Harry picked up the black king and compared it with the white. If you didn't look too closely, you could be deceived into thinking they were identical.
'The weapon is not registered. It may have been Anna's; it may have been his. I don't know exactly what happened in the flat, and the world will probably never know, as she is dead. From the police point of view, it is an open and shut case: suicide.'
'I? Police point of view?' Raskol stroked his goatee. 'Why not we and our point of view? Are you trying to tell me you're flying solo here, Inspector?'
'What do you mean?'
'You know very well what I mean. The trick of sending your colleague out to give me the impression this was between you and me, I understand that, but…' He pressed his palms together. 'Although that might be possible. Does anyone else know what you know?'
Harry shook his head.
'So, what are you after? Money?'
'No.'
'I wouldn't be so quick, if I were you, Inspector. I haven't had a chance to say what this information is worth to me yet. We may be talking big bucks. If you can prove what you've said. And punishment of the guilty party may be done under–shall we say–private auspices without any interference from the state.'
'That's not the issue,' Harry said, hoping the perspiration on his forehead wasn't visible. 'The question is what is your information worth to me.'
'What are you suggesting, Spiuni?'
'What I'm suggesting,' Harry said, holding the two kings in the same hand, 'is a trade-off. You tell me who the Expeditor is and I'll obtain evidence against the man who took Anna's life.'
Raskol chuckled. 'There we have it. You can go now, Spiuni.'
'Think about it, Raskol.'
'Quite unnecessary. I trust people who chase money; I don't trust crusaders.'
They sized each other up. The neon tube crackled. Harry nodded, replaced the chess pieces, rose to his feet, went to the door and banged on it. 'You must have been fond of her,' he said with his back to Raskol. 'The flat in Sorgenfrigata was registered in your name, and I know exactly how broke Anna was.'
'Oh?'
'Since it's your flat, I've asked the housing committee to send you the key. A courier will be bringing it today. I suggest you compare it with the one you got from me.'
'Why's that?'
'There are three keys to Anna's flat. Anna had one, the electrician had the second. I found this one in the chalet of the man I've been talking about. In the drawer of the bedside table. It's the third and last key. The only one which can have been used, if Anna was murdered.'
They heard footsteps outside the door.
'And if it enhances my credibility,' Harry said, 'I'm only trying to save my own skin.'
22
America
PEOPLE WITH A THIRST DRINK ANYWHERE. TAKE MALIK'S IN Thereses gate, for example. It was a hamburger bar and had nothing of what gave Schrřder's, for all its failings, a certain dignity as a licensed taproom. It was true they had the hamburgers they pushed, rumoured to be a cut above the competition; with a degree of charity one might say that the slightly Indian-inspired interior with the picture of the Norwegian Royal Family did have a kind of naff charm; however, it was and always would be a fast-food outlet where those willing to pay for alcoholic credibility would never dream of imbibing their beer.
Harry had never been one of them.
He hadn't been to Malik's for a long time, but as he gave it the once-over, he was able to confirm that nothing had changed. Řystein was sitting with his male (and one female) drinking pals at the smokers' table. With a backdrop of outdated pop hits, Eurosport and sizzling fat they were enjoying a convivial conversation about lottery wins, a recent triple murder and an absent friend's moral shortcomings.
'Well, hi, Harry!' Řystein's gruff voice cut through the sound pollution. He flicked back his long, greasy hair, wiped his hand on the thigh of his trousers and held it out to Harry.
'This is the cop I was telling you about, folks. Who shot the guy in Australia. Hit him in the head, didn't you.'
'Good work,' said one of the other customers. Harry couldn't see his face because he was bent forward with his long hair hanging over his beer like a curtain. 'Exterminate the vermin.'
Harry pointed to a free table and Řystein nodded, stubbed out his cigarette, put the packet of Petterřes in the pocket of his denim shirt and concentrated on carrying the freshly drawn draught beer to the table without spilling it.
'Long time, no see,' Řystein said, rolling a new cigarette. 'Same as the rest of the boys, by the way. Never see 'em. They've all moved, got married and had kids.' Řystein laughed. A gravelly, bitter laugh. 'They've all settled down, anyroad. Who would've believed it?'