The Redbreast(29)

making the dashboard vibrate. Prince’s shrill

falsetto pierced her eardrums.

‘Groovy or what?’ Tom shouted above the music.

Ellen didn’t really want to offend him, so she

simply shook her head. Not that she had any

preconceptions that Tom Waaler was easy to

offend, but she had decided not to go against the

grain for as long as it was possible. She hoped

until the pairing of Tom Waaler with Ellen Gjelten

came to an end. Bjarne Møller, the head of their

section, had definitely said that the pairing was

only provisional. Everyone knew that Tom would

get the new inspector’s post in the spring.

‘Black poof,’ Tom shouted. ‘ Too much.’

Ellen didn’t answer. It was raining so hard that,

even with the wipers on full speed, the water lay

like a soft filter on the windscreen and made the

buildings in Ullevålsveien look like soft toy houses

undulating to and fro. Møller had sent them off this

morning to find Harry. They had already rung his

flat in Sofies gate and established that he was not

at home. Or he didn’t want to open up. Or he

wasn’t capable of opening up. Ellen feared the

worst. She watched people hurrying along the

pavement. They had distorted, bizarre features too,

like in crazy mirrors at the fair.

‘Turn left here and pull over outside Schrøder’s,’

she said. ‘You can wait in the car and I’ll go in.’

‘Fine with me,’ Waaler said. ‘Drunks are the

worst.’

She glanced at him from the side, but his

expression didn’t betray whether he meant

Schrøder’s morning clientele in general or Harry

in particular. He pulled into the bus stop outside

and as Ellen got out she saw that a Kaffebrenneri

had opened on the other side of the street. Or

perhaps it had been there for ages and she simply

hadn’t noticed it. On the bar stools along the

windows young people in roll-necked sweaters sat

reading foreign newspapers or staring out into the

rain, holding large white coffee cups between their

hands, presumably wondering if they had chosen

the right subject at university, the right designer

sofa, the right partner, the right football club or the

right European town.

In the doorway to Schrøder’s she almost bumped

into a man wearing an Icelandic sweater. The

alcohol had washed nearly all the blue from his

irises; his hands were as big as frying pans and

black with dirt. Ellen caught the sweet smell of

sweat and stale alcohol as he sailed past. Inside,

there was a slow morning atmosphere. Only four of

the tables were occupied. Ellen had been there

before, a long time ago, and as far as she could

determine nothing had changed. Large pictures of

Oslo in centuries past hung on the walls, and the

brown paintwork and the faux glass ceiling in the

middle gave it a little of the feel of an English pub.

Very little, if you were absolutely honest. The

plastic tables and benches made it look more like

the smokers’ saloon bar on a ferry along the Møre

coast. At the back of the room a waitress wearing

an apron was leaning against a counter and

smoking while keeping half an eye on Ellen. Harry

was sitting right in the corner near the window

with his head down over the table. A half-empty

beer glass in front of him.

‘Hi,’ Ellen said, taking a seat opposite him.

Harry looked up and nodded. As if he had been

waiting exclusively for her. His head slipped

down again.

‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you. We rang

your flat.’

‘Was I at home?’ he said in a flat tone, no smile.

‘I don’t know. Are you at home, Harry?’ She

indicated the glass.

He shrugged.

‘He’s going to live,’ she said.

‘I heard. Møller left a message on my

answerphone.’ His diction was surprisingly clear.

‘He didn’t say how badly injured he was. Plenty of

nerves and stuff in the back, aren’t there?’

He cocked his head, but Ellen didn’t answer.

‘Perhaps he’ll only be paralysed?’ Harry said,

tapping his now-empty glass. ‘ Skål.’

‘Your sick leave runs out tomorrow,’ she

said.‘Then we’ll be expecting to see you back on

the job.’

He raised his head. ‘Am I on sick leave?’

Ellen pushed a little plastic folder across the

table. The back of a pink piece of paper could be

seen inside.

‘I’ve been talking to Møller. And Dr Aune. Take

this copy of the sick leave form. Møller said it was

normal to have a few days off to recover after a

shooting incident in the line of duty. Come in

tomorrow.’