The Redbreast(97)

was one of those semi-macabre macho jokes and

laughed it off.

‘Stop next to the red car there.’

‘But number 4 is in the next block,’ he said.

Had she told him she lived at number 4?

Possibly. She might have forgotten. She felt

transparent, like a jellyfish, as if he could see her

heart thumping away much too fast.

The engine purred in neutral. He had stopped. She

hunted feverishly for the door handle. Bloody

Japanese nerds! Why couldn’t they just design a

plain, easy-to-recognise handle for the door?

‘See you Monday,’ she heard Waaler’s voice say

behind her as she found the handle, stumbled out

and inhaled the toxic March Oslo air as if coming

to the surface after a long time under water. When

she slammed her heavy front door she could still

hear the smooth, well-lubricated sound of

Waaler’s car idling outside.

She charged up the stairs, her boots stamping

down hard on every step, holding the keys in front

of her like a divining rod. Then she was in her flat.

As she dialled Harry’s number she memorised

Sverre Olsen’s message word for word.

This is Sverre Olsen. I’m still waiting for the ten

big ones as commission for the shooter for the

old guy. Ring me at home.

Then he rang off.

It had taken her a nanosecond to realise the

connection. The fifth clue to the puzzle about who

the middleman was in the Märklin deal. A

policeman. Tom Waaler. Of course. Ten thousand

in commission to a nobody like Olsen – that had to

be a big job. The old man. Arms freaks.

Sympathies with the extreme right. The Prince who

would soon be a chief inspector. It was crystal

clear, so self-evident that for a moment she had

been shocked that she, with her ability to register

sub-tones inaudible to others, had not realised it

before. She knew paranoia had had her in its grip

for some time, but still she hadn’t managed to

refrain from thinking the thought through to the end

as she waited for him to come out of the restaurant:

Tom Waaler had every possibility of climbing

higher, of pulling strings from ever-more important

positions, sheltering beneath the wings of power.

Who knows what alliances he had already struck

and with whom at Police HQ. If she put her mind

to it, there were of course several people she

could never imagine becoming involved. But the

only person she could count on 100 – one hundred

– per cent was Harry.

Got through. It wasn’t engaged. It was never

engaged at his place. Come on, Harry!

She also knew it was only a question of time

before Waaler would talk to Olsen and find out

what had happened, and she didn’t doubt for a

second that her life would be in jeopardy from that

moment on. She would have to act fast, but she

couldn’t afford to make a single mistake. A voice

interrupted her reasoning.

‘This is Hole. Speak to me.’

Bleep.

‘Sod you, Harry! This is Ellen. We’ve got him

now. I’ll ring you on your mobile.’

She held the receiver between shoulder and chin

as she flicked through the index of numbers for H,

dropped the book on to the floor with a bang,

swore and finally found Harry’s mobile number.

Fortunately he always had his mobile on him.

Ellen Gjelten lived on the second floor of a

recently renovated block of flats together with a

tame great tit called Helge. The walls of the flat

were half a metre thick and the windows were

double-glazed. Nevertheless, she could have

sworn that she heard the purring sound of a car in

neutral.

Rakel Fauke laughed.

‘If you’ve promised Linda a dance, you won’t get

away with a quick sweep of the floor.’

‘Mm. The alternative is to make a run for it.’

A pause ensued and Harry realised that what he

had said was open to misinterpretation. He

hurriedly filled the silence with a question.

‘How did you start at POT?’

‘Via Russian,’ she said. ‘I joined the Ministry of

Defence Russian course and worked for two years

as an interpreter in Moscow. Kurt Meirik recruited

me then and there. After finishing my law degree I

went straight into pay grade thirty-five. I thought

I’d caught the goose that laid the golden egg.’

‘Hadn’t you?’

‘Are you kidding? Today the students I studied

with earn three times more than I’ll ever get.’

‘You could stop, and do what they do.’

She arched her shoulders forward. ‘I like what I

do. Not all of them can say the same.’

‘Good point.’

Silence.

Good point. Was that really the best he could

muster? ‘What about you, Harry? Do you like what

you do?’

They stood facing the dance floor, but Harry