Nemesis(23)

'Nothing,' Aune said with a sardonic smile.





'Eh?'





'They never found a knife.'





'I thought you said you were locked in his cell.'





'Have you ever been lying on your stomach on the beach and your chums tell you to lie still because they are holding red hot coals over your back? And then you hear someone say whoops and the next second you can feel the coals burning your back?'





Harry's brain sorted through his holiday memories. It didn't take long. 'No.'





'And it turned out it was a trick; it was just ice cubes?'





'And?'





Aune sighed. 'Now and then I wonder how you've spent the thirty-five years you maintain you've been alive, Harry.'





Harry ran a hand across his face. He was tired. 'OK, Aune, what's your point?'





'My point is that a good manipulator can make you believe that the edge of a hundred-kroner note is the edge of a knife.'





* * *





The blonde looked Harry straight in the eye and promised him sun although it would cloud over in the course of the day. Harry pressed the OFF button and the picture shrank into a small luminous dot in the centre of the 14-inch screen. When he closed his eyes, however, it was the image of Stine Grette which remained on his retina, and he heard the echo of the reporter's '…the police have no suspects in the case so far'.





He opened his eyes again and studied the reflection in the dead screen. Himself, the old green wing chair from Elevator and the bare coffee table, embellished with glass and bottle rings. Everything was the same. The portable TV had stood on the shelf between the Lonely Planet guide to Thailand and a Norwegian road atlas for as long as he had lived here, and it hadn't travelled one metre for several years. He had read about the Seven Year Itch and how people typically began to long for somewhere new to live. Or a new job. Or a new partner. He hadn't noticed anything, and he had had the same job for almost ten years. Harry looked at his watch. Eight o'clock, Anna had said.





As far as partners were concerned, his relationships had never lasted long enough for him to test the theory. Apart from the two which might have lasted that long, Harry's romances had terminated because of what he called the Six Week Itch. Whether his reluctance to get involved was due to his being rewarded with tragedies on the two occasions he had loved a woman, he didn't know. Or should his two unswerving loves–murder investigations and alcohol–bear the blame? At any rate, before he met Rakel two years ago, he had begun to lean towards the view that he wasn't cut out for long-term relationships. He thought of her large, cool bedroom in Holmenkollen. The coded grunts they made at the breakfast table. Oleg's drawing on the refrigerator door, three people holding hands, one of whom was a towering figure, as high as the yellow sun in the clear blue sky, with HARY written underneath.





Harry got up from the chair, found the slip of paper with her telephone number on beside the answerphone and tapped the number into his mobile. It rang four times before there was an answer at the other end.





'Hi, Harry.'





'Hi. How did you know it was me?'





A low, deep laugh. 'Where have you been these last years, Harry?'





'Here. And there. Why's that? Have I said something stupid again?'





She laughed even louder.





'Aha, you can see my number on the display. How stupid I am.'





Harry could hear how lame he sounded, but it didn't matter. The most important thing was to say what he had to and ring off. End of story. 'Listen, Anna, about that date of ours this evening…'





'Don't be childish, Harry!'





'Childish?'





'I'm in the process of making the curry of the millennium. And if you're frightened I'm going to seduce you, I have to disappoint you. I just think we owe each other a couple of hours over a dinner to chat. Remember old times. Clear up a few misunderstandings. Or perhaps not. Maybe have a laugh. Can you remember japone chilli?'





'Well, yes.'





'Great. Eight sharp then, OK?'





'Well…'





'Good.'





Harry stood staring at the phone.





8

Jalalabad





'I'M GOING TO KILL YOU SOON,' HARRY SAID, SQUEEZING harder on the cold steel of the gun. 'I just want you to know first. Let you think about it. Mouth open!'





Harry was talking to wax dolls. Immobile, soulless, dehumanised. Harry was sweating inside the mask now and the blood was throbbing in his temples, each throb leaving a dull pain. He didn't want to see people around him, didn't want to meet their accusatory eyes.





'Put the money in a bag,' he said to the faceless person in front of him. 'And put the bag above your head.'





The faceless one began to laugh, and Harry turned the gun round to hit him over the head with the butt, but missed. Now the others in the bank started to laugh and Harry observed them through the unevenly cut holes in the mask. They suddenly seemed familiar. The girl by the second counter resembled Birgitta. And he would swear the coloured man by the ticket dispenser was Andrew. And the white-haired lady with the pram…