of brown eyes looked at him from under a black
fringe.
‘My name’s Ali,’ the boy said.
A Pakistani boy? He had a strange, turned-up
nose.
‘Ali means God,’ the boy said. ‘What does your
name mean?’
‘My name’s Daniel,’ the old man said with a
smile. ‘It’s a name from the Bible. It means “God
is my judge”.’
The boy looked at him.
‘So, you’re Daniel?’
‘Yes,’ the man said.
The boy didn’t take his eyes off him and the old
man felt disconcerted. Perhaps the young boy
thought he was homeless as he was lying there
fully clothed, using his woollen coat as a rug in the
hot sun.
‘Where’s your mother?’ he asked, to avoid the
boy’s probing stare.
‘Over there.’ The boy turned and pointed.
Two robust, dark-skinned women were sitting on
the grass some distance away. Four children were
frolicking around them, laughing.
‘Then I’m the judge of you, I am,’ the boy said.
‘What?’
‘Ali is God, isn’t he? And God is the judge of
Daniel. And my name’s Ali and you’re —’
The old man had stuck out his hand and tweaked
Ali’s nose. The boy squealed with delight. He saw
the heads of the two women turn; one was getting
to her feet so he let go.
‘Your mother, Ali,’ he said, motioning with his
head in the direction of the approaching woman.
‘Mummy!’ the boy shouted. ‘Look, I’m the judge
of that man.’
The woman shouted to the boy in Urdu. The old
man smiled, but the woman shunned him and
looked sternly at her son, who finally obeyed and
padded over to her. When they turned, her gaze
swept across and past him as if he were invisible.
He wanted to explain to her that he was not a bum,
to tell her he’d had a hand in shaping society. He
had invested in it, in spades, given everything he
had until there was no more to give, apart from
giving way, giving in, giving up. But he was unable
to do that, he was tired and simply wanted to go
home. Rest, then he would see. It was time some
others paid.
He didn’t hear the little boy shouting after him as
he was leaving.
6
Police HQ, Grønland. 9 October 1999.
ELLEN GJELTEN LOOKED UP AT THE MAN WHO BURST
through the door.
‘Good morning, Harry.’
‘Fuck!’
Harry kicked the waste-paper basket beside his
desk and it smashed into the wall next to Ellen’s
chair and rolled across the linoleum floor,
spreading its contents everywhere: discarded
attempts at reports (the Ekeberg killing); an empty
pack of twenty cigarettes (Camel, tax free sticker);
a green Go’morn yoghurt pot; Dagsavisen; a used cinema ticket ( Filmteateret: Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas); a used pools coupon; a music
magazine ( MOJO, no. 69, February 1999, with a
picture of Queen on the cover); a bottle of Coke
(plastic, half-litre); and a yellow Post-it with a
phone number he had considered ringing for a
while.
Ellen looked up from her PC and studied the
contents of the bin on the floor.
‘Are you chucking the MOJO out, Harry?’ she
asked.
‘Fuck!’ Harry repeated. He wrestled off his tight
suit jacket and threw it across the twenty metre
square office he and Ellen Gjelten shared. The
jacket hit the coat stand, but slid down to the floor.
‘What’s up?’ Ellen asked, reaching out a hand to
stop the swaying coat stand from falling.
‘I found this in my pigeon-hole.’
Harry waved a document in the air.
‘Looks like a court sentence.’
‘Yep.’
‘Dennis Kebab case?’
‘Right.’
‘And?’
‘They gave Sverre Olsen the full whack. Three
and a half years.’
‘Jesus. You ought to be in a stupendous mood.’
‘I was, for about a minute. Until I read this.’
Harry held up a fax.
‘Well?’
‘When Krohn got his copy of the sentence this
morning, he responded by sending us a warning
that he was going to pursue a claim of procedural
error.’
Ellen made a face as if she had something nasty in
her mouth.
‘Ugh.’
‘He wants the whole sentence quashed. You
won’t fucking believe it, but that slippery Krohn
guy has screwed us on the oath.’ Harry stood in
front of the window. ‘The associate judges only
have to take the oath the first time they act as
judges, but it must take place in the courtroom
before the case begins. Krohn noticed that one
associate judge was new. And that she didn’t take
her oath in the courtroom.’
‘It’s called affirmation.’