iron in the gym at Police HQ, Ellen thought. Or
enough of the shoulder holster for them to know
that he was carrying a weapon. The police officers
in Crime Squad were always entitled to carry
weapons, but she knew that Waaler carried more
than a service revolver. A large bore number; she
didn’t have it in her to ask what. Right after cars,
Waaler’s favourite topic of conversation was
handguns, and she preferred cars. She didn’t carry
a weapon herself. Not unless she was forced to, as
she was during the presidential visit in the autumn.
Something stirred, at the back of her brain. But it
was soon interrupted by a digital bleep-bleep
version of ‘Napoleon with his Army’. It was
Waaler’s mobile telephone. Ellen opened the door
to shout after him, but he was already on his way
into the restaurant.
It had been a boring week. Ellen couldn’t
remember such a boring week since she had started
in the police force. She feared it had something to
do with her finally having a private life. Suddenly
there was a point in getting home before it was late
and Saturday shifts like this evening’s had become
a sacrifice. The mobile played ‘Napoleon . . .’ for
the fourth time.
One of the spurned women? Or one who still had
that to come? If Kim dumped her now . . . but he
wouldn’t do that. She just knew it.
‘Napoleon with his Army’ for the fifth time.
The shift would be over in a couple of hours and
she would go home, take a shower and nip up to
Kim’s in Helgesens gate, five minutes in her
charged sexual state. She giggled.
Six times! She grabbed the phone from under the
handbrake.
‘This is Tom Waaler’s answerphone.
Unfortunately herr Waaler is not here. Please leave
a message.’
She meant it as a joke. Actually she had meant to
say who she was afterwards, but for some reason
she just sat listening to the heavy breathing at the
other end. Perhaps for a thrill, perhaps she was
just curious. At any rate, she suddenly twigged that
the person at the other end thought he had reached
the answerphone and was waiting for the bleep!
She pressed one of the keys. Bleep.
‘Hi, this is Sverre Olsen.’
‘Hi, Harry, this is . . .’
Harry turned, but the rest of Kurt Meirik’s
sentence was swallowed up in the bass as the self-
elected DJ cranked up the volume of the music
blasting out of the loudspeaker directly behind
Harry.
That don’t impress me much . . .
Harry had been at the party for barely twenty
minutes, had already checked his watch twice and
managed to ask himself the following questions
four times: Did the murder of Dale have anything
to do with the Märklin rifle deal? Who would be
capable of cutting someone’s throat so quickly
and efficiently that he could do it in broad
daylight in a back alley in the centre of Oslo?
Who is the Prince? Could the sentencing of
Mosken’s son have anything to do with this case?
What had happened to the fifth Norwegian
soldier at the front, Gudbrand Johansen? And
why hadn’t Mosken made an effort to find him
after the war if, as he maintained, Johansen had
saved his life?
He was standing in the corner now beside one of
the loudspeakers, with a Munkholm – in a glass to
avoid questions about why he drank non-alcoholic
beer – while watching a couple of the youngest
POT employees dancing.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that,’ Harry said.
Kurt Meirik was twirling the stem of an orange-
coloured drink between his fingers. He seemed
more erect than ever, standing there in his blue
striped suit. Fitted perfectly, as far as Harry could
see. Harry pulled his jacket sleeves down, aware
that his shirt was sticking out way beyond his cuff
links. Meirik leaned in closer.
‘I’m trying to tell you this is the head of our
foreign department, Inspector . . .’
Harry noticed the woman by his side. Slim figure.
Plain red dress. He experienced a faint
premonition.
So she had the looks, but did she have the
touch?
Brown eyes. High cheekbones. Dark complexion.
Short, dark hair framing a narrow face. Her smile
was already in her eyes. He remembered she was
good-looking, but not so . . . ravishing. It was the
only word that occurred to him to cover the
meaning: ravishing. He knew the fact that she was
standing opposite him now ought to have rendered
him speechless with astonishment, but there was
somehow a kind of logic about it, something that
made him inwardly acknowledge the whole
situation with a nod.
‘. . . Rakel Fauke,’ Meirik said.
‘We’ve already met,’ Harry said. ‘Oh?’ Kurt
Meirik exclaimed in surprise.