Phantom(119)

I had played my cards like a fool. I wanted a shot, nothing else, and all I had achieved was to bring the whole pack of them down on me. The old boy and his Cossacks. Truls Berntsen with his drill and crazed eyes. Queen Isabelle and her fuck-buddy-in-chief.

The rat scampered along the skirting board. Out of sheer desperation I checked under the carpets and mattresses. Under one mattress I found a picture and a piece of steel wire. The picture was a crumpled and faded passport photo of Irene, so I guessed this had to be Oleg’s mattress. But I couldn’t understand what the wire was for. Until it slowly dawned on me. And I felt my palms go sweaty and my heart beat faster. After all, I had taught Oleg to make a stash.





36

HANS CHRISTIAN SIMONSEN WRIGGLED HIS way between tourists up the slope of the Italian white marble that made the Opera House look like a floating iceberg at the end of the fjord. When he was atop the roof he looked around and caught sight of Harry Hole sitting on a wall. He was on his own, as the tourists by and large went to the other side to enjoy the view of the fjord. But Harry was sitting and staring inwards at the old, ugly parts of town.

Hans Christian sat down beside him.

‘HC,’ Harry said without looking up from the brochure he was reading. ‘Did you know that this marble is called Carrara marble and that the Opera House cost every Norwegian more than two thousand kroner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know anything about Don Giovanni?’

‘Mozart. Two acts. An arrogant young rake, who believes he is God’s gift to women and men, cheats everyone and makes everyone hate themselves. He thinks he is immortal, but in the end a mysterious statue comes and takes his life as they are both swallowed up by the earth.’

‘Mm. There’s the premiere of a new production in a couple of days. It says here that in the final scene the chorus sings, “Such is the end of the evil-doer: the death of a sinner always reflects his life.” Do you think that’s true, HC?’

‘I know it isn’t. Death, sad to say, is no more just than life is.’

‘Mm. Did you know a policeman was washed ashore here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything you don’t know?’

‘Who shot Gusto Hanssen?’

‘Oh, the mysterious statue,’ Harry said, putting down the brochure. ‘Do you want to know who it is?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Not necessarily. The important thing to prove is who it isn’t, that it isn’t Oleg.’

‘Agreed,’ said Hans Christian, studying Harry. ‘But hearing you say that doesn’t tally with what I’ve heard about the zealous Harry Hole.’

‘So perhaps people change after all.’ Harry smiled quickly. ‘Did you check the progress of the investigation with your police solicitor pal?’

‘They haven’t gone public with your name yet, but it has been sent to all airports and border controls. Put it this way, your passport’s not worth a lot.’

‘That’s the Mallorca trip up in smoke.’

‘You know you’re wanted, yet you meet in Oslo’s number-one tourist attraction?’

‘Tried-and-tested small-fry logic, Hans Christian. It’s safer in the shoal.’

‘I thought you considered loneliness safer.’

Harry took out his pack of cigarettes, shook and held it out. ‘Did Rakel tell you that?’

Hans Christian nodded and took a cigarette.

‘How long have you two been together?’ Harry asked with a grimace.

‘A while. Does it hurt?’

‘My throat? Little infection perhaps.’ Harry lit Hans Christian’s cigarette. ‘You love her, don’t you.’

The solicitor inhaled in a way which suggested to Harry that he had hardly smoked since the parties of his student days.

‘Yes, I do.’

Harry nodded.

‘But you were always there,’ Hans Christian said, sucking on the cigarette. ‘In the shadows, in the wardrobe, under the bed.’

‘Sounds like a monster,’ Harry said.

‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ Hans Christian said. ‘I tried to exorcise you, but I failed.’

‘You don’t need to smoke the whole cigarette, Hans Christian.’

‘Thank you.’ The solicitor threw it away. ‘What do you want me to do this time?’

‘Burglary,’ Harry said.

They drove straight after the onset of darkness.

Hans Christian picked up Harry from Bar Boca in Grünerløkka.

‘Nice car,’ Harry said. ‘Family car.’

‘I had an elkhound,’ Hans Christian said. ‘Hunting. Cabin. You know.’

Harry nodded. ‘The good life.’