He pulled the shade of the lamp down to see her
better in the dark. ‘What’s going on, Helena?’
She swallowed. ‘And why aren’t you wearing
your uniform today?’ he asked.
This was what she had been dreading most. Not
lying to her mother and saying she was going to her
sister’s in Salzburg for a couple of days. Not
persuading the forester’s son – who was now
waiting in the road outside the gate – to drive her
to the hospital. Not even saying goodbye to her
possessions, the church and her secure life in the
Viennese woods. But telling him everything: that
she loved him and that she would willingly risk her
life and future for him. Because she might be
mistaken. Not about what he felt for her – of that
she was certain – but about his character. Would
he have the courage and the drive to do what she
would suggest? At least he was clear it wasn’t his
war they were fighting against the Red Army in the
south.
‘We should have had time to get to know each
other better,’ she said, placing her hand over his.
He grasped it and held it tight.
‘But we don’t have that luxury,’ she said,
squeezing his hand. ‘There’s a train for Paris
leaving in an hour. I’ve bought two tickets. My
teacher lives there.’
‘Your teacher?’
‘It’s a long, complicated story, but he’ll receive
us.’
‘What do you mean, receive us?’
‘We can stay with him. He lives alone. And, as
far as I know, he doesn’t have a circle of friends.
Have you got a passport?’
‘What? Yes . . .’
He seemed lost for words, as if he was
wondering whether he had fallen asleep while
reading the book about the boy in rags and all this
was just a dream.
‘Yes, I’ve got a passport.’
‘Good. The trip takes two days. We’ve got seats
and I’ve brought lots of food.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Why Paris?’
‘It’s a big city, a city you can disappear in.
Listen, I’ve got some of my father’s clothes in the
car – you can change into civvies there. His shoe
size —’
‘No.’ He held up his hand and her low, intense
stream of words stopped momentarily. She held
her breath and concentrated on his pensive face.
‘No,’ he repeated in a whisper. ‘That’s silly.’
‘But . . .’ She seemed to have a block of ice in her
stomach.
‘It’s better to travel in uniform,’ he said. ‘A
young man in civvies will only arouse suspicion.’
She was so happy she could hardly get the words
out and squeezed his hand even harder. Her heart
sang with such joy that she had to tell it to be quiet.
‘And one more thing,’ he said, swinging his legs
out of bed.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you love me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
He already had his jacket on.
26
POT, Police HQ. 21 February 2000.
HARRY CAST HIS EYES AROUND. AT THE TIDY, WELL-
organised shelves of ring-binders neatly displayed
in chronological order. At the walls where
diplomas and distinctions from a career in smooth
ascent hung. A black and white photograph of a
younger, uniformed Kurt Meirik, with the rank of
major, greeting King Olav hung behind the desk
and caught the eye of everyone who came in. This
was the picture Harry sat studying when the door
opened behind him.
‘I apologise for keeping you waiting, Hole. Stay
seated.’
It was Meirik. Harry hadn’t made a move to stand
up. ‘Well,’ said Meirik, taking a seat behind his
desk. ‘How has your first week with us been?’
Meirik sat upright in his chair and revealed a row
of large yellow teeth, in a way which made you
suspect he had overdone the smile training in his
life.
‘Fairly dull,’ Harry said.
‘Heh, heh. It hasn’t been that bad, has it?’ Meirik
seemed surprised.
‘Well, you’ve got better coffee than we have
downstairs.’
‘Crime Squad have, you mean?’
‘Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘It takes time to get used to it.
To “we” being POT now.’
‘Yes, we’ll just have to be a bit patient. That’s
true for a number of things. Isn’t it, Hole, eh?’
Harry nodded assent. No point running at
windmills. Not in the first month, anyway. As
expected, he had been given an office at the end of
a long corridor, which meant that he didn’t see
more of the others working there than was
absolutely necessary. His job consisted of reading
reports from regional POT offices and quite simply