There were two Edvard Moskens on the screen.
One was born in 1942, the other in 1921.
‘We’re having a department party next Saturday,’
Meirik said.
‘I’ve got the invitation in my pigeon-hole.’ Harry
double-clicked on 1921 and the address of the
older Mosken came up. He lived in Drammen.
‘Personnel said you hadn’t responded yet. I just
wanted to make sure you were coming.’
‘Why’s that?’
Harry tapped Edvard Mosken’s ID number into
Criminal Records. ‘We like people to get to know
each other across departmental boundaries. I
haven’t even seen you in the canteen once yet.’
‘I’m quite happy here in the office.’
No hits. He brought up the Central National
Register for everyone who’d had formal dealings
with the police for any reason. Not necessarily
prosecuted – they might, for instance, have been
arrested, reported or themselves been a victim of a
criminal act.
‘It’s good to see you immersed in cases, but don’t
wall yourself in here. Will I see you at the party,
Harry?’
ENTER.
‘I’ll see. I have another arrangement I made a
long time ago,’ Harry lied.
No hits again. While he was in the Central
National Register he might as well put in the third
name Fauke had given him. H-a-l-l-g-r-i-m D-a-l-
e. An opportunist, in Fauke’s view. Relied on
Hitler winning the war and rewarding those who
had chosen the right side. Had already regretted it
by the time he got to Sennheim, but it was too late
to turn back. Harry had thought there was
something vaguely familiar about the name when
Fauke had said it, and now the same feeling
resurfaced.
‘Let me put it a little stronger,’ Meirik said. ‘I am
instructing you to come.’
Harry looked up. Meirik smiled.
‘A joke,’ he said. ‘But it would be nice to see you
there. Have a good evening.’
‘Bye,’ Harry mumbled, returning to the screen.
One Hallgrim Dale. Born 1922. ENTER.
The screen filled with text. One more page. And
then another.
They didn’t all do well after the war then, Harry
thought. Hallgrim Dale – place of residence:
Schweigaards gate, Oslo – was what newspapers
loved to describe as ‘no stranger to the police’.
Harry’s eyes ran down the list. Vagrancy,
drunkenness, harassment of neighbour, petty
larceny, affray. A lot, but nothing of any real
consequence. The most impressive thing was that
he was still alive, Harry thought, as he noted down
that he had been taken in to sober up as recently as
last August. He found the Oslo telephone directory,
looked up Dale’s number and rang. While he was
waiting for an answer he searched the register and
found the other Edvard Mosken, born in 1942. He
had an address in Drammen, too. He took down the
ID number and went back to Criminal Records.
‘This is a message from Telenor. You have
reached a telephone number which is no longer in
use. This is a me—’
Harry wasn’t surprised. He put down the phone.
Edvard Mosken Junior had been given a prison
sentence. A long sentence; he was still inside.
What for? Drugs, Harry guessed, and pressed
ENTER. A third of all prisoners had been on a drugs
charge. There. Yes indeed. Smuggling hash. Four
kilos. Four years, unconditional sentence.
Harry yawned and stretched. Was he getting
anywhere or was he just sitting here wasting time
because the only other place he felt like going was
Schrøder’s, and he didn’t feel like sitting there
drinking coffee? What a shit day. He summed up:
Gudbrand Johansen doesn’t exist, at least not in
Norway; Edvard Mosken lives in Drammen and
has a son with a drugs conviction; and Hallgrim
Dale is a drunk and hardly the type to have half a
million kroner to blow.
Harry rubbed his eyes.
Should he look up Fauke in the telephone
directory to see if there was a number for
Homenkollveien? He groaned.
She has a partner. And she has money. And
class. In short: everything you don’t have.
He put Hallgrim Dale’s ID number into the
Register. enter. The machine whirred and churned.
Long list. More of the same. Poor old alkie.
You both studied law. And she likes the Raga
Rockers, too.
Wait a moment. On the last record, Dale was
coded as ‘victim’. Had he been beaten up? enter.
Forget her. That’s it, now she was forgotten.
Should he ring Ellen and ask if she fancied going
to the cinema? Let her choose the film. No, he’d
better go to Focus. Sweat it out.
It flashed at him from the screen.
HALLGRIM DALE. 151199. MURDER.
Harry took a deep breath. He was surprised, but