PLEASE leave a message.’
‘I didn’t go to work today. It’s minus twelve
outside, marginally warmer in the flat. The
telephone has been ringing all day and when I
finally decided to answer it, it was Doctor Aune.
Aune is a good man, for a psychologist; at least he
doesn’t behave as if he is less confused than the
rest of us with respect to what goes on in our
heads. Aune’s old contention that every alcoholic’s
nightmare begins where the last drunken spree
ended is a great warning, but not necessarily
accurate. He was surprised that I was more or less
together this time. Everything is relative. Aune also
talked about an American psychologist who has
discovered that the lives we lead are to a certain
extent hereditary. When we step into our parents’
roles, our lives begin to resemble theirs. My father
became a hermit after my mother died, and now
Aune is frightened that I will be the same because
of a couple of tough experiences I’ve had – the
shooting accident in Vinderen, you know. And in
Sydney. And now this. Right. I’ve told you about
my days, but had to laugh when Doctor Aune told
me that Helge, a great tit, was preventing me from
letting my life go down the chute. As I said, Aune
is a good man, but he should cut out all that
psycho-stuff.
‘I called Rakel and asked her out. She said she
would give it some thought and ring me back. I
don’t know why I do this to myself.’
58
Jens Bjelkes Gate. 18 March 2000.
‘. . . IS A TELENOR ANNOUNCEMENT. THE NUMBER YOU
HAVE dialled is no longer available. This is a
Telenor announcement. The number . . .’
Part Six
BATHSHEBA
59
Møller’s Office. 25 April 2000.
THE FIRST SPRING OFFENSIVE CAME LATE. IT WASN’T
UNTIL the end of March that the gutters began to
gurgle and flow. By April all the snow had
disappeared as far as Sognsvann. But then the
spring had to retreat again. The snow came
swirling down and lay in huge drifts, even in the
centre of town, and weeks passed before the sun
melted it again. Dogs’ turds and refuse from the
previous year lay stinking in the streets; the wind
picked up speed across the open stretches in
Grønlandsleiret and by Galleri Oslo, swept up the
sand and made people go round rubbing their eyes
and spitting. The talk of the town was the single
mother who would perhaps become Queen one
day, the European football championship and the
unseasonal weather. At Police HQ, the talk was
about what people did over Easter and the
miserable increase in pay, and they went on as if
everything was as before.
Everything was not as before.
Harry sat in his office with his feet on the table,
looking out at the cloudless day, the retired ladies
in their ugly hats out for the morning and taking up
the whole of the pavement, delivery vans going
through the lights on amber, all the small details
which lent the town the false veneer of normality.
He had been wondering about that for some time
now – if he was the only one who was not
allowing himself to be duped. It was six weeks
since they had buried Ellen, but when he looked
out, he saw no change.
There was a knock at the door. Harry didn’t
answer, but it opened anyway. It was the head of
Crime Squad, Bjarne Møller.
‘I heard you were back.’
Harry watched one of the red buses glide into a
bus stop. The advertisement on the side of the
vehicle was for Storebrand Life Insurance.
‘Can you tell me, boss,’ he asked, ‘why they call
it life insurance when they obviously mean death
insurance?’
Møller sighed and perched on the edge of the
desk. ‘Why haven’t you got an extra chair in here,
Harry?’
‘If people don’t sit down, they get to the point
quicker.’ He was still staring out of the window.
‘We missed you at the funeral, Harry.’
‘I had changed my clothes,’ Harry said, more to
himself than Møller. ‘I’m sure I was on my way,
too. When I looked up and caught sight of the
miserable gathering around me, I even thought for a
moment that I had arrived. Until I saw Maja
standing there in her pinny and waiting for my
order.’
‘I guessed it was something like that.’
A dog wandered across the brown lawn with its
nose along the ground and its tail in the air. At
least someone appreciated spring in Oslo.
‘What happened then?’ Møller asked. ‘We
haven’t seen much of you for a while.’
Harry gave a shrug.
‘I was busy. I’ve got a new lodger – a one-
winged great tit. And I sat listening to old
messages on my answerphone. It turned out all the