His gaze shifted to the window with its coloured,
uneven glass. Presumably for reasons of
discretion, so that people inside could not be seen
from the outside. The exact opposite of
Kaffebrenneri, Ellen thought.
‘Well? Are you coming?’
‘Well,’ he looked at her with the same glazed
eyes she remembered from the mornings after he
returned from Bangkok, ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘Come anyway. There are a couple of amusing
surprises waiting for you.’
‘Surprises?’ Harry laughed softly. ‘I wonder
what that could be? Early retirement? Honourable
dismissal? Will the President give me the Purple
Heart?’
He raised his head enough for Ellen to see his
bloodshot eyes. She sighed and turned towards the
window. Behind the rough glass, shapeless cars
slid by, as in a psychedelic film.
‘Why do you do this to yourself, Harry? You
know, I know, everyone knows it wasn’t your
fault! Even the Secret Service admits it was their
fault we weren’t informed. And that we – you –
acted properly.’
Harry spoke in a low voice without looking at
her: ‘Do you think his family will see it like that
when he comes home in a wheelchair?’
‘My God, Harry!’ Ellen had raised her voice and
saw that the woman at the counter was watching
them with increasing interest. She could probably
smell a juicy quarrel brewing.
‘There are always some unlucky ones, some who
don’t make it, Harry. That’s the way it is. It’s no
one’s fault. Did you know that every year 60 per
cent of all hedge sparrows die? 60 per cent! If we
were to down tools and ponder the meaning of it,
before we knew what was going on, we would end
up among the 60 per cent ourselves, Harry.’
Harry didn’t answer. He sat bobbing his head up
and down over the checked tablecloth with black
cigarette burns.
‘I’m going to hate myself for saying this, Harry,
but I would regard it as a personal favour if you
would come tomorrow. Just turn up. I won’t talk to
you and you don’t breathe on me, OK?’
Harry put his little finger through one of the holes
in the cloth. Then he moved his glass so it covered
one of the other holes. Ellen waited.
‘Is that Waaler waiting in the car outside?’ Harry
asked.
Ellen nodded. She knew exactly how badly the
two of them got on. She had an idea, wavered, then
took the risk: ‘He’s got two hundred kroner on you
not making an appearance.’
Harry laughed his soft laugh again. Then he
supported his head on his hands and looked at her.
‘You’re a really bad liar, Ellen. But thank you for
trying.’
‘Fuck you.’
She drew in breath, was going to say something
but changed her mind and observed Harry for a
while. Then she breathed in again.
‘OK, it’s actually Møller who should tell you
this, but now I’ll tell you: they’re going to make
you an inspector in POT.’
Harry’s laughter purred like the engine of a
Cadillac Fleetwood. ‘Alright, with a little
practice, perhaps you won’t be such a bad liar
after all.’
‘It’s true!’
‘It’s impossible.’ His gaze wandered out of the
window again. ‘Why? You’re one of our best
detectives. You’ve just proved you’re a damned
good policeman. You read law. You —’
‘It’s impossible, I’m telling you. Even if someone
has come up with the crazy idea.’
‘But why?’
‘For a very simple reason. Wasn’t it 60 per cent
of those birds, you said?’
He pulled the tablecloth and the glass across the
table.
‘They’re called hedge sparrows.’
‘Right. And what do they die of ?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They don’t just lie down and die, do they?’
‘Of hunger. Predators. Cold. Exhaustion. Flying
into windows perhaps. Anything and everything.’
‘OK. I bet none of them is shot in the back by a
Norwegian policeman without a firearms permit
because he didn’t pass the shooting test. A
policeman who, as soon as this is discovered, will
be prosecuted and probably sentenced to between
one and three years in prison. A pretty dodgy basis
for promotion to inspector, don’t you think?’
He lifted his glass and slammed it down on the
plastic folder. ‘Which shooting test?’ she asked.
He gave her a sharp look. She met his eyes with
an expression of confidence.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Harry.’