his own voice. He was about to drive off when he
saw the front door open and light fall on the steps.
The thought that she might see and recognise his
car put him in a state of panic. He slotted the car
into reverse so that he could back quietly and
discreetly up the hill and out of sight, but he didn’t
have his foot hard enough on the accelerator and
the engine died. He heard voices. A tall man in a
long, dark coat had come out on to the steps. He
was talking, but the person he was talking to was
hidden by the door. Then he leaned in towards the
door opening and Harry could no longer see them.
They’re kissing, he thought. I’ve driven up to
Holmenkollen to spy on a woman I’ve talked to
for fifteen minutes kissing her boyfriend.
Then the door closed, and the man got into an
Audi and drove past him down to the main road.
On his way home Harry wondered how he should
punish himself. It had to be something severe,
something that would have a deterrent effect for the
future. An aerobics class at Focus.
46
Drammen. 7 March 2000.
HARRY HAD NEVER UNDERSTOOD EXACTLY WHY
DRAMMEN came in for so much criticism. The town
wasn’t a beauty, but was it so much uglier than
most of the other overgrown villages in Norway?
He considered stopping for a cup of coffee at
Børsen, but a quick check of his watch revealed
that he didn’t have enough time.
Edvard Mosken lived in a red wooden house with
a view of the trotting track. An oldish Mercedes
estate was parked outside the garage. Mosken
himself was standing at the front door. He
examined Harry’s ID carefully before saying
anything.
‘Born in 1965? You look older than that,
Inspector Hole.’
‘Bad genes.’
‘Bad luck for you.’
‘Well, they let me into eighteen-certificate films
when I was fourteen.’
It was impossible to discern whether Edvard
Mosken appreciated the joke or not. He motioned
for Harry to go in.
‘You live alone?’ Harry asked as Mosken led the
way to the sitting room. The flat was clean and
well-kept; few personal ornaments and just as
exaggeratedly neat as some men like to be when
they are allowed to choose for themselves. It
reminded Harry of his own flat.
‘Yes. My wife left me after the war.’
‘Left?’
‘Upped sticks. Cleared off. Went on her way.’
‘I see. Children?’
‘I had a son.’
‘Had?’
Edvard Mosken stopped and turned round.
‘Am I not expressing myself clearly, Inspector
Hole?’
One white eyebrow was raised, forming a sharp
angle on the high, open forehead.
‘No, it’s me,’ Harry said. ‘I have to be spoonfed.’
‘OK. I have a son.’
‘Thank you. What did you do before you retired?’
‘I owned a few lorries. Mosken Transport. Sold
the business seven years ago.’
‘Did it go well?’
‘Well enough. The buyers kept the name.’
They sat down, each on their own side of the
coffee table. Harry knew that there would be no
question of coffee. Edvard sat on the sofa, leaning
forward with his arms crossed as if to say: Let’s
get this over with.
‘Where were you on the night of 21 December?’
Harry had decided on the way over to open with
this question. By playing the only card he had
before Mosken had a chance to sound out the
terrain and deduce that they didn’t have anything,
Harry could at least hope to flush out a reaction,
which might tell him something. If Mosken had
anything to hide, that was.
‘Am I under suspicion for anything?’ Mosken
asked. His face betrayed no more than mild
surprise.
‘It would be good if you could just answer the
question, Mosken.’
‘As you wish. I was here.’
‘That was quick.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t exactly have to think about it.’
Mosken grimaced. It was the kind of grimace
where the mouth makes a parody of a smile while
the eyes look at you in despair.
‘When you get to be as old as I am, it’s the
evenings when you didn’t sit on your own that you
remember.’
‘Sindre Fauke has given me a list of the
Norwegians who were together at the Sennheim
training camp. Gudbrand Johansen, Hallgrim Dale,
you and Fauke.’
‘You forgot Daniel Gudeson.’
‘Did I? Didn’t he die before the war was over?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘So, why do you mention his name?’
‘Because he was with us at Sennheim.’
‘My understanding from Fauke was that many
Norwegians went through Sennheim, but that you
four were the only ones to survive.’