long body. Of course, seven thousand kroner was
way over what he had intended to pay, but the
alternative was to look like something out of a
farce in the old suit, so he had closed his eyes, put
his card in the machine and tried to forget.
They went into the dining room, where a table
was set for two.
‘Oleg is asleep,’ she said before Harry could ask.
There was a silence.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’ she began.
‘Didn’t you?’ Harry said with a smile. He hadn’t
seen her blush before. He pulled her into him,
breathed in the aroma of freshly washed hair and
felt her slight tremble.
‘The food . . .’ she whispered.
He let her go and she disappeared into the
kitchen. The window facing the garden was open
and the white butterflies which had not been there
yesterday fluttered like confetti in the sunset. Inside
it smelled of green soap and damp wooden floors.
Harry closed his eyes. He knew that he would need
many days like this before the image of Even Juul
hanging from the dog lead would completely go
away, but it was fading. Weber and his boys hadn’t
found the Märklin, but they had found Burre, the
dog. In a bin bag in the freezer with its throat cut.
And in the toolbox they had found three knives, all
bloodstained. Harry guessed that some of the blood
was Hallgrim Dale’s.
Rakel called him from the kitchen to help her to
carry in a few things. It was already fading.
93
Holmenkollveien. 17 May 2000.
THE JANIZARY MUSIC CAME AND WENT WITH THE
WIND. Harry opened his eyes. Everything was
white. White sunlight gleaming and flashing like
morse code between the flapping white curtains,
white walls, white ceiling and white bedding, soft
and cool against hot skin. He turned. The pillow
retained the mould of her head, but the bed was
empty. He looked at his wristwatch. Five past
eight. She and Oleg were on their way to Akershus
Fortress parade ground where the children’s
parade was due to start. They had arranged to meet
in front of the guardhouse by the Palace at eleven.
He closed his eyes and replayed the night one
more time. Then he got up and shuffled into the
bathroom. White there too: white tiles, white
porcelain. He showered in freezing cold water and
before he realised it he was singing an old song by
The The.
‘ . . . a perfect day! ’
Rakel had put out a towel for him, white, and he
rubbed his skin with the thick woven cotton to get
his circulation going as he studied his face in the
mirror. He was happy now, wasn’t he? Right now.
He smiled at the face in front of him. It smiled
back. Ekman and Friesen. Smile at the world and
the world . . .
He laughed aloud, tied the towel around his waist
and walked slowly on damp feet across the hall to
the bedroom door. It took a second before he
realised it was the wrong bedroom because
everything was white again: walls, ceiling, a
dressing-table with family photographs on and a
neatly made double bed with an old-fashioned
crocheted bedspread.
He turned, was about to leave and had reached
the door when he suddenly went rigid. He froze, as
if part of his brain was ordering him to keep going
and forget while another part wanted him to go
back and check whether what he had just seen was
what he thought it was. Or, to be more precise,
what he feared it was. Exactly what he feared and
why, he didn’t know. He only knew that when
everything is perfect, it can’t be better and you
don’t want to change a thing, not one single thing.
But it was too late. Of course it was too late.
He breathed in, turned round and went back.
The black and white photograph was in a simple
gold frame. The woman in the photograph had a
narrow face, high, pronounced cheekbones and
calm, smiling eyes, which were focused on
something slightly above the camera, presumably
the photographer. She looked strong. She was
wearing a plain blouse, and over the blouse hung a
silver cross.
They have been painting her on icons for almost
two thousand years.
That wasn’t why there had been something
familiar about her the first time he had seen a
photograph of her.
There was no doubt. It was the same woman he
had seen in the photograph in Beatrice Hoffmann’s
room.
Part Nine
JUDGMENT DAY
94
Oslo. 17 May 2000.
I AM WRITING THIS SO THAT WHOEVER FINDS IT SHALL
KNOW a little about why I have taken the
decisions I have. The decisions in my life have
often been between two or more evils, and I have
to be judged on the basis of that. But I should
also be judged on the fact that I have never run
away from decisions; I have never evaded my
moral obligations. I have risked taking the wrong
decision rather than living like a coward as part