Bjarne Møller knew he was a competent police officer, but this was a different game, and he didn’t know the rules. What would his father have advised him to do? Well, Officer Møller had never had to deal with politics, but he had known what was important if he was to be taken at all seriously and had forbidden his son to start Police College until he had completed the first part of a law course. He had done as his father said, and after the graduation ceremony his father had kept clearing his throat, overcome with emotion, while slapping his son on the back until he’d had to ask him to stop.
“A great suggestion,” Bjarne Møller heard himself say in a loud, clear voice.
“Good,” Torhus said. “The reason we wanted an opinion so quickly is that, of course, all this is urgent. He’ll have to drop everything he’s working on; he’s leaving tomorrow.”
Well, perhaps it’s just the sort of job Harry needs right now, Møller hoped.
“Sorry we have to deprive you of such an important man,” Askildsen said.
PAS Bjarne Møller had to stop himself bursting into laughter.
3
Wednesday, January 8
They found him at Schrøder’s in Waldemar Thranes gate, a venerable old watering hole located at the crossroads where Oslo East meets Oslo West. It was more old than venerable, to be honest. The venerable part was largely down to the authorities’ decision to put a preservation order on the smoke-filled brown rooms. But the order did not include the clientele: old boozers, a hunted and extinction-threatened bunch; eternal students; and jaded charmers long past their sell-by date.
The two officers spotted their man sitting under a painting of Aker Church as the draft from the door allowed a brief glimpse through the curtain of smoke. His blond hair was cropped so short the bristles stood up straight and the three-day beard on the lean, marked face had a streak of gray even though he could hardly be older than his mid-thirties. He sat alone, straight-backed, wearing his reefer jacket, as if about to leave any minute. As if the beer in front of him on the table was not a source of pleasure but a job that had to be done.
“They said we would find you here,” said the older of the two and sat down opposite him. “I’m Waaler.”
“See the guy sitting in the corner?” Hole said without looking up.
Waaler turned and saw a scrawny old man gazing into his glass of red wine while rocking backward and forward. He seemed to be freezing cold.
“They call him the last Mohican.”
Hole raised his head and beamed. His eyes were like blue-and-white marbles behind a network of red veins, and they focused on Waaler’s shirt.
“Merchant seaman,” he said, his diction meticulous. “Used to be lots of them here a few years back apparently, but now there are hardly any left. He was torpedoed twice during the war. He thinks he’s immortal. Last week, after closing time, I found him sleeping in a snowdrift down in Glückstadsgata. The streets were empty, it was pitch-black and minus eighteen. When I’d shaken some life into him he just looked at me and told me to go to hell.” He laughed.
“Listen, Hole—”
“I went over to his table last night and asked if he remembered what had happened—I mean, that I’d saved him from freezing to death. Do you know what he said?”
“Møller wants to see you, Hole.”
“He said he was immortal. ‘I can put up with being an unwanted merchant seaman in this shit country,’ he said. ‘But it’s a sorry business when even St. Peter doesn’t want anything to do with me.’ Did you hear? ‘Even St. Peter’—”
“We’ve got orders to take you to the station.”
Another beer landed on the table in front of Hole with a thud.
“Let’s settle up now, Rita,” he said.
“Two hundred and eighty,” she answered without needing to check her slips of paper.
“Jesus Christ,” mumbled the younger officer.
“That’s fine, Rita.”
“Oh, thanks.” She was gone.
“Best service in town,” Harry explained. “Sometimes she can spot you even when you haven’t been waving both arms in the air.”
The skin on Waaler’s forehead tightened and a blood vessel appeared, like a blue, knobbly worm.
“We haven’t got the time to sit here and listen to your drunken ramblings, Hole. I suggest you give the last beer a miss …”
Hole had already put the glass carefully to his lips and started drinking.
Waaler leaned forward and tried to keep his voice low. “I know about you, Hole. And I don’t like you. I think you should have been booted out of the force years ago. Guys like you make people lose respect for the police. But that’s not why we’re here now. We’ve come to take you with us. The PAS is a nice man. Perhaps he’ll give you another chance.”