Phantom(86)

Harry met the black woman’s tired gaze. They nodded as if they both saw something they recognised. The two other boys noticed Harry and straightened up. Big, well-fed boys. Apple cheeks, biceps from a fitness studio, maybe done a year’s kick-boxing or karate.

‘Good evening, kind folk,’ Harry smiled, without slowing his pace.

Then he was past and heard the camper door slam and the engine rev up.

It was the same tune that always rang out. ‘Come As You Are’. The invitation.

Harry slowed his pace. For a moment.

Then he increased it again, walked on without a backward glance.

Harry was woken next morning by the ringing of his mobile. He sat up, squinted into the light from the curtainless window, stretched out his arm for the jacket hanging over the chair, rummaged through the pockets until he found the phone.

‘Speak.’

‘It’s Rakel.’ She was breathless with excitement. ‘They’ve released Oleg. He’s free, Harry!’





25

HARRY STOOD IN the middle of the hotel room, bathed in the morning light. Apart from the phone covering his right ear he was naked. In the room across the yard a woman sat watching him with sleepy eyes, her head angled as she slowly chewed a slice of bread.

‘Hans Christian wasn’t told until he turned up at work fifteen minutes ago,’ Rakel said. ‘They released Oleg late yesterday afternoon. Someone else has confessed to the murder of Gusto Hanssen. Isn’t that fantastic, Harry?’

Yes indeed, thought Harry. It was fantastic. As in un-believe-able.

‘Who confessed?’

‘Someone called Chris Reddy, alias Adidas. He’s a junkie. He shot Gusto because he owed him money for amphetamines.’

‘Where’s Oleg now?’

‘We don’t know. We’ve only just been told.’

‘Think, Rakel! Where could he be?’ Harry’s voice sounded sterner than he had meant.

‘What … what’s the matter?’

‘The confession. The confession’s the matter, Rakel.’

‘What about it?’

‘Don’t you understand? The confession’s a fabrication!’

‘No, no, no. Hans Christian says it’s detailed and extremely credible. That’s why they’ve already released Oleg.’

‘This Adidas says he shot Gusto because he was owed money. So he’s an ice-cold, cynical murderer. Who suffers pangs of conscience and simply has to confess?’

‘But when he saw the wrong person was about to be convicted for—’

‘Forget it! A desperate drug addict has one thing in his head: getting high. There isn’t any room for a conscience, believe me. This Adidas is so desperate that, for suitable compensation, he’s more than willing to confess to a murder and then withdraw his confession later, after the main suspect has been released. Don’t you see the plot here? If the cat knows it can’t get close to the caged bird—’

‘Stop!’ Rakel screamed, in tears now.

But Harry didn’t stop. ‘—the bird has to come out of the cage.’

He heard her crying. Knew that he had probably put into words what she had half considered herself.

‘Can’t you say something to reassure me, Harry?’

He didn’t answer.

‘I don’t want to be frightened any more,’ she whispered.

Harry took a deep breath. ‘We’ve managed before, and we’ll manage again, Rakel.’

He rang off. And it struck him again. He had become a brilliant liar.

The woman in the window on the other side waved lazily to him with three fingers.

Harry ran a hand over his face.

Now it was just a question of who found Oleg first, Harry or them.

Think.

Oleg had been released yesterday afternoon, somewhere in Østland. A drug addict with a craving for violin. He would have made a beeline for Oslo, Plata, if he didn’t have reserves stashed away. He wouldn’t be able to get into Hausmanns gate, the crime scene was still sealed off. So where would he sleep, with no money, no friends? Urtegata? No, Oleg knew he would be seen there, and rumours would fly.

There was only one place Oleg could be.

Harry glanced at his watch. It was vital he got there before the bird had flown.

The stadium was as deserted as the last time he was at Valle Hovin. The first thing Harry saw as he rounded the corner to the dressing-room area was that one of the panes at street level had been smashed. He peered in. Glass was scattered across the floor. So he strode to the door, unlocked it with the key he still had and entered.

And was struck by a goods train.

Harry gasped for air as he lay floundering on the floor with something on top of him. Something stinking, wet and desperate. Harry twisted away, tried to get out of the grip. He resisted his reflex action to hit out; instead he grabbed an arm, a hand, bent it backwards. Struggled to his knees while using this grip to force the assailant’s face to the ground.