The Leopard(33)

‘You don’t take milk, do you?’ Kaja shouted from the kitchen.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you? At Heathrow—’

‘I mean yes, as in yes, you’re right, I don’t take milk.’

‘Aha. You’ve gone over to the Cantonese system.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve stopped using double negatives. Cantonese is more logical. You like logical.’

‘Is that right? About Cantonese?’

‘I don’t know,’ she laughed from the kitchen. ‘I’m just trying to sound clever.’

Harry could see that the photographer had been discreet, he’d shot from hip height, no flash. The spectators’ attention was directed towards the diving tower. Dull eyes, half-open mouths, as if they were bored of waiting for a glimpse of something dreadful, something for their albums, something with which they could scare the neighbours out of their wits. A man holding a mobile phone up in the air; he was definitely taking photos. Harry took the magnifying glass lying on the pile of reports, and scrutinised their faces, one by one. He didn’t know what he was looking for, his brain was empty; it was the best way, so as not to miss whatever might be there.

‘Can you see anything?’ She had taken up a position behind his chair and bent down to see. He caught a mild fragrance of lavender soap, the same he had smelt on the plane when she had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

‘Mm. Do you think there’s anything to see here?’ he asked, taking the coffee mug.

‘No.’

‘So why did you bring the photos home?’

‘Because ninety-five per cent of all police work is searching in the wrong place.’

She had just quoted Harry’s third commandment.

‘And you have to learn to enjoy the ninety-five per cent, too. Otherwise you’ll go mad.’

Fourth commandment.

‘And the reports?’ Harry asked.

‘All we have are the reports on the murders of Borgny and Charlotte, and there’s nothing in them. No forensic leads, no accounts of unusual activities. No tip-offs about bitter enemies, jealous lovers, greedy heirs, deranged stalkers, impatient drug dealers or other creditors. In short—’

‘No leads, no apparent motives, no murder weapons. I would have liked to start interviewing people in the Marit Olsen case, but, as you know, we’re not working on it.’

Kaja smiled. ‘Of course not. By the way, I spoke to a political journalist from VG today. He said none of the journalists at Stortinget knew anything about Marit Olsen having depression, personal crises or suicidal thoughts. Or enemies, in her professional or her private life.’

‘Mm.’

Harry skimmed the row of spectators’ faces. A woman with sleepwalker eyes and a child on her arm.

‘What do these people want?’ Behind them: the back of a man leaving. Puffa jacket, woollen hat. ‘To be shocked. Shaken. Entertained. Purified . . .’

‘Incredible.’

‘Mm. And so you’re reading John Fante. You like older things, do you?’ He nodded towards the room, the house. And he meant the room, the house. But reckoned she would drop in a comment about the husband if he was a lot older than her, as Harry guessed he was.

She looked at him with enthusiasm. ‘Have you read Fante?’

‘When I was young and was going through my Bukowski period I read one whose title eludes me. I bought them mostly because Charles Bukowski was an ardent fan.’ He made a show of checking his watch. ‘Whoops, time to go home.’

Kaja looked at him in amazement and then at the untouched cup of coffee.

‘Jet lag,’ Harry smiled, getting to his feet. ‘We can talk tomorrow at the meeting.’

‘Of course.’

Harry patted his trouser pocket. ‘By the way, I’ve run out of cigarettes. The tax-free Camel cigarettes you took through customs for me . . .’

‘Just a minute,’ she smiled.

When she came back with the carton Harry was standing in the hall, with his jacket and shoes already on.

‘Thank you,’ he said, taking out one of the packs and opening it.

When he was outside on the steps, she leaned against the door frame. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I have a feeling that this was some kind of test.’

‘Test?’ Harry said, lighting a cigarette.

‘I won’t ask what the test was for, but did I pass?’

Harry chuckled. ‘It was just this.’ He walked down the steps waving the carton. ‘O seven hundred hours.’

Harry let himself into his flat. Pressed the light switch and established that the electricity had not been disconnected. Took off his coat, went into the sitting room, put on Deep Purple, his top favourite band in the category can’t-help-being-funny, but-brilliant-anyway. ‘Speed King’. Ian Paice on drums. He sat down on the sofa and pressed his fingertips against his forehead. The dogs were yanking at the chains. Howling, snarling, barking, their teeth tearing at his innards. If he let them loose, there would be no way back. Not this time. Before, there had always been good enough reasons to stop drinking again. Rakel, Oleg, the job, perhaps even Dad. He didn’t have any of them any more. It couldn’t happen. Not with alcohol. So he had to have an alternative intoxicant. He could control intoxication. Thank you, Kaja. Was he ashamed? Of course he was. But pride was a luxury he couldn’t always afford.