Bergen: from September to November, and from
November to New Year. They always exaggerated,
folk from Bergen did. He’d been there and he liked
the town. It was a long way from the politicians in
Oslo and it was small. He liked small.
‘What?’ Møller turned and met Harry’s resigned
expression.
‘You were in the process of explaining to me that
a move would do me good.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your words, boss.’
‘Oh yes. Yes, that’s right. We have to make sure
we don’t get stuck in a rut, with old habits and
routines. We have to move on and develop. We
have to get away.’
‘There’s getting away and getting away. POT is
only three floors up.’
‘Get away from everything, I mean. The head of
the Security Service, Meirik, thinks you’ll fit
superbly into the post he has for you up there.’
‘Don’t jobs like that have to be advertised?’
‘Don’t worry about it, Harry.’
‘No? But can I be allowed to wonder why on
earth you want me in surveillance work. Do I look
like undercover material?’
‘No, no.’
‘No?’
‘I mean yes. Not yes exactly, but well . . . why
not?’
‘Why not?’
Møller scratched the back of his head furiously.
His face had turned fiery red.
‘For fuck’s sake, Harry. We’re offering you a job
as an inspector, five notches up the pay scale, no
more night shifts and a bit more respect from the
bloody rookies. That’s good going, Harry.’
‘I like night shifts.’
‘No one likes night shifts.’
‘Why don’t you give me the vacant inspector’s
post here?’
‘Harry! Do me a favour and just say yes.’
Harry fidgeted with his paper cup. ‘Boss,’ he
said. ‘How long have we known each other?’
Møller raised an admonitory finger. ‘Don’t try
that one on me. Not the we’ve-been-through-thick-
and-thin-together number . . .’
‘Seven years. And for seven years I’ve
interviewed people in this city who are probably
the most stupid beings to walk on two legs, and
still I haven’t met anyone who is a worse liar than
you. Perhaps I’m stupid, but I still have a couple of
brain cells left doing the best they can, and they’re
telling me that it can’t exactly be my record that’s
earned me this post. Nor that, to my astonishment, I
can suddenly have one of the best scores in the
department at the annual shooting test. They’re
telling me that my plugging a Secret Service agent
might have something to do with it. And you don’t
need to say a thing, boss.’
Møller opened his mouth, closed it again and
instead demonstratively crossed his arms.
Harry continued: ‘I know you’re not responsible
for putting on this show. And even if I can’t see the
whole picture, I have some imagination and I can
guess the rest. If I’m right, it means that my own
wishes regarding other options for my career in the
police are of minor importance. So just answer me
this. Have I any choice?’
Møller blinked, and kept blinking. He was
thinking about Bergen again. Of snow-free winters.
Of Sunday outings with his wife and boys on
Mount Fløyen. Somewhere decent to grow up. A
few good-natured pranks, a bit of hash, no criminal
gangs and no fourteen-year-olds taking overdoses.
Bergen police station. Yeah, well.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘I didn’t think so.’ He
crumpled the paper cup and took aim at the waste-
paper basket. ‘Up five pay grades, did you say?’
‘And your own office.’
‘Nicely partitioned off from the others, I would
imagine.’ He threw with a slow, deliberate arm
movement. ‘Overtime?’
‘Not at that grade.’
‘Then I’ll have to hurry home at four.’ The paper
cup landed on the floor half a metre from the bin.
‘I’m sure that’s fine,’ Møller said with a
suggestion of a smile.
18
Palace Gardens. 10 November 1999.
IT WAS A COLD, CLEAR EVENING. THE FIRST THING
THAT struck the old man as he came out of the
Metro station was how many people were still in
the street. He had imagined that the centre would
be almost deserted, but the taxis in Karl Johans
gate were shooting back and forth under the neon
lights, and crowds of people were drifting up and
down the pavements. He stood at a pedestrian
crossing with a gang of swarthy youths jabbering
away in another language and waited for the green