‘You know bloody well that —’
‘As far as I’m aware, you passed the shooting test
this year. And Møller is of the same opinion. He
even took a walk to the gun-licensing office this
morning to check with the shooting instructor. They
went through the files and, as far as they could see,
you had scored more than enough points to pass.
They don’t make POT inspectors out of people
who shoot at Secret Service agents without proper
accreditation, you know.’
She flashed a broad smile to Harry, who now
seemed more bewildered than drunk.
‘But I haven’t got a gun licence!’
‘Yes, you have. You just lost it. You’ll find it,
Harry, you’ll find it.’
‘Now listen. I . . .’
He paused and stared down at the plastic folder
in front of him on the table. Ellen stood up.
‘See you at nine, Inspector.’
All Harry could manage was a mute nod.
16
Radisson SAS, Holbergs Plass. 5
November 1999.
BETTY ANDRESEN HAD SUCH BLONDE, CURLY,
DOLLY PARTON hair it looked like a wig. It was not
a wig, however, and all similarities with Dolly
Parton finished with the hair. Betty Andresen was
tall and thin, and when she smiled, as she was
doing now, the crack in her mouth was small and
barely revealed her teeth. This smile was directed
at the old man on the other side of the desk in the
reception area of the Radisson SAS Hotel in
Holbergs plass. It wasn’t a reception desk in the
general understanding of the term, but one of
several multi-functional ‘islands’ with computer
monitors, which allowed them to serve a number
of guests at the same time.
‘Good morning,’ Betty Andresen said. That was
something she had picked up at the hotel
management school in Stavanger, to distinguish
between different times of the day when she
greeted people. Thus in six hours’ time she would
say, ‘Good afternoon,’ and two hours later, ‘Good
evening.’ Then she would go home to her two-
room apartment in Torshov and wish there were
someone to whom she could say, ‘Good night.’
‘I’d like to see a room as high up as possible.’
Betty Andresen stared at the dripping wet
shoulders of the old man’s coat. It was pouring
outside. A quivering raindrop clung to the brim of
his hat.
‘You want to see a room?’
Betty Andresen’s smile didn’t flinch. She had
been trained according to the principle, which she
observed religiously, that everyone was to be
treated as a guest until the opposite was proven
irrefutably. But she knew equally well that what
she had in front of her was an example of the
genus: old-man-visiting-the-capital-who-would-
like-to-see-the-view-from-the-SAS-hotel-without-
paying. They were still coming here, particularly
in the summer. And it wasn’t only to see the view.
Once a woman had asked to see the Palace Suite
on the twenty-first floor so that she could describe
it to her friends and tell them that she had stayed
there. She had even offered Betty fifty kroner if she
would enter her name in the guest book so that she
could use it as proof.
‘Single room or double?’ Betty asked. ‘Smoker
or non-smoker?’ Most started to falter at that point.
‘Doesn’t make any difference,’ the old man said.
‘The most important thing is the view. I’d like to
see one facing south-west.’
‘Yes, you’ll be able to see the whole town from
there.’
‘Quite so. What is the best room you have?’
‘The best is obviously the Palace Suite, but wait
a moment. Shall I check if we have a standard
room available?’
She clattered away on the keyboard and waited to
see if he would take the bait. It didn’t take long.
‘I’d like to see the suite.’
Of course you would, she thought. She cast her
eye over the old man. Betty was not an
unreasonable woman. If an old man’s greatest wish
was to see the view from the SAS hotel, she
wouldn’t stand in his way.
‘Let’s go and have a look,’ she said, flashing her
most radiant smile, which was usually reserved for
regular guests.
‘Are you visiting someone here in Oslo?’ she
asked out of politeness in the lift.
‘No,’ the old man said. He had white bushy
eyebrows like her father. Betty pressed the lift
button, the doors slid to and the lift was set in
motion. She never got used to it – it was like being
sucked up to heaven. The doors slid open and, as
always, she half expected she would come out into
a new and different world, more or less like the
girl in The Wizard of Oz. But it was always the