‘Another one-off. My grandfather said horses weren’t toys. He said riding for pleasure showed a lack of respect for working animals.’
She stopped in front of a wooden stand holding two narrow leather saddles. ‘Not a single one of my horses has ever seen or will ever see a cart or plough. While I saddle up I suggest you head over there …’ She pointed to the farmhouse. ‘You’ll find some suitable clothes belonging to my ex-husband in the hall wardrobe. We don’t want to ruin your elegant suit, do we?’
In the wardrobe Harry found a sweater and a pair of jeans that were in fact big enough. The ex-husband must have had smaller feet, though, because he couldn’t get any of the shoes on, until he found a pair of used blue Norwegian Army trainers at the back.
When he re-emerged in the yard Isabelle was ready and waiting with two saddled horses. Harry opened the passenger door of the hired car, sat inside with his legs out, changed shoes, removed the insoles, left them on the car floor and reached for his sunglasses from the glove compartment. ‘Ready.’
‘This is Medusa,’ Isabelle said, patting a large sorrel on the muzzle. ‘She’s an Oldenburger from Denmark, perfect breed for dressage. Ten years old and the boss of the herd. And this is Balder, he’s five years old, a gelding, so he’ll follow Medusa.’
She passed him the reins to Balder and swung herself up on Medusa.
Harry put his left foot in the left stirrup and rose into the saddle. Without waiting for a command the horse began to walk briskly after Medusa.
Harry had understated the case when he said he had ridden only once, but this was quite different from his grandfather’s steadfast battleship of a jade. He had to balance in the saddle, and when he squeezed his knees against the slim horse’s sides he could feel its ribs and the movement of its muscles. And when Medusa accelerated on the path across the field and Balder responded, even this minor increase in pace made Harry feel he had a Formula One animal between his legs. At the end of the field they joined a path that disappeared into the forest and onto the ridge. Where the path forked round a tree Harry tried to steer Balder to the left, but the horse ignored him and followed in Medusa’s hoof prints to the right.
‘I thought stallions were the leaders of a herd,’ Harry said.
‘As a rule they are,’ Isabelle said over her shoulder. ‘But it’s all about character. A strong, ambitious and smart mare can outcompete all of them if she wants.’
‘And you want.’
Isabelle Skøyen laughed. ‘Of course. If you want something you have to be willing to compete. Politics is all about acquiring power.’
‘And you like competing?’
He saw her shrug her shoulders in front of him. ‘Competition is healthy. It means the strongest and the best make the decisions, and that’s to the benefit of the whole herd.’
‘And she can also mate with whoever she likes?’
Isabelle didn’t answer. Harry watched her. Her back was willowy and her firm buttocks appeared to be massaging the horse, moving from side to side with gentle hip movements. They came into a clearing. The sun was shining, and beneath them lay scattered puffs of mist across the countryside.
‘We’ll let them have a rest,’ Isabelle Skøyen said, dismounting. After they had tethered the horses to a tree, Isabelle lay down on the grass and waved for Harry to follow. He sat beside her and adjusted his sunglasses.
‘Are those glasses for men?’ she teased.
‘They protect against the sun,’ Harry said, taking out a pack of cigarettes.
‘I like that.’
‘What do you like?’
‘I like men who are secure with their masculinity.’
Harry looked at her. She was leaning on her elbows and had undone a button on her blouse. He hoped his sunglasses were dark enough. She smiled.
‘So, what can you tell me about Gusto?’ Harry said.
‘I like men who are genuine,’ she said. The smile broadened.
A brown dragonfly whizzed past on the last flight of the autumn. Harry didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. What he had seen ever since he arrived. Expectant relish. And none of the tormented unease there ought to be in someone facing a career-threatening scandal.
‘I don’t like falseness,’ she said. ‘Such as bluffing, for example.’
Triumph shone from her blue mascara-wreathed eyes.
‘I rang a police contact, you see. And apart from telling me a little about the legendary detective Harry Hole, he was able to tell me that no blood had been analysed in the Gusto Hanssen case. The sample had apparently been destroyed. There are no nails with my blood type under them. You were bluffing, Harry.’