Ivarsson cleared his throat, but Raskol continued regardless.
'At first, the ink is invisible. It becomes visible when put on paper. In the dye cartridge there are red particles which perform a chemical reaction when they come into contact with the paper of banknotes and this makes it impossible to remove. The money will be forever marked as robbery money.'
'I know how a dye cartridge works,' Ivarsson said. 'I would rather know—'
'Patience, dear Politiavdelingssjef. The fascinating thing about this technology is that it is extremely simple. So simple that I could make a dye cartridge myself, put it wherever I liked and make it explode at a certain distance from the receiver. All the equipment required would fit into a lunch box.'
Weber had stopped taking notes.
'But the principle of the cartridge is not the technology, PAS Ivarsson. The principle is incrimination.' Raskol's face lit up into a huge smile. 'The ink also attaches itself to the clothes and skin of the robber. And the ink is so strong that once it is on your hands you will never be able to wash it off. Pontius Pilate and Judas, right? Blood on his hands. Blood money. The agony of the arbiter. The punishment of the informer.'
Raskol dropped the ink cartridge on the floor behind the table and while he bent to pick it up, Ivarsson signalled to Weber that he wanted the notebook.
'I would like you to write the name of the person in the photos,' Ivarsson said and put the pad on the table. 'As I said, we are not here to play games.'
'Not to play games, no,' Raskol said, slowly screwing the pen together. 'I promised I would give you the name of the man who took the money, didn't I?'
'That was the agreement, yes.' Ivarsson said. He leaned over as Raskol started to write.
'We Xoraxans know what an agreement is,' he said. 'I'm not just writing his name, but also the prostitute he uses regularly and the man he contacted to shatter the knee of a young man who recently broke his daughter's heart. The person in question refused the job by the way.'
'Ah…excellent.' Ivarsson turned quickly to Weber and gave an excited grin.
'Here.' Raskol handed the pad and pen to Ivarsson, who hurriedly read the note.
The elated smile died. 'But…' he stammered. 'Helge Klementsen. He's the branch manager.' A light of illumination revealed itself to him. 'Is he involved?'
'Very much so,' Raskol said. 'He took the money, didn't he?'
'And put it in the robber's holdall,' came Weber's deep growl from the door.
Ivarsson's expression slowly changed from questioning to furious. 'What is this twaddle? You promised to help me.'
Raskol studied the long, pointed nail of the little finger on his right hand. Then he nodded gravely, leaned over the table and waved Ivarsson closer. 'You're right,' he whispered. 'Here's a tip. Learn what life is about. Sit down and observe your child. It isn't easy to find the things you've lost, but it is possible.' He patted the PAS on the back and motioned towards the chessboard. 'Your turn, Politiavdelingssjef.'
* * *
Ivarsson was fuming with anger as he and Weber traipsed through the Culvert, a three-hundred-metre-long underground tunnel connecting Botsen prison with Police HQ.
'I trusted one of the race who discovered lying!' hissed Ivarsson. 'I trusted a bloody gypsy!' The echo ricocheted along the brick walls. Weber was racing along; he wanted to get out of the cold, damp tunnel. The Culvert was used to transport prisoners to and from questioning at Police HQ, and many were the rumours circulating about what had happened down here.
Ivarsson pulled his suit jacket tighter around him and stepped out. 'Promise me one thing, Weber: you won't breathe a word of this to anyone. Alright?' He turned towards Weber with a raised eyebrow: 'Well?'
The answer to Ivarsson's question was a qualified 'yes' inasmuch as they had just reached the point in the Culvert where the walls are painted orange and Weber heard a little 'pooff' sound. Ivarsson let out a terrified scream and fell to his knees in a pool of water, holding his chest.
Weber spun round and looked up and down the tunnel. No one. Then he turned back to the PAS, who was staring at his red-stained hand.
'I'm bleeding,' he groaned. 'I'm dying.'
Weber could see Ivarsson's eyes growing in his head.
'What is it?' Ivarsson asked, his voice tremulous with fear as he looked into Weber's open-mouthed stare.
'You'll have to go to the dry cleaner's,' Weber said.
Ivarsson cast his eyes downwards. The red dye had spread across the whole of his shirt front and parts of the lime-green jacket.
'Red ink,' Weber said.
Ivarsson pulled out the remains of the Den norske Bank pen. The micro-explosion had sheered it down the middle. He stayed on his knees with his eyes closed until his breathing was normal again. Then he fixed his eyes on Weber.