enquiries had given him.
‘Mosken speaking.’ A self-assured voice.
‘Edvard Mosken?’
‘Yes. To whom am I speaking?’
‘Inspector Hole, POT. I have a couple of
questions.’
It struck Harry that this was the first time he had
introduced himself as an inspector. For some
reason it felt like a lie.
‘Has something happened to my son?’
‘No. Would it be convenient to visit you at
midday tomorrow, herr Mosken?’
‘I’m a pensioner. And single. There’s hardly a
moment when it wouldn’t be convenient,
Inspector.’
Harry called Even Juul and brought him up to
date on what had happened.
Harry was considering what Ellen had said about
the murder of Hallgrim Dale as he walked to the
canteen to buy a yoghurt. He would ring Kripos to
find out more about the case, although he had a
strong feeling that Ellen had already told him
everything worth knowing. Nevertheless. The
statistical probability of being murdered in
Norway was about one in ten thousand. When a
person you’re looking for turns up dead in a four-
month-old murder case, it is difficult to believe
that it is a coincidence. Could the murder be linked
in any way with the purchase of the Märklin rifle?
It was barely 9 a.m. and Harry already had a
headache. He hoped Ellen would be able to come
up with something on the Prince. Anything at all. If
nothing else, it would be a place to begin.
45
Sogn. 6 March 2000.
AFTER WORK HARRY DROVE UP TO THE SHELTERED
HOUSING in Sogn. Sis was waiting for him. She had
put on a bit of weight in the last year, but her
boyfriend Henrik, who lived further down the
corridor, liked her like that, she claimed.
‘But then Henrik is a mongo.’
She usually said that when she had to explain
Henrik’s minor idiosyncrasies. She, for her part,
was not a mongo. There was obviously an almost
invisible though sharp distinction somewhere. And
Sis liked to explain to Harry which of the residents
were mongos, and those who were only almost.
She told Harry about the usual things: what
Henrik had said last week (which could on
occasion be quite remarkable), what they had seen
on TV, what they had eaten and where they planned
to go on holiday. They were always planning
holidays. This time it was Hawaii and Harry could
only smile at the thought of Sis and Henrik in
Hawaiian shirts at the airport in Honolulu.
He asked if she had talked to Dad, and she said
he had visited her two days ago.
‘That’s good,’ Harry said.
‘I think he’s forgotten Mum now,’ Sis said.
‘That’s good.’
Harry stayed in his chair for a moment, thinking
about what she had said. Then Henrik knocked on
the door and said Hotel Caesar, a soap opera, was
beginning on TV2 in three minutes, so Harry put on
his coat and promised to phone soon.
The traffic by the lights at Ullevål Stadium was as
sluggish as usual, and he realised too late that he
would have to turn right at the ring road because of
roadworks. He thought about what Constance
Hochner had told him. Uriah had used a
middleman, probably a Norwegian. It meant there
was someone out there who knew who Uriah was.
He had already asked Linda to go through the
secret archives to find someone with the nickname
‘the Prince’, but he was fairly sure she wouldn’t
find anyone. He had a definite feeling that this man
was smarter than the average criminal. If it was
true what Andreas Hochner said – that the Prince
was a regular customer – it meant that he had
managed to build up his own clientele without
POT or anyone else finding out. Something like
that takes time and requires care, cunning and
discipline – none of which were characteristics of
the gangsters Harry knew. Of course, he might have
had more than his share of good fortune, since he
hadn’t been arrested. Or he might have a position
which protected him. Constance Hochner had said
that he spoke good English. He could be a
diplomat, for example – someone who could travel
in and out of the country without being stopped at
customs.
Harry came off the ring road at Slemdalsveien
and drove up towards Holmenkollen.
Should he ask Meirik if he could have Ellen
provisionally transferred to POT? Meirik seemed
more intent on him counting neo-Nazis and going to
social events than chasing wartime ghosts.
Harry had driven right up to her house before he
realised where he was. He stopped the car and
stared between the trees. It was fifty or so metres
to the house from the main road. There was light in
the windows on the ground floor.
‘Idiot,’ he said aloud and started at the sound of