Phantom(111)

Harry set off.

And decided that this time he would just run.

Until there was nowhere left to run.

Until it was over, until they had him.

He hoped it wouldn’t be too long.

In the meantime he would do what hunted prey are programmed to do: flee, try to escape, try to survive for a few more hours, a few more minutes, a few more seconds.

His heart pounded in protest, and he began to laugh as he crossed the street in front of a night bus and continued down towards Oslo Central.





34

HARRY WAS LOCKED in. He had just woken and noticed. On the wall immediately above him hung a poster of a skinned human body. Beside it, a neatly carved wooden figure depicting a man on a cross bleeding to death. And beside that, medicine cabinet after medicine cabinet.

He twisted round on the couch. Tried to continue where he had left off yesterday. Tried to see the picture. There were lots of dots, but he hadn’t managed to connect them. And even the dots were for the time being mere assumptions.

Assumption one. Truls Berntsen was the burner. As an employee in Orgkrim he was probably in a perfect position to serve Dubai.

Assumption two. It was Berntsen Beate had found a match for on the DNA register. That was why she wouldn’t say anything until she was one hundred per cent certain; the test on the blood under Gusto’s nails suggested it was one of their own. And if that was correct Gusto had clawed Truls Berntsen the same day he was killed.

But then came the tricky part. If Berntsen was indeed working for Dubai and had been given the job of expediting Harry, why did the Blues Brothers appear and try to blow off both their heads? And if they were Dubai henchmen how come they and the burner were at each other’s throats like that? Weren’t they on the same side, or had it been no more than a badly coordinated operation? Perhaps it wasn’t coordinated because Truls Berntsen had acted on his own to prevent Harry from delivering the evidence from Gusto’s grave and exposing him?

There was a rattle of keys and the door opened.

‘Morning,’ Martine twittered. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Better,’ Harry lied, looking at his watch. Six o’clock in the morning. He threw off the blanket and swung his legs onto the floor.

‘Our infirmary is not intended for overnight stays,’ Martine said. ‘Lie down so that I can put a fresh bandage around your neck.’

‘Thanks for taking me in last night,’ Harry said. ‘But, as I said before, giving me a place to hide is not without its dangers, so I think I should go.’

‘Lie down!’

Harry looked at her. Sighed and obeyed. Shut his eyes and listened to Martine opening and closing drawers, the clatter of scissors on glass, the sound of the first people arriving for breakfast at the Watchtower cafe on the floor below.

While Martine undid the bandage she had applied the previous day Harry used his other hand to ring Beate and reach a minimalist message telling him to be brief, beep.

‘I know the blood is from an ex-Kripos detective,’ Harry said. ‘Even if this is confirmed at the Pathology Unit today you should wait before telling anyone. On its own it’s not enough to justify an arrest warrant, and if we shake his cage now we risk him burning the whole case and taking flight. So we should have him arrested for something else so that we can work in peace. Breaking into the bikers’ place in Alnabru. Unless I’m much mistaken this is Oleg’s accomplice. And Oleg will testify. So I’d like you to fax a photo of Truls Berntsen, now working at Orgkrim, to Hans Christian Simonsen’s office and ask him to show it to Oleg for identification.’

Harry rang off, took a deep breath, felt it coming, suddenly and with such power that he gasped. He turned away, felt the contents of his stomach assessing a trip up north.

‘Does it hurt?’ Martine asked as she ran the alcohol-dipped cotton wool along his neck and chin.

Harry shook his head and nodded towards the open bottle of alcohol.

‘Right,’ Martine said, tightening the cap. ‘Will it never get better?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘What?’ Harry said hoarsely.

She didn’t answer.

Harry’s eyes jumped around the infirmary to find himself a distraction, something to refocus his mind, anything at all. They found the gold ring she had removed and placed on the couch before tending to his wounds. She and Rikard had been married for a few years now; the ring had chips and scratches, it wasn’t shiny and new like Torkildsen’s at Telenor. Harry experienced a sudden chill and his scalp began to itch. Of course it could have been just sweat.

‘Genuine gold?’ he asked.

Martine began to wind round the fresh bandage. ‘It’s a wedding ring, Harry.’