Beate bit her lower lip.
'Interesting gut instinct,' Harry said. 'But I have no idea what the hormone HCG is.'
'Sofia has had a recent pregnancy, Harry.'
Harry tried to whistle, but his mouth was too dry. 'You'd better drop by and have a chat.'
'Yes, because we became such great friends last time,' Beate said drily.
'You don't need to be friends. You want to know if she was raped.'
'Raped?'
'Gut instinct.'
She sighed. 'OK, but there's no hurry any longer, is there?'
'What do you mean?'
'After what happened last night.'
'What happened last night?'
Beate gaped at him. 'Don't you know?'
Harry shook his head.
'I left at least four messages on your phone.'
'I lost my phone yesterday. Come on, tell me.'
He saw Beate swallow.
'Oh shit,' he said. 'Don't say it's what I think it is.'
'They shot Stankic last night. He died on the spot.'
Harry closed his eyes and heard Beate's voice in the distance. 'Stankic made a sudden movement and, according to the report, warnings were shouted.'
Report, Harry thought. Already.
'I'm afraid the only weapon they found was a piece of glass in the jacket pocket. There was blood on it, which the pathologist has promised will have been checked by this morning. He must have hidden the gun until it was required again. It would have been material evidence if he had been caught with it. He didn't have any papers on him, either.'
'Did you find anything else?' Harry's question came as if from a machine because his mind was elsewhere. To be precise, in St Stephen's Cathedral. I swear by the Son of God.
'There was some junkie gear left in one corner. Syringe, spoon and so on. More interesting was the dog hanging from the ceiling. A black Metzner, the harbour watchman told me. Chunks had been cut off it.'
'Glad to hear that,' Harry mumbled.
'What!'
'Nothing.'
'That explains, as you suggested, the bits of meat in the vomit in Gøteborggata.'
'Anybody else take part in the action apart from Delta?'
'Not according to the report.'
'Who wrote the report?'
'The officer in charge of the raid, of course. Sivert Falkeid.'
'Of course.'
'It's all over now anyway.'
'No, it isn't!'
'You don't need to shout, Harry.'
'It's not over. Where there's a prince, there's a king.'
'What's up with you?' Beate's cheeks were flushed. 'A contract killer is dead and you behave as if he were . . . a pal.'
Halvorsen, Harry thought. She was about to say Halvorsen. He closed his eyes and saw the red flickering light inside his eyelids. Like candles, he thought. Like candles in a church. He had been a boy when his mother was buried. In Åndalsnes with a view of the mountains, that was what she had asked for on her sickbed. And they had all stood there; his father, Sis and himself listening to the priest talking about a person he had never known. Because his father had not been able to do it. And perhaps Harry had known even then that without her they were no longer a family. Grandfather, from whom Harry had inherited his height, had leaned down with a strong smell of alcohol and said that was how it should be. Parents should die first. Harry gulped.
'I found Stankic's boss,' he said. 'And she confirmed that the murder had been set up by Robert Karlsen.'
Beate gaped at him.
'But it doesn't stop there,' Harry said. 'Robert was only a go-between. There is someone hiding behind him.'
'Who?'
'Don't know. All I know is that someone can afford to pay two hundred thousand dollars for a murder.'
'And Stankic's boss told you all this just like that?'
Harry shook his head. 'We made a deal.'
'What kind of deal?'
'You don't want to know.'
Beate blinked twice in quick succession. Then she nodded. Harry watched an elderly woman stumping along on crutches and wondered whether Stankic's mother and Fred followed Norwegian newspapers on the Net. Whether they already knew Stankic was dead.
'Halvorsen's parents are eating in the canteen. I'm going down to them now. Will you join me? Harry?'
'What? Sorry. I ate on the plane.'
'They would appreciate it. They say he talked about you with affection. Like a big brother.'
Harry shook his head. 'Later maybe.'
When she had gone Harry went back to Halvorsen's room. He sat beside the bed, perched on the edge of the chair and looked down at the pale face on the pillow. In his bag he had an unopened bottle of Jim Beam from duty-free.
'Us against the rest of the world,' he whispered.
Harry snapped his fingers above Halvorsen's forehead. His middle finger hit Halvorsen hard between the eyes, but his eyelids didn't stir.
'Yashin,' Harry whispered, hearing his voice thicken. His jacket banged against the bed. Harry felt inside. There was something in the lining. The missing mobile phone.
He was gone by the time Beate and the parents returned.
Jon was lying on the sofa with his head in Thea's lap. She was watching an old film on TV and as he stared up at the ceiling Jon could hear Bette Davis's distinctive voice cut through his thoughts: he knew this ceiling better than his own. And if he stared hard enough he would, in the end, see something familiar, something different from the smashed face they had shown him in the cold basement at Rikshospitalet. He had shaken his head when they asked whether this was the man he had seen in the doorway of his flat and who later attacked the policeman with a knife.