The Redbreast(31)

‘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