The Bat(9)

Birgitta patted the side of her nose. ‘He hasn’t got it in him.’

Harry pretended to jot notes down on his pad.

‘Do you know if she knew or met someone who . . . er, had it in him?’

‘Well, there are so many types of guy that drop in here. Not all of them are gay, and there were quite a few who noticed Inger – she’s so attractive. Was. But off the top of my head I can’t think of anyone. There was . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘I read in the report that Inger was working here the night we assume she was killed. Do you know if she had a date after work or did she go straight home?’

‘She took a few scraps from the kitchen, said they were for the mutt. I knew she didn’t have a dog, so I asked her where she was going. She said home. That’s all I know.’

‘The Tasmanian Devil,’ Harry muttered. She sent him a curious look. ‘Her landlord has a dog,’ he said. ‘I suppose it had to be bribed so she could enter the house in one piece.’

Harry thanked her for talking to them. As they were about to leave, Birgitta said, ‘We’re really upset at the Albury about what happened. How are her parents taking it?’

‘Not too well, I’m afraid,’ Harry said. ‘They’re in shock, of course. And blame themselves for letting her come here. The coffin’s being sent to Norway tomorrow. I can get hold of the address if you want to send flowers for the funeral.’

‘Thank you. That would be very kind of you.’

Harry was on the verge of asking something else, but couldn’t bring himself to do it with all the talk about death and funerals. On the way out her farewell smile was burning on his retina. He knew it was going to be there for a while.

‘Shit,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Should I, shouldn’t I?’

In the club all the transvestites plus a fair number of the other customers were standing on the counter miming to Katrina & the Waves. ‘Walking on Sunshine’ boomed out of the speakers.

‘There’s not much time for grief and reflection at a place like the Albury,’ Andrew commented.

‘Suppose that’s the way it should be,’ Harry said. ‘Life goes on.’ He asked Andrew to hang on for a minute, went back to the bar and waved to Birgitta.

‘Sorry, just one last question.’

‘Yes?’

Harry took a deep breath. He was already regretting his decision, but it was too late. ‘Do you know a good Thai restaurant in town?’

Birgitta had a think. ‘Mmm, there’s one in Bent Street, in the city centre. Do you know where that is? It’s supposed to be pretty good, I’m told.’

‘So good you would go with me?’

That didn’t come out right, Harry thought. Besides, it was unprofessional. Very unprofessional, in fact. Birgitta gave a groan of despair, but the despair was not so convincing that Harry couldn’t see an opening. Anyway, the smile was still in residence.

‘That one of your more frequent lines, Officer?’

‘Fairly frequent.’

‘Does it work?’

‘Statistically speaking? Not really.’

She laughed, inclined her head and studied Harry with curiosity. Then she shrugged.

‘Why not? I’m free tomorrow. Nine o’clock. And you’re paying.’





6


A Bishop


HARRY JAMMED THE blue light on top of the car and got behind the wheel. The wind rushed through the car as he took the curves. Stiansen’s voice. Then silence. A bent fence post. A hospital room, flowers. A photograph in the corridor, fading.

Harry sat bolt upright. The same dream again. It was still only four o’clock in the morning. He tried to go back to sleep, but his mind turned to Inger Holter’s unknown murderer.

At six he reckoned he could get up. After an invigorating shower, he walked out to a pale blue sky with an ineffectual morning sun to find somewhere to go for breakfast. There was a buzz coming from the city centre, but the morning rush hour had not yet reached the red lamps and black mascara eyes here. King’s Cross had a certain slapdash charm, a lived-in beauty that made him hum as he walked. Apart from a few late, slightly worse-for-wear night birds, a couple sleeping under a rug on some steps and a wan, thinly clad prostitute on the early shift, the streets were empty for the moment.

Outside a terrace cafe the owner stood hosing down the pavement and Harry smiled his way to an impromptu breakfast. As he was eating his toast and bacon, a teasing breeze tried to whisk away his serviette.

‘You’re up at sparrow’s fart, Holy,’ McCormack said. ‘It’s good. The brain works best between half past six and eleven. After that it’s mush, if you ask me. It’s also quiet here in the morning. I can hardly add two and two with the racket after nine. Can you? My boy claims he has to have the stereo on to do his homework. He gets so distracted if it’s bloody quiet. Can you understand that?’