could have been playing ‘The Birdie Song’
backwards on a ukulele – he would have killed for
this dance.
‘Wait – what have you got there?’ she asked.
‘Well, it’s not a pistol and I am glad to see you,
but . . .’
Harry unclipped his mobile from his belt and
released his hand from her waist to go over and put
the mobile on the speaker. Her arms were raised
towards him when he returned.
‘Hope we haven’t got any thieves here,’ he said.
It was a hoary old joke at Police HQ, she must
have heard it a hundred times before, but she
laughed softly into his ear anyway.
Ellen let the phone ring until it stopped before
putting down the receiver. Then she tried again.
She stood by the window, looking down on to the
street. No car. Of course not. She was
overwrought. Tom was probably on his way home
to bed. Or someone else’s bed.
After three attempts she gave up on Harry, and
rang Kim instead. He sounded tired.
‘I took the taxi back at seven this evening,’ he
said. ‘I’ve done twenty hours’ driving today.’
‘I’ll just have a shower first,’ she said. ‘Only
wanted to know if you were there.’
‘You sound stressed.’
‘It’s nothing. I’ll be there in three quarters of an
hour. I’ll have to use your phone by the way. And
stay the night.’
‘Fine. Would you mind nipping into the 7-Eleven
in Markveien and buying some cigarettes?’
‘Sure. I’ll take a cab.’
‘Why?’
‘Explain to you afterwards.’
‘You know it’s Saturday night? You’ll never get
through to Oslo Taxis. And it’ll take you four
minutes to run up here.’
She wavered.
‘Kim?’ she said.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Do you love me?’
She heard his low chuckle and could imagine the
half-closed, sleepy eyes and that lean, almost
emaciated body of his under the duvet in the
miserable flat in Helgesens gate. He had a view of
the river Akerselva. He had everything she wanted.
And for an instant she almost forgot Tom Waaler.
Almost.
‘Sverre!’
Sverre Olsen’s mother stood at the bottom of the
stairs, shouting at the top of her lungs, as she had
done for as long as he could remember.
‘Sverre! Telephone!’
She shouted as if she needed help, as if she was
drowning or something like that.
‘I’ll take it up here, Mum!’
He swung his legs down from the bed, picked the
phone up from the desk and waited for the click
that told him his mother had put down the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me.’ Prince in the background. Always
Prince.
‘I guessed it had to be,’ Sverre said.
‘Why’s that?’
The question came like greased lightning. So
quickly that Sverre was immediately on the
defensive, as if it was he who owed money and not
the other way around.
‘You’re probably ringing because you got my
message?’ Sverre said.
‘I’m ringing because I’m looking at a list of calls
received on my mobile. I see that you talked to
someone at 20.32 this evening. What message were
you wittering on about?’
‘About the cash. I’m getting short, and you
promised —’
‘Who did you talk to?’
‘Eh? The lady on your answerphone, I suppose.
Pretty neat. Is it a new one of . . . ?’
No answer. Just Prince on low volume. You sexy
motherfucker . . . The music abruptly came to an
end.
‘Tell me what you said exactly.’
‘I just said that —’
‘No! Exactly. Word for word.’
Sverre repeated it as exactly as he was able. ‘I
guessed as much,’ the Prince said. ‘You’ve just
given away our whole operation to an outsider,
Olsen. If we don’t plug the leak right away, we’ve
had it. Do you understand?’
Sverre Olsen didn’t understand anything.
The Prince was utterly composed as he explained
that his mobile phone had fallen into the wrong
hands.
‘It was no answering machine you heard, Olsen.’
‘Who was it then?’
‘Let’s say the enemy.’
‘ Monitor. Is there someone sniffing around?’
‘The person in question is on her way to the
police. It’s your job to stop her.’
‘Me? I just want my money and —’
‘Shut your mouth, Olsen.’
Olsen shut his mouth. ‘This is about the Cause.
You’re a good soldier, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘And a good soldier clears up afterwards, doesn’t