‘I don’t think I have to confirm or deny anything except that we at Kripos are fairly confident that we will soon have this case solved.’
The reporter turned to the camera for an outro, but was drowned out by the round of applause at Justisen.
Truls ordered another beer as one of the detectives got up onto a chair and proclaimed that Crime Squad could suck his dick, at least the tip, if they said pretty please. Laughter resounded around the packed, sweaty, fetid room.
At that moment the door opened and in the mirror Truls saw a figure fill the entrance.
He felt a strange excitement at the sight, a tremulous certainty that something was going to happen, that someone would be hurt.
It was Harry Hole.
Tall, broad-shouldered, lean-faced with deep-set bloodshot eyes. He just stood there. And although no one shouted for the crowd to shut up the silence spread from the front to the back of Justisen, until a last shh was heard to quieten two garrulous forensics officers. When the silence was total, Hole spoke.
‘So you’re celebrating the job you succeeded in stealing from us, are you?’
The words were low, almost a whisper, and yet every syllable reverberated around the room.
‘You’re celebrating having a boss who’s prepared to step over dead bodies – those that have piled up outside and those that will soon be carried from the sixth floor at Police HQ – just so that he can be the Sun King of fucking Bryn. Well, here’s a hundred-krone note.’
Truls could see Hole waving a note.
‘You don’t have to steal this. Here, buy yourselves beer, forgiveness, a dildo for Bellman’s threesome . . .’ He screwed up the note and tossed it onto the floor. From the corner of his eye he could see Jussi was already moving. ‘… or another snitch.’
Hole lurched to the side to gain balance, and it was then that Truls realised that the guy – despite enunciating with the diction of a priest – was as stewed as a prune.
The next moment Hole performed a half-pirouette as Jussi Kolkka’s right hook hit him on the chin, and then a deep, almost gallant bow, as the Finn’s left buried itself in his solar plexus. Truls guessed that in a few seconds Hole – when he had got some air back in his lungs – was going to spew. In here. And Jussi was obviously thinking the same, that he would be better outside. It was a wonder to see how the tubby, almost log-shaped Finn lifted his foot high with the suppleness of a ballerina, placed it against Harry’s shoulder and gently pushed so that the crumpled detective rocked backwards and through the door whence he had come.
The drunkest and youngest of them howled with laughter, but Truls grunted. A couple of the older ones yelled, and one screamed that Kolkka should bloody well behave himself. But no one did anything. Truls knew why. Everyone here remembered the story. Harry had dragged the uniform through the dirt, shat in the nest, taken the life of one of their best men.
Jussi marched towards the bar, po-faced, as if he had carried out the rubbish. Truls whinnied and grunted. He would never understand Finns or Samis or Eskimos or whatever the hell they were.
From further back in the room a man had stood up and made his way to the door. Truls hadn’t seen him at Kripos before, but he had the circumspect eye of a policeman under all that dark, curly hair.
‘Tell me if you need any help with him, sheriff,’ someone shouted from his table.
Three minutes later, when Celine Dion had been turned back up and the chatting had resumed its previous levels, Truls ventured forth, put his foot on the hundred-krone note and took it to the bar.
Harry had his breath back. And he spewed. Once, twice. Then he collapsed again. The tarmac was so cold it stung his ribs through his shirt and so heavy he seemed to be supporting it and not vice versa. Blood-red spots and wriggling black worms danced in front of his eyes.
‘Hole?’
Harry heard the voice, but knew that if he showed he was conscious it would be open season for a kicking. So he kept his eyes closed.
‘Hole?’ The voice had come closer and he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Harry also knew that the alcohol would have reduced his speed, accuracy and ability to judge distances, but he did it anyway. He opened his eyes, twisted over and aimed for the larynx. Then he collapsed again.
He had missed by half a metre.
‘I’ll get you a taxi,’ the voice said.
‘Will you fuck,’ Harry groaned. ‘Piss off, you bloody bastard.’
‘I’m not Kripos,’ the voice said. ‘My name’s Krongli. The County Officer from Ustaoset.’
Harry turned and squinted up at him.
‘I’m just a bit pissed,’ Harry said hoarsely and tried to breathe calmly so that the pain wouldn’t force the contents of his stomach up again. ‘No big deal.’