Phantom(33)
‘I dream of peace and quiet,’ Rakel said. ‘No more than that. What about you? What do you dream about?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Finding myself in a narrow corridor and an avalanche coming and burying me.’
‘Wow.’
‘Well, you know me and my claustrophobia.’
‘We often dream about what we fear and desire. Disappearing, being buried. In a way it offers security, doesn’t it?’
Harry thrust his hands deeper in his pockets. ‘I was buried under an avalanche three years ago. Let’s say it’s as simple as that.’
‘So you didn’t escape your ghosts even though you went all the way to Hong Kong?’
‘Oh yes, I did,’ Harry said. ‘The trip thinned the ranks.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, it is in fact possible to put things behind you, Rakel. The art of dealing with ghosts is to dare to look at them long and hard until you know that is what they are. Ghosts. Lifeless, powerless ghosts.’
‘So,’ Rakel said in a tone that made him realise she didn’t like the topic of conversation. ‘Any women in your life?’ The question came easily, so easily that he didn’t believe it.
‘Well.’
‘Tell me.’
She had donned her sunglasses. It was hard to assess how much she wanted to hear. Harry decided on a swap. If he wanted to hear.
‘She was Chinese.’
‘Was? Is she dead?’ She sent him a playful smile. He thought she looked as if she could take the heat. But he would have preferred it if she had been a bit more sensitive.
‘A businesswoman in Shanghai. She nurses her guanxi, her network of useful connections. Plus her affluent, ancient Chinese husband. And – when it suits her – me.’
‘In other words, you exploit her caring nature.’
‘I wish I could say that.’
‘Oh?’
‘She makes fairly specific demands on where and when. And how. She likes—’
‘Enough!’ Rakel said.
Harry smiled wryly. ‘As you know, I’ve always had a weakness for women who know what they want.’
‘Enough, I said.’
‘Message received.’
They continued to walk in silence. Until Harry finally said the words hovering around them in bold.
‘What about this Hans Christian guy?’
‘Hans Christian Simonsen? He’s Oleg’s solicitor.’
‘I never heard of a Hans Christian Simonsen while I was doing murder cases.’
‘He’s from this area. We were in the same year at law school. He came and offered his services.’
‘Mm. Right.’
Rakel laughed. ‘I seem to remember he invited me out once or twice when we were students. And that he wanted us to do a jazz-dance course together.’
‘God forbid.’
Rakel laughed again. Christ, how he had longed for that laughter.
She nudged him. ‘As you know, I’ve always had a weakness for men who know what they want.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Harry said. ‘And what have they ever done for you?’
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Instead she formed the furrow between her broad, black eyebrows he had often stroked with his forefinger whenever he noticed it. ‘Sometimes it’s more important to have a lawyer who is dedicated rather than one who is so experienced he knows the outcome in advance.’
‘Mm. You mean someone who knows it’s a lost cause.’
‘You mean I should have used one of the tired old plodders?’
‘Well, the best are in fact pretty dedicated.’
‘This is a petty drugs murder, Harry. The best are busy with prestige cases.’
‘So, what has Oleg told his dedicated solicitor about what happened?’
Rakel sighed. ‘That he can’t remember anything. Beyond that, he doesn’t want to say anything about anything at all.’
‘And that’s what you’re basing your defence on?’
‘Listen, Hans Christian’s a brilliant solicitor in his field. He knows what’s involved. He’s taking advice from the best. And he’s working day and night, he really is.’
‘You’re exploiting his caring nature in other words?’
This time Rakel did not laugh. ‘I’m a mother. It’s simple. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.’
They stopped where the forest began and sat on separate spruce trunks. The sun sank to the treetops in the west like a weary Independence Day balloon.
‘I know why you’ve come of course,’ Rakel said. ‘But what exactly have you got planned?’
‘To find out if Oleg’s guilty beyond any reasonable doubt.’
‘Because?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Because I’m a detective. Because this is the way we’ve organised this anthill. No one can be convicted until we’re sure.’