danced, he was fairly sure of that.
My God, I’m behaving like a teenager, he
thought.
Then he did look at his watch: 9.30. He could go
over to her, say a few words, see what happened.
And if nothing happened, he could slink off, get the
promised dance with Linda out of the way, and
then off home. Nothing happened? What sort of
self-delusion was this? Another inspector, as good
as married. He could do with a drink. No. He stole
one more look at his watch. He shuddered at the
thought of the dance he had promised. Back home
to his flat. Most of them were good and drunk now.
Even in a sober state they would hardly have
noticed the new inspector disappearing down the
corridor. He could just stroll out the door and take
the lift down. Outside his Ford Escort was loyally
waiting for him. Linda looked as if she was having
fun on the dance floor where she had a tight hold
on a young officer who was swinging her round
with a sweaty smile on his lips.
‘There was a bit more buzz at the Raga gig at the
Law Festival, don’t you think?’
He felt his heart race as he heard her dark voice
beside him.
Tom had positioned himself beside Ellen’s chair in
her office.
‘Sorry if I was a bit rough in the car in town.’
She hadn’t heard him coming and gave a start.
She was holding the receiver, but hadn’t yet
dialled the number.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s me who is a little,
well . . . you know.’
‘Premenstrual?’
She peered up at him and knew it was not a joke.
He was actually trying to be understanding.
‘Maybe,’ she said. Why was he in her office now
when he had never come in before?
‘Shift’s over, Gjelten.’ He inclined his head
towards the clock on the wall. It said 10.00. ‘I’ve
got the car here. Let me drive you home.’
‘Thank you very much, but I have to make a call
first. You go on.’
‘Private call?’
‘No, it’s just . . .’
‘Then I’ll wait here.’
Waaler settled into Harry’s old office chair,
which screamed in protest. Their eyes met. Damn!
Why hadn’t she said it was a private call? Now it
was too late. Did he know that she had stumbled on
to something? She tried to read his expression, but
she seemed to have lost the ability since the panic
had seized her. Panic? Now she knew why she had
never felt comfortable with Tom Waaler. It wasn’t
because of his coldness, his views on women,
blacks, flashers and homosexuals or his tendency
to grab every legal opportunity to use violence. Off
the top of her head, she could list the names of ten
other policemen who would run Tom Waaler close
on such matters, but still she had been able to find
some positives about them which allowed her to
get on with them. With Tom Waaler, though, there
was something else and now she knew what it
was: she was scared of him.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘It can wait until Monday.’
‘Fine.’ He stood up again. ‘Let’s get going.’
Waaler had one of those Japanese sports cars
which Ellen thought looked like cheap Ferrari
imitations. It had bucket seats which scrunched
your shoulders up and loudspeakers that seemed to
fill half the car. The engine purred affectionately
and the light from the street lamps swept through
the compartment as they drove up
Trondheimsveien. A falsetto voice she was
becoming familiar with sidled out of the
loudspeakers.
Prince. The Prince.
‘I can get out here,’ Ellen said, trying to make her
voice sound natural.
‘Out of the question,’ Waaler said, looking in the
mirror. ‘Door-to-door service. Where are we
going?’
She resisted the impulse to tear open the door and
jump out.
‘Turn left here,’ Ellen said, pointing.
Be at home, Harry.
‘Jens Bjelkes gate,’ Waaler read out the street
sign on the wall and turned.
The lighting here was frugal and the pavements
deserted. Out of the corner of her eye Ellen saw
small squares of light flit across his face. Did he
know she knew? And could he see she was sitting
with her hand in her bag? Did he realise she was
clutching the black gas spray she had bought in
Germany? She had shown it to him in the autumn
when he had insisted she was putting herself and
her colleagues at risk by refusing to carry a
weapon. Hadn’t he discreetly intimated that he
could get hold of a neat little gun which could be
hidden anywhere on the body? It wasn’t registered
and therefore couldn’t be traced back to her,
should there be an ‘accident’. She hadn’t taken his
words so seriously at that time; she had thought it