‘And what’s that down to?’
‘I told you, I’m not a psychologist.’
‘No, that’s right.’
Harry waited.
She cleared her throat.
‘His parents had given him away. What do you think that does to a boy? Behind all the gestures and the hard face he was someone who didn’t think he was worth much. Just as little as those who had given up on him. Isn’t it simple logic, herr Quasi Policeman?’
Harry looked at her. Nodded. Noticed his gaze made her uncomfortable. But he refrained from asking her the questions she obviously knew were on his lips: what was her story? How lonely, how self-loathing was she behind the facade?
‘How about Oleg? Did you meet him?’
‘The one who was arrested for the murder? Never. But Gusto mentioned an Oleg a couple of times, said he was his best friend. I think he was his only friend.’
‘What about Irene?’
‘He mentioned her too. She was like a sister.’
‘She was a sister.’
‘Not in blood, Harry. It’s never the same.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘People are naive and believe they are capable of selfless love. But it’s all about passing on genes that are as close as possible to your own. I see this in horse breeding every day, believe me. And, yes, people are like horses, we’re herd animals. A father will protect his biological son, a brother his biological sister. In any conflict we instinctively take the side of those who look most like us. Imagine you’re in the jungle and walk round a corner and suddenly see another white man, dressed like you, grappling with a semi-naked black man in warpaint. They’ve both got knives and are fighting to the death. You’ve got a gun. What’s your first instinct? To shoot the white man to save the black man? It’s not, is it.’
‘Mm. And what’s your proof?’
‘The proof is that our loyalty is biologically determined. Circles that spread out from the centre, which is ourselves and our genes.’
‘So you’d shoot one of them to protect your genes?’
‘Without a second thought.’
‘What about killing both to be on the safe side?’
She looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What were you doing the night Gusto was killed?’
‘What?’ She scrunched up one eye in the sun and beamed at him. ‘Do you suspect me of killing Gusto, Harry? And that I was after this … Oleg?’
‘Just answer me.’
‘I remember where I was because it was in my mind when I was reading about the murder in the paper. I was sitting in a meeting with representatives of the Police Narco Unit. They should be reliable witnesses. Do you want names?’
Harry shook his head.
‘Anything else?’
‘Well, this Dubai. What do you know about him?’
‘Dubai, hm. As little as everyone else. There’s talk, but the police aren’t making any headway. It’s typical; the professionals behind the scams always get away.’ Harry looked for a change in the size of pupils, the colour of her cheeks. If Isabelle Skøyen was lying, she was good.
‘I ask because you’ve cleared the streets of all the dope dealers apart from Dubai and a couple of minor gangs.’
‘Not me, Harry. I’m just a council secretary following the orders of the Social Services Committee and the council’s policies. And what you call clearing the streets, strictly speaking, is a police job.’
‘Mm. Norway is a little fairy-tale land. But I’ve spent the last few years in the real world, Skøyen. And the real world is driven by two types of people. Those who want power and those who want money. The first want a statue, the second enjoyment. And the currency they use when negotiating with each other to get what they want is called corruption.’
‘I’ve got things to do, Hole. Where do you want this to go?’
‘Where others have obviously lacked the courage or the imagination to go. If you live in a town for a long time you usually see the situation as a mosaic of details you know well. But someone who returns to the town and doesn’t know the details only sees the picture. And the picture is that the situation in Oslo is favourable for two groups: the dealers who have the market to themselves and the politicians who are credited with having cleared up.’
‘Are you saying I’m corrupt?’
‘Are you?’
He saw the fury flash into her eyes. Genuine, without a doubt. He wondered only whether it was the anger of the just or the ensnared. Then, out of the blue, she laughed. A trilled, surprisingly girlish laugh.
‘I like you, Harry.’ She got up. ‘I know men, and they’re wimps when it comes to the crunch. But I think you might be an exception.’