‘Right. Now it turns out that according to the
certificate of sentence the judge had attended to the
affirmation of the associate judge in his office, just
before the case started. He blames lack of time and
new rules.’
Harry crumpled up the fax and threw it in a wide
arc, missing Ellen’s waste-paper basket by half a
metre.
‘And the result?’ Ellen asked, kicking the fax to
Harry’s half of the office.
‘The conviction will be deemed invalid and
Sverre Olsen will be a free man for at least
eighteen months until the case comes up again. And
the rule of thumb is that the sentence will be a great
deal milder because of the strain which the waiting
period inflicts on the accused blah, blah, blah.
With eight months already served in custody, it’s
more than bloody likely that Sverre Olsen is
already a free man.’
Harry wasn’t speaking to Ellen; she knew all the
ins and outs of the case. He was speaking to his
own reflection in the window, articulating the
words to hear if they made any sense. He drew
both hands across a sweaty skull, where until
recently close-cropped blond hair had bristled.
There was a simple reason for him having had the
rest shaved off: last week he had been recognised
again. A young guy, in a black woollen hat, Nikes
and such large baggy trousers that the crotch hung
between his knees, had come over to him while his
pals sniggered in the background and asked if
Harry was ‘that Bruce Willis type guy in
Australia’. It was three – three! – years ago since
his face had decorated the front pages of
newspapers and he had made a fool of himself on
TV shows talking about the serial killer he had
shot in Sydney. Harry had immediately gone and
shaved off his hair. Ellen had suggested a beard.
‘The worst thing is that I could swear that lawyer
bastard had a draft appeal ready before the
sentence was passed. He could have said
something and the affirmation could have been
taken there and then, but he sat there, rubbing his
hands and waiting.’
Ellen shrugged her shoulders.
‘That sort of thing happens. Good work by the
defence counsel. Something has to be sacrificed on
the altar of law and order. Pull yourself together,
Harry.’
She said it with a mixture of sarcasm and sober
statement of fact.
Harry rested his forehead against the cooling
glass. Another one of those unexpectedly warm
October days. He wondered where Ellen, the
fresh, young policewoman with the pale, doll-like,
sweet face, the little mouth and eyes as round as a
ball, had developed such a tough exterior. She was
a girl from a middle-class home, in her own
words, an only child and spoiled rotten, who had
even gone to a girl’s boarding school in
Switzerland. Who knows? Perhaps that was a
tough enough upbringing.
Harry laid back his head and exhaled. Then he
undid one of his shirt buttons.
‘More, more,’ Ellen whispered as she clapped
encouragement.
‘In neo-Nazi circles they call him Batman.’
‘Got it. Baseball bat.’
‘Not the Nazi – the lawyer.’
‘Right. Interesting. Does that mean he’s good-
looking, rich, barking mad and has a six-pack and a
cool car?’
Harry laughed. ‘You should have your own TV
show, Ellen. It’s because Batman always wins.
Besides, he’s married.’
‘Is that the only minus?’
‘That . . . and him making monkeys of us every
time,’ Harry said, pouring himself a cup of the
home-blended coffee Ellen had brought with her
when she moved into the office two years ago. The
snag was that Harry’s palate could no longer
tolerate the usual slop.
‘Supreme Court judge?’ she asked.
‘Before he’s forty.’
‘Thousand kroner he isn’t.’
‘Done.’
They laughed and toasted with their cardboard
cups.
‘Can I have that MOJO magazine then?’ she
asked.
‘There are pictures of Freddie Mercury’s ten
worst centrefold poses. Bare chest, arms akimbo
and buck teeth sticking out. The full whammy.
There you are.’
‘I like Freddie Mercury, I do. Liked.’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t like him.’
The blue, punctured office chair, which had long
been set at the lowest notch, screamed in protest as
Harry leaned back, lost in thought. He picked up a
yellow Post-it with Ellen’s writing on from the
telephone in front of him.
‘What’s this?’
‘You can read, can’t you? Møller wants you.’
Harry trotted down the corridor, imagining as he
went the pursed mouth and the two deep furrows