Nemesis(37)

'Just made it,' said Elmer, a thin, bald man of sixty with a beard and a Nordland accent.





'Wow, that was sudden,' Halvorsen said, brushing the rain off his shoulders.





'Typical Oslo autumn,' the northerner said in his acquired bokmĺl. 'Either a drought or a deluge. Twenty Camel?'





Harry nodded and took out his wallet.





'And two scratch cards for the young officer?' Elmer held out the scratch cards to Halvorsen, who gave him a broad smile and quickly pocketed them.





'Is it alright if I light up in here, Elmer?' Harry asked, peering out into the downpour, which was lashing the now deserted pavements outside the dirty window.





'By all means,' Elmer said, giving them their change. 'Poisons and gambling are my bread and butter.'





He bent down and went out through a crooked brown curtain behind which they could hear a coffee machine gurgling.





'Here's the photo,' Harry said. 'I'd just like you to find out who the woman is.'





'Just?' Halvorsen looked at the dog-eared, grainy photograph Harry passed him.





'Start by finding out where the photo was taken,' Harry said and had a severe coughing fit when he tried to hold the smoke in his lungs. 'Looks like a holiday area. If it is, there must be a small grocer's or someone who rents out chalets, that sort of thing. If the family in the photo are regular visitors, someone working there knows who they are. When you know that, leave the rest to me.'





'All of this is because the photo was in the shoe?'





'It's not the usual place to keep photos, is it now?'





Halvorsen shrugged and walked into the street.





'It's not stopping,' Harry said.





'I know, but I have to get home.'





'What for?'





'For something called a life. Nothing that would interest you.'





Harry imitated a smile to show that he understood it was meant to be a witticism. 'Enjoy yourself.'





The bells rang and the door slammed behind Halvorsen. Harry sucked at his cigarette and, while studying Elmer's selection of reading matter, he was struck by how few interests he shared with the average Norwegian man. Was it because he no longer had any? Music, yes, but no one had done anything good in the last ten years, not even his old heroes. Films? If he came out of a cinema nowadays without feeling he had been lobotomised, he counted himself as fortunate. Nothing else. In other words, the only thing he was still interested in was finding people and locking them up. And not even that made his heart beat like before. The spooky thing was, Harry mused, laying a hand on Elmer's cold, smooth counter, that this state didn't bother him in the slightest. The fact that he had capitulated. It simply felt liberating to be older.





The bells rang furiously again.





'I forgot to tell you about the guy we pulled in for illegally possessing a weapon last night,' Halvorsen said. 'Roy Kinnsvik, one of the skinheads in Herbert's Pizza.' He stood in the doorway with the rain dancing around his wet shoes.





'Mm?'





'He was obviously frightened, so I told him to give me something I needed and I would let him off.'





'And?'





'He said he saw Sverre Olsen in Grünerlřkka the night Ellen was killed.'





'So what? We've got several witnesses who can confirm that.'





'Yes, but this guy saw Olsen sitting and chatting with someone in a car.'





Harry's cigarette fell to the ground. He ignored it.





'Did he know who it was?' he asked slowly.





Halvorsen shook his head. 'No, he only recognised Olsen.'





'Did you get a description?'





'He could only remember he thought the person looked like a policeman. But he said he would probably recognise him again.'





Harry could feel himself getting warm under his coat and articulated each word with care: 'Could he say what car it was?'





'No, he had just rushed by.'





Harry nodded, running his hand up and down the counter.





Halvorsen cleared his throat: 'But he thought it was a sports car.'





Harry noticed the cigarette smoking on the ground. 'Colour?'





Halvorsen showed one upturned palm in apology.





'Was it red?' Harry asked in a low, thick voice.





'What did you say?'





Harry straightened up. 'Nothing. Remember the name. And go home to your life.'





The bells jingled.





Harry stopped stroking the counter, but held his hand there. All of a sudden it felt like cold marble.





* * *





Astrid Monsen was forty-five years old and made her living by translating French literature in the study of her flat in Sorgenfrigata. She didn't have a man in her life, but she had a tape loop of a dog barking, which she put on at night. Harry heard her steps and at least three locks being released behind the door before it opened a fraction and a small, freckled face peered out from beneath black curls.