'Harry, now I'm getting tired of reminding—'
'Think! This is important.'
'My God, I didn't say anything, I'm telling you. I…yes, I played a recorded message Arne left on the answerphone two days ago. Then they left.'
'You said you hadn't talked to him.'
'I haven't. He just said he'd picked up Gregor. And that was true. I could hear Gregor barking in the background.'
'Where was he ringing from?
'How should I know?'
'At any rate, your visitors knew. This is a matter of…' Harry tried to think of another way of saying it, but gave up: '…life or death.'
* * *
There was a lot Harry didn't know about roads and communication. He didn't know that calculations had shown that the building of two tunnels in Vinterbro and the extension of the motorway would reduce rush-hour congestion on the E6 south of Oslo. He didn't know that the crucial argument in favour of this billion-kroner investment had not been the voters who commuted between Moss and Drřbak, but traffic safety. The road authorities used a formula to calculate the social benefit, based on an evaluation of one human life at 20.4 million kroner, which included ambulances, re-routing of traffic and future loss of tax income. Heading south on the E6 in Řystein's Mercedes, bumper to bumper, Harry didn't even know what value he placed on Arne Albu's life. He certainly didn't know what could be gained by saving it. All he knew was that he couldn't afford to lose what he risked losing. Not under any circumstances. So it didn't do to think too much.
The recorded message Vigdis Albu had played him over the telephone had lasted five seconds and contained only one valuable piece of information. It was enough. There was nothing in the ten short words Arne Albu said before ringing off: I took Gregor with me. Just so that you know.
It wasn't Gregor's frenetic barking in the background.
It was the cold screams. The seagulls.
It was dark when the sign for the Larkollen turn-off appeared.
* * *
Outside the chalet was a Jeep Cherokee, but Harry continued up to the turnaround. No blue BMW there. He parked immediately beneath the chalet. There was no point trying to sneak in; he had already heard the barking when he rolled down the window on the way in.
Harry was conscious that he should have taken a gun with him. Not that there was any reason to assume Arne Albu was armed; he couldn't know that someone craved his life–or to be more precise, his death. But they weren't the only actors in this drama any more.
Harry got out of the car. He couldn't see or hear any gulls now–perhaps they only make noises in daylight, he mused.
Gregor was chained to the railing by the front steps. His teeth glittered in the moonlight, sending cold shivers down Harry's still-sore neck, but he forced himself to approach the baying dog with long, slow strides.
'Do you remember me?' Harry whispered when he was so close he could touch the dog's grey breath. The taut chain quivered behind Gregor. Harry crouched down and, to his surprise, the barking subsided. The rasping sound suggested it had been going on for quite some time. Gregor pushed his front paws forward, lowered his head and completely stopped. Harry held the door handle. It was locked. Could he hear a voice inside? A light was on in the living room.
'Arne Albu!'
No answer.
Harry waited and tried again.
The key wasn't in the lamp. So he found a suitably large stone, climbed over the veranda railing, smashed one of the small panes in the veranda door, reached his hand through and opened the door.
There was no sign of a fight in the room. More a hasty departure. A book lay open on the table. Harry lifted it up. Shakespeare's Macbeth. One line of the text had been ringed with a blue pen. I have no words; my voice is in my sword. He scanned the room but he couldn't see a pen anywhere.
Only the bed in the smallest bedroom had been used. There was a copy of a men's magazine on the bedside table.
A small radio, more or less tuned in to P4 news, babbled quietly away in the kitchen. Harry switched it off. On the worktop was a thawed entrecote steak and broccoli still encased in plastic. Harry took the meat and went to the porch. The dog was scratching at the door and he opened up. A pair of brown puppy-dog eyes stared up at him. Or, to be more accurate, at the entrecote, which had hardly landed with a splat on the step before it was ripped to pieces.
Harry observed the ravenous dog while pondering what to do. If there was anything he could do. Arne Albu didn't read Shakespeare, that much was certain.
When the last scrap of meat was gone, Gregor began to bark with renewed vigour towards the road. Harry walked over to the railing, loosened the chain and just managed to stay on his feet on the wet surface as Gregor tore loose. The dog dragged him down the path, across the road and down the steep incline where Harry could see black waves crashing onto smooth rocks gleaming white in the light of the half-moon. They waded through tall, wet grass which clung to Harry's legs as if it didn't want to let them go, but Gregor didn't stop until pebbles and sand crunched beneath Harry's Doc Martens. Gregor's rounded stump of a tail pointed upwards. They were standing on the beach. It was high tide; the waves almost reached the rigid grass and bubbled as if there was carbon dioxide in the foam left on the sand as the water retreated. Gregor began to bark again.