'Violence?'
'He used a gun in one of the robberies. It wasn't fired, but it was loaded.'
'Perfect. He's our man. You're an angel. What's his name?'
'Alf Gunnerud. Thirty years old, single. Thor Olsens gate 9. Seems to live on his own.'
'Repeat the name and address.'
Beate did.
'Mm. Incredible that Gunnerud got a job at a locksmith's with a record like that.'
'Birger Gunnerud is listed as the owner.'
'Right. I see. Sure everything's alright?'
Silence.
'Beate?'
'Everything's OK, Harry. What are you going to do?'
'I was thinking of paying a visit to his flat. See if I can find anything of interest. If I do, I'll ring you from his flat so you can send a car and impound the evidence according to regulations.'
'When are you going?'
'Why?'
Another silence.
'To be sure I'm in when you phone.'
'Eleven tomorrow. I hope he'll be at work then.'
When Harry rang off, he stood gazing at the cloudy night sky arching over the town like a yellow dome. He had heard the music in the background. Barely, but it was enough. Prince's 'Purple Rain'.
He shoved a coin in the slot and dialled 1881.
'I need the number for one Alf Gunnerud…'
* * *
The taxi glided like a silent black fish through the night, through the traffic lights, beneath the street lighting and the sign indicating the city centre.
'We can't keep meeting like this,' Řystein said. He looked into the mirror and watched Harry put on the black jumper he had brought him from home.
'Got the crowbar?' Harry asked.
'It's in the boot. What if the john's at home?'
'People at home generally answer the phone.'
'But what if he comes home while you're in his flat?'
'Then do what I said: two short hoots.'
'Alright, alright, but I don't know what the guy looks like.'
'About thirty, I said. See anyone like that going into number 9, you honk your horn.'
* * *
Řystein pulled over by a NO PARKING sign in the polluted, traffic-congested twisted bowel of a street which is referred to a dusty book called City Fathers IV in the neighbouring public library as 'the extremely dull, unsightly street bearing the name Thor Olsens gate'. But it suited Harry down to the ground that night. The noise, passing cars and the darkness would camouflage him and the waiting taxi.
Harry slipped the crowbar down the sleeve of his leather jacket and quickly crossed the street. To his relief he saw there were at least twenty bells outside number 9. That would give him a good many alternatives if his bluff didn't work at first. Alf Gunnerud's name was second down on the right. He looked up at the right-hand side of the building. The windows on the fourth floor were unlit. Harry rang the ground-floor bell. A woman's sleepy voice answered.
'Hi, I'm trying to contact Alf,' Harry said. 'But they're playing their music so loud they can't hear the bell. Alf Gunnerud, that is. The locksmith on the fourth. You couldn't open up for me, could you?'
'It's past midnight.'
'I apologise. I'll make sure Alf keeps the music down.'
Harry waited. The buzz came.
He took three steps at a time. On the fourth floor he stood and listened, but could only hear his pounding heart. There were two doors to choose between. A grey piece of cardboard with ANDERSEN written in felt pen had been glued to one door. The other was bare.
This was the most critical part of the plan. A single lock could probably be bent open without waking the whole block, but if Alf had used a barrage of locks from Lĺsesmeden AS, Harry had a problem. He scanned the door from top to bottom. No stickers from a security service or central switchboard. No drill-proof security locks. No burglar-proof twin cylinders with double pins. Just an old Yale cylinder lock. Piece of cake.
Harry lifted the sleeve of his jacket and caught the crowbar as it came out. He hesitated before inserting the tip inside the door under the lock. It was almost too easy. No time to think, though, and no choice. He didn't break open the door, he forced the door towards the hinges so that he could slip Řystein's bank card inside the latch and the deadlock slid out of the box in the door frame. He applied pressure, to push the door out a tiny bit, and put the sole of his foot against the bottom edge. The door creaked on its hinges as he gave the crowbar a nudge and pushed the card through. He slipped inside and closed the door after him. The whole operation had taken eight seconds.
The hum of a refrigerator and sitcom laughter from a neighbour's TV. Harry tried to breathe deeply and evenly as he listened to the total darkness. He could hear cars outside and felt a cold draught, indicating that the windows in the flat were old. But most important: no noises to suggest anyone was at home.