It was ten o’clock at night, and the lights were out in the Orgkrim offices, and the corridors were empty. But in Truls Berntsen’s office the computer screen cast a blue light on the policeman sitting with his feet on the desk. He had put fifteen hundred on Man City to win and was about to lose it. But now they had a free kick. Eighteen metres and Tévez.
He heard the door open, and his right index finger automatically hit the escape button. But it was too late.
‘Hope it’s not my budget paying for streaming.’
Mikael Bellman took a seat on the only other chair. Truls had noticed that as Bellman had risen through the ranks he had changed the pronunciation they had grown up with in Manglerud. It was only when he talked to Truls that he sometimes went back to their roots.
‘Have you read the paper?’
Truls nodded. Since there had been nothing else to read he had kept going after the crime and sport pages were finished. He had seen a good deal about the council secretary Isabelle Skøyen. She had begun to be photographed at premieres and social events after Verdens Gang had run a profile that summer of her entitled ‘The Street Sweeper’. She had been credited as the architect behind the clean-up of Oslo’s streets, at the same time launching herself as a national politician. At any rate her steering committee had made progress. Truls thought he had noticed her neckline plunging in step with opposition support, and her smile in the photographs was soon as broad as her backside.
‘I’ve had a very unofficial conversation with the Police Commissioner,’ Bellman said. ‘She’s going to appoint me as Chief of Police, reporting to the Minister of Justice.’
‘Shit!’ Truls shouted. Tévez had smashed the free kick against the crossbar.
Bellman got up. ‘By the way, thought you’d like to know. Ulla and I are going to invite a few people over next Saturday.’
Truls felt the same stab in his heart as always whenever he heard Ulla’s name.
‘New house, new job, you know. And you helped to build the terrace.’
Helped? Truls thought. I constructed the whole bloody thing.
‘So unless you’re very busy …’ Bellman said, motioning towards the screen. ‘You’re invited.’
Truls thanked him and accepted. The way he had done ever since they were boys, agreed to play gooseberry, to be a spectator of Mikael Bellman and Ulla’s obvious happiness. Agreed to another evening when he would have to hide who he was and how he felt.
‘One other matter,’ Bellman said. ‘Do you remember the guy I asked you to delete from the visitors’ register in reception?’
Truls nodded without batting an eyelid. Bellman had rung him and explained that a certain Tord Schultz had dropped by to give him information about drug smuggling and tell him they had a burner in their ranks. He was worried about the man’s safety and the name was to be removed from the register in case this burner was working at HQ and had access.
‘I’ve tried to call him several times, but there’s no answer. I’m a bit concerned. Are you absolutely sure Securitas removed his name and no one else found out?’
‘Absolutely, Chief of Police,’ Truls said. City were back in defence and scooped the ball away. ‘By the way, have you heard any more from that annoying inspector at the airport?’
‘No,’ Bellman said. ‘Seems as if he’s accepted it must have been potato flour. Why?’
‘Just wondering, Chief of Police. Regards to the dragon at home.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t use that term, OK?’
Truls shrugged. ‘It’s what you call her.’
‘I mean the Chief of Police stuff. Won’t be official for a couple of weeks.’
* * *
The operations manager sighed. The air traffic control officer had phoned to say the Bergen flight was delayed because the captain had not turned up or rung in, and they had to scramble a new one fast.
‘Schultz is having a rough time right now,’ said the manager.
‘He’s not answering his phone, either,’ said the officer.
‘I was afraid of that. He might be doing some solo trips in his free time.’
‘So I’ve heard, yes. But this is not free time. We almost had to cancel the flight.’
‘Bit of a bumpy road at the moment, as I said. I’ll talk to him.’
‘We all have bumpy roads, Georg. I’ll have to write a full report, you understand?’
The operations manager paused. But gave up. ‘Of course.’
As they rang off an image appeared in the operations manager’s memory. One afternoon, barbecue, summer. Campari, Budweiser and enormous steaks straight from Texas, flown in by a trainee. No one saw him and Else sneak into a bedroom. She groaned softly, softly enough not to be heard over the screams of children playing, the incoming flights and carefree laughter outside the open window. Planes coming and going. Tord’s ringing laughter, after another classic flying story. And Tord’s wife’s low groans.