bed while the others went out.

‘Those reports,’ he said. ‘They’re the work of how many people? Forty, fifty? Who have all been on the case for over three weeks. How many pages? A thousand? Are you going to read all those pages because you think the solution is to be found in there?’

Harry shrugged. ‘It’s got to be found somewhere.’

‘The mind also needs rest, Harry. I’ve noticed from the get-go that you’re more stressed. You seem... can I use the word desperate?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Is there something you’re not saying?’

Harry lowered his head and rubbed his hand back and forth across the nape of his neck. ‘Yeah.’

‘You want to tell me what it is?’

‘Yeah.’ He lifted his head straight. ‘But I can’t.’

Aune and Harry held each other’s gaze. Then Aune closed his eyes and nodded.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said. ‘We’ll talk on Monday.’

Aune moistened his lips, and Harry could tell by the tired cheeriness in his eyes that he was about to formulate a witty response. But that he changed his mind and merely nodded.

Harry was on his way out of the Radium Hospital when he realised what Aune had considered replying. If I’m alive on Monday.

It was nine o’clock when Mikael Bellman unlocked the door to his house in Høyenhall. It was a nice house; he had built it on the edge of a hill so that he, Ulla and their three children had a view over the city all the way to Bjørvika and the fjord.

‘Hi!’ Ulla called from the living room. Mikael hung up his new coat and walked into the living room where his petite, beautiful wife, his sweetheart since childhood, was sitting with their youngest boy watching TV.

‘Sorry, that meeting dragged on.’ He hadn’t heard any suspicion in her voice, neither was there any in her eyes, as far as he could see. Nor was there any reason to be; right now Ulla was actually the only woman in his life. If you disregarded that young TV2 reporter, but that was something he had more or less discontinued. He wasn’t ruling out future indiscretions, but if so they needed to be something he was guaranteed to get away with. A married woman with power. Someone with as much to lose as himself. They say power corrupts, but it had only made him more cautious.

‘Truls is here.’

‘What?’

‘He came by to talk to you. He’s out on the terrace.’

Mikael closed his eyes and sighed. As he had risen through the ranks, from head of Orgkrim to Chief of Police and on to Minister of Justice, he had gradually ensured there was more and more distance between him and his friend and former co-conspirator. He was, again, more cautious.

Mikael went out to the large terrace and closed the sliding door behind him.

‘Quite a view you’ve got from here,’ Truls said. His face was red in the light from the heat lamps. He raised a bottle of beer to his mouth.

Mikael sat down next to him and accepted the bottle Truls opened and handed to him.

‘How’s the investigation going?’

‘The one into me?’ Truls asked. ‘Or the one I’m on?’

‘You’re working on an investigation?’

‘You didn’t know? Good, means we don’t have a leak at least. I’m working with Harry Hole.’

Mikael let it sink in. ‘You are aware that if it comes out you’re taking advantage of your position as a police officer to assist—’

‘Yeah, yeah. But that’s not going to matter much if someone does close us down. Which would be a shame, by the way. Hole is good. You know the chances of this nutcase getting caught are greater if Hole is allowed to continue.’ Truls stamped his shoes on the concrete floor of the terrace.

Mikael didn’t know if his friend’s feet were cold or if it was an unintentional reminder of their shared past and shared secrets.

‘Did Hole send you?’

‘No, he has no idea I’m here.’

Mikael nodded. It was unusual for Truls to take the initiative himself; Mikael had always been the one who decided what they would do, but he could hear by Truls’s voice he was telling the truth.

‘This is about something bigger than apprehending one individual criminal, Truls. This has to do with politics. With the big picture. Principles, you know?’

‘People like me don’t get politics,’ Truls said, belching discreetly. ‘Don’t get why the Minister of Justice would rather let a bloody serial killer run free than allow Norway’s best-known detective to get away with lying about being Officer Hans fucking Hansen. Especially when it was that very lie that led to Bertine Bertilsen being found.’

Mikael took a sip of the bottle. He may have liked beer at one time, but he didn’t any longer, not really. But those in the Labour Party and the Labour movement were generally sceptical of people who didn’t drink beer.

‘Do you know how you become Minister of Justice and retain that position, Truls?’ Mikael continued without waiting for an answer. ‘You listen. You listen to those you know are looking out for your best interests. Listen to those who have the experience you do not. I have good people who will present this in the right way. They’ll make it look like the Minister of Justice’s office stopped a millionaire from forming his own private army of investigators and lawyers. It will show that we don’t allow American-style conditions where the wealthy enjoy all manner of privileges, where only the most expensive lawyers win, where the claim that everyone is equal before the law is just some patriotic tripe. Here, in Norway, we don’t have equality just on paper, and that’s something we’re going to carry on working for.’ Mikael made a mental note of a couple of the points, perhaps they could be used in a future speech, albeit in a more sublime form.

Truls laughed that grunted laugh that always put Mikael in mind of a pig.

‘What?’ Mikael could hear he sounded more annoyed than he had intended. It had been a long day. Serial killers and Harry Hole might get column inches, but they weren’t the only things a Minister of Justice had on his plate.

‘I’m just thinking how great it is we have that whole equality before the law,’ Truls said. ‘Imagine, in this country even a Minister of Justice couldn’t prevent the police from investigating him if they were to get a tip-off. And it might come out that there was a body encased in the concrete on his terrace. Not anyone society really missed, just a member of a biker gang who smuggled heroin and was connected to two dirty cops. Equality before the law would mean the investigation would reveal that the Minister of Justice was once a young policeman more concerned with money than power. That he had a slightly naive childhood friend who one night helped him cover up the evidence in the much smarter friend’s new house.’ Truls stamped his foot on the cement again.

‘Truls,’ Mikael said slowly. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Not at all,’ Truls said, putting the empty beer bottle down next to the chair and getting to his feet. ‘I just think what you said about listening sounded like a good idea. Listening to those who have your best interests at heart. Thanks for the beer.’

Harry stood in front of the headstone and could feel the rainwater in the soft ground seep into his shoes. Grey morning light filtered through the clouds. He had stayed up until five o’clock reading reports. Slept for three hours, then continued reading. And understood now why the investigation had come to a standstill. The work that had been done seemed good, seemed thorough, but there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. He had come out here to clear his head. He wasn’t even a third of the way through the reports.

Her name was carved in white on the grey stone. Rakel Fauke. He didn’t quite know why, but right now he was glad she hadn’t taken his surname as well.

He looked around. There were some people by other graves, probably more than usual since it was a Saturday, but they were so far away that he presumed he could speak out loud without them hearing him. He told her he had spoken to Oleg on the phone. That he was well, liked it there up north, but was considering applying for a position at Police HQ.

‘PST,’ Harry said. ‘He wants to follow in his mum’s footsteps.’

Harry told her he had called Sis. She’d had some health problems but was better now and back at work at the supermarket. Wanted him to come visit her and her boyfriend in Kristiansand.

‘I said I’d see if I could make it down before... before it’s too late. I’m having a bit of bother with some Mexicans. They’re going to kill me and a woman who looks like my mother unless I, or the police, solve this murder case within the next three days.’ Harry chuckled. ‘I’ve got a fungal nail infection, otherwise I’m doing fine. So there you go, all is well with your people. That was always what was most important to you. You yourself were less important. You wouldn’t even have wanted to be avenged if it’d been up to you. But it wasn’t. And I wanted revenge. That no doubt makes me a worse human being than you, but I’d be that even without the fucking thirst for revenge. It’s like sexual desire. Even though you’re disappointed every time you exact revenge, even though you know you’re going to be disappointed the next time as well, you just need to go on. And when I feel it, feel that fucking urge, I think now I’m standing in the shoes of a serial killer. Because that feeling of avenging something that’s been taken from me is so good that sometimes I want to lose something, something I love. Just so I can take my revenge. You understand?’

Harry felt a lump in his throat. Of course she understood. That was what he missed the most. His woman, Rakel, who understood and accepted most things about her weird husband. Not everything. But a lot. A hell of a lot.

‘The problem,’ Harry said, clearing his throat, ‘is of course that after you I have nothing left to lose. There’s nothing more to avenge, Rakel.’

Harry stood motionless. Looked down at his shoes, sunken down in the grass, the leather growing darker where the water had soaked in. He raised his eyes. Up by the church, on the steps, he saw a figure, just standing there watching. There was something familiar about the figure, and he realised it was a priest. He seemed to be looking in Harry’s direction.

The phone rang. It was Johan Krohn.

‘Talk to me,’ Harry said.

‘I’ve just been on another call. And not with just anyone. The Minister of Justice himself.’

‘It is a small country so don’t tell me you were that starstruck. Well, we’re finished then?’

‘That’s what I thought he was ringing to tell me, after that article in VG. But naturally I was surprised over Bellman delivering the message personally. This sort of thing is usually communicated via formal channels. That is to say, the people I expected to get in touch—’

‘Not that I’m unduly busy here on a Saturday morning, Krohn, but can we fast-forward to what Bellman said?’

‘Right. He said he couldn’t see that the Department of Justice had any legal argument for closing down our investigation, and they would not therefore be taking any action regarding this case. However, in light of the transgression that appears to have occurred, they would be watching us closely and the next time something of a similar nature took place, the police would take action.’

‘Mm.’

‘Yes, that’s not overstating it. Very surprising — I was certain they’d put a stop to us. Politically, it’s almost incomprehensible, Bellman will now have his own people and the media to deal with. Do you have any explanation for it?’

Harry pondered the question. Offhand he could only think of one person on their side who could possibly pressure Bellman.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Well, in any case, now you know we’re still in the game,’ Krohn said.

‘Thanks.’

Harry hung up. Reflected. They were able to continue. He had three more days and no good leads. How did that saying go? He who is born to be hanged will never drown?

The only source of light was the lamps in the bottom of the swimming pool, and in the semi-darkness of the room, the light flickered across the walls and ceiling. Harry’s brain eventually stopped dwelling on details in the reports when he saw her. Alexandra’s one-piece swimsuit seemed to show more of her body than if she had been stark naked. He rested on his elbows on the edge of the pool as she stepped down into the water, which according to the receptionist at the Thief Spa was heated to exactly thirty-five degrees. Alexandra observed him observing her while she smiled that enigmatic smile women display when they know — and like — that men like what they see.

She swam over to him. Apart from a couple sitting half submerged at the far end, they had the pool to themselves. Harry lifted the champagne bottle out of the cooler by the pool, poured a glass and handed it to her.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Thanks as in we’re even?’ he said, watching as she drank.

‘Far from it,’ she said. ‘After what was in VG, it would be very unfortunate if it came out that I’m running secret DNA analyses for you. So I want you to tell me something secret.’

‘Mm. Like what?’

‘That’s up to you.’ She slipped close to him. ‘But it has to be something from the darkest depths.’

Harry looked at her. She had a look in her eyes not unlike Gert’s when he demanded the ‘Blueman’ lullaby. Alexandra was aware that Harry was Gert’s father, and now he was struck by a crazy thought. That he would tell her the rest. He looked at the champagne bottle. Had already realised when he ordered it — albeit with one glass — that it was a bad idea. Just as it would be a bad idea to tell her what only he and Johan Krohn knew. He cleared his throat.

‘I crushed a guy’s throat in Los Angeles,’ Harry said. ‘I felt it against my knuckles, felt it give. And I liked it.’

Alexandra stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Were you fighting?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

Harry shrugged. ‘A bar brawl. Over a woman. I was drunk.’

‘What about you? Were you OK?’

‘I was fine. I only hit him once, then it was over.’

‘You hit him in the throat?’

‘Yeah. Chisel fist.’ He held up his hand to demonstrate. ‘A specialist in close combat who trained FSK in Afghanistan taught me. The point is to hit your opponent on a specific area of the throat, then all opposition will cease immediately because our brain can only think of one thing, and that’s getting air.’

‘Like this?’ she asked, squeezing the middle joints and the tips of her fingers together.

‘And like this,’ Harry said, straightening her thumb and pushing it in towards her forefinger. ‘And then you aim here, at the larynx.’ He tapped her forefinger against his own throat.

‘Hey!’ he shouted as without any warning she jabbed him.

‘Stand still!’ she laughed, hitting him again.

Harry jinked away. ‘I don’t think you understand. You risk killing someone if you hit them right. Let’s say this is the larynx.’ He pointed to one of his nipples. ‘And then you need to utilise these...’ He took hold of her hips under the water and showed her how to rotate in order to generate power in the punch. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

After four attempts she had landed two punches hard enough to make Harry groan.

The couple at the other end of the pool had gone quiet and were watching them with anxious expressions.

‘How do you know you didn’t kill him?’ Alexandra said, as she got in position to strike again.

‘I don’t know for sure. But if he had died, I don’t think his friends would have let me live afterwards.’

‘Have you also considered that if you had killed him it would put you in the same boat as those you’ve hunted down throughout your entire career?’

Harry wrinkled his nose. ‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe? Arguing over a woman — you think that’s a more noble motive?’

‘Let’s call it self-defence.’

‘There’re a lot of things that can be classed as self-defence, Harry. Honour killings are self-defence. Crimes of passion are self-defence. People kill to defend their self-respect and their dignity. You yourself have experience of people killing in order to save themselves from humiliation, don’t you?’

Harry nodded. Looked at her. Had she understood? Had she realised that it wasn’t just his own life that Bjørn had taken? No, her gaze was inward, this was about her own experience. Harry was about to say something when her hand shot out. He didn’t move. Just stood there as a triumphant smile spread across her face. Her hand — clenched to a chisel — was barely touching the skin on his throat.

‘Could have killed you that time,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’

‘You didn’t have time to react?’

‘No.’

‘Or were you banking on me not crushing your larynx?’

He smiled a little, didn’t answer.

‘Or...’ She frowned. ‘Don’t you give a shit?’

Harry’s smile widened. He gripped the bottle behind him, filled up her glass. Eyed the bottle, pictured bringing the end of it to his mouth, putting his head back and hearing the low gurgling sound as the alcohol filled him, lowering the bottle, now empty, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand while she stared wide-eyed at him. Instead, he placed the almost full bottle back in the cooler. Cleared his throat.

‘What do you say we go into the sauna?’

It was an hour to midnight, and the wet pathways glistened under the lamplights in the Palace Gardens.

Harry was pleasantly anaesthetised and reality appropriately distorted. He was, in short, in the sweet spot of intoxication, where he was conscious of the deception, yet still mentally pain-free. He and Alexandra were walking through the park. The faces they met drifting past. In order to support him, she had put his arm over her shoulder and her own arm around his waist. She was still angry.

‘It’s one thing to refuse to serve us,’ she hissed.

‘Refuse to serve me,’ Harry said, his diction considerably steadier than his gait.

‘Another thing throwing us out.’

‘Throwing me out,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve noticed barmen don’t like customers going to sleep with their heads on the counter.’

‘Still. It was the way they did it.’

‘There’re worse ways, Alexandra. Believe me.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Oh yeah. That was one of the more tactful ways I’ve been thrown out. I think it might sneak into my top-five-most-pleasant-ejections-list.’

She laughed, putting her head against his chest. With the result that Harry swerved off the pathway out onto the royal lawn, where an elderly man holding the retractable lead of his dog while it relieved itself glared disapprovingly at them.

She got Harry back on an even keel. ‘Let’s stop at Lorry and get a coffee,’ she said.

‘And a beer,’ Harry said.

‘Coffee. Unless you want to get thrown out again.’

Harry thought it over. ‘OK.’

Lorry was crowded, but they got seats with two French-speaking men in the third booth to the left of the entrance door and were served large cups of steaming coffee.

‘They’re talking about the murders,’ Alexandra whispered.

‘No,’ Harry said, ‘they’re talking about the Spanish Civil War.’

At midnight, they left Lorry after sticking to coffee, and were a little less drunk.

‘Back to mine or back to yours?’ Alexandra asked.

‘Can I get some other alternatives?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Back to mine. And we’re walking. Fresh air.’

Alexandra’s apartment was in a building on Marcus Thranes gate, halfway between St Hanshaugen and Alexander Kiellands plass.

‘You’ve moved since the last time,’ Harry said as he stood lightly swaying in the bedroom while she tried to undress him. ‘But the bed is still the same, I see.’

‘Good memories?’

Harry paused to think.

‘Idiot,’ Alexandra said, pushing him onto the bed and getting to her knees to unbutton his trousers.

‘Alexandra...’ he said, placing a hand on hers.

She stopped and looked up at him.

‘I can’t,’ he said.

‘Too drunk, you mean?’

‘That too, probably. But I was at her grave today.’

He waited for the anger of humiliation. Coldness. Contempt. Instead only tired resignation was detectable in her eyes. She pushed him under the duvet with his trousers on, switched off the light and crawled in after him. Snuggled up to him.

‘Does it still hurt?’ she asked.

Harry tried to think of another way to describe the feeling. Emptiness. Loss. Loneliness. Fear. Panic, even. But she had actually hit the nail on the head, the overarching feeling was one of pain. He nodded.

‘You’re lucky,’ she said.

‘Lucky?’

‘To have loved someone so dearly that it can hurt so much.’

‘Mm.’

‘Sorry if that sounded banal.’

‘No, you’re right. Our emotions are banal.’

‘I didn’t mean it was banal to love somebody. Or to want to be loved.’

‘Me neither.’

They held each other. Harry stared into the darkness. Then shut his eyes. He had half of the reports left. The answer might be in there. If not he would have to try the desperate plan he had discarded, but which had resurfaced again and again after the conversation with Truls at Schrøder’s. He drifted off.

He was riding a mechanical bull. It flung his body this way and that while he held on tightly and tried to order a drink. He tried to focus on the barman behind the counter, but the jerks were too sharp, and the facial features in front of him blurred.

‘What is it you’d like, Harry?’ It was Rakel’s voice. ‘Tell me what you want.’

Was it really her? I want the bull to stop. I want you and me to be together. Harry tried to shout it, but he couldn’t make a sound. He pressed the buttons on the back of the bull’s neck, but the tossing and rotations only grew in intensity and speed.

He heard a sound like a knife cutting through meat and she screamed.

The bull began moving more slowly. Until it stopped completely.

He couldn’t see anyone behind the bar, but blood was running down over the mirror shelves, the bottles and the glasses. He felt something hard being pressed against his temple.

‘I can tell you’re in debt,’ a voice whispered right behind him. ‘Yes, you owe me a life.’

He looked up at the mirror. In the cone of light coming from above he saw his own head, the barrel of a pistol and a hand holding a finger on the trigger. The face of the man holding the gun lay in darkness, but he could see something white shimmer. Was he naked? No, it was a white collar.

‘Wait!’ Harry said and turned round. It wasn’t the man in the lift. Or the man behind the tinted glass of the Camaro. It was Bjørn Holm. His red-haired colleague pressed the pistol to his own temple and pulled the trigger.

‘No!’

Harry discovered he was sitting up in bed.

‘Jesus!’ a voice mumbled, and he saw black hair against the white pillow beside him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Harry said hoarsely. ‘I was just dreaming. I’m going to go now.’

‘Why?’

‘I have reports to read. And I promised to go for a walk in the park with Gert early in the morning.’ He pushed himself out of bed, found his shirt on a chair, put it on and began to button it. Felt the nausea rising.

‘Are you excited about seeing him?’

‘I just want to be there on time.’ He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Sleep tight and thanks for a lovely evening. I’ll let myself out.’

When Harry made it down to the inner courtyard he had to throw up. He managed to push his way between two green wheelie bins by a wall before his stomach knotted itself and the contents slapped on the dirty cobblestones. As he stood collecting himself, he saw something glowing red in the darkness at the wall on the other side of the yard. It was a cat’s eyes. Tapetum lucidum, Lucille had explained to him, a layer at the back of the eye that was now reflecting the light from one of the windows on the ground floor. He could discern the cat as well, sitting quietly and looking at him. Or rather, when Harry’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw it was not him, but a mouse between them that had captured the cat’s attention. The mouse moved slowly from the wheelie bins towards the cat. It was like a déjà vu from that last morning in the bungalow on Doheny Drive. It dragged its long, glossy tail after itself, like a condemned man forced to lug his own rope to the gallows. The cat leaned forward slightly and with a swift manoeuvre sank its teeth into the back of the rodent’s neck. Harry threw up again and supported himself against the wall as the cat dropped the already dead mouse on the ground in front of him. The glowing eyes looked at Harry as though expecting applause. It’s a theatre, Harry thought. A fucking theatre where, for a brief while, we just play the roles someone has written for us.

Sung-min hurried after the girl from the pet shop.

He was annoyed. Clearly, this wasn’t leading anywhere, she had her guard up and wasn’t going to talk. It was a waste of a day off, and his mood was not improved by the fact he and Chris had argued yesterday.

A flower seller was standing by the monumental main gate to Frogner Park, proffering his sad specimens to the tourists.

‘A rose for the beautiful beloved.’

The seller had taken a step forward so that he was blocking one of the smaller side gates which Sung-min and Thanh had headed towards.

‘No thank you,’ Sung-min said.

The seller repeated his sales pitch in broken Norwegian, as though Sung-min must have misheard him.

‘No,’ Sung-min said, and followed Thanh and Kasparov, who had skirted round the man and walked through the gate.

But the seller came after him.

‘A rose for the beautiful—’

‘No!’

The man obviously thought that Sung-min, judging by his attire, could afford it, and that Sung-min and Thanh were a couple since they both looked Asian. Not an unreasonable assumption, of course, and neither was it one that would have bothered Sung-min on another day. He rarely, if ever, allowed himself to be provoked by preconceptions, they were just a part of how people dealt with a complicated world. In fact, Sung-min was more often provoked by people who were so self-centred that they took offence every time they believed themselves the victim of even the most innocuous preconception. ‘A rose for—’

‘I’m gay.’

The seller stopped and stared blankly at Sung-min for a moment. Then he moistened his lips and held out one of the plastic-wrapped, pallid flowers.

‘A rose for the beau—’

‘I’m gay!’ Sung-min roared. ‘Do you understand? Gay as gay can be!’

The flower seller backed away and Sung-min saw that people going in and out of the gates had turned to look at them. Thanh had come to a halt, a startled expression on her face, and Kasparov gave a brief bark and pulled at the lead to come to his owner’s rescue.

‘I’m sorry.’ Sung-min sighed. ‘Here.’ He took the flower and handed the seller a hundred-krone note.

‘I don’t have any...’ the man began.

‘It’s fine.’ Sung-min walked over to Thanh and held out the rose to her.

At first she just looked at him in surprise. Then she began to laugh.

Sung-min hesitated a moment before seeing the funny side of the situation then laughed as well.

‘My dad says it’s largely a European tradition, giving flowers to your sweetheart,’ Thanh said. ‘The Greeks in antiquity, the French and English in the Middle Ages.’

‘Yes, but the rose is originally from the same continent as us,’ Sung-min said. ‘The place where I was born in South Korea, Samcheok, has a very well-known rose festival. And mugunghwa, the rose of Sharon, is the national symbol of Korea.’

‘Yes, but is mugunghwa strictly speaking a rose?’

Before they reached the Monolith, the conversation had moved on from flowers to pets.

‘I don’t know if Jonathan really likes animals that much,’ she said when they were standing at the top of the park looking down towards Skøyen. ‘I think he just ended up in this business. It could just as easily have been, like, a grocery or electronics store.’

‘But you don’t know anything about him continuing to stock Hillman Pets after the import ban?’

‘What makes you so sure he has?’

‘He was very stressed when I called round to the shop.’

‘Maybe he was scared of...’

‘Yes?’

‘No, nothing.’

Sung-min took a deep breath. ‘I’m not a customs officer. I’m not going to charge him with illegal importation. What I’m working on is following a lead, which in a roundabout way could maybe help us to apprehend the man who killed those two girls who disappeared. And prevent any more from dying.’

Thanh nodded. Looked like she hesitated slightly before making up her mind. ‘The only illegal thing I’ve seen Jonathan do was when he agreed to take a fox cub someone had taken with them from London — apparently foxes live in the city there. It’s an offence to bring foxes into the country, of course, and I think that when they found out they got scared. They couldn’t face going to the vet to have it put down and they weren’t able to do it themselves, so they gave the cub to Jonathan instead. Had to reimburse him generously to take the problem off their hands, no doubt.’

‘People do things like that?’

‘You don’t know the half of it. Twice I’ve had owners not bothering to pick up their dogs and vanish into thin air.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘Took them home. But we don’t have much space, so eventually I had to take them to the animal shelter. It’s so sad.’

‘What happened to the fox cub?’

‘I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to. I loved that cub.’ Sung-min could see her eyes becoming moist. ‘Suddenly one day it was gone. He probably flushed it down the toilet...’

‘The toilet?’

‘No, of course not. But like I said, I don’t want to know how he got rid of Nhi.’ They continued walking while Thanh told him of her plans, about her dream of becoming a vet. Sung-min listened. It was hard not to like this girl. Besides she was bright, and there was no longer any reason to pretend he had got in touch to have his dog looked after, so he accompanied her the entire way. His questioning had proved fruitless, but he consoled himself with the fact that he had at least got to spend time with someone who appreciated a four-legged friend as much as he did.

‘Oh,’ Thanh said as they approached Mons again. ‘There’s Jonathan.’

The door of the shop was open, and a Volvo estate was parked outside. A man was leaning in the open door on the passenger side. He probably couldn’t hear them due to the sound of the vacuum cleaner. By his feet was a bucket of water, suds spilling over the brim, and the car was wet and glistening. Water still trickled from the hose lying on the tarmac.

Sung-min took Kasparov’s lead and wondered whether he should slip away unnoticed and leave it up to Thanh to decide if she wanted to tell him about their meeting. But before he had a chance to make up his mind, the shop owner straightened up and turned in their direction.

Sung-min saw the man’s eyes blaze as he took in and undoubtedly interpreted the situation correctly.

‘Isn’t it unchristian to wash your car during church-service hours,’ Sung-min said before the others had a chance to say anything.

The man’s eyes narrowed.

‘We’ve just been for a walk in the park,’ Thanh added quickly. ‘Dog minding.’

Sung-min wished she hadn’t sounded so anxious. As though they were the ones who had cause to be on the defensive and not him.

Without a word, the man carried the vacuum cleaner and hose into the shop. Reappeared, picked up the bucket and emptied the contents out onto the pavement. Soapsuds and dirty water pooled around Sung-min’s handmade shoes.

Sung-min didn’t notice, just concentrated on the man marching into the shop with the empty bucket. The anger he saw, was that merely down to a policeman being a nuisance? Or was it because the man was scared? Sung-min didn’t know exactly what nerve he had hit, but he had hit something, of that he was in no doubt. The man came back out and locked the door of the shop, then walked towards the car without gracing them with a glance. Sung-min saw the remains of some clods of earth in the water that had run from the tyres to the manhole cover.

‘Been driving in the forest?’ Sung-min asked.

‘Been barking up the wrong tree?’ the shop owner asked, slipping into the driving seat, shutting the door and starting the engine.

Sung-min watched the Volvo as it accelerated down the Sunday calm of Neuberggata.

‘What was it he had in the boot?’

‘A cage,’ Thanh said.

‘A cage,’ Sung-min repeated.

It was just gone eleven in the morning. The sun warmed but as soon as it slid behind one of the clouds, Katrine shuddered. She was standing by a grove of trees looking out over a beach with tall yellow marram grass and, beyond that, the glittering sea where sailing boats crossed back and forth. She turned. The stretcher with the body of the woman was on its way to the ambulance up at the road from where Sung-min was walking towards her.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘She was lying in the tall grass just by the beach.’ Katrine sighed heavily. ‘Pretty bad shape, worse than the other two. Out here it’s mostly families with small children who are up walking early, so of course one of them had to find her.’

‘Oh dear.’ Sung-min shook his head. ‘Any idea about the identity?’

‘She was naked, and her head was cut off. No one reported missing. As yet. But I’m guessing she was young and beautiful, so...’

She didn’t finish the sentence. That it wouldn’t be long. That from experience it was the young and beautiful who were reported missing earliest.

‘No tracks, I presume.’

‘No, the perpetrator was lucky, it rained last night.’

Sung-min shivered as a sudden cold gust of wind hit. ‘I don’t think it’s luck, Bratt.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Will we do something proactive to get an ID on the body?’

‘Yeah. I was thinking of calling Mona Daa at VG. Give her this as an exclusive in return for them running hard with it and in the way we want. Not too much, not too little. Then the rest of them can quote from her piece and complain about preferential treatment afterwards.’

‘Not a bad idea. Daa will go for it just to have something Våge doesn’t.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

They watched the crime scene technicians in silence, as they continued photographing and fine-combing the cordoned-off search area for evidence.

Sung-min rocked on his heels. ‘She was brought here in a car, just like Bertine, don’t you think?’

Katrine nodded. ‘There’re no buses out here, and the taxi firms we checked had no fares to the area last night, so yeah, in all likelihood.’

‘You know if there’re any gravel or dirt roads around?’

Katrine looked at him closely. ‘Tyre tracks, that what you’re thinking? I’ve only seen tarmac roads round here. But any tyre marks have probably been washed away by the rain now.’

‘Of course, I just...’

‘You just?’

‘Nothing,’ Sung-min said.

‘Then I’ll make that call to VG,’ Katrine said.

The press conference began at four o’clock.

Katrine looked out over the Parole Hall. It was packed and the atmosphere was electric. The names of the victim and the man in custody had obviously begun to circulate. She stifled a yawn as Kedzierski outlined to those present how the case had developed. It was already a long Sunday, and it was far from over. She had sent a text to Harry to ask how it was going and he had replied: Gert and I have gone for a drink. Cocoa. She had responded with ha ha and a stern-faced emoji and tried not to think about them, clearing space in her mind for what she needed to concentrate on. Kedzierski had finished and opened the floor for questions. They came thick and fast.

‘NRK, please,’ the head of Information said, in an attempt to maintain order.

‘How can you have DNA evidence against Markus Røed when we know he has refused to submit to a DNA test?’

‘Because the police haven’t taken a DNA test,’ Katrine said. ‘The DNA material was obtained by an individual outside the police who also had it analysed and thus confirmed a match to the DNA at the crime scene.’

‘Who was this individual?’ a voice asked, cutting through the buzz of the others in the hall.

‘A private investigator,’ Katrine said.

The buzz of conversation abruptly ceased. And in that brief pocket of silence, she said his name. And enjoyed it. Because she knew Bodil Melling — however much she wished to have her head on a plate — couldn’t come after her for telling it like it was, that Harry Hole had virtually solved the case for them.

‘What was Røed’s motive for killing Susanne Andersen and Bert—’

‘We don’t know,’ Sung-min said, interrupting the journalist.

Katrine glanced sideways at him. It was true they didn’t know, but they had had time to discuss it, and it was Sung-min who had mentioned the old murder case — also a Harry Hole case — where a jealous husband had, in addition to killing his wife, also murdered random women and men to make it appear as part of a serial killing and focus attention away from himself.

‘VG,’ Kedzierski said.

‘If Harry Hole has solved the case for you, why isn’t he here?’ Mona Daa asked.

‘This is a press conference with spokespeople from the police,’ Kedzierski said. ‘You can talk to Hole yourselves.’

‘We’ve tried getting in touch with him but he’s not answering.’

‘We can’t—’ Kedzierski began, but was interrupted by Katrine.

‘He probably has his hands full with other matters, then. As have we, so if there’re no more questions pertaining to the case...’

A furore of protests rang out around the hall.

Harry was standing in the room next to the small interview room staring at Markus Røed, who was sitting on the other side of the glass wall. Three other people were in there with him, the lead interviewer, his assistant and Johan Krohn.

It had been a busy morning. Harry had met up at Krohn’s office in Rosenkrantz’ gate at eight o’clock where they had called the three police lawyers, who in turn had declared it ‘highly likely’ that Røed would be found guilty in court, with the proviso that other significant factors did not come into play. Krohn hadn’t said a lot but had behaved in a professional manner. Without objection, he had immediately contacted the bank and, acting on the prior issued power of representation, had instructed them to transfer the contractual amount to the bank account in the Cayman Islands. According to the bank the recipient would see the money in their account the same day. They were saved. That is to say, he and Lucille were saved. So why was he standing here? Why wasn’t he already at a bar getting on with what he had begun at Creatures? Well. Why do people finish books they’ve realised they don’t like? Why do single people make up their beds? When he awoke that morning, he had realised it was the first night in weeks he hadn’t dreamt about his mother, about her standing in the doorway of the classroom. He had made peace. Or had he? Instead, he had dreamt that he was still running, but that everything his feet landed on turned into treadmills, and that he wasn’t able to flee from... from what?

‘Responsibility.’ It was his grandfather’s voice, the kind, alcoholic man who vomited in the dawn light before shoving the rowing boat out of the boatshed, lifting Harry aboard while Harry asked why they were going to pull in the nets now when Grandad was sick. But Harry didn’t have any bloody responsibilities left to run from. Or did he? Apparently, he thought he did. He was standing here in any case. Harry felt a headache coming on and pushed the thoughts away. He did so by concentrating on simple, concrete things he understood. Like trying to interpret Røed’s facial expressions and body language as he sat answering questions. Harry tried, without listening to the answers, to decide if he thought Markus Røed was guilty or not. Sometimes it felt as though all the experience Harry had gathered throughout his life as a detective was useless, that his ability to read other people was mere illusion. While other times this — this gut feeling — was the only certainty, the only thing he could always count on. How many times had he been without physical proof or circumstantial evidence, but known, and been right in the end? Or was that just cognitive bias, confirmation bias? Had he thought he’d known just as often but been wrong and consigned it to oblivion? Why was he so sure Markus Røed hadn’t killed the women — and was still so sure he wasn’t innocent? Had he ordered the murders, ensured he had an alibi and been so confident his innocence would be proved that he had paid Harry and the others to do it? If that was the case, why not provide yourself with a better alibi than being at home alone with your wife when the first two murders were committed? And now he didn’t even have an alibi, Markus Røed claimed he had been home on his own the night Helene was killed. Her — the witness who could save him if there was a trial. It didn’t add up. And yet...

‘Is he saying anything?’ a voice whispered next to Harry. It was Katrine, who had entered the semi-darkness of the room and stood between Harry and Sung-min.

‘Yes,’ Sung-min whispered. ‘Don’t know. Can’t remember. No.’

‘Right. Picking up any vibes?’

‘I’m trying,’ Harry said.

Sung-min didn’t answer.

‘Sung?’ Katrine said.

‘I might be wrong,’ Sung-min said, ‘but I think Markus Røed is a closet gay. With the emphasis on closet.’

The other two looked at him.

‘What makes you think that?’ Katrine asked.

Sung-min gave a crooked smile. ‘That would be a long lecture, but let’s just say it’s the sum of a long series of subliminal details which I notice, and you don’t. But I could be wrong of course.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Harry said.

Now the two others looked at him.

He cleared his throat. ‘Remember I asked if you’d heard of Villa Dante?’

Katrine nodded.

‘It’s actually a club called Tuesdays, just reopened under a different name.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ she said.

‘Exclusive gay club a few years back,’ Sung-min said. ‘It was shut down when an underage boy was raped there. Then it was referred to as Studio 54, after the gay bar in New York, you know. Because it was open exactly as long, thirty-three months.’

‘Now I remember,’ Katrine said. ‘We called it the Butterfly case because the boy said the rapist was wearing a butterfly mask. But wasn’t the reason they had to close because they had waiters under eighteen serving spirits?’

‘Technically, yes,’ Sung-min said. ‘The court wasn’t willing to accept the club’s activities fell under private function, and consequently ruled they’d broken licensing laws.’

‘I’ve reason to believe that Markus Røed frequented Villa Dante,’ Harry said. ‘I found a membership card and a cat mask in the pockets of this suit. Which is his.’

Sung-min raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re... eh, wearing his suit?’

‘What are you getting at, Harry?’ Katrine’s voice was sharp, her stare hard.

Harry took a deep breath. He could still let it lie.

‘It seems Villa Dante has continued to hold the club nights on Tuesdays. If Røed is as anxious to stay in the closet as you believe, he may have an alibi for the nights Susanne and Bertine were killed, just not the alibi he’s given us.’

‘What you’re saying,’ Katrine said slowly, while Harry felt as though her eyes were drilling into his head, ‘is that we have arrested a man with a better alibi than that he was with his wife. That he was at a gay club. But doesn’t want anybody to know that?’

‘I’m just saying it’s a possibility.’

‘You’re saying it’s possible Røed would rather risk prison than have his sexual orientation revealed?’ Her voice was monotone but quivered with something Harry could guess at. Sheer unadulterated anger.

Harry looked at Sung-min, who nodded.

‘I’ve met men who would sooner be dead than be outed,’ Sung-min said. ‘We might believe things have moved forward for all in that regard, but unfortunately that’s not the case. The shame, self-loathing, condemnation, it’s not a thing of the past. Especially for those of Røed’s generation.’

‘And with his family background,’ Harry added. ‘I’ve seen pictures of his forefathers. They didn’t look like men who would hand over the reins of the business to someone who has sex with men.’

Katrine still hadn’t taken her eyes off Harry. ‘So tell me, what would you do?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. There’s a reason you’re telling us this, right?’

‘Well.’ He reached into his pocket and handed her a note. ‘I’d take the opportunity of this interview to ask him these two questions.’

He watched Katrine read the note as they listened to Krohn’s voice coming over the loudspeaker. ‘...over an hour, and my client has answered all your questions, most of them two or three times. Either we can stop here or I’d like my objection put on the record.’

The main interviewer and her colleague looked at each other.

‘OK,’ the lead interviewer said, looked up at the clock on the wall and became aware of Katrine who had opened the door of the interview room. She went over to her, took the note and listened. Harry could see Krohn’s questioning look. Then the lead interviewer sat down and cleared her throat.

‘Two final questions. Were you at the Villa Dante club at the times it’s believed that Susanne and Bertine were killed?’

Røed exchanged a glance with Krohn before answering. ‘I’ve never heard of that club, and I will simply repeat that I was with my wife.’

‘Thank you. The other question is for you, Krohn.’

‘For me?’

‘Yes. Were you aware that Helene Røed was seeking a divorce and that if her demands in the related settlement were not met, she was planning to retract the alibi she’d given her husband for the nights of the murders?’

Harry saw Krohn’s face turn red. ‘I... I see no reason to answer that.’

‘Not even a simple no?’

‘This is highly irregular, and I think we’ll consider this interview over.’ Krohn got to his feet.

‘That spoke volumes,’ Sung-min said, rocking on his heels.

Harry made to go but Katrine held him back.

‘Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know all this before we arrested Røed,’ she whispered angrily. ‘OK?’

‘He just lost his stated alibi,’ Harry said. ‘That was the only one he had. So let’s just hope no one at Villa Dante can attest to his being there.’

‘And what exactly are you hoping for, Harry?’

‘The same as always.’

‘Which is?’

‘That the guiltiest get caught.’

Prim read the article on VG’s website once more.

It didn’t directly say that Våge had falsified his stories but that was the subtext. Nevertheless, if they weren’t saying it directly that had to mean they had no proof. Only he, Prim, could prove it, tell them what actually happened. Once again, this instilled in him that warm, intoxicating sense of control which he hadn’t anticipated, but was a pure bonus.

He had been thinking over and over ever since this morning, when he saw the small notice in Dagbladet about Terry Våge being taken off their crime cases. Prim had understood why right away. Not only why Våge had been removed, but why Dagbladet had drawn attention to it instead of just letting it happen quietly. They knew they had to actively distance themselves from Våge before the other newspapers confronted them with the lies they had published about cannibalism and resewn tattoos.

What was interesting was that Våge could now be used to solve the problem that had arisen. The problem of Markus Røed sitting safely in prison and beyond his reach indefinitely. This was time he didn’t have, because biology runs its course, the natural cycle has its rhythm. But it was a major decision to take, a big deviation from the original plan, and past improvisation had already proved there was a price to pay. So he would have to think carefully. He went through the details yet again.

He looked down at the burner phone and at the note with Terry Våge’s number, which he had found in directory enquiries. Felt the nervousness a chess player running out of time must feel when he decides on a move, in the knowledge it will either win or lose him the game, but has yet to move the piece. Prim thought through the scenarios one more time, what could go wrong. And what must not go wrong. Reminded himself that he could retreat at any time without any trails leading back to him. If he did everything right.

Then he tapped in the number. He had a feeling of free fall, a wonderful shiver of excitement.

It was answered on the third ring.

‘Terry.’

Prim tried to hear if there was anything in Våge’s voice to reveal the desperation he must be feeling. A man at rock bottom. A man nobody wanted. A man without alternatives. A man who had managed to make a comeback once before and was willing to do whatever it took to do so again, to win back his throne. To show them. Prim took a breath and put his voice in a deeper register.

‘Susanne Andersen liked being slapped in the face when she had sex, I’d imagine you can get her ex-boyfriends to confirm that. Bertine Bertilsen smelled of sweat, like a man. Helene Røed had a scar on her shoulder.’

Prim could hear Våge breathing in the pause that followed.

‘Who is this?’

‘This is the only person at large who could have this combined knowledge.’

Another pause.

‘What do you want?’

‘To save an innocent person.’

‘Who’s innocent?’

‘Markus Røed, of course.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I’m the one who killed the girls.’

At a quarter past nine Prim was standing by the bus stop gazing across the road over at Jernbanetorget. Studying the people he saw there, those crossing the station square and those who loitered. Were any of them police? He was carrying cocaine and didn’t dare set foot in the square before he felt sure. But you can never be sure, you just had to make a judgement and put your fear behind. It was that simple. And that impossible. He swallowed. Crossed the street, entered the square and walked over to the tiger statue. Scratched it behind the ear. That’s it, caress the fear and make it your friend. He took a deep breath and fiddled with the cocaine in his pocket. A man over by the steps was staring at him. Prim recognised him and ambled over.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘I have something you might like to try.’

Mikael Bellman stood by the window gazing longingly down towards the city centre, where he could make out the high-rise in the government quarter. Closer, down by Gullhaug Bridge, he could see the treetops waving. The wind speed was supposed to increase even further; there had been talk of strong gales overnight. Something else had been forecast too, something about a lunar eclipse on Friday; apparently the events weren’t connected. He raised his arm and looked at his classic Omega Seamaster watch. One minute to two. He had spent much of the day discussing in his own mind the dilemma the Chief of Police had presented to him. In principle, an individual case like this had of course no business being on the desk of the Minster of Justice, but Bellman had made it his business by getting involved earlier, and now he couldn’t just drop it. He cursed.

Vivian tapped gently on the door and opened it. When he hired her as his personal assistant, it wasn’t just because she had a master’s in political science, spoke French after two years as a model in Paris and was willing to do everything from making coffee to greeting visitors and transcribing his speeches. She was pretty. There was much to be said about the function of physical appearance in today’s world, and much was said. So much that one thing was certain: it was as important as it had always been. He himself was a handsome man and was under no illusions as to it having played a part in his career advancement. Despite the modelling career, Vivian was not taller than him, and was therefore someone he could take into meetings and to dinners. She had a live-in boyfriend, but he saw that as more of a challenge than a drawback. Actually, it was an advantage. A visit to a couple of South American countries was planned for winter; the main issue on the agenda was human rights, a pure pleasure trip, in other words. And like he told himself, there’re a lot less flashbulbs and shepherding of a Minister of Justice than a Prime Minister.

‘It’s the Chief of Police,’ Vivian said softly.

‘Send him in.’

‘On Zoom,’ she said.

‘Oh? I thought he was coming—’

‘Yes, but he just called and said it was too far to get up to Nydalen because he has another meeting downtown afterwards. He sent a link — shall I...?’

She went over to the desk and the PC. Quick fingers, so much quicker than his own, ran across the keyboard. ‘There.’ She smiled. And added, as though to ease his irritation, ‘He’s sitting waiting for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Bellman remained standing by the window until Vivian left the room. And then waited some more. Until he tired of his own childishness, walked over and sat down in front of the PC. The Chief of Police looked tanned, probably a recent autumn break abroad somewhere. But it didn’t help much when the camera angle was so unfortunate that his double chin dominated. He had obviously placed the laptop on the desk that had been there when Bellman himself was Chief of Police, instead of on top of a stack of books.

‘Compared to down where you are, there’s hardly any traffic up here,’ Bellman said. ‘I get home to Høyenhall in twenty minutes. You should try it.’

‘Apologies, Mikael, I was called into an emergency meeting about the state visit next week.’

‘OK, let’s get straight to business. Are you alone, by the way?’

‘Completely alone, go for it.’

Mikael felt the irritation rise again. Lax use of first names and invitations like ‘go for it’ ought to be the prerogative of the Minister of Justice. Especially as the six-year term of the Chief of Police was soon up and it was no longer the National Police Commissioner but the King in Council — in effect, the Minister of Justice — who decided who would continue and who would not, and Bellman had little to lose politically by giving the keys to Bodil Melling. Firstly because she was a woman, and secondly because she understood politics, understood who was in charge.

Bellman took a deep breath. ‘Just so we understand each other. What you’re seeking my advice on is whether you should release Markus Røed from custody or not. And you also feel sure that both options are open to you.’

‘Yes,’ the Chief of Police said. ‘Hole has a witness who says he was with Røed the nights the first two girls were killed.’

‘A credible witness?’

‘Credible in that, as opposed to Helene Røed, the person concerned has no obvious motive in providing Røed with an alibi. Less credible because according to the Drug Squad, the person in question is on their list of people selling cocaine in Oslo.’

‘But not convicted?’

‘A small-time dealer, one who would be replaced overnight.’

Bellman nodded. They let those they had control over continue their activities. Better the devil you know.

‘But?’ Bellman said, glancing at his Omega watch. It was impractical and bulky but sent the right signals. At the moment, the signal was for the Chief of Police to hurry up, he wasn’t the only one with a busy day.

‘On the other hand, Susanne Andersen had saliva from Markus Røed on her breast.’

‘That’s a pretty overwhelming argument for continuing to keep him in custody, I should imagine.’

‘Yes. It is of course a possibility he and Susanne met earlier that day and had sex — it hasn’t been possible to retrace all her movements. But if they did, it’s odd Røed made no mention of it in interviews. Instead he denies ever having been intimate with her and claims he never saw her after the party.’

‘In other words, he’s lying.’

‘Yes.’

Bellman drummed his fingers on the desk. Prime ministers were only re-elected if the harvest has been good, figuratively speaking. His advisers emphasised repeatedly that as Minister of Justice, he would always share some measure of blame or credit for what happened further down the system, no matter if the mistake or good decision was made by people who were in the same job under the previous government. If the voters felt that a wealthy, privileged slimeball like Røed was let off the hook easily it would indirectly affect Bellman no matter what. He made up his mind.

‘We have more than enough to keep him in custody with the semen.’

‘Saliva.’

‘Yeah. And I’m sure you agree that it wouldn’t look good if Harry Hole got to decide when Røed is to be arrested and when he’s to be released.’

‘I don’t disagree, no.’

‘Good. Then I think you have my advice...’ Bellman waited for the name of the Chief of Police to come to him, but when for some reason it did not, and the intonation of the sentence he had begun required an ending, he inserted a ‘...don’t you?’

‘Yeah, sure do. Thanks very much, Mikael.’

‘Thank you, Chief of Police,’ Bellman said, fumbling for a moment with the mouse before he managed to disconnect the link, leaned back in his chair and whispered: ‘Outgoing Chief of Police.’

Toppåsveien didn’t quite live up to the name. The road wound its way between villas a fair way up to higher ground, but the top of Kolsås was still a good distance away when the road ended. Terry Våge parked by the side of the road. There was forest above him. In the darkness he could make out something lighter further up, which he knew were rock faces popular with climbers and other boneheads.

He fiddled with the sheath of the knife he had taken with him, looked over at the torch and the Nikon camera on the passenger seat. The seconds passed. The minutes passed. He peered down towards the lights in the darkness below. Rosenvilde High School was down there somewhere. He knew that because Genie had been a pupil there when he had discovered her. Because it was he, Terry Våge, who had done it, who had used his influence as a music critic to lift her and that talentless band of hers up from the underground into the light, into the mainstream, the marketplace. She had been eighteen, attending school there, and he had driven over a couple of times because he was curious to see her in a school setting. Was there something wrong with that? He had just hung around outside the schoolyard to catch a glimpse of the star he had created, hadn’t even taken any pictures, which he easily could have. The telephoto lens he had taken with him would have rendered razor-sharp pictures of a different Genie from the performer playing a role as a dangerous seductress. It would have shown the innocence, the little girl. But hanging around a schoolyard like that could easily have been misunderstood if he’d been discovered, so he had left it at those two times and sought her out at the concerts instead.

He was about to check the time when the phone rang.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re in position, I see.’

Våge looked around. His car was the only one parked on the road, and he would have seen anyone in the street light. Was the guy watching him from somewhere in the woods? Våge’s hand squeezed the handle of the knife.

‘Take your torch and camera, walk along the forest trail past the barrier, keep an eye on the left-hand side. After about one hundred metres you’ll see reflective paint on a tree trunk. Leave the trail and follow the reflective paint further. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ Våge said.

‘You’ll know when you’ve reached the spot. Once you do, you have two minutes to take pictures. Then you walk back, get into your car and drive straight home. If you haven’t left after those one hundred and twenty seconds, I will come for you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it’s time to reap your reward, Våge. Hurry up.’

The connection was broken. Terry Våge drew a deep breath, and a thought struck him. He could still turn the key in the ignition and get the hell out of there. He could go and have a beer at Stopp Pressen! Tell anyone who would listen that he had spoken to the serial killer on the phone and they had arranged a rendezvous, but that Terry had chickened out at the last minute.

Våge heard his own barking laughter, grabbed the camera and the torch and stepped out of the car.

Perhaps this was the lee side of the hill, because strangely enough the wind wasn’t as strong up here as it had been lower down or in the city centre. He spotted the forest trail a few metres in from the road. He walked past the barrier, turning towards the street light one last time before switching on the torch and continuing on into the darkness. The wind soughed in the treetops and the gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he counted the steps and alternated between shining the torch on the ground and at the tree trunks on the left side. He had made it to one hundred and five when he caught sight of the first patch of reflective paint shining in the beam. He saw the second patch further into the forest.

He touched the sheath of the knife in his jacket pocket again before swinging the strap of the camera over his shoulder, hopping over the ditch and making his way in among the trees. It was pine forest, and the space between the trees meant he could move through without great effort and be afforded some visibility. The paint had been applied at eye level at ten- to fifteen-metre intervals on selected tree trunks. The terrain grew gradually steeper. At one spot he paused to catch his breath and ran a finger over the blotch on the tree. Looked at his finger. Fresh paint. He was standing on a carpet of pine needles in a cluster of mighty pines. The rustle from the treetops was distant, but that only served to make the cracking and creaking from the almost imperceptible swaying of the trunks all the more present. The sounds were coming from all around, as though a conversation were taking place, as though they were discussing among themselves what to do with their nocturnal guest.

Våge continued.

The forest grew more dense, visibility poorer and the distance between the smudges of paint less, and now the ground was so rugged and steep that there was no point in counting steps any longer.

Then — suddenly — he made it to a plateau and the forest opened up. The beam from his torch shone into a small clearing and had to search before it found more paint. This time it wasn’t just a patch, it was a T-shape. He went closer. No, it was a cross. In the centre of the clearing he raised the torch. He couldn’t see any more reflective patches beyond the cross. He was at journey’s end. He held his breath. A sound could be heard, like when you hit two wooden sticks against one another, but he couldn’t see anything.

Then, as if to help him, the moon appeared between the scudding clouds, bathing the clearing in a soft, yellow light. And he saw them.

He shuddered. The first thing he thought of was an old number Billie Holiday sang, ‘Strange Fruit’. Because that was what they looked like, the two human heads hanging from the branch of the birch tree. The long hair on both heads swaying in the wind, and when they knocked against each other, they made a hollow sound.

It struck him at once that it must be Bertine Bertilsen and Helene Røed. Not because he recognised the stiff, mask-like faces, but because one was dark and the other blonde.

His pulse was racing as he swung the camera off his back and began to count again. Not steps this time but seconds. He pressed the shutter release again and again, the flash went off and continued going off as the moon disappeared back behind the clouds. He had counted to fifty, moved closer, refocused and continued taking pictures. More excited than terror-struck, he no longer thought of the two heads as people who had been alive not too long ago, but as proof. Proof that Markus Røed was innocent. Proof that he — Terry Våge — wasn’t a fraud, but had spoken to the killer. Proof that he was Norway’s best crime journalist, a person demanding of everyone’s respect, his family’s, Solstad’s, Genie’s and that crappy band of hers. And — most important of all — the respect and admiration of Mona Daa. He had pushed the thought from his mind after being fired, how he must have fallen in her esteem. But now that would be turned on its head, everybody loves a comeback kid. He couldn’t wait for them to meet again. No, he literally couldn’t wait, so he would have to ensure that they did meet, and he promised himself it would happen as soon as Dagnija left for Latvia.

Ninety. He had thirty seconds left.

Then I’ll come for you.

Like a troll in a folk tale.

Våge lowered the camera and filmed with his phone. Turned the camera towards himself so he had proof he was the one who had been there and taken pictures.

Time to reap your reward, the guy had said. Was that why Våge had picked up on the association with the Billie Holiday song when he saw the heads in the trees? That was about the lynching of black Americans in the South, not about... this. By reap, had he meant he could take the heads with him? Våge took a step closer to the birch tree. Stopped. Had he lost his mind? These were the killer’s trophies. And time was up. Våge slung the camera behind his back and held his hands up in the air to show any watching eyes in the forest that he had finished and was leaving.

The return journey was more difficult, given that he didn’t have any reflective paint to navigate by, and even though he hurried, it took nearly twenty minutes before he found the forest trail again. When he was back in the car and had started the engine, a thought occurred to him.

Even though he hadn’t taken the heads, he should have taken something. A strand of hair. As it was, he had photos of two heads that even he — who had seen countless pictures of Bertine Bertilsen and also some of Helene Røed — couldn’t say for certain was them. Or if they were real human heads. Fuck! If it hadn’t been for him having to engage in a little artifice after Truls Berntsen had let him down and he had been found out, they would have believed in solid pictorial proof like this without question. Now he risked it being viewed as fresh deception and then he really was finished. Should he call the police right away? Would they get here before the murderer made off?

He was steering the car down Toppåsveien when he remembered what the guy had said. Get into your car and drive straight home.

The guy had been worried about Våge waiting for him. Why? Maybe this was the only road down from the forest.

He slowed down and tapped his phone. Kept an eye on the road while he brought up the window with the map he had used on the way there. After consulting it, he concluded that if the guy had come by car there were only two roads he could have parked on. Våge drove all the way down Toppåsveien and up the alternative road that ended where the forest trail began. No cars parked on either road. OK, then maybe he had walked all the way up from the main road. Walked beneath the street lamps through a quiet neighbourhood with the residents’ eyes on him as he carried a couple of heads and a tin of paint in his backpack. Maybe. Maybe not.

Våge studied the map a little more. Getting to the top of the mountain and to the main road around the back looked like a steep and arduous hike, and he couldn’t see any trails shown on the map. But the climbing wall was shown, with a path along the base. And there, towards the west, a path led down to a residential area and a football pitch. From there, you could drive down past Kolsås Shopping Centre to the main road without going close to Toppåsveien.

Våge thought for a moment.

If the guy was up in the forest, and if he were in his shoes, Våge had no doubt which retreat route he would have chosen.

It was a minute to twelve. Katrine looked out over the audience in the Parole Hall and concluded that, like the last time, the press had turned out in strength. She saw Terry Våge seated next to Mona Daa. Not so strange considering the story he had served up on a plate to VG. Still, she thought Daa looked slightly uneasy. She let her eyes wander towards the back, noticed a man she hadn’t seen before and assumed must be from a church magazine or Christian newspaper as he was wearing a clerical collar. He was sitting very straight-backed, looking right at her, like an expectant, attentive schoolboy. With a constant smile and unblinking eyes, putting her in mind of a ventriloquist’s dummy. At the very back of the room, leaning against the wall with arms folded, she saw Harry. Then the press conference began.

Harry entered the cemetery. The florist in Grønlandsleiret had suggested he place ornamental kale on the grave. Not only because it resembled a beautiful flower, but because the colours would only turn prettier as the temperature dropped over autumn.

He picked up a branch that must have broken off in the previous night’s storm and now lay partly across the headstone, placed it by the trunk of the tree, walked back, squatted down and used his hands to work the pot of flowering kale down into the soil.

‘We’ve found him,’ Harry said. ‘I thought you’d like to know, because I expect you’re keeping tabs.’

He peered up at the crisp, blue sky. ‘I was right about it being someone on the periphery of the case, a person we had seen but not seen. As regards everything else, I was wrong. I’m always looking for motive, you know that, believe that’s what will lead us in the right direction. And of course, there’s always a motive. But it’s not always shining so brightly that we can use it as a lodestar, is it? Not when the motive is so locked away in the darkness of insanity as here, at any rate. Then I give up on the why and concentrate on the how. It’s better to just let Ståle and his people take care of the sick why afterwards.’ Harry cleared his throat. ‘Stop beating around the bush and get to the how? OK, then.’

It was three o’clock when Øystein Eikeland entered Jernbanetorget, where he had met Harry a week and a half earlier. It seemed like an eternity ago. Passing the tiger statue, he saw Al bent double with one hand resting on the wall of the old Central Station building.

‘How’s it going, Al?’ Øystein said.

‘Took some bad shit,’ he said, retching one more time before straightening up. Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his parka. ‘Otherwise good. What about you? Long time...’

‘Yeah, I’ve been busy with some other stuff,’ Øystein said, looking down at the pool of vomit. ‘Remember I asked you about that party at Markus Røed’s. Told you it was because I was wondering who the other dude selling beak was.’

‘He was handing it out for free, but yeah, what about him?’

‘I probably should have told you that I was asking because I’m working for a private investigator.’

‘Oh?’ Al fastened his blue eyes on Øystein. ‘The cop who was here, Harry Hole?’

‘You know who he is?’

‘I do read the newspapers!’

‘Really? Wouldn’t have thought that.’

‘Not that often, but after you told me about those two girls at the party I’ve been following that particular case.’

‘Have you now?’ Øystein looked around. The square looked the same as always. The same clientele. Tourists looking like tourists, students like students, buyers like buyers. He should stop now. Was supposed to stop now. Or rather, was supposed to leave now. Why did he always have to overdo things, why couldn’t he abide by Keef’s commandment about moderation? All he was meant to do was point out Al in the crowd and distract him slightly. But no, he had to...

‘Or have you been doing a little more than just following the case, Al?’

‘What?’ Al’s eyes appeared to grow bigger. The whites were now visible all the way round.

Terry Våge lifted the chair — just to hip height, he couldn’t raise it higher — and flung it at the wall.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

Locating the owners of the vehicles that had passed Kolsås Shopping Centre had been easy. All you had to do was go into REGNR online and type in the licence plate, then — for a certain fee — you were given a name and address. It had cost him over two thousand kroner and taken a couple of hours, but finally he had a complete list with fifty-two names and addresses and was about to start calling them. But now on VG’s website he had just read the guy had been caught, arrested at Jernbanetorget!

The chair didn’t even tip over, just came rolling back towards him on the sloping floor, as though bidding him to sit down and calmly evaluate things.

He put his head in his hands and tried to do as the chair suggested.

The plan had been to land the scoop of all time, one that would even top the photographs he had taken of the heads in Kolsås. He was going to find the killer on his own and — here was the genius of it — demand an exclusive, in-depth interview about the murders and the man behind them in exchange for complete source protection. Våge would explain that source confidentiality would be cemented by going public, safeguarding them both against prosecution by the police or other authorities. He would, however, fail to mention that this protection of sources — just like the privileged information and duties of confidentiality of certain professions — only stretched so far, and certainly not past the point where life was in danger. Våge would, therefore — as soon as the interview was published — tell the police where they could find the murderer. He was a journalist, and nobody could hold the fact he was doing his job against him, especially when it was he, Terry Våge, who had found the killer!

But now someone had beaten him to it.

Fuck!

He scrolled through the other newspapers’ sites. No pictures of the guy, and no name. Common practice when the person concerned wasn’t a high-profile figure, like Markus Røed, for example. It was just typical bloody Scandinavian mollycoddling, protecting the bastards, it made you want to emigrate to the USA and other places where journalism got a bit of elbow room. Oh well. Anyway, so what if he did find the name? All he could do was berate himself for not having found it sooner and ringing the guy.

Våge sighed heavily. He was going to be in a bad mood the rest of the weekend. And that would impact Dagnija. But she would just have to put up with it, he had paid half the cost of her tickets, after all.

It was seven o’clock, and at the Forensic Medical Institute the only lights on were those in the laboratory. Harry stared first at the scalpel in Helge’s hand and then at the eyeball lying on one of the glass plates.

‘Do you really...?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, I have to get to the inside,’ Helge said and cut.

‘Yeah, well,’ Harry said. ‘The funeral is over, I suppose, no one in the family is going to see her again.’

‘Well, actually they’re going there tomorrow,’ Helge said, placing the piece he had cut away under the microscope. ‘But the guy from the undertakers had already put in a glass eye and will just put in one more. Look at this.’

‘You see something?’

‘Yeah. Gondii parasites. Or at least something similar. Look...’

Harry leaned forward and peered into the microscope. Was he imagining things, or did he detect an almost imperceptible odour of musk?

He asked Helge.

‘It could be from the eye,’ he said. ‘In which case you have an exceptional sense of smell.’

‘Mm. I have parosmia, I can’t smell corpses. But maybe it means I smell other things all the better. Like with blindness and hearing, you know?’

‘You believe that?’

‘No. I do, however, believe that the killer might have used the parasite to render Susanne fearless, and that she felt sexually attracted to him.’

‘No way. That he’s made himself the primary host, you mean?’

‘Yeah. Why no way?’

‘Just that it’s not that far off from the field I’m toiling in to obtain a doctorate. Theoretically, it is possible, but if he’s managed to do it, we’re talking the Odile Bain Prize. Eh... that’s like the Nobel Prize in parasitology.’

‘Mm. I’m thinking he’ll get life instead.’

‘Yeah, of course. Sorry.’

‘Another thing,’ Harry said. ‘The mice are attracted by the smell of cat, any cat I mean. So why are these women attracted to just one man in particular?’

‘You tell me,’ Helge said. ‘The key is the smell the parasites can direct an infected person towards. Perhaps he carried something the women caught the scent of. Or he might have smeared it directly on his body.’

‘What kind of smell?’

‘Well, the most direct way is a smell from the intestinal tract where the parasites know they can reproduce.’

‘Excrement, you mean?’

‘No, he’d use excrement to spread the parasite. But to attract an infected person he might use the intestinal juices and enzymes in the small intestine. Or the digestive secretions from the pancreas and gall bladder.’

‘You’re saying he’s spreading the parasite with his own faeces?’

‘If he has created his own parasite, then he’s probably the only possible compatible host, so he alone must ensure the life cycle continues running its course so the parasites don’t die out.’

‘And how does he do that?’

‘Same as the cat. He could see to it, for example, that the water the victims drink is infected with his faeces.’

‘Or the cocaine they snort.’

‘Yes, or the food they eat. It will take a while before the parasite reaches the victim’s brain and can manipulate it.’

‘How long?’

‘Well... if I had to guess how long it took with a mouse, I’d say two days. Maybe three or four. The point is that in humans the immune system would generally eradicate the parasite, and that would occur after a couple of weeks or a month, so he doesn’t have all the time in the world if he’s trying to keep the life cycle going.’

‘So, he’d need to wait a couple of days, but not too long, before killing them.’

‘Yes. And then he’d have to eat the victim.’

‘All of the victim?’

‘No, the parts where parasites ready to reproduce are most concentrated should do it. So, the brain...’ Helge stopped abruptly and stared at Harry as though it just dawned on him. He swallowed. ‘...or the eyes.’

‘Last question,’ Harry said hoarsely.

Helge just nodded.

‘Why don’t the parasites take over the brain of the primary host as well?’

‘Oh, but they do.’

‘Really? And what do they do to him?’

Helge shrugged. ‘Pretty much the same thing. He becomes fearless. And seeing as how he is receiving a continuous top-up as is the case here, the immune system won’t be able to get rid of the parasite, and he risks a dulling or a slowing down of reaction times, for instance. And schizophrenia.’

‘Schizophrenia.’

‘Yes, recent research indicates it. Unless he keeps the number of parasites in his own body in check.’

‘How?’

‘Well. That I don’t know.’

‘What about parasiticides? Like Hillman Pets, for example?’

Helge gazed into the air thoughtfully. ‘I’m not familiar with that brand, but theoretically the right dosage of a parasiticide could create a balance of sorts, yes.’

‘Mm. So the quantity of parasites you have in you is important?’

‘Oh yeah. Were you to give someone a large dose with a high concentration of gondii the parasites would block the brain, paralysing the person in the space of a few minutes. They’d be dead within an hour.’

‘But you wouldn’t die from snorting a line of infected cocaine?’

‘Maybe not within an hour, but if the concentration is high enough, it could easily kill you within a day or two. Excuse me...’ Helge picked up a ringing phone. ‘Yes? All right.’ He hung up. ‘Sorry, I’m going to be busy now, they’re on their way up with a body from the Custody Unit I have to carry out a preliminary post-mortem on.’

‘OK,’ Harry said, buttoning up his suit jacket. ‘Thanks for your help, I’ll find my own way out. Sweet dreams.’

Helge gave him a faint smile.

Harry had just walked out the door of the lab when he turned and went back in.

‘Whose body are they bringing over, did you say?’

‘I don’t know his name — the guy arrested at Jernbanetorget today.’

‘Fuck,’ Harry said in a low tone, gently striking the doorjamb with his fist.

‘Something wrong?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Who?’

‘The primary host.’

Sung-min walked through the canteen and out onto the terrace. He had always envied the employees of Police HQ this view from the top of the glass palace. At least on a day like this, when Oslo lay bathed in sunshine and the temperature had spiked unexpectedly. He made his way over to Katrine and Harry, both standing by the railing, each smoking a cigarette.

‘Didn’t know you smoked,’ Sung-min said, smiling at Katrine.

‘I don’t really,’ she said, smiling back. ‘I just bummed one off Harry to celebrate.’

‘You’re a bad influence, Harry.’

‘Yep,’ Harry said, holding out a pack of Camel.

Sung-min hesitated. ‘Why not?’ he said, taking a cigarette that Harry lit up for him.

‘How are you going to celebrate?’ Katrine asked.

‘Let me see,’ Sung-min said. ‘I have a dinner date. What about you?’

‘Me too. Arne told me to meet him up at Frognerseteren Restaurant. It’s going to be a surprise.’

‘A restaurant on the edge of the forest with a view from the mountain. Sounds romantic.’

‘Sure,’ Katrine said, looking with momentary fascination at the smoke she was blowing out through her nose. ‘I’m just not that big into surprises. You going to mark the occasion, Harry?’

‘I was. Alexandra invited me up onto the roof of the Forensic Medical Institute. She and Helge are going to share a bottle of wine and watch the lunar eclipse.’

‘Ah, the blood moon,’ Sung-min said. ‘And it looks like it’s going to be a nice night.’

‘But?’ Katrine said.

‘We’ll see,’ Harry said. ‘Been some bad news. Ståle’s wife called. He’s taken a turn and wants me to come visit. I’ll probably stay as long as he has the energy.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah.’ Harry took a long drag of his cigarette.

They stood in silence for a while.

‘You see the tribute we received today, from the Minister of Justice no less?’

Katrine sounded sarcastic.

The other two nodded.

‘Just one thing before I go,’ Harry said. ‘Røed told me last night that he wasn’t with Susanne the day she was killed. And I believe him.’

‘Me too,’ said Sung-min, who, with the cigarette in his hand, angled his wrist in a way he otherwise managed to avoid.

‘Why?’ Katrine asked.

‘Because it’s obvious he prefers men to women,’ Sung-min said. ‘I reckon his sex life with Helene was a compulsory exercise.’

‘Mm. So we’re inclined to believe him. Then how did Røed’s saliva wind up on Susanne’s breast?’

‘Indeed,’ Katrine said. ‘I was slightly confused myself when Røed came up with that story about sex earlier in the day, that the spit was from then.’

‘Oh?’

‘What do you think I’ll do before I meet Arne tonight? And this goes for all my dates, no matter what, even the ones where sex isn’t on the cards.’

‘You’ll take a shower,’ Sung-min said.

‘Correct. I thought it strange that Susanne wouldn’t shower before she took the metro to Skullerud. Especially if she’d had sex.’

‘So, I repeat the question,’ Harry said. ‘Where did the saliva come from?’

‘Eh... after she was killed?’ Sung-min said.

‘Theoretically possible,’ Harry said, ‘but highly unlikely. Think about how meticulously planned these three murders have been. I think the killer planted Røed’s saliva on Susanne with the intention of misleading the police.’

‘Perhaps,’ Sung-min said.

‘I could buy that,’ Katrine said.

‘Of course we’ll never get an answer,’ Harry said.

‘No, we never get all the answers,’ Katrine said.

They stood for a while, closed their eyes to the sun as if they already knew that this would be the last warm day of the year.

Sung-min was coming from the shower when he saw the phone that lay charging beside the bed was ringing.

‘Yes?’

‘Good afternoon, Larsen. This is Mona Daa from VG.’

‘Good evening, Daa.’

‘Oh, it’s late you mean? Sorry if your working day is done, I just wanted a couple of quotes from the people involved in the investigation. About how it’s been and how it feels to have finally solved the case. I mean, it must be a great relief and a triumph for you and Kripos, who were involved from the start, when Susanne Andersen went missing on the thirtieth of August.’

‘I think you’re a good crime reporter, Daa, so I’m going to give you some short answers to your questions.’

‘Thanks so much! My first question concerns—’

‘I meant the ones you’ve already asked. Yes, it is evening and my workday is done. No, I have no comments to make, you’ll need to call Katrine Bratt who was in charge of the investigation or my boss Ole Winter. And no, Kripos was not involved from the start, when Susanne Andersen was reported missing on the... eh...’

‘Thirtieth of August,’ Mona Daa repeated.

‘Thanks. We hadn’t been brought in at that stage. That didn’t happen until two people went missing and it became clear that it was a murder case.’

‘Sorry, again, Larsen. I’m aware I’m being pushy now, but it is my job. Could I get a quote, whatever, just something general, and use a picture of you?’

Sung-min sighed. He had an idea of what she was after. Diversity. A picture of a police officer who was not a fifty-year-old, ethnically Norwegian, heterosexual man. He ticked those boxes anyway. Not that he had anything against diversity in the media, but he knew that once he opened that door it wouldn’t take long before he was sitting on a sofa in a TV studio answering questions from a certain TV presenter about what it was like to be gay in the police. Not that he had anything against it, someone should do it. Just not him.

He declined, and Mona Daa said she understood and apologised again. Good woman.

After they had broken the connection, he stood staring into space. He froze. He was naked but that was not why. It was the alarm clock in his head, the same one that had rung when he was at the Custody Unit. It had begun to ring again. It wasn’t what Groth had said about Beckstrøm seeming different when he left that had made the alarm go off. It was something else. Something altogether — and distinctly — different.

Prim checked the time.

One minute to six.

He had taken a seat at one of the window tables at Weiss. From where he was sitting, he had a view of the two freshly pulled half-litre beers in front of him, the Munch Museum in the light of the low sun outside, and the building where he had gatecrashed the terrace party.

A half-minute to six.

He let his eyes drift around. The customers looked so happy. They were standing in groups, smiling, chatting, laughing and patting each other on the shoulders. Friends. It looked nice. It was nice to have someone. To have Her. Then they would drink beer, and Her friends would be his.

A man wearing a porkpie hat came in. Terry Våge. He stopped and scanned the room as the door slid to behind him. At first he didn’t notice Prim discreetly waving his hand, his eyes no doubt needing to adjust to the dimly lit premises. But then he gave a brief nod and steered towards Prim’s table. The reporter looked pale and out of breath.

‘You’re...’

‘Yes. Sit down, Våge.’

‘Thanks.’ Våge took his hat off. His forehead glistened with sweat. He nodded at the beer on his side of the table.

‘Is that for me?’

‘I was going to leave as soon as the head was beneath the rim of the glass.’

Våge smirked in response and lifted the glass. They drank. Put down the beers and wiped the foam from their lips with the backs of their hands in an almost synchronised motion.

‘So here we are at long last,’ Våge said. ‘Sitting drinking like two old friends.’

Prim understood what Våge was trying to do. Break the ice. Gain trust. Get under his skin as quickly as possible.

‘Like them?’ Prim nodded towards the boisterous people at the bar.

‘Oh, they’re pen-pushers. The Friday drinks they’re having now are the highlight of their week, before they head home to their dull family lives. You know: eat tacos with the kids, put them to bed and watch TV with the same woman until they’re both bored enough to fall asleep. Then it’s up in the morning to more nagging from the kids and a trip to playland. I imagine that’s not the sort of life you live?’

No, Prim thought. But it might not be far off the kind of life I could see myself living. With Her.

Prim glanced towards the office gang celebrating Friday while slowly turning his own glass.

‘I also had a small shred of skin preserved. Skin from Kevin Selmer’s forearm. He wasn’t the only person I had a tissue sample of; they were something I collected and sometimes had use for in my project to cultivate the perfect parasite. With a toothpick, I lodged a flake of skin between two of the teeth in Bertine’s skull. And then you ensured the evidence landed in the hands of the police. But I expected that sooner or later it would be discovered that the bodies had a variant of the gondii parasite. And if someone understood the connection, they would begin to hunt for the primary host. Could I make Kevin appear to be both the killer and the primary host? Apologies if I sound a little smug, but the solution was as ingenious as it was simple. I prepared a mixture of green cocaine and gondii, a dose guaranteed to be lethal, put it into Bertine’s snuff bullet and went down to Kevin at Jernbanetorget to make the trade I had agreed to at the party. He was thrilled, especially when I gave him the snuff bullet into the bargain. I can only imagine the pains he must have had in his stomach before he died, I don’t doubt I would have butted my head against a wall to render myself unconscious as well.’

Prim drained the rest of his beer glass.

‘That was a long monologue, so enough about me, Terry. How are you doing?’ Prim leaned across the table. ‘Like, really. Are you feeling... paralysed? Because it happens very quickly when you drink a beer containing such a strong concentration of gondii. Even stronger than Kevin got. After a few minutes you’re simply unable to lift a finger. Not make a sound either. But I can see you’re still breathing. Heart and respiratory failure are actually the last things to occur. Well, the brain ceases to function too, of course. So I know you can hear this. I’m going to take your house keys and collect your PC. Throw it and your phone in the fjord.’

Prim looked outside. The daylight was beginning to dwindle.

‘Look, there’s a light on in my stepfather’s apartment. He’ll be on his own now. Do you think he’d fancy a visitor?’

Markus got out of the taxi by the gate at the end of the drive.

The first thing the taxi driver had asked him when he got into the car at Oslobukta had been if he had any money. A reasonable question given that Markus wasn’t wearing his jacket over his shirt and had slippers on. But he had his credit card with him, as always — no matter what, he felt naked without it.

The hinges screeched as he opened the gate. He walked up the gravel drive, reached the top and was a little shocked when he saw the half burnt-out house standing there in the dusk. He hadn’t been here since leaving Molle and the boy with that idiotic nickname, Prim. He had read about her death in the paper, had gone to the funeral, but hadn’t known the house was so badly damaged. He only hoped enough of the backdrop was preserved for them to act out the scene in a credible manner, so to speak. Reconstruct what they had done and what they had been to one another back then. Although, what he had been to the boy God only knew.

As Røed began walking down towards the house he saw a figure step out the front door. It was him. The desire Røed had felt sitting in the TV room across from the boy had been overwhelming, almost making him lose control and lunge. But he had done that sort of thing one too many times in his life and had just about got away with it. Now his desire was under control, enough to enable rational thought, he felt. Still the craving, after so many years of stored-up memories about Prim, was so strong that nothing could have stopped him now.

He walked down to the young man, who extended his hand in welcome and smiled. It hadn’t crossed Røed’s mind until now but the two big, rodent-like front teeth were gone, and the boy had a line of nice, even teeth. For the sake of illusion, he would have preferred the childhood teeth but forgot about that as soon as he drew close and was led into the house.

Another small shock. The hallway, living room, everything black and burnt-out. The partition walls were gone rendering everything more open. The man — the boy — led him straight to the floor space that had been his room on the ground floor. With a shudder of delight, Røed realised he didn’t need any light, he had walked these steps from the bottom of the staircase to the boy’s room in the darkness of night so many times that he could do it with his eyes closed.

‘Undress yourself and lie down there,’ the boy said, shining his phone’s torch.

Røed stared at the filthy mattress and the burnt-out skeleton of an iron bed.

And did as he was told, laying his clothes over the headboard.

‘Everything,’ the boy said.

Røed took off his underpants. His erection had grown ever since the boy had taken his hand. Røed liked to dominate, not be dominated. Not up until this point anyway. But now he was enjoying the sound of the commanding voice, the cold giving him goose pimples, the humiliation in being naked while the boy was fully dressed. The mattress stank of urine and was wet and cold against his back.

‘Let’s get these on.’ Røed felt his arms being pulled upwards and something being tightened around his wrists. Looked up. In the light from the boy’s phone, he saw his hands being tied to the headboard with leather straps. Then the same with his feet. He was at the mercy of the boy. The same way the boy had been at the mercy of him.

‘Come,’ Røed whispered.

‘We need more light,’ the boy said. He had taken Røed’s mobile phone from the jacket on the headboard. ‘What’s the code?’

‘Eye recog—’ Røed began before the screen appeared in front of his face.

‘Thanks.’

Røed was blinded by the two light sources and couldn’t see what the boy was doing before discerning his figure between the two phones. He realised they must have been mounted on two stands at head height. The boy was older. Had become a man. But was still young enough for Røed to want him. Clearly. His erection was beyond reproach and the tremor in his voice owed as much to excitement as the cold when he whispered: ‘Come! Come to me, boy!’

‘First, tell me what you want me to do to you.’

Markus Røed moistened his dry lips. And told him.

‘Say it again,’ the boy said, pulling down his trousers and placing his hand around his own still flaccid penis. ‘This time without using my name.’

Røed was nonplussed. But fair enough, more than a couple of the ones at Tuesdays got off on the whole impersonal thing, preferring a stiff cock in a glory hole instead of seeing the entire person. Fortunately. He repeated his wish list without mentioning any names.

‘Tell me what you did to me when I was a little boy,’ the man between the lights said, now masturbating.

‘Just come here and let me whisper it in your ear—’

‘Tell me!’

Røed swallowed. So that was how he wanted it. Direct, crude, a harsh tone and in glaring light. Fine. Røed just needed to tune in his own receiver and transmit on the same frequency. Jesus, he’d do anything to have him. Røed began hesitantly, skirting around at first, but got going after a while. Told him. Directly. In detail. And found the frequency. Was aroused by his own words, of the memories they conjured up. Told it how it was. Used words like ‘rape’, both because that was what it had been and because it further increased the excitement, both his and the boy’s, he was groaning in any case, although no longer visible, he had taken a few steps back, into the darkness behind the light. Røed had told him everything, up to how he wiped his penis on the boy’s duvet before tiptoeing back to the first floor.

‘Thanks!’ the boy said, his voice sharp. One light was switched off and he stepped into the light of the other. He had pulled his trousers up, was fully dressed. He was holding Røed’s phone and tapping something into it.

‘Wh-what are you doing?’ Røed moaned.

‘I’m sharing the last video recording with all your contacts,’ the boy said.

‘You... recorded it?’

‘On your phone. Want to see?’ The boy held the phone up in front of Røed. On the screen he saw himself, a portly man well into his sixties, pale, almost white in the harsh light, lying on a dirty mattress with an erection, going slightly to the right. No mask this time, nothing to hide his identity. And the voice, slightly thick with excitement but clear as a bell at the same time, eager for the other man to hear the words. He noticed that the clip was framed so that a viewer couldn’t see his hands and feet were bound to the bedposts.

‘I’m sending it together with a short text message I prepared,’ the boy said. ‘Listen. Hello, world. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I’ve decided that I can no longer live with what I’ve done. So, I’m going to burn myself to death in the same house where Molle did. Goodbye. What do you think? Not exactly poetry, but loud and clear, right? I’ll send it to your list of contacts with a time delay so they get it just after midnight.’

Røed opened his mouth to say something but didn’t manage to get a word out before something was forced between his lips.

‘Blueman, blueman, my buck, think of your small boy.’

Katrine sang the last note almost soundlessly as she tried to gauge from Gert’s breathing if he had fallen asleep. Yes, it was deep and even. She pulled the duvet a little higher up and made ready to leave.

‘Whew is Uncle Hawny?’

She looked down into his blue, wide-open eyes. How had Bjørn not seen that they were Harry’s? Or had he, had he known right from day one in the delivery room?

‘Uncle Harry is at the hospital with a friend who’s sick. But Granny is here.’

‘Whew aw you going?’

‘To a place called Frognerseteren. It’s almost in the forest, high up in the hills. Maybe you and I can take a trip up there one day.’

‘And Uncle Hawny.’

She smiled at the same time as she felt a prick in her heart. ‘And maybe Uncle Harry,’ she said, and hoped she wasn’t lying.

‘Is de beaws deh?’

She shook her head. ‘No bears.’

Gert closed his eyes and moments later was asleep.

Katrine looked at him, could hardly tear herself away. Looked at the clock. Half eight. She had to get going. She kissed Gert on the forehead and left the room. Heard the faint clink of her mother-in-law’s knitting needles from the living room and stuck her head in.

‘He’s asleep,’ she whispered. ‘I’m off.’

Her mother-in-law nodded and smiled. ‘Katrine.’

Katrine stopped. ‘Yeah?’

‘Can you promise me something?’

‘What?’

‘That you’ll have a nice time.’

Katrine met the older woman’s gaze. And understood what she was saying. That her son was long dead and buried, that life had to go on. That she, Katrine, had to go on. Katrine felt a lump in her throat.

‘Thanks, Gran,’ she whispered. It was the first time she had called her Gran, and she could see the other woman’s eyes filling with tears.

Katrine walked quickly towards the metro station by the National Theatre. She hadn’t dressed up too much. A warm jacket and practical shoes, as per Arne’s recommendation. Did that mean they would be dining in the outdoor part of the restaurant, under patio heaters and with the view all around? With only the sky above? She glanced up at the moon.

Her phone rang. It was Harry again.

‘Johan Krohn called,’ he said. ‘Just so you know, Markus Røed has given his bodyguards the slip.’

‘Not exactly a shock,’ she said. ‘He’s a drug addict.’

‘The security company sent people to Jernbanetorget. No sign of him there. He hasn’t come back, nor is he answering his phone. Of course he might have headed somewhere else to score and then gone on to celebrate his release. I just thought you should know.’

‘Thanks. I was planning on having a night where I don’t give Markus Røed a thought but concentrate on the people I like. How’s Ståle?’

‘Astonishingly well for a man so close to death.’

‘Really?’

‘He thinks it’s the Grim Reaper’s way of welcoming him. Have him step voluntarily over the threshold of the underworld.’

Katrine couldn’t help smiling. ‘Sounds like Ståle. How are his wife and daughter doing?’

‘They’re bearing up well. Coping.’

‘OK. Give him my love.’

‘Will do. Is Gert asleep?’

‘Yeah. He mentions you a little too often, I feel.’

‘Mm. A new uncle you never knew about is always exciting. Enjoy your restaurant date. Bit late to be eating now, isn’t it?’

‘Was inevitable, they’re having trouble getting through the workload at Krimteknisk. Sung-min was supposed to be going out to dinner with his partner. Does he know—’

‘Yeah, I called about Røed.’

‘Thanks.’

They hung up as Katrine made her way down into the underground.

In a block of flats in Hovseter, Thanh was standing by a window on the third floor staring down below. She was holding her phone in her hand. It was one minute to nine. She was looking down at the car parked right outside the front door. It had been there for almost five minutes. It was Jonathan’s car. She gave a start as the phone began to ring. The digits on the screen showed that the time was nine o’clock. Exactly.

She thought about all the excuses she had come up with over the last hour only to dismiss them. She pressed Accept.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m outside.’

‘OK, coming,’ she said and dropped the phone into her handbag.

‘I’m off!’ she called out from the hall.

‘Tam biêt,’ her mother answered from the living room.

Thanh closed the door behind her and took the lift down. Not because she couldn’t face the stairs, she usually took them, but because there was a theoretical possibility the lift might break down, get stuck, necessitating a call to the fire brigade and the cancellation of all other plans.

But the lift didn’t break down. She walked out into the street. The night was oddly warm for one so late in September, especially as the sky was cloudless.

Jonathan leaned across the passenger seat and pushed open the door for her. She got in. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi, Thanh.’

The car pulled out. It struck her that he had used her name, which he never did when they were in the shop.

When they came to the main road, he headed west.

‘What was it you wanted to show me?’ she asked.

‘Something beautiful. Something just for you.’

‘For me?’

He smiled. ‘And for me too.’

‘Can’t you tell me what it is?’

He shook his head. She sat looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He was so different. For one thing he used her name, but she had never heard him use a word like ‘beautiful’ or say something was for her. She had been fretting, yes, frightened almost, before getting into the car but something — perhaps the way he spoke — calmed her.

And now he smiled as though he was aware of her peeking over at him. Maybe this is how he is when he’s not at work, she thought. But then she remembered that she was an employee, and he was the boss, so this was work, in a way. Or maybe it wasn’t?

Hovseter was on the west side of the city, and after a few minutes they had passed Røa, the golf course at Bogstad, and were deep into Sørkedalen with extensive, dense spruce forest on both sides.

‘Did you know bears have been sighted around here?’ he asked.

‘Bears?’ she said in alarm.

He didn’t laugh at her, merely smiled. He had a nice smile, Jonathan, she hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe she had, just not let the thought fix in her mind. After all, it was so seldom he smiled in the shop you could easily forget how it looked in the intervening time. As though he were afraid of exposing something he didn’t want to show her if he smiled. But now he did want to show her something. Something ‘beautiful’.

Her phone rang, giving her a start once again.

She looked at the display, declined the call and put the phone back in her bag.

‘Feel free to answer it if you want,’ he said.

‘I don’t answer if I don’t know who’s calling,’ Thanh said. That was a lie, she had recognised the number of the policeman, Sung-min. But, of course, she couldn’t take it and risk Jonathan becoming angry again.

He indicated and slowed down. Thanh couldn’t see any turn-off but suddenly it was there. Her heart beat faster as the wheels crunched along a narrow gravelly road. The headlights were the only light on a wall of black forest.

‘Where...’ she began but stopped for fear he would hear the tremor in her voice.

‘Don’t be scared, Thanh. I just want to make you happy.’

She had been found out. Just make you happy? She wasn’t so sure she liked him saying strange things like that to her any more.

He stopped the car, switched off the engine and the lights, and suddenly they were sitting in total darkness.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re getting out here.’

She drew a deep breath. It must be that calm in his voice, it was almost hypnotic, because now she wasn’t frightened any longer, just excited. Show her alone. Something beautiful. She didn’t know why, but it suddenly occurred to her that this really wasn’t so strange. That it was something she had been waiting for, yes, hoping for. That the intense anxiety she had felt all day must be like how a bride feels on her wedding day. She stepped out of her side of the car and inhaled the fresh evening air and the smell of spruce. Then the panic returned. Since he had been so emphatic about her not telling a soul, she had — being the idiot she was — not told anyone. Absolutely no one knew she was there. She swallowed. At what point would she say stop, that she wanted to go home? If she did it now, wouldn’t that just make him very angry and maybe... maybe what?

‘You can leave the bag,’ he said, opening the rear door on his side.

‘I’d like to bring my phone,’ she said.

‘Suit yourself, but you should put it in the pocket of this, it could be cold.’ He handed her a padded jacket. She put it on. It smelled. Of Jonathan, probably. And of campfire. At least of recently being near to an open fire.

Jonathan had put on a headlamp and turned away before switching it on so as not to blind her. ‘Follow me.’

He stepped over a shallow roadside ditch right into the woods, and Thanh had no choice but to jump over after him. They made their way into the forest. If there was a trail, she couldn’t see it. The terrain rose and he stopped here and there to hold branches aside so she could make her way through more easily.

They emerged onto open moorland bathed in moonlight and she took the opportunity to take her phone out and check it. Her heart sank. The coverage wasn’t just poor, there was no coverage.

When she looked up again, she realised the light from the phone had ruined her ability to see in the dark, and all she saw was a black wall. She stood blinking.

‘Over here.’

She moved in the direction of the voice. Made out Jonathan standing at the edge of the forest holding his hand out to her. She took it without thinking. It was warm and dry. He led her further in. Should she peel off and run? Where? She no longer had any idea in which direction the road or the city were, and here in the forest he would catch up with her anyway. If she were to resist, it would probably only accelerate the plans he had for her. She felt a welling in her throat, but defiance at the same time. She wasn’t some helpless, naive little girl, there had to be some part of her brain telling her this was OK, so why feed her fear with paranoid thoughts? Soon she would understand what it was he wanted, and it would be like those nightmares you wake from and realise that you’ve been lying safely in bed the entire time. He was going to show her something beautiful and that was that. And instead of letting go, she held a little tighter around his hand, which in spite of everything felt strangely safe.

She was startled when he stopped.

‘We’ve arrived,’ he whispered. ‘Lie down here.’

She looked at the place his headlamp illuminated, it was a sort of lair, a bed of pine-needle branches. As if sensing her hesitation and wanting to show it was safe, he lay down himself and motioned for her to lie down next to him. She drew a deep breath. Wondered how to formulate her refusal. Moistened her lips. Saw that he had placed his forefinger over his own lips and was looking at her with a happy, boyish expression. It put her in mind of her little brother when the two of them did something they weren’t allowed, that bond of conspiratorial delight. Whether it was that or something else she didn’t know, but she suddenly found she had lain down beside him. She could see the remains of a small fire next to them, as though someone had been here a few times before, even though it was in the middle of the forest and hardly a logical place to make camp. From where they were lying, she could see the sky and the moon between the treetops. What was there here for him to show her?

She felt his breath close to her ear. ‘You must be completely quiet, Thanh. Can you turn over onto your stomach?’ His voice, his smell, yes, it was as if the person she had always known had been inside Jonathan had finally stepped out into the light. Or rather, into the dark.

She did as he said. She wasn’t afraid. And when she saw his hand right in front of her face, her only thought was this is it, now it’s going to happen.

Frognerseteren restaurant was situated high above Oslo, between the villas of its more bourgeois inhabitants and the hiking terrain of those same inhabitants. The people on their way to the restaurant were wearing suits and dresses; those going to the cafe adjacent were dressed in trekking attire. It was a six-minute walk from the terminus of the metro, and when Katrine arrived, she had no trouble spotting Arne, he was sitting alone outside at one of the large, solid wooden tables. He had stood up and spread his arms wide, smiling with those nice, sad eyes from under his flat cap, and she had stepped slightly reluctantly into his imperious embrace.

‘Won’t it get a little cold?’ she asked when they had sat down. ‘They haven’t put out any patio heaters. It looks like they have tables inside.’

‘Yes, but if we’re in there we won’t get to see the blood moon.’

‘I see,’ she said, shivering. It was unseasonably warm in the city below, but up here the temperature was considerably lower. She looked up at the white moon. It was full but looked normal otherwise. ‘When’s the blood coming out?’

‘It’s not blood,’ he said with a chuckle.

For a while she had found it irritating that he took everything she said so literally, as if he thought she were a child. But tonight she found it perhaps a little extra irritating when so many stressful thoughts were swirling in her head, and she had a nagging feeling that she should be at work, because time was at work — and not in their favour.

‘The eclipse occurs because the earth is between the sun and the moon. So for a short time the moon is in the earth’s shadow,’ he said. ‘Ergo the moon should be black. But the direction of light changes when it strikes something with a different density. Don’t you remember this from your school physics, Katrine?’

‘I took languages.’

‘Oh, well, when the sunlight strikes the earth, the atmosphere bends the red portion of the light inwards, around the earth, and it hits the surface of the moon.’

‘Aha!’ Katrine said with ironic exaggeration. ‘So it’s light and not blood.’

Arne smiled and nodded. ‘Man has been staring at the sky in wonder since time immemorial. But we continue to do so even now when we have so many answers. And I think it’s because there’s a comfort of sorts in the vastness of space. It makes us and our short lives seem so small and insignificant. Ergo our problems also seem small. We’re here one moment and gone the next, so why spend what little time we have worrying? We need to use it as best we can. That’s why I’m now going to ask you to switch off your mind, switch off your phone, switch off this world. Because just for tonight you and I are only going to relate to the two greatest things. The universe...’ He placed his hand on hers. ‘And love.’

The words touched Katrine’s heart. Of course they did, she was a simple soul. At the same time, she knew they would have probably touched her more deeply if someone else had said them. She also didn’t know if she was comfortable about turning off her phone; she had a babysitter at home and responsibility for a murder investigation that might not turn out to be as cut and dried as they had believed only hours before.

But she had done as he said, switched off her phone. That was an hour ago. Since then they had eaten and drunk and there had only been one thing on her mind: sneaking off to the toilet and turning on her phone to check for missed calls or texts. She could of course have said it straight out, that just like Arne’s planets didn’t stop rotating, reality in Oslo didn’t stop to take a break. As though to emphasise the thought she heard the low sing of the distant siren of a fire engine far below in the urban cauldron. But she didn’t want to ruin this night for Arne. After all, he didn’t know it would be his last one with her. Yes, all those things he said were sweet, but it was too much. Too Paulo Coelho, as Harry would have said.

‘Shall we go?’ Arne asked after he had paid.

‘Go?’

‘I know a place up here where there’s less light and we’ll get an even better view of the blood moon.’

‘Up where?’

‘By Tryvann. It’s only a few minutes’ walk. Come on, the eclipse is starting in...’ He checked his watch. ‘Eighteen minutes.’

‘Well, let’s walk then,’ she said, getting to her feet.

Arne pulled on a small rucksack. He just gave her a sly wink and offered her his arm when she asked what he had in it. They set off towards Tryvann. On the mountaintop right over the lake they could see the radio and TV tower stretching over a hundred metres into the sky. It had ceased transmitting signals years ago and now just stood there like a disarmed guard at the gate of Oslo. The occasional car and jogger passed them, but when they turned onto the path along the lake there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

‘That’s a good spot,’ he said, pointing at a log.

They sat down. The moonlight ran like a yellow median line over the tarmac-black water in front of them. He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Tell me about Harry.’

‘Harry?’ Katrine answered, taken aback. ‘Why?’

‘Do you two love each other?’

She laughed, or coughed, she wasn’t sure herself. ‘What on earth would make you think that?’

‘I’ve got eyes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I saw Harry in that bar, it hit me that he’s the image of Gert. Or the other way round.’ Arne laughed. ‘But don’t look so alarmed, Katrine. Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘How do you know what Gert looks like?’

‘You showed me pictures. Don’t you remember?’

She made no reply, just listened to the siren in the city below. It was burning somewhere, and this wasn’t where she needed to be. Simple as that, but how was she to explain that to him? Could she use the cliché about it not being him but her? After all, it was true; apart from Gert she had managed to destroy everything good in her life. It was obvious that the man sitting next to her loved her, and she wished she was able to love him back. Because not only did she yearn to be loved but yearned to love someone. Just not the man now pulling her closer, the man with sad eyes who knew so much. She opened her mouth to tell him, without having decided exactly how to phrase it, just knew she had to say it. But he beat her to it.

‘I’m not even sure if I want to know what it was you and Harry had. The only thing that matters to me is that you and I are together now. And that we love each other.’ He took her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it. ‘I want you to know that I have more than enough space in my life for both you and Gert. But not for Harry Hole, I’m afraid. Is it too much to ask for you and him not to have any contact?’

She stared at him.

He was holding both her hands in his now. ‘What do you say, darling? Is that all right?’

Katrine nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ she said. Arne’s face lit up in a big smile and he opened the rucksack before she finished the sentence. ‘...it is too much to ask.’

His smile faded at the edges, but he managed to retain a rictus of it in the middle.

She regretted it immediately, for now he just sat there looking like a wretched beaten dog. And she noticed that the bottle he had lifted halfway out of the rucksack was a Montrachet, the white wine he had got into his head was her favourite. OK, so maybe this wasn’t the man for her. But he could at least be her man for one night. She could grant him that much. She could grant herself that much. One night. Then she could take stock in the morning instead.

Arne reached back down into the rucksack.

‘And I brought this along as well...’

The head waiter lifted the handset of the ringing telephone. ‘Frognerseteren Restaurant.’

‘This is Harry Hole. I’m trying to get hold of Inspector Katrine Bratt who’s dining with you tonight.’

The head waiter was taken aback. Not only because the loudspeaker on the phone was on, but because there was something familiar about the man’s name. ‘I’m looking at the guest list now, Mr Hole. But I can’t see a reservation in her name.’

‘It’s probably under the gentleman’s name. He’s called Arne, I don’t know his surname.’

‘No Arne, but I do have several surnames here with no first names.’

‘OK. He’s blond, might be wearing a flat cap. She’s dark-haired, Bergen accent.’

‘Aha. Yes, they ate outside, that was my table.’

‘Ate?’

‘Yes, they’ve left the restaurant.’

‘Mm. Did you happen to hear anything that could give you some idea where they might be going?’

The head waiter hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if I—’

‘This is important, it’s concerning the police investigation of the murdered women.’

The head waiter realised where he had heard the name before.

‘The gentleman arrived early and asked to borrow two wine glasses. He had a bottle of Remoissenet Chassagne-Montrachet and said he was going to propose to her up by Tryvann after dinner, and then I gave him the glasses. It was a 2018 vintage, you see.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You ought to look more relieved, Harry,’ Aune said. ‘What is it now?’

Øystein and Truls had just left room 618 ahead of him.

Harry looked down at his dying friend. ‘There was an old woman in Los Angeles. She got into some trouble and I’ve been trying to... well, fix things.’

‘Is that why you came home?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I guessed the reason was something other than working for Markus Røed.’

‘Mm. I’ll tell you about it next time, I’d say it’ll be just a psychologist’s cup of tea.’

Aune chuckled and took his friend’s hand. ‘Next time, Harry.’

Harry was completely unprepared for the tears he suddenly felt welling up. He squeezed Ståle’s hand. Didn’t say anything because he knew his voice wouldn’t hold. Buttoned his jacket and walked quickly into the corridor.

Øystein and Truls, standing in front of the lift doors a few metres further along the corridor, turned towards him.

Harry’s phone rang. What would he say if it was the Los Angeles Police? He took out the phone and looked at it. It was Alexandra — he should of course have let her know he wouldn’t make it for the eclipse. He delayed answering while he tried to decide if he could face heading up there. Right now a drink or six on his lonesome in the bar at the Thief seemed much more tempting. No, not that. A lunar eclipse from the roof of the Forensic Medical Institute. That would be nice. As he tapped to take the call, a text message appeared on the screen. It was from Sung-min Larsen.

‘Hi,’ he said, as he began to read the text.

‘Hi, Harry.’

‘Is that you, Alexandra?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was just your voice,’ Harry said, letting his eyes wander over the text message. ‘You sounded so different.’

The cocaine wasn’t analysed at Krimteknisk because they didn’t have the capacity, so it was sent to the Forensic Medical Institute. There it was dealt with by a Helge Forfang, who has also dated and signed the analysis.

Harry felt like his heart had stopped beating. They flickered in front of his eyes, those fragmented pieces that had failed to fit with one another and which now, within a few astonishing seconds, dovetailed. Alexandra, showing him around the Forensic Medical Institute and informing him that when Krimteknisk couldn’t handle the analysis workload, they just sent it up there. Helge plainly telling Harry that the Toxoplasma gondii parasite was his field. Alexandra telling him she had invited Helge to the rooftop party, the sort people just crashed. The post-mortem technician could easily have placed DNA material on the corpses of Susanne and Bertine to steer suspicion towards a particular person, he could have done it in the autopsy room after the bodies were found. But above all: the odour of musk in the autopsy room when Helge had just been in there, and which Harry thought came from the body. The same odour as when Harry leaned closer to Helge, when he had just cut open Susanne Andersen’s eye and which Harry — idiot that he was — thought came from the eye.

Multiple pieces. And they all fitted together to form a mosaic, a large, but clear and sharp picture. And as always when things fell into their proper place, Harry wondered how he had not been able to see it before now.

Alexandra’s voice, so frightened that he had hardly recognised it, was there again.

‘Can you come over here, Harry?’

An imploring tone. Overly so. Not like the Alexandra Sturdza he knew.

‘Where are you?’ Harry asked, playing for time to think.

‘You know that. On the roof of—’

‘The Forensic Medical Institute, right.’ Harry waved towards Øystein and Truls as he backed into 618 again. ‘Are you on your own?’

‘Almost.’

‘Almost?’

‘I told you that Helge and I were going to be here.’

‘Mm.’ Harry drew a deep breath and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. ‘Alexandra?’ Harry sank into the chair next to the bed as Truls and Øystein entered the room.

‘Yes, Harry?’

‘Listen to me carefully now. Don’t so much as bat an eyelid, and just answer yes or no. Can you get away from there without arousing suspicion, say you need to go to the toilet or fetch something?’

No answer. Harry held the phone a little from his ear and the other three in the Aune group inclined their heads towards the Samsung.

‘Alexandra?’ Harry whispered.

‘Yes,’ she said in a toneless voice.

‘Helge is the killer. You need to get away. Out of the building or lock yourself inside somewhere until we arrive. OK?’

There was a crackling noise. And then another voice, a man’s voice.

‘No, Harry. Not OK.’

The voice was familiar but unfamiliar at the same time, like another version of a person you know. Harry took a deep breath. ‘Helge,’ he said. ‘Helge Forfang.’

‘Yes,’ the voice confirmed. It wasn’t just deeper than Harry remembered. It sounded more relaxed, confident. Like it belonged to someone who had already won. ‘Or actually you can call me Prim. Everyone I hated did.’

‘As you wish, Prim. What’s going on?’

‘That’s exactly the right question to ask, Harry. What’s going on is that I’m sitting here with a knife to Alexandra’s throat wondering what the future has in store for the two of us. For the three of us, perhaps, as you’re a part of this too, aren’t you? I realise I’ve been found out, a lost position, as they say in chess. I was holding out, hoping to avoid that, but even if I’d known things would work out this way, I wouldn’t have changed what I’ve done. I’m quite proud of what I’ve accomplished. I think even my uncle will be when he reads about it — if he reads about it. If his parasite-ridden brain manages to cling on to life.’

‘Prim...’

‘No, Harry, I certainly haven’t thought of avoiding punishment for what I’ve done. In fact, I was planning on taking my own life when all this was over, but things have happened. Things that have given me the desire to live on. That’s why I’m interested in negotiating that my punishment is as lenient as possible. But in order to have a bargaining position you need to have something to bargain with, and I have a hostage that I can choose to spare or not. I’m pretty sure you understand, Harry.’

‘The best move you can make to get a more lenient sentence is to let Alexandra go and hand yourself over to the police right away.’

‘The best for you, you mean. Get me out of the way so you have a clear shot.’

‘A clear shot at what, Prim?’

‘Don’t act stupid. A clear shot at Alexandra. You’ve infected her, made her desire you, made her believe that you have something to offer her. Like true love for example. Well, here’s your chance to prove it’s true. What do you say to an exchange, you swapping places with her?’

‘And you’ll let her go?’

‘Of course. Neither of us wants Alexandra to be harmed.’

‘OK. Then I have a suggestion about how to go about it.’

Helge’s laughter was lighter than his voice. ‘Nice try, Harry, but I think we’ll do things according to my plan.’

‘Mm. And that is?’

‘You drive here together with one other person; you park out in front of the building so I can see the two of you — and only the two of you — get out of the car and walk towards the building. I’ll open the door from here. As soon as you get out of the car, I want to see your hands being handcuffed behind your back. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Both of you will take the lift up, walk to the door leading to the roof, open it a crack and let me know you’re there. If you come rushing out, I’ll cut Alex’s throat. You understand that too, right?’

Harry swallowed. ‘Yeah.’

‘So, when I tell you, both of you will back out through the door and onto the roof.’

‘Back out?’

‘That’s how they do it in maximum security prisons, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then you understand. You’ll go first. Eight steps backwards. Then you’ll stop and go down on your knees. Whoever’s with you will take four steps backwards and then kneel. If that’s not done exactly as—’

‘I get it. Eight and four steps backwards.’

‘Good, you’re quick. I’ll put the knife to your throat while Alexandra walks to the door of the roof. Your colleague will accompany her down to the car and they will drive away.’

‘And then?’

‘Then the negotiations can begin.’

There was a pause.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Harry. Why swap a good hostage for a bad one? Why give up a young, innocent woman who both the police and the politicians know will stir much stronger feelings among the public than an ageing, male police detective?’

‘Well...’

‘The answer is simply that I love her, Harry. And to make sure she’s willing to wait for me to be a free man I must demonstrate my true love to her. I think the jury will also see it as a mitigating factor.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ Harry said. ‘Shall we say an hour from now?’

The high-pitched laughter came down the line once more. ‘Another nice try, Harry. Surely you don’t think I’m planning on giving you enough time to alert the Rapid Response Unit and gather half the police force before the exchange?’

‘OK, but we’re some distance away. How much time do we have to get there?’

‘I think you’re lying, Harry. I don’t think you’re that far away. Can you see the moon from where you are?’

Øystein walked quickly to the window. Nodded.

‘Yeah,’ Harry said.

‘Then you can see that the eclipse is under way. When the moon is completely covered, I’ll slit Alexandra’s throat.’

‘But—’

‘If the astronomers’ calculations are correct, you have... let me see... twenty-two minutes. Just one more thing. I have eyes and ears in many places and if I see or hear that the police have been alerted before you arrive, Alexandra dies. OK, hurry up now.’

‘But—’ Harry stopped and held up the phone to let the others know the connection had been broken.

He checked the time. Helge Forfang had given them just long enough; if they took Ring 3 it wouldn’t take more than five or six minutes to the Forensic Medical Institute at Rikshospitalet.

‘Did you all get that?’ he asked.

‘Part of it,’ Aune said.

‘His name’s Helge Forfang, he works at the Forensic Medical Institute and he’s holding a colleague hostage on the roof. He wants to exchange her for me. We have twenty minutes. We can’t contact the police, if we do there’s a good chance of him discovering it. We need to go there now, but it’s just me and one more.’

‘Then I’m coming,’ Truls said firmly.

‘No,’ Aune said just as firmly.

The others looked at him.

‘You heard him, Harry. He’s going to kill you. That’s why he wants you there. He loves her, but he hates you. He’s not going to negotiate. He might have a tenuous grip on reality, but he knows as well as you or me that nobody gets a reduced sentence by bargaining over a hostage.’

‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘But even you can’t be sure just how deranged he is, Ståle. He might believe that he can.’

‘That seems unlikely, and you’re planning to risk your life on it?’

Harry shrugged. ‘The clock is ticking, gentlemen. And yes, I think an old, washed-up murder detective instead of a young medical research talent is a plus. It’s simple mathematics.’

‘Exactly!’ Aune said. ‘It’s simple mathematics.’

‘Good, we agree. Truls, you ready to go?’

‘We have a problem,’ Øystein said from the window. He was tapping on his phone. ‘I can see the traffic is at a complete standstill on the road down there. Unusual this late in the evening. And checking the NRK travel website here they’re saying Ring 3 is closed due to smoke from a burning house. That means all the smaller roads are chock-a-block, and speaking as a taxi driver, I can guarantee we won’t make it to Rikshospitalet in twenty minutes. Not thirty either.’

The people in the room, Jibran included, looked at one another.

‘Right,’ Harry said. Glanced at his watch. ‘Truls, would you like to abuse your non-existent authority as a policeman?’

‘I’d love to,’ Truls said.

‘Good. Then let’s go down to A&E and commandeer an ambulance with lights and sirens, what do you say?’

‘Sounds fun.’

‘Stop!’ Aune shouted, slamming his fist on the bedside table, upending a plastic cup and sending water spilling onto the floor. ‘Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying?’

Prim heard the sound of the sirens rise and fall out in the darkening night. Soon the whole of the moon would be eaten up and the sky lit only by the yellow lights of the city below. They weren’t police sirens, and neither were they the sirens of the fire engines he had heard earlier in the evening. It was an ambulance. Of course, it could be an ambulance on its way to the Rikshospital but something told him it was Harry Hole announcing his arrival. Prim had opened the bag with the police scanner and had it switched on. It was possible Harry could inform his colleagues without word of it being communicated through the ether, Prim wasn’t the first criminal with access to police frequencies. But something about the peaceful and relaxed atmosphere of the radio traffic told Prim that there were at least not many police in the city who knew what was happening. The most dramatic incident of the evening appeared to be the charred human remains in a burning villa in Gaustad.

Prim had placed his chair right behind Alexandra’s, so they both faced the metal door where the policeman and his companion would make their entrance. He had considered allowing only Harry to come, but he couldn’t rule out needing someone else there to remove her by force if necessary. Now and again the smell of smoke was carried on a puff of wind down from Gaustad, situated only a half-kilometre or so away. Prim didn’t want to breathe it in. Didn’t want any more of Markus Røed inside him. He was done with hate. Now love remained. All right, Her first reaction had been to reject him. No wonder. The way he had blurted everything out had naturally come as a shock to her, and the automatic reaction to shock is flight. She had believed they were just friends! Maybe she had really believed that he was gay. Maybe she had mistaken it for a flirtation of sorts, an excuse for her to invite him out on the town and to parties without any ulterior motive. He had partly played along, thought maybe she needed that excuse, even admitted to having had sex with one man without mentioning his stepfather’s abuse. He and Alexandra had had such a good time! The idea of him loving her needed time to mature, clearly, the business with the diamond ring had been too soon. Yes, love remained. But in order for their love to have a chance to grow, what was keeping it in the shade had to go.

Prim felt the syringe in his inside pocket. After speaking with Harry, Prim had held it up in front of Alexandra and explained. She might not have had enough insight into microbiology to be the ideal audience, but with her background in medicine she was more qualified than the average listener. Qualified enough to understand what a parasitological breakthrough it had been to create parasites that work ten times faster than the older, slower ones. But he couldn’t say he had reaped the anticipated oohs and aahs when he had related how his gondii parasites had penetrated Terry Våge’s brain in under an hour. No doubt she was too frightened to concentrate. She probably believed her life was in danger. And, yes, it might well have been if Harry Hole hadn’t been so predictable. But Hole was going to do exactly as he, Prim, commanded, he belonged to the old school — women and children first. And he was going to get here in time. Prim was finally feeling the joy, the joy that had been so absent when he was boiling his stepfather’s head. Sure, the battle was lost. Alexandra had refused the ring, and Harry Hole had found him out. But the war remained, and that he would win. The first thing to do was to eliminate his rival for good. That was how it worked in the animal kingdom, and we humans are — at the end of the day — animals. Then he would of course have to go to prison. But from there he would teach Her to love him. And she would, because with Harry defeated, she would understand that it was he and not the policeman who was her male. It was that simple. Not banal but simple. Uncomplicated. It was only a question of time.

He looked at the moon.

Only a sliver remained until it was completely covered. But the sirens were approaching, they were close now.

‘Can you hear him on his way to save you?’ Prim ran a finger down the back of Alexandra’s jacket. ‘Does it make you happy? That someone loves you so much they’re willing to die for you? But you must know that I love you more. I’d actually been planning to die, but I decided to live for your sake, and I’d say that’s a greater sacrifice.’

The siren stopped abruptly.

Prim stood up and took the two steps over to the edge of the roof. Yellow cones of light swept across the deserted car park below.

It was an ambulance.

Two people alighted from the vehicle. He recognised Hole by the black suit. The other person was wearing something light blue, resembling hospital attire. Had Hole brought along a nurse or a patient? The detective turned round so his back faced the roof, and although Prim couldn’t make out the handcuffs, he saw the glint of metal from the light of the street lamps. The two people below walked slowly side by side towards the entrance, which was right below Prim.

Prim dropped Alexandra’s Camel packet, watched it fall along the facade and land with a soft smack in front of the two. They gave a start but didn’t look up. The man in the hospital clothes picked up the cigarette pack and opened it. Took out Prim’s ID card and the note where he had written the security code, which floor they were to take the lift to and that the door to the roof was up the stairs to the right.

Prim walked back and sat down on the chair behind Alexandra’s, both of them facing the door ten metres away.

Prim pondered. Was he fearful of what was about to happen? No. He had already killed three women and three men.

But he was nervous. Because it would be his first time physically attacking someone not already reduced to a programmed, predictable robot controlled by the parasites he had infected them with. They had all been tricked into infecting themselves, so to speak. Helene Røed and Terry Våge had drunk it down with alcohol, Susanne and Bertine had snorted it at the party. And the cocaine dealer at Jernbanetorget had also snorted it from Bertine’s snuff bullet. It was on the day they brought in the seizure of green cocaine that he had got the idea. That is to say, he had long since heard the rumours about Markus Røed’s penchant for cocaine and wondered if it could provide a way to introduce the parasite into his body. But it was only when the seizure arrived, coupled with Alexandra telling him a few days previously about the roof party at Røed’s, that he realised what an opportunity this was. The paradox was of course that three other people ingested the cocaine and had to pay for it with their lives before he was finally able to infect his stepfather with his Toxoplasma gondii variant. And then by mixing it with one of the healthiest, most natural and most life-sustaining essentials a person needs. Water. He had to smile when he thought about it. He was the one who had called Krohn to say Markus Røed needed to come to the Forensic Medical Institute to identify the body of his wife. And he had a glass of water waiting for Røed. He could even recall verbatim what he had said to get Røed to drink it before he entered the autopsy room:

‘Experience suggests it can be a good idea to have fluid in the body when we’re dealing with a case such as this.’

The moon was almost consumed, and it had grown even darker when Prim heard slow — very slow — footsteps on the stairs.

He checked again that the syringe in his inside pocket was ready to be used.

The hinges on the metal door shrieked. It opened a crack. A hoarse voice sounded from inside.

‘It’s us.’

Harry Hole’s voice.

A strangled sob escaped Alexandra. Prim felt his anger rise and he leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

‘Don’t move and stay completely still, my love. I want you to live, but if you don’t do as I say, you’ll force me to kill you.’

Prim rose from the chair. Cleared his throat. ‘Do you remember the instructions?’ He heard with satisfaction that his own voice sounded loud and clear.

‘Yeah.’

‘Then come out. Slowly.’

The door opened.

As the figure in the suit stepped backwards over the raised threshold, Prim realised that the eclipse was total. He instinctively glanced up at the moon, vertically above the rooftop entrance. The face of the moon wasn’t black but had taken on a magical red colour. It looked like a pale jellyfish, desaturated, with only enough light for itself and nothing for the people down here.

The figure in the doorway took the first of the agreed eight steps backwards towards Alexandra and Prim, shuffling slowly as though wearing shackles. Like a condemned man to the scaffold, Prim thought. Trying to prolong his pitiful life by a few seconds. He could see the resignation and defeat in the now hunched form. That night Prim had spied on Harry Hole and Alexandra when they had been out and eaten dinner and had seen them walking closely together — like a couple — through the Palace Park, Hole had looked big and strong. The same as the night he had spied on them in the Jealousy Bar. But now it was as though Hole had shrunk to his actual size within his suit. He was sure Alexandra saw the same as him, that the suit tailor-made for the man she believed Harry Hole to be, no longer fitted.

Four paces in front of Hole the other figure backed out with his hands folded behind his head. Did the last of the moonlight glint faintly on something? Had the man in hospital clothes a weapon in his hand? No, it was nothing, a ring on a finger, perhaps.

Hole stopped. It looked like his handcuffed hands behind his back were giving him problems getting to his knees without toppling forward. The man was already behaving like a corpse. Prim waited until the man in hospital clothes also kneeled.

Then he approached Hole and raised his right hand, holding the syringe. Aimed at the pale, almost white, sagging skin on the back of the neck above his shirt collar.

In a second it would be over.

‘No!’ Alexandra screamed behind him.

Prim swung his hand. Harry Hole had no time to react before the tip of the syringe hit his neck and the needle sank in. He jerked but did not turn round. Prim pressed his thumb on the plunger, knew that the job was done, that the parasites were already on their way, that he had given them the shortest route to the brain, that this could go even quicker than with Våge. He saw the other man, the one in the hospital clothes, turn in the gloom. Again, something glimmered faintly in his hand, and Prim saw it now. It wasn’t a ring. It was the finger itself. It was metal.

The man had turned all the way round now. And risen to his feet. Because of the angle it had been difficult to see when they got out of the vehicle that this man was tall, taller than the man in the suit, and when they had backed onto the roof, both of them had been walking hunched over. But Prim realised now that it was him. It was the man in the hospital clothes who was Harry Hole. And now he could see his face too, those bright eyes over a grinning mouth.

Prim reacted as quickly as he could. He had been prepared for them to try and trick him somehow or other. They had wanted to since he was a little boy. That was how it had begun, and it was how it would end. But he wanted to take something with him. Something the policeman wouldn’t get. Her.

Prim had already taken the knife out as he turned to Alexandra. She had got to her feet. He raised the knife to strike. Tried to catch her eye. Tell her she was about to die. His rage rose. Because her gaze was directed over his shoulder, towards that fucking policeman. It was like with Susanne Andersen at the rooftop party, they were always looking for someone better. Well, then Hole could watch her die, the fucking whore.

Alexandra and Harry looked through the window into the autopsy room where Ståle Aune was lying on a bench and Ingrid Aune was sitting on a chair next to him. The Aunes’ house was only a five-minute drive away, and she had come immediately.

Helge Forfang had been driven away by the police and the Crime Scene Unit would soon arrive. Harry had called the duty desk to report a murder without telling them that the victim wasn’t yet dead.

Suddenly Aune let out a coughing laugh inside and raised his voice enough for the words to be audible through the speakers. ‘Yes, yes, I remember it, darling. But I didn’t think you’d be interested in a chap like me. Can I get it now?’

Alexandra took a step forward and switched off the sound.

They looked in at the two of them. Harry had been in the room when Ingrid arrived. Her husband had explained to her that the parasites in his system would likely take effect very quickly, and that he would prefer to win the race. When Aune had said that Harry had offered to do it, Ingrid had shaken her head firmly. She had pointed at one of the bulging veins on Aune’s neck and looked at Harry, who had nodded, handed her the syringe with morphine he had been given by Alexandra and left the room.

They now saw Ingrid wipe her eyes before lifting the syringe.

Harry and Alexandra walked out to the car park and smoked a cigarette together with Øystein.

Two hours later — after questioning and a meeting with the crisis psychologist at Police HQ — Øystein and Harry drove Alexandra home.

‘Unless you’re intent on bankrupting yourself at the Thief, you can stay with me for a while,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll think about it.’

After the funeral, there was a wake at Schrøder’s, according to Ståle’s wishes, with sandwiches and coffee also available. The place was so packed that there was only standing room when they arrived, and Harry and his companions had to hover at the far end by the door to the toilets.

‘Forfang was out for revenge and destroyed everything standing in his way,’ Øystein said. ‘But the newspapers are still writing that he was a serial killer, and he wasn’t, was he? Harry?’

‘Mm. Not in the classic sense. They’re extremely rare.’ Harry took a sip of coffee.

‘How many have you come across?’ Oleg asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’ Truls grunted.

‘After I caught my second serial killer, I began to receive anonymous letters. People challenging me, saying they had killed. Or were going to kill. And that I wouldn’t be able to catch them. Most of them just got their kicks from writing the letters, I presume. But I don’t know if any of them took somebody’s life. Most of the deaths we discover to be murders are cleared up. But maybe they’re good, maybe they make them appear to be natural deaths or accidents.’

‘So they might have outplayed you, is that what you’re saying?’

Harry nodded. ‘Yep.’

An elderly man, clearly a little tipsy, emerged from the toilet. ‘Friends or patients?’ he asked.

Harry smiled. ‘Both.’

‘Easily done,’ the man said, walking into the crowded premises.

‘Plus he saved my life,’ Harry said under his breath. He raised his coffee cup. ‘To Ståle.’

The other three raised their glasses.

‘I was thinking about something,’ Truls said. ‘That saying you came out with, Harry. The one about if you save someone’s life, then you’re responsible for them for the rest of their life...’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said.

‘I checked. That’s no proverb. It was just something they made up in Kung Fu that was supposed to sound like ancient Chinese wisdom. That TV series from the seventies, you know.’

‘The one with David Carradine?’ Øystein asked.

‘Yeah,’ Truls said. ‘Absolute shit.’

‘But in a cool way,’ Øystein said. ‘You should see it,’ he said, nudging Oleg.

‘Really?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘Not really.’

‘OK,’ Øystein said. ‘But if David Carradine said you have responsibility for those you’ve saved, then there’s sure as shit something in it. I mean David Carradine, come on, people!’

Truls scratched his protruding chin. ‘Yeah, OK.’

Katrine came over to them.

‘Sorry I’m only getting here now, had to take a look at a crime scene,’ she said. ‘Seems everyone is here. Even the priest.’

‘The priest?’ Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Wasn’t it him?’ Katrine said. ‘A man in a clerical collar was leaving as I arrived, in any case.’

‘Which crime scene?’ Oleg asked.

‘An apartment in Frogner. The body’s chopped into pieces. The neighbours heard a motorised sound. The wallpaper in the living room looks like it was spray-painted. Listen, Harry, could I have a word in private?’

They withdrew to the table by the window, the one which had once been Harry’s usual spot.

‘Great to see Alexandra is already back at work,’ she said.

‘She’s a tough girl, fortunately,’ Harry said.

‘I hear you’ve invited her to Romeo and Juliet?’

‘Yeah. I got two tickets from Helene Røed. It’s supposed to be good.’

‘Nice. Alexandra is a good woman. I asked her to check on something for me.’

‘OK?’

‘She checked the DNA profile on the saliva we found on Susanne’s breast against the database of known offenders. We didn’t get any hits there, but we know it was a match for Markus Røed.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But the saliva was never checked against the database of unknown offenders, DNA in unsolved cases, that is. After the video where Markus Røed admitted the sexual abuse of a minor came to light, I asked her to run his DNA against that database too. And do you know what came up?’

‘Mm. I can guess.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘The rape of the fourteen-year-old at Tuesdays. What did you call the case again?’

‘The Butterfly case.’ Katrine looked almost a little peeved. ‘How did you...?’

‘Røed and Krohn claimed they were unwilling to provide a DNA sample because to do so would be to admit there were grounds for suspicion. But I suppose I guessed Røed had another reason. He knew you had DNA in the form of semen from the rape.’

Katrine nodded. ‘You’re good, Harry.’

He shook his head. ‘If I were I would have solved this case long ago. I was wrong every step of the way.’

‘So you say, but I happen to know there are other people who rate you as well.’

‘OK.’

‘And it’s these others I’d like to talk to you about. There’s a vacancy in Crime Squad. We’d all like you to apply for it.’

‘We?’

‘Bodil Melling and me.’

‘That’s “both”, you said “all”.’

‘Mikael Bellman has mentioned it might be a good idea. That we could create a special position. A freer role. You could even start with this murder in Frogner.’

‘Any suspects?’

‘The victim had a long-standing inheritance dispute with his brother. The brother is being questioned right now, but he has an alibi apparently.’

She studied Harry’s face. The blue irises she had gazed into, the soft mouth she had once kissed, the sharp features, the sabre-shaped scar running from the corner of his mouth up to his ear. She tried to interpret his look, the changes in his facial expression, the way he pulled his shoulders back, like a large bird before it flies away. Katrine considered herself adept at reading people, and some men — like Bjørn — she felt were like an open book. But Harry was and remained a mystery to her. And to himself, she suspected.

‘Give my regards and say thanks,’ he said. ‘But no thanks.’

‘Why not?’

Harry gave a wry smile. ‘I’ve realised during this case that I’m only good for one thing, and that’s catching serial killers. Real ones. Statistically, you’ll pass a serial killer on the street just seven times in the course of a lifetime. In which case I’ve used up mine. There aren’t going to be any more turning up.’