The fact that Harry's suspect was dead now naturally meant that a number of alternative solutions were on the cards. Waaler wasn't sure which, but as his instincts told him Harry Hole was involved, he was interested in finding out. So when Vigdis Albu asked Waaler if he would like to come in for a cup of coffee it wasn't primarily the titillating thought of fresh widow that attracted him. This could be the chance to shake off the man who had been breathing down his neck for–how long was it now? Over a year?
* * *
Over a year, yes, indeed. Over a year since Officer Ellen Gjelten–thanks to one of Sverre Olsen's blunders–had discovered that Tom Waaler was the main man behind the organised arms smuggling in Oslo. When he gave Olsen the order to execute her before she passed on what she knew, he had been all too aware that Hole would never give up until he had found who killed her. So he had made sure Olsen's cap was found at the crime scene, so that he could shoot the murder suspect 'in self-defence' while arresting him. There was nothing to incriminate him, yet Waaler had the strangely unpleasant sensation that Hole was closing in. And he could be dangerous.
'The house is so empty when everyone is away,' Vigdis Albu said, unlocking the door.
'How long have you been…er…alone?' Waaler asked, as he followed her up the steps to the living room. He still liked what he saw.
'The children are with my parents in Nordby. The idea was they would stay there until things were back to normal.' She sighed and sank down into one of the deep armchairs. 'I must have a drink. Then I'd better call them.'
Tom Waaler stood observing her. She had ruined everything with what she had just said. The little tingle of excitement he had felt was gone. She suddenly looked much older. Perhaps it was because the effect of the alcohol was wearing off. It had smoothed out the wrinkles and softened her mouth, which hardened now into a crooked, pink fissure.
'Sit down, Tom. I'll make us some coffee.'
He dropped into the sofa as Vigdis disappeared into the kitchen. He spread his legs and noticed a faded stain on the material. It reminded him of the stain on his sofa, left by menstrual blood.
He smiled at the thought.
The thought of Beate Lřnn.
Sweet, innocent Beate Lřnn, who had sat on the opposite side of the coffee table and swallowed every word he had said as if they were sugar lumps in her café latte, the little girl's drink. I think it's crucial to have the courage to be yourself. The most important thing in a relationship is honesty, don't you think? It was difficult to know where to pitch your selection of pseudo-profound clichés with young girls, but he had obviously hit the bullseye with Beate. She had docilely followed him home after he had concocted a drink for her which was anything but a young girl's.
He had to laugh. Even the day after, Beate Lřnn had thought her blackout was due to tiredness, and the fact that the drink had been stronger than she was used to. Getting the dose right was everything.
The best bit had been when he went into the living room in the morning and she was rubbing a wet cloth over the sofa where, the evening before, they had done the basics before she passed out and the real fun had started.
'I'm sorry,' she said, close to tears. 'I've only just seen it. It's so embarrassing. I didn't think I was due until next week.'
'Doesn't matter,' he had answered and patted her cheek. 'As long as you do your best to get the shit off.'
Then he had had to dart into the kitchen. He had turned on the tap and clattered the refrigerator door to drown his laughter. As Beate Lřnn scrubbed at the bloodstain left by Linda. Or was it Karen?
Vigdis called from the kitchen. 'Do you have milk in your coffee, Tom?' Her voice sounded hard; there was an Oslo West End edge to it. Anyway, he had discovered what he needed.
'I've just remembered I have a meeting in town,' he said. He turned and saw her standing in the kitchen doorway with two coffee cups and large, surprised eyes. As if he had slapped her. He lingered on the thought.
'You need time to yourself,' he said, getting up. 'I know. I've recently lost a close friend, as I said.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' Vigdis said, perplexed. 'I didn't even ask who it was.'
'Her name was Ellen. A colleague. I liked her very much.' Tom Waaler tilted his head to the side and watched Vigdis, who responded with a tentative smile.
'What are you thinking about?' she asked.
'I might pop by one day and see how you're getting on.' He sent her an extra warm smile, his best David Hasselhoff, and thought what a chaotic world it would be if people could read each others' minds.
33
Dysosmia