'This won't be easy,' Halvorsen declared once they had taken a closer look at the solid lock on the outside door. He had hung his cap on a wrought-iron light above the heavy oak door.
'Mm. You'll just have to get stuck in.' Harry lit a cigarette. 'I'll go and have a quick recce in the meantime.'
'Why is it you're suddenly smoking so much more than before?' Halvorsen asked, opening the case.
Harry stood still for a moment and let his eyes drift towards the forest. 'To give you a chance to beat me at cycling one day.'
* * *
Pitch-black logs, solid windows. Everything about the chalet seemed sturdy and impenetrable. Harry wondered if it would be possible to get in through the impressive stone chimney, but rejected the idea. He walked down the path. The rain of recent days had churned it up, but he could easily imagine the small feet and bare legs of children running down a sun-baked path in the summer, on their way to the beach behind the sea-smoothed rocks. He stopped and closed his eyes. Until the sounds came. The buzz of insects, the swish of the tall grass rippling in the breeze, a distant radio and a song floating to and fro on the wind and children's gleeful shouts from the beach. He had been ten years old and gingerly making his way to the shop to buy milk and bread. The small stones had buried themselves in the soles of his feet, but he had clenched his teeth because he had made up his mind to harden his feet that summer so as to run barefoot with Řystein when he returned home. As he walked back, the heavy shopping bag had seemed to press him deeper into the gravel path; it felt as if he had been walking on glowing coals. He had focused his attention on something a little way ahead–a large stone or a leaf–and told himself he only had to get there, it wasn't that far. When he finally did arrive home, one and a half hours later, the milk was off and his mother angry. Harry opened his eyes. Grey clouds were scurrying across the sky.
He found car tracks in the brown grass beside the path. The deep, rough prints suggested it had been a heavy vehicle with off-road tyres, a Land Rover or something similar. With all the rain that had fallen in recent weeks, the tracks couldn't have been that old. A couple of days at most.
He scouted around, thinking there was nothing quite as desolate as summer resorts in autumn. On his way up to the chalet again, Harry nodded to the gull.
Halvorsen was bent over the front door with an electric picklock, groaning.
'How's it going?'
'Badly.' Halvorsen straightened up and wiped away his sweat. 'This is no amateur lock. It's the crowbar or give up.'
'No crowbar.' Harry scratched his chin. 'Have you checked under the doormat?'
Halvorsen sighed. 'No, and I'm not going to, either.'
'Why's that?'
'Because this is a new millennium and you don't put chalet keys under the doormat any longer. Especially not if it's a luxury chalet. So, unless you're willing to bet a hundred, I simply can't be bothered. Alright?'
Harry nodded.
'Fine,' Halvorsen said, crouching down to pack the case.
'I meant, you're on,' Harry said.
Halvorsen looked up. 'You're kidding?'
Harry shook his head.
Halvorsen grabbed the edge of the synthetic fibre mat.
'Come seven,' he mumbled and whipped the mat away. Three ants, two woodlice and an earwig came to life and wandered around the grey concrete. But no key.
'Now and then you're incredibly naive, Harry,' Halvorsen said, holding out his palm. 'Why would he leave a key?'
'Because,' said Harry, whose attention had been caught by the wrought-iron lamp beside the door and hadn't seen the extended hand. 'Milk goes off if it's left in the sun.' He went over to the lamp and unscrewed the top.
'What do you mean?'
'The groceries were delivered the day before Albu arrived, weren't they. They obviously had to be put in the house.'
'So? Perhaps the grocery man has a spare key?'
'I don't think so. I think Albu wanted to be absolutely sure no one came bursting in while he and Anna were here.' He whipped off the top and scoured the glass interior. 'And now I know so.'
Halvorsen withdrew his hand, muttering.
'Notice the smell,' Harry said when they entered the living room.
'Green soap,' Halvorsen said. 'Someone has thought fit to wash the floor.'
The heavy furniture, the rustic antiques and the large stone fireplace reinforced the Easter holidays impression. Harry went to a pine shelving system at the other end of the room. Old books on shelves. Harry's eyes ran across the titles on the worn spines, but still had the feeling they had never been read. Not here. They might have been bought as a job lot from one of the antiquarian bookshops in Majorstuen. Old photo albums. Drawers. In the drawers there were Cohiba and Bolivar cigar boxes. One of the drawers was locked.