‘I can’t find you here, herr Nybakk …’
Harry put on a reassuring smile. ‘In fact I was booked on the plane to Bangkok in ten days’ time, but I rang an hour and a half ago and had it changed to this evening.’
The woman pressed some more keys. Harry counted the seconds. Breathed in. Out. In.
‘There it is, yes. Late bookings don’t always show up right away. But here it says you’re travelling with an Irene Hanssen.’
‘She’s travelling as previously planned,’ Harry said.
‘Oh, yes. Any luggage to check in?’
‘No.’
More pressing of keys.
Then she frowned. Opened the passport again. Harry steeled himself. She placed the boarding card into the passport and gave it to him. ‘You’d better hurry, herr Nybakk. Boarding has already started. Have a pleasant trip.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry said with rather more sincerity than he had anticipated and ran to security.
It was only on the other side of the X-ray machine, when he was about to pick up keys and Martine’s mobile phone, that he noticed he had received a text. He was about to save it with all Martine’s other messages when he saw the sender had a short name. B. Beate.
He sprinted to gate 54. Bangkok, final call.
Read it.
‘Got the last list. There’s one address that wasn’t on the list you got from Bellman. Blindernveien 74.’
Harry stuffed the phone in his pocket. There was no queue by the counter. He opened his passport and the official checked it and the boarding card. Looked at Harry.
‘The scar’s newer than the photo,’ Harry said.
The official studied him. ‘Get a new photo, Nybakk,’ he said and returned the documents. Motioned to the person behind Harry to indicate it was their turn.
Harry was free. Saved. A whole new life lay before him.
By the gate there were still five stragglers in the queue.
Harry looked at his boarding card. Business class. He had never travelled in anything but economy, even for Herman Kluit. Stig Nybakk had done well. Dubai had done well. Were doing well. Are doing well. Now, this evening, at this moment, the punters were standing there, their faces quivering and hungry, waiting for the guy in the Arsenal shirt to say: ‘Come on.’
Two left in the queue.
Blindernveien 74.
I’ll join you. Harry closed his eyes to hear Rakel’s voice again. And then it was there: Are you a policeman? Is that what you’ve become? A robot, a slave of the anthill and ideas other people have had?
Was he?
It was his turn. The woman at the desk raised her eyebrows.
No, he was not a slave.
He passed her his boarding card.
He walked. Walked down the tunnel to the plane. Through the glass he could see the lights of a plane coming in to land. Coming over Tord Schultz’s house.
Blindernveien 74.
Mikael Bellman’s blood under Gusto’s nails.
Shit, shit, shit!
Harry boarded, found his seat and sank deep into a leather seat. God, the softness of it. He pressed a button and the seat went back and back and back until he was lying in a horizontal position. He closed his eyes again, wanted to sleep. Sleep. Until one day he awoke and was changed and in a very different place. He searched for her voice. But instead found another, in Swedish:
I have a false priest’s collar; you have a false sheriff’s badge. How unshakeable is your faith in your gospel actually?
Bellman’s blood. ‘… down in Østfold. It would have been impossible for him to …’
Everything fits.
Harry felt a hand on his arm and opened his eyes.
A Thai flight attendant with high cheekbones smiled down at him.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but you must raise your seat into the upright position before take-off.’
Upright position.
Harry breathed in. Took out his mobile phone. Looked at the last call.
‘Sir, you have to turn off—’
Harry held up his hand and pressed ‘Call’.
‘Thought we were never to speak again,’ Klaus Torkildsen answered.
‘Exactly where in Østfold?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Bellman. Where in Østfold was he when Gusto was killed?’
‘Rygge, by Moss.’
Harry put his phone back and stood up.
‘Sir, the seat belt sign—’
‘Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘This isn’t my flight.’
‘I’m sure it is. We’ve checked passenger numbers and—’
Harry strode back down the plane. He heard the patter of feet behind him.
‘Sir, we’ve already shut—’
‘Then open it.’
A purser had joined them. ‘Sir, I’m afraid the rules don’t allow us to open—’
‘I’m out of pills,’ Harry said, fumbling in his jacket pocket. Found the empty bottle with the Zestril label and held it to the purser’s face. ‘I’m Mr Nybakk, see? Do you want a passenger to have a heart attack on board when we’re over … let’s say Afghanistan?’