The Redbreast(32)

same old world. They walked through the

corridors with matching wallpaper and carpets and

expensive art on the walls. She put the key card in

the lock of the suite, then said, ‘After you,’ and

held the door open for the man, who slipped by

with what she interpreted as an air of expectation.

‘The Palace Suite measures 105 square metres,’

Betty said. ‘The suite has two bedrooms, each with

their own king-size bed, and two bathrooms, each

with jacuzzi and telephone.’

She went into the room where the old man had

taken up a position by the window.

‘The furniture was designed by Poul Henriksen, a

Danish designer,’ she said, stroking her hand over

the paper-thin glass top on the coffee table.

‘Perhaps you would like to see the bathrooms?’

The old man didn’t answer. He had kept his

soaking-wet hat on, and in the silence that

followed Betty heard a drip land on the

cherrywood parquet floor. She stood beside him.

From here they could see everything that was

worth seeing: the Town Hall, the National Theatre,

the Palace, the Norwegian Parliament – the

Storting – and Akershus Fortress. Beneath them lay

the Palace Gardens, where the trees pointed up

towards a leaden grey sky with black splayed

witches’ fingers.

‘You ought to come here on a fine spring day,’

Betty said.

The old man turned and sent her an

uncomprehending look, and Betty realised what

she had just said. She might as well have added:

Since you have only come here to take in the

view.

She passed it off with a smile as well as she

could. ‘When the grass is green and the leaves are

on the trees in the Palace Gardens. It’s absolutely

beautiful then.’

He studied her face, but his thoughts appeared to

be elsewhere. ‘You’re right,’ he said at last.

‘Trees have leaves. I didn’t think about that.’

He pointed to the window. ‘Does this open?’

‘A little,’ Betty said, relieved at the change of

topic. ‘You twist the handle there.’

‘Why only a little?’

‘In case someone should get any silly ideas.’

‘Silly ideas?’

She shot him a quick glance. Was the old man

going a bit senile? ‘Take a hike,’ she said.

‘Commit suicide, I mean. There are a lot of

unhappy people who . . .’ She made a gesture with

her hand which was intended to illustrate what

unhappy people do.

‘So that’s a silly idea, is it?’ The old man rubbed

his chin. Did she detect the hint of a smile among

the wrinkles? ‘Even if you’re unhappy?’

‘Yes,’ Betty said resolutely. ‘At least, in this

hotel while I’m on duty.’

‘While I’m on duty.’ The old man chuckled. ‘That

was a good one, Betty Andresen.’

The mention of her name made her jump. Of

course, he had read it on her name tag. There was

nothing wrong with his eyesight then; the letters

forming her name were as small as the letters of

receptionist were large. She pretended to take a

discreet peek at the clock.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’ve probably got other more

important things to do.’

‘I suppose I have,’ she said.

‘I’ll take it,’ the old man said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’ll take the room. Not for tonight, but —’

‘You’re taking the room?’

‘Yes. It is available for booking, isn’t it?’

‘Mm, yes it is, but . . . it’s terribly expensive.’

‘I prefer to pay in advance.’

The old man pulled out a wallet from his inside

pocket and removed a wad of notes.

‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that, but 7,000 for

one night. You wouldn’t rather see —?’

‘I like this room,’ the old man said. ‘Please count

it, just in case.’ Betty stared at the thousand-kroner

notes he wafted in front of her.

‘We can sort out the payment when you come,’

she said. ‘Mm, when would you like to . . . ?’

‘As you recommended, Betty. One day in the

spring.’

‘Right. Any particular day?’

‘Of course.’

17

Police HQ. 5 November 1999.

BJARNE MØLLER SIGHED AND GAZED OUT OF THE

WINDOW. His thoughts wandered freely as they had

tended to do of late. The rain had held off, although

the leaden grey sky still hung low over police HQ

in Grønland. A dog trotted over the brown, lifeless

lawn outside. There was a Crime Squad post

vacant in Bergen. The deadline for applications

was next week. He had heard from a colleague

over there that it only rained twice every autumn in