‘Not unless there is a reason for it. If you’re afraid it will be made public that you were here, why did you come?’
‘You asked people who were at the cabin to come forward, so it’s my civic duty, isn’t it?’ He sent Harry a questioning look. And then pulled a face. ‘Christ, I was frightened, wasn’t I. I knew that those who were there that night were next for the chop. Jumped in my car and drove straight here.’
‘Has anything happened recently to make you concerned?’
‘No.’ Tony Leike scented the air thoughtfully. ‘Apart from a break-in through the cellar door a few days ago. Christ, I should get an alarm, shouldn’t I.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
‘No, they only took a bike.’
‘And you think serial killers do a spot of cycle-nicking on the side?’
Leike shook his head with a smile. Not the sheepish smile of someone who is ashamed of having said something stupid, Harry thought. But the disarming, winning smile that says ‘you got me there, pal’, the gallant congratulation from someone used to their own victories.
‘Why did you ask for me?’
‘The papers said you were in charge, so I thought it only natural. Anyway, as I said, I was hoping it would be possible to keep this between as few people as possible, so I came straight to the top.’
‘I’m not the top, Leike.’
‘Aren’t you? Aftenposten gave the impression you were.’
Harry stroked his jutting jaw. He hadn’t made up his mind about Tony Leike. He was a man with a groomed exterior and bad-boy charm that reminded Harry of an ice-hockey player he had seen in an underwear ad. He seemed to want to present an air of unruffled, worldly-wise smoothness but also to come across as a sincere human being with feelings which could not be hidden. Or perhaps it was the other way round; perhaps the smoothness was sincere and the feelings were pretence.
‘What were you doing at Håvass, Leike?’
‘Skiing of course.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes. I’d had a few stressful days at work and needed some time off. I go to Ustaoset and Hallingskarvet a lot. Sleep in cabins. That’s my terrain, you could say.’
‘So why haven’t you got your own cabin there?’
‘Where I would like to have a cabin you can’t get planning permission any more. National park regulations.’
‘Why wasn’t your fiancée with you? Doesn’t she ski?’
‘Lene? She . . .’ Leike took a sip of coffee. The kind of sip you take in mid-sentence when you need a bit of thinking time, it struck Harry. ‘She was at home. I … we . . .’ He looked at Harry with an expression of mild desperation, as though pleading for help. Harry gave him none.
‘Shit. No pressure then, eh?’
Harry didn’t answer.
‘OK,’ Leike said as though Harry had given a response in the affirmative. ‘I needed a breather, to get away. To think. Engagement, marriage … these are grown-up issues. And I think best on my own. Especially up there on the snowy plains.’
‘And thinking helped?’
Leike flashed the enamel wall again. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember any of the others in the cabin?’
‘I remember Marit Olsen, as I said. She and I had a glass of red wine together. I didn’t know she was an MP until she said.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘There were a few others sitting around I barely greeted. But I arrived quite late, so some must have gone to bed.’
‘Oh?’
‘There were six pairs of skis in the snow outside. I remember that clearly because I put them in the hall in case of an avalanche. I remember thinking the others were perhaps not very experienced mountain skiers. If the cabin is half buried under three metres of snow you’re in a bit of a fix without any skis. I was first up in the morning – I usually am – and was off before the others had stirred.’
‘You say you arrived late. You were skiing alone in the dark, were you?’
‘Head torch, map and compass. The trip was a spontaneous decision, so I didn’t catch the train to Ustaoset until the evening. But, as I said, they are familiar surroundings, I’m used to finding my way across the frozen wastes in the dark. And the weather was good, moonlight reflecting off the snow, I didn’t need a map or a light.’
‘Can you tell me anything about what happened in the cabin while you were there?’
‘Nothing happened. Marit Olsen and I talked about red wine and then about the problems of keeping a modern relationship going. That is, I think her relationship was more modern than mine.’