'So, he hasn't said a lot so far?'
'Nothing of any import to the investigation, no. But the tone has been positive.'
'So positive that I see the police are helping to carry his kin to her resting place?'
'The priest asked if Li or I would be one of the bearers to make the numbers up. That's OK, we're here to keep an eye on him anyway. And we will continue. To keep an eye on him, that is.'
Harry squinted into the piercing autumn sun.
Ivarsson turned towards him. 'Let me make one thing clear, Hole. No one is allowed to speak to Raskol until we've finished with him. No one. For three years I've tried to make a deal with the man who knows everything. And now I have it. No one will be allowed to screw up. Do you understand what I'm saying?'
'Tell me, Ivarsson, since we're having a tęte-ŕ-tęte here,' Harry said, plucking a flake of tobacco from his mouth. 'Has this case turned into a competition between you and me?'
Ivarsson raised his face to the sun and chuckled. 'Do you know what I would have done if I were you?' he said with closed eyes.
'What's that?' Harry said when the silence was no longer tolerable.
'I would have sent my suit to the dry cleaner's. You look as if you've been lying in a rubbish tip.' He put two fingers to his brow. 'Have a good day.'
Harry stood alone on the steps smoking as he watched the uneven passage of the white coffin along the pavement.
* * *
Halvorsen spun round on his chair when Harry came in.
'Great you're here. I've got some good news. I…shit, what a smell!'
Halvorsen held his nose and said with shipping forecast intonation: 'What happened to your suit?'
'Slipped in a rubbish skip. What's the news?'
'Ooh…yes, I thought the photo might have been of a holiday area in Sřrland, so I e-mailed it to all the police stations in Aust-Agder. And, bingo, an officer from Risřr rang straight away to say he knew the beach well. But do you know what?'
'Er, no, actually.'
'It wasn't in Sřrland, but in Larkollen!'
Halvorsen looked at Harry with an expectant grin and added, when Harry failed to react: 'In Řstfold. Outside Moss.'
'I know where Larkollen is, Halvorsen.'
'Yes, but this officer comes from—'
'People from Sřrland go on holiday, too. Did you ring Larkollen?'
Halvorsen rolled his eyes in desperation. 'Yes, of course. I rang the camping site and two places where they rent chalets. And the only two grocery shops.'
'Any luck?'
'Yep.' Halvorsen beamed again. 'I faxed the photo and one of the guys running the grocery shop knew who she was. They've got one of the most fantastic chalets in the area. He drives deliveries up there now and then.'
'And the lady's name is?'
'Vigdis Albu?'
'Albu? Elbow?'
'Yep. There are just two of them in Norway. One was born in 1909. The other is forty-three years old and lives at Bjřrnetrĺkket 12 in Slemdal with Arne Albu. And hey presto–here's the telephone number, boss.'
'Don't call me that,' Harry said, grabbing the telephone.
Halvorsen groaned. 'What's up? Are you in a bad mood or something?'
'Yes, but that's not why. Mřller is the boss. I'm not a boss, OK?'
Halvorsen was about to say something when Harry imperiously held up a hand: 'Fru Albu?'
* * *
Someone had needed a lot of time, money and space to build the Albus' house. And a lot of taste. Or as Harry saw it: a lot of bad taste. It looked as if the architect–if such there were–had tried to fuse Norwegian chalet tradition with Southern US plantation style and a dash of pink suburban bliss. Harry's feet sank in the shingle drive leading past a trim garden of ornamental shrubs and a little bronze hart drinking from a fountain. On the ridge of the garage roof there was an oval copper sign emblazoned with a blue flag containing a yellow triangle on a black triangle.
The sound of a dog barking furiously came from behind the house. Harry walked up the broad steps between the pillars, rang the bell and half-expected to be met by a black mama in a white apron.
'Hello,' she twittered at roughly the same time as the door was flung open. Vigdis Albu was the image of one of those women off the fitness adverts Harry occasionally saw on TV when he came home at night. She had the same white smile, bleached Barbie hair and a firm, well-toned, upper-class body packed into running tights and a skimpy top. And she'd had a boob job, but at least she'd had the sense not to exaggerate the size.
'Harry—'
'Come in!' She smiled with the merest suggestion of wrinkles around her large, blue, discreetly made-up eyes.
Harry stepped into a large hallway populated with fat, ugly, carved wooden trolls reaching up to his hips.