and remember what he hadn’t said. What did Uriah
look like? Hochner hadn’t managed to say a great
deal, but when you have to describe someone you
usually begin with the most striking features,
whatever stands out. And the first thing Hochner
had said about Uriah was that he had blue eyes.
Unless Hochner thought having blue eyes was
particularly unusual, it would suggest that Uriah
did not have any visible handicap or walked or
talked in a particular way. He spoke both German
and English, and had been to somewhere in
Germany called Sennheim. Harry followed the
Denmark ferry, which was making for Drøbak.
Well-travelled. Had Uriah been to sea? he
wondered. Harry had looked it up in an atlas, even
a German one, but he hadn’t found anywhere called
Sennheim. Hochner might have been making it up.
Probably of no significance.
Hochner said that Uriah nurtured a hatred. So
perhaps what he had guessed was right – that the
person they were looking for had a personal
motive. But what did he hate?
The sun disappeared behind the island of
Hovedøya and there was an instant bite in the
breeze off the Oslo fjord. Harry wrapped his coat
tighter round him and walked back to his car. And
the half a million? Had Uriah received it from a
Mr Big or was this a solo job with his own funds?
He took out his mobile phone. A Nokia, a tiny
thing, only two weeks old. He had fought against it
for a long time, but in the end Ellen had persuaded
him to buy one. He tapped in her number.
‘Hi, Ellen. Harry here. Are you alone? OK. I
want you to concentrate. Yes, it’s a little game.
Are you ready?’
They had played often enough before. The ‘game’
started with him giving her verbal cues. No
background information, no clues as to where he
was stuck, just scraps of information – of five
words maximum – in any order. It had taken them
time to work out the method. The most important
rule was that there had to be at least five scraps of
information, but no more than ten. Harry had got
the idea when he bet Ellen a shift that she couldn’t
remember the order of the cards in a pack after
seeing them for two minutes, two seconds per card.
He had lost three times before he gave in.
Afterwards she had told him the method she used.
She didn’t think of the cards as cards, but
associated a person or action with every card and
made up a story as they were turned over.
Afterwards he had tried to use her association
skills on the job. Sometimes the results were
amazing.
‘Man, seventy,’ Harry said slowly. ‘Norwegian.
Half a million kroner. Bitter. Blue eyes. Märklin
rifle. Speaks German. Able-bodied. Arms
smuggling at container port. Shooting practice in
Skien. That’s it.’
He got into the car.
‘Nothing? Thought so. OK. Reckoned it was
worth a try. Thanks, anyway. Take care.’
Harry was on the raised intersection – known
locally as the traffic machine – in front of the Post
House when he suddenly had a thought and called
Ellen back.
‘Ellen? It’s me again. There was one thing I
forgot. Still with me? Hasn’t held a weapon for
more than fifty years. Repeat. Hasn’t held a . . .
Yes, I know it’s more than five words. Still
nothing? Damn, now I’ve missed my turning! Catch
you later, Ellen.’
He put his phone on the passenger seat and
concentrated on driving. He had just turned off the
roundabout when his mobile bleeped.
‘Harry here. What? What on earth made you think
of that? Right, right, now don’t get angry, Ellen.
Now and then I forget that you don’t know what
goes on in your own noodle. Brain. In your great
big, beautiful, bouffant brain, Ellen. And yes, now
you say it, it’s obvious. Thanks very much.’
He put down the phone and at that moment
remembered he owed her three night shifts. Now
that he was no longer in Crime Squad, he would
have to find something else. He considered what
he could do, for approximately three seconds.
36
Irisveien. 1 March 2000
THE DOOR OPENED AND HARRY PEERED INTO A PAIR
OF piercing blue eyes in a lined face.
‘Harry Hole, police,’ he said. ‘I rang this
morning.’
‘Right.’
The old man’s grey-white hair was brushed
smoothly across his high forehead, and he was
wearing a tie under a knitted cardigan. It had said
EVEN & SIGNE JUUL on the postbox outside the
entrance to this red duplex house in the quietly
affluent suburb in north Oslo.
‘Please, come in, Inspector Hole.’
His voice was calm and firm, and there was
something about his bearing that made Professor
Even Juul look younger than, by rights, he had to