Phantom(93)
‘Any theories?’ Harry asked.
‘No. But she hasn’t gone of her own free will. She’s not the type to clear off like … like some others.’
Harry had no idea whom he actually meant, yet the jibe hit home.
Stein Hanssen scratched a scab on his forearm. ‘What is it you all see in her? Your daughter? Do you think you can have your daughters?’
Harry looked at him in surprise. ‘You? What do you mean?’
‘You oldies drooling over her. Just because she looks like a fourteen-year-old Lolita.’
Harry recalled the picture on the wardrobe door. Stein Hanssen was right. And the thought took root in Harry. He might be wrong, Irene might be the victim of a crime that had nothing to do with this case.
‘You study in Trondheim. At the University of Science and Technology?’
‘Yes.’
‘What subject?’
‘Information technology.’
‘Mm. Oleg also wanted to study. Do you know him?’
Stein shook his head.
‘Never spoken to him?’
‘We must have met a couple of times. Very short meetings, you might say.’
Harry scrutinised Stein’s forearm. It was an occupational hazard for Harry. But apart from the scab there were no other marks. Of course not, Stein Hanssen was a survivor, one of those who would cope. Harry got to his feet.
‘Anyway, I’m sorry about your brother.’
‘Foster-brother.’
‘Mm. Could I take your mobile number? In case anything crops up.’
‘Like what?’
They looked at each other. The answer hung in the air between them, unnecessary to elucidate, unbearable to articulate. The scab had burst and a line of blood was trickling down towards his hand.
‘I know one thing that might help,’ Stein Hanssen said when Harry was outside on the step. ‘The places you’re planning to search for her. Urtegata. Møtestedet Kafé. The parks. The hostels. Junkie hovels. Red-light district. Forget it. I’ve been there.’
Harry nodded. Put on his sunglasses. ‘Keep your mobile switched on, OK?’
Harry went to Lorry Kafé for lunch, but on the steps felt a sudden craving for beer and about-turned in the doorway. Instead he went to a new place opposite the Literature House. Left after a quick scan of the clientele, and ended up in Pla where he ordered a Thai variant of a tapa.
‘Drink? Singha?’
‘No.’
‘Tiger?’
‘Have you only got beer?’
The waiter took the hint and returned with water.
Harry had king prawns and chicken but declined sausage Thai-style. Then he called Rakel at home and asked her to go through the CDs he had taken to Holmenkollen over the years and which had been left there. Some he had wanted to listen to for his own pleasure, and some he had wanted to redeem them with. Elvis Costello, Miles Davis, Led Zeppelin, Count Basie, Jayhawks, Muddy Waters. They hadn’t saved anyone.
She kept what, without any tangible irony, she called ‘Harry music’ in its own section on the rack.
‘I’d like you to read all the titles,’ he said.
‘Are you joking?’
‘I’ll explain later.’
‘OK. The first is Aztec Camera.’
‘Have you—’
‘Yes, I’ve organised them alphabetically.’ She sounded embarrassed.
‘That’s a boy thing.’
‘It’s a Harry thing. And they’re your CDs. Can I read them now?’
After twenty minutes they had got to W and Wilco without Harry picking up on any associations. Rakel heaved a sigh, but went on.
‘“When You Wake Up Feeling Old”.’
‘Mm. no.’
‘“Summerteeth”.’
‘Mm. Next.’
‘“In a Future Age”.’
‘Hang on!’
Rakel hung on.
Harry started laughing.
‘Was that funny?’ Rakel asked.
‘The chorus on “Summerteeth”. It goes like this … It’s just a dream he keeps having.’
‘That doesn’t sound great, Harry.’
‘Yes, it does! I mean, the original does. So beautiful that I’ve played it several times for Oleg. But he thought the lyrics went “It’s just a dreamy Gonzales”.’ Harry laughed again. And began to sing: ‘It’s just a dreamy Gonz—’
‘Please, Harry.’
‘OK. Could you go onto Oleg’s computer and find something on the Net for me?’
‘What?’
‘Google Wilco and find their home page. See if they’ve had any concerts in Oslo this year. And if so, where exactly.’
Rakel came back after six minutes.
‘One.’ She told Harry where.
‘Thank you,’ Harry said.